Two Gentlemen And A Slave

TWO GENTLEMEN AND A SLAVE, By Richard Davies

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

groups.yahoo.com/group/homagetorichard )

Two Gentlemen And A Slave, Part One

The information pack duly arrived. The covering letter was bright and welcoming - made it sound like I was joining a club.

'Hi, and a big welcome from all the team at Grants Bank Human Resources Division. You have elected to partake in our Lease Service Debt Repayment Plan and we are pleased to enclose the documents required to finalise the contract that has been customized to suit your needs. Please read the enclosed contract and statement of terms and conditions before signing both copies and returning them to this office. We enclose our FAQs. We share your confidence that this is the right plan for you and your circumstances. We look forward to meeting you in person.'

I faxed a copy through to my lawyer for any comments. It came back five minutes later with a message scrawled across it - 'seems standard - good luck.' I signed. The lady downstairs witnessed it. She was curious, but I just said I was going away for a while. She made some remark about being dead by the time I got back. I wondered what my chances of survival were. I put the contract in its envelope and posted it straight away. No point in delay.

After hearing nothing for a couple of days, a woman called to say that my appointment was for the following Tuesday at 11.30am at my local Slave Registration Centre. Would I please ensure I arrived in good time with my birth certificate, driving license, national insurance number, and proof of current address. Nothing else and I should leave my watch, mobile, jewellery and any other valuables at home.

Five days to go. I called my friend Rob who was an expert on slavery. It was his hobby and only topic of conversation. He knew nothing of my plans and when I blurted them out there was a silence. Then he said, 'but that's fantastic. I mean if it's your sort of thing. Great!'

When I told him it was to pay off debts and give my kid a decent start, and myself another one, he was silent again.

Finally he said, 'we must meet.'

The pub was quiet and we sat in a corner. Rob kept looking at me as if I had just said something deeply shocking. I kept asking him questions and getting no answers. But in the end he did tell me what I needed to know. I couldn't believe I hadn't discussed it with him before. Maybe I had been afraid of what he would say. He knew all about lease service debt repayment plans. With the current shortage of stock in the slave trade, and prices sky high, they were all the rage. No wonder they had offered me fifty thousand pounds for a two year contract. No doubt they had offered all sorts of promises about being leased to top-notch clients who would want me only for my business skills, and would look after me with kid gloves and house me in some nice hostel. Well maybe, but maybe not. It was all a matter of luck. And how the market was moving.

I would be put on show at a slave auction house, probably one of the big ones located in suburban business parks, and my details would be circulated. I might be bid for individually, or as part of a group. Either way there was no telling the outcome. If there were no takers after a week I would be sent for public auction, and if I still didn't sell they'd cut their losses and flog me off on the wholesale market. That meant Grants would be washing their hands of me. Although they would remain the head-lease holder, and technically it was up to them to see that the terms of my contract were complied with, in practice they would let me sink or swim.

Recent cases where a slave had been lost and not produced in court at the contract's termination date had resulted in nothing more than small fines and orders to keep looking for the missing slave. But even bounty hunters had problems tracing slaves traded through the smaller auctions and exchanges. It was no secret many volunteer slaves were still in ownership long after their contracts should have expired. The whole system, it seemed, was geared towards maximising the number of slaves coming to the market, and allowing as much freedom to the trade as possible.

The trouble with volunteer slaves was the steep drop in their asset value as their time for release drew near. It was tempting for owners to sell such slaves onto the 'shadow market' (i.e. without documents) where a good price could be obtained from dealers who could forge a permanent enslavement order, or even send the slave abroad to be re-registered as a permanent slave. With prices so high for healthy lifetime slaves such corrupt practices were hard to stop.

By this time I was thoroughly depressed. Either way my future was intolerable. Either live with a mountain of debts and never see my kid, or pay everyone off, put by something for the kid, and then disappear into the oblivion of free-market slavery. So thank heaven for Rob.

His idea of a weekend break was traveling round small slave auctions in country towns, or slave events at county fairs. He studied the published lists of enslavements and liberations, knew all about slave law, prices at auction on the primary and wholesale markets, and was an avid reader of the technical press. So it was no surprise when he pulled a copy of 'Slavery Today' from his back pocket. He leafed through it and began studying the classified ads. I told him I had already signed and everything was settled. My fate was sealed. Rob said nothing but kept reading and then with a small sigh of satisfaction handed me the magazine. He pointed to a small ad. 'How does that sound?'

'Two gentlemen will purchase educated reliable slave to supplement households London/Sussex. Lease agreements considered. Private offers only.'

Rob offered to contact them on my behalf. He said it would be better than being sold to a brothel, or trained to fight, or worked to death in some sweat shop. I told him I was already owned by Grants. But Rob shook his head. He said that if I found another owner who would match or surpass Grant's offer, it was very likely a Slave Court would annul an unenfored contract and enforce a new one.

'How long have we got?' Rob asked. I told him five days.

'Long enough,' he said and took out his mobile. 'No time to waste. Two civilized gentlemen - just the owners you need.'

He punched in the number and winked at me as he began to speak. He made me sound like a combination of a sex boy, university professor, and Jeeves. Before long it was clear the gentlemen in question had taken the bit.

Two Gentlemen And A Salve, Part Two

Rob came with me. He said he would do the negotiating because silent slaves sold better than chattering hagglers. We went to an address in a fashionable part of the city. The apartment building was as imposing as it was gloomy, with a snooty liveried old slave as doorman who told us we were expected on the fifth floor. The door was opened by a middle aged slave wearing a standard slave uniform - blue shirt and trousers trimmed in yellow. His collar was embossed with the name of a large slave rental company.

Until recently I wouldn't have given such a slave a second look, but now I studied him looking for clues about his life. With his shaved head, trim figure, blank expression and evasive eyes, he was a totally unremarkable slave. He had about him an air of weary servitude. Would I end up like him?

The slave led us down a corridor and into a large sitting room where two men were sitting, one middle-aged and reading, the other much younger and watching television. The furnishings were sumptuous, with Turkish rugs, paintings, antiques, a grand piano, and fine old glass-fronted book cases. These gentlemen were certainly not poor. The younger immediately jumped up and came over to greet Rob. He introduced himself to Rob as Boy Harry but took no notice of me. The older man also came over and shook hands with Rob. He said his name was Colonel Underhill and offered Rob a drink and led him over to the fire and invited him to sit on a large Chesterfield.

The slave went to fetch Rob a drink while Boy Harry stayed and looked me up and down. 'Not a bad piece of goods,' he said as he reached out to remove my jacket. 'A bit flabby perhaps, but we'll soon clear that up. Nice eyes, nice butt....'

He turned and walked back to sit beside Underhill. The two men could not have been more different. Underhill was every inch a gentleman of the old school. With his bristling mustache, pot belly, rather wild gray hair, and powerful build, he stood over six foot and exuded authority. His clothes only served to enhance the effect - gray slacks, a plaid shirt, elegant cravat, well-tailored tweed jacket and dangling pocket handkerchief, polished and well worn brown brogues. Boy Harry on the other hand was not only half the age, he must have been half the weight and mass of the Colonel. But he was a handsome young man with black hair and pale skin, and a neatly made torso and a bottom that sat easily on a pair of good legs. He wore smart chino shorts to just above the knee that showed off his rump, a checked shirt with short sleeves, and a pair of boots with long socks. If it weren't for the absence of a collar and tag, I might have taken him for a favored slave.

No doubt about it, they were an intriguing couple, but that did not alter the fact that I felt affronted at being left standing alone and looking stupid. Didn't they realize I wasn't a slave yet? So as not to look a complete idiot I wandered over to look at one of the paintings, only to hear a voice tell me to take my hands from my pockets and stand over by the piano. I turned and saw Boy Harry scowling at me. I don't think I had been spoken to like that since leaving school and I had to control an urge to tell him to watch his tongue and tone, but managed to control myself. I did as instructed and walked over to the piano. I heard Boy Harry say, 'he needs training... that's for sure.'

I watched the three of them. Rob was sipping his drink and smirking. He was clearly enjoying every minute of this. The other two were chatting to him while the slave made up the fire before bowing and leaving. It was a peaceful scene that might be reproduced in millions of homes across the land. Slaves made home life both comfortable and elegant. Life was good for the free.

Rob began to sing my praises. 'I think he'll make an excellent domestic slave. He's intelligent, smart even, and once you get him settled I'm sure he'll give you no trouble.'

Boy Harry stretched himself and snuggled against the Colonel wo said in a matter-of-fact tone, 'We don't take trouble from slaves.' He began to ask questions about me.

Rob answered as if I weren't present. Yes I was in debt and therefore a volunteer slave. No, I wasn't gay, but in slaves such things were neither here nor there. No, I hadn't a criminal record, and yes I was a virgin up my ass. Yes I had made a mess of my freedom and was better suited to slavery. My head was spinning and I could hardly hear what was going on. But then I heard Rob's order to strip.

The idea of Rob ordering me around would have been absurd even an hour before - now I obeyed, but evidently not quickly enough. Boy Harry was on his feet and came over to give me a hard smack on the seat of my pants. It didn't hurt, but no one had done that to me since my dad when I was twelve. He told me to hurry up, and when I was naked he took hold of my cock and pulled it, and then grabbed my balls, and fingered them and squeezed them apart. 'He needs shaving, fucking, training and to be put in shape. He's flabby and slow, and has no idea of what he's doing. Apart from that....'

Boy Harry laughed and took my right nipple between his finger and thumb and rolled it. A shaft of pure sensation shot through me and I gulped. When he let go he gave me another hearty whack on the backside and wandered back to sit down. 'Not bad though. A fuckable bottom, a decent cock, a nice face.'

He turned to the Colonel, ' What do you think Sir?'

The Colonel shrugged. 'We'll have him. We can always sell him if he doesn't settle.'

After that there was a lot of haggling over price, and legal fees, and which court to apply to for change of contract. I stood where I was, feeling daft, but also mildly excited. Why did being stripped, priced and sold, and the threat of bring fucked and sent for training, cause my cock to stir? I couldn't fathom it. Of course male slaves were fucked regularly - I had fucked plenty myself - but I had never thought about it before.

After a while Rob came over. He said they had agreed terms and that he was pretty sure the court would agree to transfer ownership to the gentlemen. Furthermore it had been decided that I would be treated as a slave from then on. When I tried to remonstrate, saying I was free for another five days, Rob stopped me and said it was better to dive in and not delay. I had much to learn, and for that reason would be spending the five days at a slave training center. He would call a round-the-clock slave transport company and have me taken immediately. So saying he made a call on his mobile, asking for a collection and whether there was a vacancy on their five day basic training program. He added that the slave was not registered but would be enslaved immediately after training. That seemed not to be a problem.

He then told me that I was being sent to a private slave training center, and that the next few days would be 'pretty hectic' but all for the best. I decided enough was enough. I was still a free man, and was starting to think the Grants Bank program might not be so bad after all. But when I began to speak Rob - my old friend - leaned close and said, 'I'm doing this for you, so shut the fuck up. Do you want to feel a cane across your hide?'

This was too much. I told him to shut the fuck up. My future owners must have heard this because they stopped talking and turned to look. Rob quickly apologized for me and said the tension and stress was getting to me, but that such an outburst would not happen again. He then went on, with no change of tone, to ask if he could borrow a cane for a few minutes. The Colonel replied that there was one over by the writing desk, and Rob was welcome to use, but would he please do so in the room across the hall. He added that he hoped the slave would be better behaved when returned from training.

Rob gave me a dark look and assured the Colonel I would have an entirely different attitude and outlook on life by then. He went over, took hold of the cane and waved it in the direction of the door. 'Outside old friend. Time to learn your first lesson.'

I went out and into a smaller room across the hall. It too was furnished with antiques, but was clearly designed to be used chiefly for its current purpose. A flogging horse stood in the center of the room. It's back was covered in fine red leather, and the rest of it was made of fine oak. Rob told me to adjust its height to suit mine, and began to take some practice strokes with the cane. It didn't take me long to adjust the horse, but while doing so I tried again to bring us back to sanity. I told Rob I wished to go home, and would not be caned. If he wished to demonstrate his skills why not cane Boy Harry, or the house slave. My backside wasn't available.

But as I spoke Rob caught hold of me and pushed me over the horse. Before I could get up he laid three savage strokes across my buttocks. I yelled, and that brought Boy Harry running and the slave, and together they over-powered me and laid me face down on the floor. A few more cuts with the cane and Rob asked if I were ready to stand up and obey. He apologized again for my indiscipline. I could see no alternative to obeying. I knew Rob enjoyed caning slaves. And he was skilled with the whip. He had often told me about the whore houses he went to that specialized in punishment and torture, and also his visits to slave training centers where recalcitrant slaves were being retrained. So it was no surprise when he told me the thrashing was going to hurt, and that it would mark the end of our friendship until I was free again.

His voice was cold and amused, as if he were pleased with the way things were going, and that dealing with me would be the icing on the cake. He told me get over the horse. I did as he said, and Boy Harry quickly tied my hands and then my legs so that they were far apart. He then arranged me so that my buttocks were raised right up, and made a proper target. This took a while as he and Rob were perfectionist and kept altering my position. More than once I felt his hand resting on my soon-to-be-flogged hide. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. The Colonel's appearance was the signal that all was ready. He stood looking down at me with his hands in his pockets, grinning as if watching something quietly amusing.

Rob caned me with vigor and skill. He gave me a dozen cuts, and each landed just below the mark left by the previous one. He seemed to be using a minimum of effort - he took no run, did not break sweat - but such was his skill that even when using only moderate force the cane landed with sufficient impact to make me cry out. After a couple of strokes Rob asked Boy Harry to gag me, and he quickly pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and stuffed it in my mouth. After that my noises were muffled. The pain was more than excruciating, because it was overlaid with a fierce sense of humiliation. Here was a good friend thrashing me as a common slave - it was as unbearable as the blows searing my backside.

When Rob had given me the dozen he put the cane under his arm and came up close to whisper in my ear. 'This is just the start. I've half mind to fuck you.'

A hand was searching in my arse-crack and because my feet were so far apart it was not hard to find my hole. Boy Harry was probing my entrance, and he told me to relax and let him in unless I wanted Rob to give me another dozen cuts. I tried to relax but it wasn't easy, but the thumb did slip inside. 'You'd better get used to it. Your fuck meat now.'

The door-bell rang. I could hear the slave answering it. The Colonel said, 'that will be the transport.'

I managed to spit out the gag and Rob and Boy Harry released me. As soon as I was free I stood up. I was dizzy and my sight bleary with tears and my backside was burning hot, but my sanity was returning. The spell Rob had cast on me was fading. Why had I let him beat me? I was still as free as he was. All I wanted was to get my clothes on and get the fuck out of that apartment. If Rob thought I was going to a slave training camp, or anywhere else except straight home, he had another think coming.

I was just about to tell him I was leaving when I heard the Colonel say, 'Good evening gentlemen...this is the property. He'll need shackles - just been thrashed and is uppity.'

Two uniformed guards entered the room. Both carried metal tool boxes and both were the type of thick-set, fit and mean looking, shaven headed cockneys that so often found employment in the slave guarding and punishment business. I'd been grateful for their quick intervention in the past. Once when I was accosted in the street by a demented slave, two just like these had appeared from nowhere, over-powered the man, and used their whips on his back as the man lay face down on the pavement. No one had taken any notice. After all public chastisement was a necessary part of a slave owning society.

So I was not surprised when these guards grabbed my arms and bent them up behind me against my shoulder blades and snapped on cuffs and straps. They were experts; there was no point in struggling, but I did ask to dress first. That earned me a cuff on the ear and a squeeze on my balls. A voice said slaves in transit didn't need clothes. My legs were put together and shackled.

I decided to play along... when I had them alone outside I could reason with them. They wouldn't want to take a free man to a slave training center. When the guards had me ready and trussed they asked Rob to sign for me and said they would deliver me safely to court five days later. 'He'll be in a better frame of mind by then sir,' one said and they all laughed.

The Colonel said something about army techniques of training still being the best, and one of the guards replied earnestly that he sincerely believed their training program was second to none. 'Don't you worry sir, we'll make him jump through some hoops.'

The other guard placed a gloved hand on my hot backside. 'If I may say so sir, this bottom has been very well caned. I'm a dab hand with the stick myself, but I'm not sure I could match a dozen marks like that.'

There was a good deal of shaking hands and thanking going on, and then I was dragged off, pulled long by a chain attached at one end to a metal collar round my neck and at the other to a guard's belt. With my feet shackled I couldn't keep my balance and fell forwards. The guard did not stop but pulled hard on the chain so that I stumbled as I tried to scramble to my feet. A metal toe-capped boot kicked me between my legs, jolting my balls, and sending a shaft of pain through my groin....enough to make me get to my feet. By the time we were at the door I was stumbling along like any other slave.

I looked back and saw Rob standing between Boy Harry and the Colonel. They were sharing a joke. The door closed.

Two Gentlemen And A Slave, Part Three

The guards put me in the back of a van and chained me to an iron bar running along one side. It wasn't comfortable, but they told me not to complain unless I wanted more stripes across my backside. We drove east across the city and then under the river towards the southern outer suburbs. There had been discussion by radio with a control centre about which depot to take me to. It seemed the nearest was full and another had closed for the night. The only solution was the big receiving facility at Swanley.

By chance I knew the place because my work had often taken me past it - a smart office block and compound set back from the main road. On the front lawn there was a large poster showing a cheerful family group of complete with a dog, and a young male slave in attendance. While all the family were smiling and casually dressed, the slave looked alert and ready to serve in a natty blue and gold uniform of high-collared tunic, nicely cut shorts, slave-sandals and cap. The caption read 'Completing Today's Family Unit - Mann's Human Resource Services.'

I recalled with a shudder how I had more than once told myself as I drove by that it might be a good idea to stop off and check out the stock on offer. It had not occurred to me that I would ever be a stock item myself. In the event the driver turned off the highway and took a service road to a rear entrance. Heavy metal doors opened and we drove into a brightly-lit yard and pulled up outside a single storey building with a sign 'Goods Inward' over the door.

Without a word both guards got out and went inside. I sat feeling nervous, and in need of something to ease the dryness in my mouth. A man in jeans and a T-shirt came out of the building but walked straight past. A car drove into the compound and two young men got out. They stood for a while chatting as they put on uniform jackets and fixed their ID tags. It was just like any other workplace - a shift changing, staff arriving and leaving, the artificial light of night giving way to grey dawn.

The van door opened and a guard in shirtsleeves I'd not seen before leaned in and released me from the iron bar. He was fair-haired and chubby and gave off an air of impatience. 'Right you, move.'

He stood back as I crawled out, stiff from the cold, and stood up in the cool morning air. The guard pulled a stick from a pocket in the side of his trousers and thwacked it across my backside. 'Inside, and keep your mouth shut.'

As I walked he grabbed me by the forearm. Something about his grip told me he was used to handling men and that he would not hesitate to punish disobedience.

Once inside the reception area he led me over to a desk where another guard, also in shirtsleeves, sat slumped with his feet up watching television. The rattle of my shackles announced my arrival. He glanced up. 'Is this the voluntary case from Kensington?' My guard nodded. 'Sign him in...five days...needs to be assessed.'

The man yawned and began tapping at his computer. 'No one on duty yet. Put him in a holding cell and give him some mush.'

With that I was led through the empty reception area and double doors. Ahead there was a long corridor such as might be found in any institution, with doors off and overhead signs indicating 'medical inspection,' 'records,' 'induction,' 'toilets,' and 'holding cells.' I was guided through the last door and into a dimly-lit, windowless, low-ceilinged room lined on all sides with metal barred cages. The guard opened the nearest and pushed me in. I fell forwards as the door clanged shut.

I swore and heard a laugh. I looked round and saw that some other cages were occupied. A voice asked if I'd been picked up at Waterloo. When I said I hadn't there was a groan of disappointment. Had there been a raid, I asked, remembering a newspaper article about opportunistic press gangs rounding up down and outs at railway termini and handing them on to slave agencies. Another voice swore and started to say something, but a guard appeared.

There was silence, but too late. The guard was a slim grey-haired man with a narrow face and jutting chin. He walked with the stiff gait of a born disciplinarian and wore the shirtsleeves uniform. He took out a stick and used it to stab the offender sharply in the gut. The man let out a groan and doubled up. With a skilful flick of his wrist the guard freed the stick, raised it and brought it down across the man's shoulders with a crisp crack. The force was enough to make the man drop to his knees. He knelt motionless with his head bowed while the guard swore at him and circled the cage. When he got behind the crouching figure he stopped, took a step back, cocked his head to take aim, and used the end of the stick to ram it up the man's backside. There was a scream and then another as the guard wrenched the stick free from the hole. His work done he strode out without another word but with a self-satisfied grin on his face. After that nobody said a word.

A slave wearing nothing but a collar and T-shirt with the words 'service' printed back and front brought me a plate of slave-mush and a cup of tepid water. I remembered how at school we had sometimes forced unpopular boys to eat slave-mush. It was considered worse filth than cat food. And yet I ate it hungrily. It tasted of nothing.

Some other captives were brought in. These were a rough looking lot and clearly runaways as they had slave tattoos on their forearms and telltale whip marks on their backs. They looked utterly dejected as they stood in shackles with bent shoulders and bowed heads. How many times had I seen groups of slaves like them standing in line for a public whipping or a session in the pillory? Finally a guard came and unlocked my cage and hauled me out and off down the corridor to a room marked 'Assessment.'

Before I could take a look round I was thrown against the wall and told to press my nose against it until the snot dribbled. My shackles were removed and my hands cuffed. A hand reached in between my legs and slipped a ring round my cock and balls. It was tightened and a weight was attached that hung heavily between my thighs. A paper hat was put on my head. Then I was told to turn round. I was in an interview room that was furnished only with a desk and chair. On the linoleum floor yellow marks had been painted. I knew these were where slaves had to put their feet. On the walls there were various small notices giving information about numbers to call to pass on information about runaways, health hints for slaves, an increase in registration fees for new born slaves, specialist training courses, breeding techniques, etc. One poster struck me because I'd seen it in the evening paper. It was a photo of man taken from behind with a defiant looking slave facing him. The man is reaching into his back pocket for a small whip. The caption read 'Domestic Control - Handy-sized Rhino Whips from only £20.'

A whack across my backside from the guard's stick alerted me to the door opening. A young man came in and placed a brief case on the desk. He nodded to the guard who withdrew. He removed his jacket and placed it carefully on a hanger before clipping a plastic ID tag to his shirt pocket. Only then did he look at me. 'Right young man, let's get you sorted.'

He came round and reached down to tug the weight attached to my balls. Then he ran his thumb and forefinger over my left nipple. 'Not bad material. A bit flabby.'

He looked me in the eye, sniffed and slapped me lightly across the cheek. Then we went back round the desk and opened the briefcase. He took out a file and sat down and began to read. Despite everything there was something about him that appealed. Perhaps because he was so like me. He had trim dark hair, dark eyes, a firm jaw, broad but slender shoulders, and looked as if he kept himself fit. His pale blue shirt was freshly laundered and ironed, his tie neatly knotted, and his trousers had a loose fit that showed off a nicely shaped sportsman's butt. He could have been a middle manager in any large corporation, with good career prospects. No doubt there was a wife and kids at home, and a slave, most likely a young female who would adore him and dream of stealing him away from his wife. Usually I would have treated him as an equal, shared a joke and talked about sports. As it was I felt only a sense of apprehension.

'You're a two year volunteer.'

'Not yet. I'm still a free man.'

He glanced up. 'That's not how I see it. And use Sir if you value the skin on your back.' His tone was mild and businesslike.

'According to my notes you surrendered to Colonel Underhill five days early in order to facilitate a short period of training.'

'I didn't surrender sir. A friend took me along.'

'It says here that Mr Robert Smith was acting for you and he agreed you should be sent on a five-day training course ahead of your court appearance. It is hoped your enthusiasm will help your application for a transfer of ownership from Grant's Bank to Colonel Underhill?'

I was about to answer when he held up a hand. 'Before you say things you may regret.... you have applied to be enslaved to settle your debts. Slavery is a serious business. Here we can give you a taste in controlled conditions so that you can get the hang of it and gain confidence. It's a leg up before you dive in. And don't forget Grant's Bank has you by the short and curlies. Contest the enslavement order now and they will apply for compulsory enslavement for ten years. And they'll get it. So this deal with Underhill sounds the best option for you.'

He looked at me to respond. There was no denying the logic. I was in shit up to my neck. No point in drowning in the stuff. I nodded.

'Sign here.' He held out a pen. I indicated the cuffs on my hands. He smiled. 'A mark will do. Slaves don't have signatures.'

I made the mark where his finger pointed. 'Good boy. Now there's just a couple of things you need to know and then we'll get you started. First, we've applied for advance slave registration and a number.'

He reached into his briefcase and took out a cheap plastic and wire slave-collar with an ID tag attached. He stood up and came round the desk. 'Hold you head up... my you've got a large Adam's Apple... keep still now... these things are always buggers to fix.'

He spoke softly, almost soothingly. I felt the plastic against my neck, and then heard a faint click. 'Got it. There now... you're a slave.'

He patted my butt and smiled and then reached up and flicked the paper hat off my head. He showed it to me. It had 'slave in training' printed on it. 'That's nothing but the truth boy. Don't look so sad. This is a big moment in your life.'

He ruffled my hair and then used both hands to secure the absurd hat on my head. He went back behind the desk and stood looking at me for a moment with his hands on his hips. It was as if he were deciding on something. Then he shrugged and let his hands slip deep into his pockets. 'You need training, that's for sure.'

Our eyes met, and he frowned. 'Only look at me when you're answering a question. There's a lot you'll learn, and a lot you'll need to learn.' He sighed. 'And that brings me to my other point.' He sat down and looked through the file for another piece of paper. 'Here it is. We're recommending to Colonel Underhill that he apply to have your order of enslavement extended from two to five years. This is on the grounds of getting money's worth from a domestic slave. You might be worth fifty thousand over two years for a commercial enterprise that could use your professional talents. But for a domestic slave, doing the chores, running the errands, chauffeuring and valeting, fifty thousand seems way too much. You may have a fine fuck-hole, but that's not a matter of concern to the court. We're confident the judge will agree with us, but you'll have a chance to have your say.'

He stood up and pressed a bell on the desk. The door opened and a heavily built black guard came in. I was too stunned to know what to say but began to mumble. The man behind the desk nodded to the guard who grabbed the weight between my legs and pulled hard. A spiral of pain rain through my groin.

'Five day training. Start him now. No favors. No special conditions. Carry on.'

Two Gentlemen And A Salve, Part Four

Five days: call that a hundred and twenty hours. No need to describe the pain and exhaustion. No days and no nights. No mealtimes, no regular sleep. I pissed only three times and shat where I stood. The sadists came three in a row, and then a nice guy or lady to show me to how to tie a master's shoe laces, or open his letters with a knife.

The black guard took me down to 'induction' where he handed me over to a slim young man with a ready smile, metal-rimmed spectacles, neat haircut, an educated voice and a reasonable manner. He marched me off to a 'interview room' the size and height of a squash court. There he looked me up and down and took a pair of leather gloves from the back trouser pocket of his nicely cut beige uniform. As he pulled them on he explained that a slave's first training was a pretty intense business. And then still smiling he made a neat fist of his gloved hand and landed me a rabbit punch just below my rib-cage. I went down on my knees and as my vision cleared I saw the sole a well-polished black shoe half an inch from my face. Slowly it pressed into my face, forcing me back on my haunches until I was about to topple over.

Then the pleasant voice told me it was time to learn how to kiss a master's butt. 'First things first,' he said mildly. 'and as with all things, there's a right way and a wrong way. Let's try you.'

He turned so that his well-shaped buttocks loomed over me. I managed to sit up and leaned forwards and planted my lips on the central crease that ran between the arse-cheeks. I heard a sigh and then a footstep behind me. The black guard was still in the room. There was a swishing sound and a terrible thud. It was like being hit by a rock. For a second there was no further sensation, and then the pain kicked in.

The cut of a whip is unmistakable even if you have never felt it before. It echoes in the caverns of the soul like a tribal memory. It is man's most brutal gift to his fellows, and the only one that will break us all. Until then I had felt myself a freeman. The cruel lick of the whip taught me in an instant what it is to be a slave. Fear of the whip, and the knowledge that sooner or later it will be used, perhaps to teach you a lesson, or as a joke, or on a drunken whim... no matter... it is the fate of slaves to spend their lives cringing under the threat of the lash. And now I had felt it I knew I was like all the rest.

I remember a slave at my office who had sneezed over me. I'd sent him for a whipping and drunk my midmorning coffee while watching him receive his licks. And then there was my father's faithful old slave who had sometimes spanked me when I was naughty as a young boy. I'd sent him for flogging the day after my sixteenth birthday just to get even. All my friends had done the same. And now I was a slave.

The correct method of kissing a master's butt is gently to press parted lips first against the left buttock, then the right, and finally into the crack. This is the procedure whether the master is clothed or not. First lesson learned - first whip mark on my back.

An hour later I was still in the same room and on my knees again, this time before a willowy Frenchman in a designer suit talking on a mobile phone. I had just opened his fly and carefully pulled out his cock. The same black guard stood behind me with the peak of his cap pulled down over his eyes and his whip at the ready. Slaves learn to interpret the sound a whip makes as it is drawn back or furled or shaken loose, and hearing a leathery squeak I realised I had to do something with the cock or receive another lick.

So I took the long, still flabby cock in my mouth and began to suck and lick while reaching for the scrotum. This was enough to remove the threat of the whip, but it did not satisfy the Frenchman who pulled my head back off his expanding cock and slapped me hard across my face. I saw stars and then plunged my mouth back round the cock and let it slide deep into my mouth until I gagged. Still not good enough. My head was pulled back for another hard slap, and then another, and after that I began to make some headway. A rhythm developed.

I'd never sucked a man's cock in my life (unless a school friend with a nice body odour counts) but I was learning fast. The cock stiffened and the Frenchman groaned with pleasure. Who says corporal punishment isn't an educational aid? When the man came I swallowed as willingly as any well-paid tart and was grateful when I got nothing worse as a reward than another slap and a boot up my backside.

The third sadist led me to a small windowless room to teach me how to approach a master without permission. It seemed a good slave will know how to light a cigar, change a handkerchief, refill a wallet, or slip the car keys into a trouser pocket without seeking permission. But it has to be done swiftly, and with a bowed head, and without causing the master the slightest inconvenience. To demonstrate I had to approach the guard who was an overweight Northerner in an over-tight uniform with a wheeze in his breathing and heavy boots on his feet. Each time I would make some small error and be sent back. I had five lives and then would have to jog down the corridor and respectfully request my black tormentor to use his whip. I got three licks and a boot up my backside before I mastered the art of slithering my hand into a pocket, or persuading a lighter to light first flick, and not to rattle change, or tickle a buttock.

After that I was sent to a sunny bedroom used by a bachelor guard where a very nice lady showed me how to clean the room and change the bed. She was motherly, patient, and full of good advice. So great was the contrast with the three sadists my voice trembled with emotion. She did not mind and said that a slave's life was not all pain, and that I should develop fortitude and gritty endurance. But when I asked for water to quench my thirst she acted as if she had not heard, and when I repeated the request she sighed and pressed a little bell on a chain round her neck. A guard appeared and took hold of me by the scruff of my neck. He frog-marched me from the room along to a common room full of off-duty staff where and had me kneel with my hands on my head in the middle of room. He took aim with his whip. It flattened me, but did not seem to surprise those watching and within seconds I was back on my feet being led back into the room where the nice lady was waiting to explain the art of hospital corners.

Next up; report to the gym where a thickset young man in shorts and T-shirt was waiting. He explained patiently that I was a flabby son of a bitch not fit to be a whore's maid and he would make it his mission to turn me into a whip-sharp fit slave. To help him he had a small electric prod and a useful little whip he called Paddy. The sooner I got to know Paddy the better, he said, and laid into me with enthusiasm until he had worked up a sweat. Then it was time to get down to business. Push-ups, lifting, running, climbing ropes, interspersed with rimming his butt and sucking his cock. And episodes with Paddy.

After a couple of hours I was dizzy with thirst and was sent to be hosed down and watered. Then jog to the training ground where the young man who had assessed me on arrival appeared with a piece of paper. He told me I was ready to join a team undergoing training. He glanced at the marks on my body and said cheerfully that it seemed I was getting well stuck in. 'It's all about attitude,' he added and then turned to the instructor and told him that Colonel Underhill, my owner to be, had requested that I not be fucked or raped. 'He asks if we'd be good enough to ease his back passage. The Colonel says he's too old to deal with a tight hole.'

Both men laughed and then my assessor walked off and I was made to run over to join five other slaves who were being prepared for a whipping. A cockney with a twisted smile and bad teeth told us that we would be wrapped in bath towels to be whipped. That way we wouldn't be marked. We all laughed at this because we were already covered in marks, but we stopped when slave-orderlies appeared and wrapped us so tightly in thin damp towels I thought my circulation would be cut off. Then without warning we were whipped where we stood. Those who fell to their knees were told to get up and receive extra licks and those who shouted out were quickly gagged.

I counted a dozen licks before giving up, and although the licks were not as painful as those the black guard had laid on me, they were so numerous and so relentless I understood that I was being broken. Afterwards I'd forever be a willing slave, an accomplice in betraying other slaves, in betraying myself, anything to avoid the whip and the master's scorn. Like any broken slave I would take my master's side against my own. By the time it was over we were all lying in a heap. Blood oozed through the towels and our bodies were wracked by fevers and cramps. The orderly slaves stripped the towels and poured cold salt water over us.

A slave transporter arrived and we were thrown in the back and taken off to a small building where medical orderlies carrying small dog-whips lined us up and examined us. Various tags on chains were hung round our necks and we were taken through into a communal shower room to be hosed down and bend over and have our arse-cheeks spread to receive an enema. Then we shat before being hosed down again. After that we were rubbed down with soothing lotions by slaves, given linen loincloths and shirts, and sent to receive injections before being fed.

The food tasted good despite our being made to eat with our fingers and being forbidden to sit. But then the mood changed. A mild-mannered elderly gentleman appeared in our midst and courteously led us into a lecture theatre. He invited everyone to sit and asked whether we had any questions so far. There being none he ordered the lights lowered and we were shown a movie about the honourable condition of slavery, with examples from history of noble slaves who had acted selflessly out of love and loyalty to their masters. When this was over we were allowed into a small reception room with chairs and told to rest. Within a minute we were all asleep.

Whip cracks woke us and the sadists returned. And so it continued for a hundred and twenty hours. Only right at the end did things change. The guards who had been so attentive with their whips disappeared to be replaced by young men in smart suits carrying clipboards. We were sat down and asked questions about our training. Did we feel we had been fairly treated? (Answer: YES SIR!!! - unless you wanted a visit to the whipping room). Were we looking forward to serving our masters? (Answer: YES SIR!!!). Did we have any complaints? (Answer: NO SIR!!!).

I was told to report to Room 70 to have my back passage eased as per the Colonel's instructions. When I arrived the room was empty except for a flogging stool with straps attached. After a short wait a young guy with an American accent appeared. Everything about him was neat and elegant, from his fresh sneakers, his long thick sports socks, chino shorts that hung to above the knee and were just tight enough around the butt, to his crisp polo shirt and perfect complexion and fresh haircut. He said affably that he saw no reason to use 'ugly instruments' and that his own cock would serve just as well.

By then I knew how to open a master's fly and service his cock, and having done so I dropped my loincloth and settled over the flogging stool with my legs apart. The American produced some rubber gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Then he eased two fingers up my back passage, fiddled about, found my pleasure spot and went to work, reducing my to a quivering mass of pleasurable sensation. After so much pain and fear, the change was too great and I cried out.

This amused the American who called me a sissy and spanked my butt a little. Then he moved closer and guided his cock up my passage. It went in smoothly because I welcomed it. I was being fucked by an expert, and I could not only feel his cock stiff and strong inside me, but my nostrils were flooded with the fresh scent of his skin and the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. He did not pleasure me for long, but withdrew and slapped my butt and told me that I was fine and no more training in fucking would be necessary. As I turned and presented myself to him and bowed I found myself wishing he could be my master, and thinking how good and faithful a slave I would be.

Without warning I was taken to the reception areas, handed a company slave uniform, told to put it on and report back in five minutes. An hour later I was in the slave court waiting for my case to be heard. When my name was called I marched smartly into the courtroom bowed to the judge and turned to stand with my toes on the yellow floor markings. My application for voluntary slavery was read out by an official, a representative of Grant's Bank expressed no objection to having me assigned to Colonel Underhill for the sum of fifty five thousand pounds. At that point my assessor stood up and put forward an application to extend my servitude from two to five years on the grounds of domestic service being less valuable than professional services. The judge asked me if I agreed with the application. (Answer: YES SIR!!!) and whether I was freely and of my own volition entering into slavery (Answer: YES SIR!!!). He stamped the application, thanked everyone, wished me well and complimented me on my smart appearance and respectful and alert attitude. I would be a credit to my master.

A hand on my shoulder and I turned on my heel and walked out of the exit marked 'slaves only.' Glancing up I saw Colonel Underhill smiling down at me from the public gallery. He looked every inch the modern gentleman, from his well-cut tweed suit, his crisp plaid shirt, pocket handkerchief and club tie, to the elegant angle at which he had tucked a small domestic whip into the top of his trousers. He was my master, and I was his slave.

END