THE SPOILS OF WAR by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 7
I must have stood there on that fucking plinth for the best part of six hours. Other than the old woman, and the kind guy, there wasn't much interest in me - the casual stroking, pinching, and general handling of my body continued, but I didn't sense any real interest, rather it was just some sort of cheap thrill to those who were able to touch a body like mine knowing I was unable to retaliate.. Gradually the noise died down as the spectators withdrew, and guards came to unshackle me. They took my blindfold off, but left me cuffed and gagged.
We were lined up against one wall, and a pair of slaves came down the line lifting our kilt things and holding up a bucket for us to pee into. I decided not to, but a guard standing by snapped "It's not optional! We don't want any accidents on the stage! Fucking piss, when you're told to, or maybe a touch of my prod will get it flowing...."
So I forced myself to do it, and you know how difficult that is, and then just knew that it would be unpleasant later as there was no provision for getting it out from under my 'skin. We then all faced right, and gradually, quite slowly, the line shuffled forward.
When I was almost at the head of the line there were two guards with rifles aimed at us, and two slaves quickly undid my handcuffs - I suppose the guards were there as this was some sort of pivotal moment, when slaves might try to escape. "Hands in front", one of the slaves said as if this was all routine to him, and when I complied, he picked up a bar about a metre long with cuffs on either end, and snapped them onto my wrists.
I moved forward, and now the second slave put a hook attached to a chain through a loop on the bar, and the chain started to tighten. My arms were gradually pulled up above my head, spread out as a result of the bar.
The chain was pulling now, and I had no option but to follow it as the little trolley to which it was attached ran along a track in the ceiling, and I heard the two slaves saying "Hands in front" to the guy behind me. The chain jerked forward a few feet, then stopped for a little while, then jerked forward again. It was just as if I was some piece of meat in a meat processing plant!
The last movement took me up eight steps to stand in front of a door. After that same interval, the door hissed open, and the chain pulled me forward onto a brightly-lit stage. Through the glare of the lights that were shining at me from all directions, I could see an audience sitting, men and women, all peering at me.
The chain moved me to the centre of the stage and stopped, and I was standing there, hands above my head, body nicely taught. One of those florid, overdressed slave trader types was standing there with a microphone, and the PA system boomed out "Lot two seven three. Mature buck, aged twenty six. Physically in excellent condition. Certified to be disease free. Former member of the armed insurrection forces, being sold as a part of the spoils of the war which ravaged our country. Believed to be an anal virgin but this is not warranted."
I've been to auctions before and heard the auctioneer describing the lots as they're brought forward, but, should you ever be in a similar position, I'll tell you now that nothing prepares you for hearing yourself as a a "lot" and offered for sale like that, with those short, cursory descriptions. And why was I only "believed" to be anally virgin? Did I look like the kind of guy who took dick up his ass?
The dealer fiddled with my kilt, and tore it off, so I was then standing there entirely naked and exposed. "As you will see, ladies and gentlemen, in addition to a good physical demeanour generally, this slave is nicely hung, and is not cut, allowing you the choice of whether to remove the 'skin or not."
"Turn around, boy, so they can see our butt", he hissed at me, out of microphone range, and when I hesitated, he slashed at my butt with his riding crop.
"As you can see, ladies and gentleman, the slave is a little shy, but I'm sure you will agree that he has nothing to be shy about - it's rare that we get powerful thighs like these combined with such thrusting buttocks - imagine, if you will, this slave working naked on your demesne: what a splendid sight he'd make as a labourer near the house, where all this bodily perfection could be enjoyed."
"Turn around and face the front", he hissed again. I did, this time, as it was pointless to get another whipping, and just stood there, feeling all the eyes in the place riveted on my dick. The dealer played the tip of the whip on my dick and balls, gently moving them from side to side with the leather strap, and rasing my dick up and letting it flop back down. I couldn't help but respond by starting to have an erection, even in front of this big audience.
"As you will see, ladies and gentlemen, a slave who's really ready for action. He's fully fertile, making him suitable as a stud if required, and for those of you of a nervous nature, given his background, I'll remind you that all salves leaving the facility here can, for a very small fee, be 'calmed' before delivery with your choice of prosthetics at no additional cost."
"Now, what am I bid.... Do I hear an opening bid of twenty five thousand?"
The bidding went up very rapidly, and through the bright lights I couldn't see who was bidding for me. There seemed to be several bidders, though, but soon it narrowed down to two, and things slowed down. It was simply terrible - standing there naked, unable to cover myself, and hearing my body being sold like that just as if I was an animal at a country fair. Finally, the hammer fell and I was sold. The chain started into motion and dragged me off the stage, and I just knew that the audience would be watching my dick bob up and down as I walked along.
On the other side of the stage the chain led me down steps, then along a short corridor and into a room marked "Despatch". There were the ubiquitous guards with guns there as I was released from the chain, and taken into a "holding cage", about four feet square, so I could only stand there and not sit or anything. "Sir, please, sir, can I have some clothes?" I asked the guard.
"Stay naked, until your owner decides what's to be done with you."
I stood there, shivering slightly in the air conditioning, as I watched other slaves brought down and put into cages like mine. Then the buyers started to arrive - they'd come in, offer some piece of paper, presumably to show they'd paid, and then be led to the cage holding their new slave. I watched in trepidation each time the door opened, dreading the arrival of some old woman and her nephew - I had quite a picture of them in my mind's eye by now, her with bleached blond hair, a Chanel suit, very petite and birdlike, and him all floppy and goofy, dressed like a fop.
Suddenly, there seemed to be hope for me - one of those men in suits with a big red cross on his arm was being shown around. "Please, sir!", I called out as he came near, before the guards could stop me.
He came and stood and looked at me through the bars of the cage. "Please, sir, I believe I'm a prisoner of war, and as such they oughtn't to be holding me here in a cage..."
He peered in, and in his accented English replied "Are you one of the prisoners captured recently in the civil war, the men who are the so-called 'spoils of war'? We in the International Red Cross are concerned with the welfare of prisoners of war..."
"Yes, sir... But it isn't a civil war. We're fighting for freedom, for the beliefs America believes in, to quell the evil of slavery...."
"I'm sorry, young man, but the UN unanimously declared that the former USA is indeed fighting a civil war. And as such, prisoners like your good self are not covered by the conventions governing the prisoners of war. You may be governed by the Human Rights acts which are in force.... "
"Thank Christ for that, then, sir. They're going to castrate and blind me.... "
Turning to the guard, the man said "Please bring some responsible authority to me at once. This man has made a serious allegation of potential mistreatment which most certainly contravenes the human rights act.
If, as he alleges, he is going to be castrated and blinded, then some action needs to be taken swiftly."
"Slave, show him your hands!", the guard snapped at me. I was so startled, that I held them out.
"What's this?", the man asked, looking at my big tattoo on the back of my hand.
"My SIN - slave identification number - sir."
"Are you a slave, then?"
"Yes, I was sentenced to slavery when I was captured...."
"How dare you waste my time then!", the man snapped. "Guard - I want this slave punished for attempting to spread seditious information. He alleged most serious crimes against the state - castration and blinding - but he's a slave!"
"Please, sir, I don't understand...."
"You are an American citizen fighting a civil war against another part of the US. A validly constituted court here in the US sentenced you to slavery, and so you are validly a slave. Had you been captured in another country and forced into slavery, then that would be a severe violation of your rights. But this was a sentence, a legal sentence, from a properly constituted court, and so you are indeed a slave in the eyes of international law. And the human rights acts apply to, surprise, surprise, humans. By definition, they do not apply to slaves. Had anyone threatened you wit h castration and blinding as a free man, then this would indeed be a serious matter. But slaves are slaves, and we are loathe to overturn the rights of ownership, those important principles on which all international law is founded. For the sake of order in the world, we will not interfere when an owner does whatever he is rightfully allowed to do with his possessions. If you were concerned about your loss of human rights, you should have complained whilst you were still a man, before you became a slave - it's too late now!"
The man stalked off, and I just stood there, almost in despair. How the fuck did he think I could ever have made such a complaint? There was never any time, I went from being a marine, to a slave, in about two minutes!
My eyes kept scanning the people coming in though, as I was not only worried about the woman and her nephew, but I wanted to see my temporary buddies again, and find out what happened to them - and there was Dylan, too. But this holding area was very large, and hard as I tried, I saw none of them.
Slaves were being taken away, and I was watching them being taken from the cages and ushered out with their new owners. And I failed to spot the big man who was now standing there, looking in at me. He was about as tall as me, with one of those big, loose-limbed bodies that some men have, and in his mid-fifties, I'd guess.
Unlike the slave dealers I'd seen before, he was dressed with an air of understated elegance - a leather jacket, smart pants, conservative black shoes to match the jacket, and a dark red polo neck sweater in what seemed to be in a very expensive, very fine, wool.
"So, Steve... The ex-marine."
I recognised the voice. He had been examining me! "Sir, yes, sir..."
"I'm your new owner. Gleeson, of Gleeson's Gladiators.
Here, boy, you can put these on... I don't like to see a proud ex-marine standing there nude for everyone to gawk at...."
He had a small bag with him, and tossed through the bars a pair of the tight, non-closing crotch shorts I'd worn before, but in grey , and a singlet thing, that again didn't quite reach the waistband of the shorts, also in grey, with "Gleeson's Gladiators" embroidered on the left pec.
Some sort of official came up then and talked to the man about me: paperwork was shown, and Gleeson and the official talked for a few moments before he came back to me.
"Right, Steve. As I was saying, I'm Gleeson, of Gleeson's Gladiators, one of the best gladiator troupes in the Confederacy."
I must have been looking slightly puzzled, as he went on "We're a big attraction - we regularly feature on the two TV gladiator channels, which is where I make most of my money. But we also do live shows, and private parties are also getting to be big as more wealth comes back to the area after the cessation of hostilities. "
"Please, sir, gladiators?"
"Yes, gladiators - fighters. I have a string of you boys who know how to fight, and I promote shows where you display your talents. Don't be alarmed, though - it's not with knives and swords, like the Romans did - you're too scarce and expensive to keep replacing! But it's a mixture of boxing and wrestling - pretty exciting stuff, to see two fighters pounding away until one wins. There's not much risk of permanent injury, provided you're well trained, although for a few days after a fight you'll be pretty sore from the bruises and stuff. I always buy ex marines when I can, as you're so much easier to train - you already have the basic skills, and they just need honing. And you're used to obeying orders, which makes it easier for the guards and handlers, too."
"Anyway, I'm all done here. I've made arrangements for you to be shipped to our base, just outside Raleigh, and I'll see you there and brief you better. Glad to have you aboard, boy - I think you're going to do well!"
He strode off, leaving me standing there. What was I thinking of - I don't know: this gladiator stuff sounded, frankly, a bit weird. But I wasn't left there with my thoughts for long - guards came and unlocked my cell, and marched me out of the building onto the loading bay. I noticed they were armed, and saw the pattern now - when I was cuffed or coffled, the guards just had whips and prods. But the moment I was "free", and capable of escape, or doing injury, the guards got weapons.
I was handed over to a UPS guy! I watched as paperwork was signed to transport one slave from Atlanta to an address in Raleigh, then the UPS guy hung a chain around my neck with a bar-coded tag on it. He scanned the tag with his hand-held reader, and said to the guards "take him to truck three - we've got a lot of stock moving this afternoon after the sale, so make sure you get the right one."
At one of those oh so familiar dark brown trucks, now saying "UPS - Southern", I noticed, the driver again scanned my tag and looked at his little screen. "Yup, this one's for me... Now, boy, strip off those clothes - you're going to be with us for a couple of days, and we want to deliver you at the other end fresh and pristine..."
I guess I'd become almost oblivious by now to being naked in front of other men, but being treated like a package like this still hurt. Anyway, with a guard standing there idly playing with his prodder, there was no point in disobeying, was there? So I pulled the singlet over my head and dropped my shorts, picking them up and just standing there holding my clothes. The driver handed me a long, dark brown garment that when I put my head in I found was like a smock - just one piece, with a neck hole and two armholes, and which came down to my knees, "One size fits all". He in turn folded my stuff neatly, and stuck it into a plastic pouch which he deftly sealed up. His little box of tricks spat out a bar-coded label which he fixed to it, and he grunted with satisfaction. "There, boy, don't you worry about your owner whipping you for having lost those fancy clothes he gave you - they'll get whisked through our system, just like you, and we'll deliver you both at the same time at the other end. Now, up into the truck..."
Well, I'll say this for them, those UPS guys did at least afford us some dignity, even though they were delivering me as a package, paying as much attention to me as they were giving the pouch with my clothes in! Unlike the last time I'd been shipped, I did now at least have somewhere to sit, as there was a bench along one wall of the slave cage inside the truck, and it also had a shitter, and a spigot where you could get water. Five other slaves were loaded in before the cage was locked, the truck doors closed and we moved off, and we were all dressed the same, in the ubiquitous smocks, except for one guy who was apparently only a "local delivery" in the Atlanta area, and so had kept his own clothes.
We chatted in that kind of desultory way folks do on trains and planes, as we didn't know each other, and it wasn't a very long journey anyway, as we were only being taken from the slave facility to the main UPS depot to the north of the city. There were guards with guns there, too, as I suppose the risk of some of us trying to make a break for it, in spite of our slave collars, was quite high. Mind you, the place was a miracle of "efficiency" - we could see conveyors moving around with parcels and packages on them, and they were being sorted automatically as flaps moved to direct the flow from one place to another based on the barcodes on them. We were "sorted" and routed n the same way - although we weren't on conveyors - the guards all had those little hand-held things that could read the barcodes on the tags around our necks, and they directed us this way and that until I and a group of other slaves was waiting on one section of a loading bay.
We were ultimately loaded into an "express" destined for Charlotte, and as this was a long journey, overnight, there were actually "bunks" inside the slave cage of the vehicle - well, not really bunks, but wide, flat shelves that you could at least lie down on. At the Charlotte depot we were fed and watered, and the same procedure of reading our tags was used to route me to a truck bound for Raleigh. They let me shower there, too, and I was given my Gleeson's Gladiators singlet and shorts back, as this was going to be the truck making the final delivery of me. All the time I'd never had an opportunity to do anything, or make any choices - I was just a "something", being moved dispassionately and efficiently through the system.
I wondered what sort of place I was going to, so as we turned off the Interstate to Raleigh, I pressed my eyes to one of the tiny windows that they'd provided so we didn't have to travel in total darkness. As we turned into a big complex with one of those impressive corporate signs on it saying "Gleeson's Gladiators, Inc. Home of the South's Premier Fighters", it certainly did look as if there was money here. Low, beautifully detailed buildings were set around in a kind of "campus" style. There were trees, broad green lawns, and in front where there was a discreet sign saying "visitors and spectators this way, please", fountains threw their jets high up into the air.
We didn't go in that way, as you might expect, but followed a sign to "goods inwards". I was unloaded, and watched sullenly as my tag was again scanned, a piece of paper came out of the driver's machine, and which was signed for by the man at goods inwards. I still hated being treated just like an abject like this - I was a man, after all, not some package that had been sent to them, but I suppose I ought to have been used to it by now. Still, the place looked good - there was absolutely none of the mess on the loading bay that you often see there - no empty cartons, no cages of stuff waiting movement, no litter or dirt: it was all pristine neat and clean. And the guy who'd signed for me looked smart, too - no fat slob with his belly hanging over his pants top, but a neat, trim guy in his late forties in khaki slacks, black leather boots, and a dark blue polo shirt bearing the discrete motto "Gleeson's Gladiators".
He quickly and efficiently snapped a cuff on my right wrist, the other end of which was on his left, and said, simply, "Now, boy, I don't want any trouble - you can't run, tethered to me. But I have an alarm, and if you attempt to pull, or even attack me, I'll use it and then you'll really be in trouble. I'm going to take you along to the Colonel, as he likes to see all the new boys when they first arrive.... Come on...."
"Who's the Colonel"?
"Boy, you'd better remember your manners! Am I wearing a slave collar?", he gestured at his neck, and went on "So you can tell I'm a free man. And around here at least, slaves are always properly respectful to free men! You were in the army, I guess, as all the new slaves generally were, so you know the proper way of speaking to officers, and free men! Now, try again."
"Sir, please, who's the Colonel, sir?"
"That's better! Remember to act like a proper slave, and you won't have too many problems here. Look at that...."
We'd left the building with loading bay in it and were walking across the grass towards another building. He was at this pointing out a wooden platform raised up about five feet in the air, on which there was a big wooden 'X' and something that looked like old-style stocks.
"...that cross is used when a slave has been very bad, and needs flogging with the bullwhip. It doesn't happen often, as it ruins him for the future, and he has to be sold off as field hand fodder, or to the mines. But the stocks are used fairly frequently when one of you slaves has been particularly uppity and needs correction - you're all paraded out here so you can watch, then the miscreant is put into the stocks and publicly caned. So take this as a friendly warning, as none of us like to see you boys hurt - just behave properly, like a slave, and you'll have no problems."
"Anyway, The Colonel is Colonel Gleeson, our CEO and your owner now. He was in the army himself, but left after he'd fought bravely in the civil war as he thought that the Confederacy wasn't being tough enough on its soldiers - in the flush of victory, they were going 'soft' and allowing men into the real fighting divisions who weren't fit enough. He got financial backing to set this place up, and he's never looked back. He runs this place just like a military base, and provided you remember that, you'll have no problems. But he won't tolerate uppity slaves, or any failure at all to obey orders from us guards, or from the slaves who are your 'handlers'. Believe me, you don't want to cross the Colonel, or else you'll be up there on those stocks, or even the cross!"
We entered a long, low building that said "Administration" at that point, and inside it did have many similarities to the bases I'd been on - utterly functional, no fuss, no lavish display, just a corridor whose thermoplastic tiles shone with polish .
It felt vaguely cold and almost sinister to my bare feet. He led me along, and we went through a door into what was clearly a secretary's office - there were filing cabinets, telephones, two desks with PCs on them, each of which was occupied by a slave, who stood smartly to at attention as we entered (well, I assume they were both slaves, as like me they were wearing the singlet and shorts, and had a slave collar around their necks).
"Easy, boys, back to work.", my guard said. "And please tell the Colonel that the new slave is here for his initial interview."
"Sir, yes, sir!", one of the slaves rapped, and picked up a telephone, and spoke quietly but formally into it. We just stood there until the phone buzzed, and the slave said "Sir, you can go in with the new slave, sir", stood up, and held open the door in the wall opposite to that which we had entered by. Inside, behind a large desk, was seated the strong, virile, authoritative-looking man who I had last met at the slave auction. He had a file open on the top of his desk, which was otherwise empty, and was leafing through it.
"Ah, Steve, isn't it? Ex-marine. Distinguished service all over the place. And then misguided enough to take part in the unlawful invasion of the south by the terrorist government of the north...."
"Sir, yes, sir", I interrupted. "But sir, it wasn't misguided. I was obeying orders, sir, as a marine does, sir."
He smiled, faintly. "I like to see spirit, Steve, but beware - I won't tolerate uppity slaves at all. I'd advise you not to interrupt me in future. And you're anyway wrong - you were misguided, as a soldier is not required to obey orders that are unlawful and contrary to international law in particular. How could you think that acting against your fellow citizens could possibly be lawful? The government in Washington and the Pentagon were acting against the constitution and without lawful authority in ordering the army and marine corps to take action within the USA, and you were not bound to obey them. Your arrogant stupidity has led you to this - capture, and being sold as part of the rightful spoils of war that we in the south can claim, having defeated the unlawful invasion."
"Sir, it wasn't...."
"Silence, slave! I've explained the position to you, and I don't expect to hear arguments from slaves. As I said, I like spirit in a man, and he needs that if he's going to do well here. But you'll need to learn to turn that rebellious nature to focus on the tasks we set you to do, not on those in authority over you."
He sounded very calm, but controlling, just like the senior officers I'd encountered in the corps. His tone changed to one of normal order-giving though when he looked at my guard and said "Release him."
"Now, Steve, I'm having you released, but I think I can rely on you not doing anything stupid. We're not all that far from the border here, and sometimes slaves are tempted to make a run for it - they never succeed, of course, as there's no easy way to get that collar off you and folks around here are not at all sympathetic to escaping slaves - they have been known to lynch them! But I think you're a sensible kind of guy, and as you are no doubt planning to escape, you'll nevertheless bide you time, spy out the land, reconnoitre the opposition - 'Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted', we were taught in basic training."
"Sir, yes, sir".
He smiled, faintly. "So you are planning to escape... Well, I expect that. But you'll find it isn't all that easy. Still, let's not waste time. Unclothe, so I can make sure my considerable investment was worthwhile."
End Of Part 7