You Can't Be Friends With a Slave

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part five

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

REALITY STRIKES!

On that first morning, when I woke up, I desperately needed to piss and crap. I looked at the hole in the corner of my cage, but decided to try some other way. I shouted through the bars of the cage, and even resorted to shaking at them - impotently, as it turned out, as they were so solid that they wouldn't move at all. I guess all that stuff you see in the movies about prisoners rattling their cage bars is just artistic licence.

When it was clear that no one was going to do anything, I went to piss, but my bowels were telling me they couldn't hold it much longer, so I tried squatting down over the hole. I went to France once with my parents, and on the freeways there all the public restrooms are these "squat down" types, so I had done it before. Actually, provided you keep your balance, its' not that hard. And there's a huge advantage that it makes your butt open wide, so there's a whole lot less mess to clear away - highly relevant when there's no toilet tissue provided! The French always claim that it's better to crap this way, more natural - I couldn't help wondering if this was another of the Colonel's so-called "humane" things he did for his slaves.

It must have been at least another hour before the black slave came with my breakfast. "Charlie.... When....?"

"Hey, man, I'm not Charlie! I'm Coon."

I honestly couldn't tell them apart - it seems incredible, I know, that two black guys could have been brought up in such different places and yet be so alike. It just shows you what shaving all a guy's hair off can do (unlike me, who'd been allowed to keep some pubic hair and the stuff on my legs and arms and chest, and who'd been given a very short haircut on top, both Charlie and Coon were completely hair-free. It was almost as if their skin had been polished, it glinted so under the lights.)

"Sorry, Coon... I couldn't tell you apart from Charlie..."

"You're another of those white bastard who think all black slaves look the same! We have to put up with it from the masters, but Charlie and I will show you what's different about us the first time we get you alone in the bunkhouse, with no one to save you."

"Hey, man, calm down. I'm sorry, right. I'm not prejudiced or anything, it's just that you are so alike... Look, please tell me what's going on."

"Well, if you're like all the other new slaves, you eat your chow now..." He passed the bowl through the bars of the cage. "Then at some point we'll take you out and wash you thoroughly, then Mr Straughan will take you off to the doctor's office."

"Do you and Charlie work in the bath house all the time?"

"No. We're the indoor discipline slaves. We're on call in case any of the cooks, waiters or valets need punishing. Or, of course, if there's some special display being laid on to amuse the masters, and there's the possibility that there might be trouble. There's not a lot to do, except keep ourselves fit, as they're mostly a docile lot here, so when new slaves arrive, we get called in to do their initial processing, like we did with you yesterday. It's OK for slaves like me who were born to it, but when guys come in here who are new to slavery, they can sometimes try to cause trouble... Charlie and me like that, as it gives us a chance to flex our muscles a bit!"

I wondered what these "special displays" might be, but I started to munch away at the chow, and as I crunched it down I carried on talking to Coon. I'd never really spoken to a slave before, except to give the few I came in contact with direct orders, and it seemed odd at first. "So I bet it's good to do your job when the female slaves come in... All that washing... And do you have to shave their pussies?"

"No way! There are no female slaves here on the Colonel's estate. He doesn't believe in them. I heard him talking to a guest one day and he said that he likes the flexibility males give - when the waiters get to be that bit older and they're not so cute, he can simply re-use them as general outdoor workers. It seems that you have to pay quite a lot for a boy who'll be a good waiter - eighteen or so, with a wiry, muscular, but slim, body. Then when they're twenty-something, the price has crashed: rather like buying a new automobile: after a few years the depreciation's terrible. So it's easier to send them out into the estate gangs, and get them to put on a bit of muscle doing real work. He couldn't do that with women, could he?"

"Well, yes... You do see women working in construction and such like up north..."

"Yes, some women. But not most women. So it's easier to stick with all males. And, as the Colonel told his guest, even if he put women out to work, it would cause all sorts of problems in the dormitories - they'd be fucking around, having kids, causing jealousy and rivalry amongst the males."

"Oh, so you don't get much fun, then..."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, with no women, there's no sex...."

"What do you mean?"

"You know - guys fucking women. Feeling them up. Fondling them. All that sort of stuff."

"I was never taught anything about that. In slave school the lessons tell you that women are for breeding. Sex is what men do for fun, with each other. Your owner might stud you with a woman to breed a new slave for him, I suppose."

"So you've never been with a woman, Coon?"

"Of course not. No one needs to stud from me - if a master wants a new black slave, there are lots and lots of black studs around with proven pedigrees. Mind you, there aren't a lot of white studs - I wouldn't be surprised if master Billy-Joe didn't want to stud you. Could you do that?"

"Hey, I've been with lots of women. That's what sex is all about." I was putting on an air of bravado, but I wasn't sure I could "stud" as Coon called it - if they wanted me to sleep with a woman I'd ever met before, could I do it ? Sure, I've had a lot of one-night stands, but I usually got to pick the woman from the crowd at the bar first. How would it feel to go into a bedroom and find that someone else had chosen for me?

At that moment Charlie came up, and he was holding a big key. "'morning, Steve, man! Big day for you. The first day of the rest of your life, as they say. Mr Straughan's entrusted me with the key, so Coon and me can get you cleaned up. Now, you're not going to cause us any trouble, are you?"

Well, they couldn't be going to do any worse than they had done yesterday, could they? Once you've suffered the indignity of having slaves wash you so intimately, it couldn't get worse. So I smiled at him, and said "Sure, Charlie. I'm looking forward to it, almost! But you're wrong - it's not the first day of the rest of my life... I'll be out of the slave quarters and in the house proper as soon as master Billy-Joe gets here at the weekend and sorts things out with Mr Straughan.

And I'm not really a slave, either - I'm doing this voluntarily, and I'll be free in five years, whatever happens."

"Hey, Steve, man, you may not think you're a slave, but you sure do look like one with that collar on, that cropped hair of yours, and wearing those slave shorts. As the proverb goes 'If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck!'"

Both he and Coon broke into laughter then, and they unlocked the cage and led me off back down the corridor to the room where I'd been showered and clipped the day before.

I soon found out that it could be worse than yesterday! And my bravado is saying I was almost looking forward to it was very, very misplaced. Before they started soaping me, Charlie told me to lie over the stool, on my belly. Coon then sat astride my waist, so that I was effectively trapped there. He'd taken off his shorts, as had Charlie, because we were in the shower area, and I guessed that the hot moistness was feeling in the small of my back was Coon's ass hole. And that other thing , rubbing up and down gently as he moved, must be his dick.

Now I've read about enemas, and I always thought they were just figments of erotic fun. Well I can tell you, they aren't. It's neither erotic, nor fun, and it's fucking real not some imaginary twist in a story!

Charlie spread my butt cheeks and I felt something probing at my hole - it was a nozzle of some kind on the end of the hose they used for washing. I started to shout and tried to kick out, and to buck around where I lay. Charlie shouted "Ride him, Coon, man!" And "Hey, Steve, have you been to a rodeo? Coon's riding you just like those cowboys ride the steers. But you'd better keep still - I'm going to turn the water on and I need to concentrate, and if you're bucking around like that...."

Now the truth from the fiction. Yes, you can feel yourself filling up. No, you can't really tell the temperature, except where the nozzle isn't a good fit, and it trickles out - then I knew the water was cold. After a bit Charlie told Coon to get off me, and I stood there feeling... feeling well, I don't know what. It was like I'd eaten the biggest meal in my life, and I felt stuffed. I clutched at my belly as a vile cramping pain started, and to my horror felt it all distended - normally it's flat as a pancake, and now it was bulging out. Just then, Charlie stood behind me, put his arms around my body, and almost shook me up and down. Great cramping pains went through me, like when you've got the world's worst case of the runs after eating something bad. And then I knew I had to crap.

I tried to fight Charlie off, saying "Let me go, you bastard... I've got to crap..." But he carried on jogging me up and down and even began massaging my swollen belly. "Easy, Steve... Let the water flush you out...." But he did let me go soon enough - I assume he knew what he was doing and how long he could risk holding me - and I couldn't even make it to the crap hole: the contents of my bowel erupted, almost literally erupted, from me. I've never had stuff propelled out with such force. Dirty juices were forced out onto the floor, and splattered everywhere - my feet and legs were covered, as were Charlie and Coon's, and the smell was disgusting.

I tried to find the hose to get the stuff off me, but Charlie and Coon didn't seem at all concerned - I guess they were used to it. Gently now, Charlie led me back to the stool and I had to lie across it again - all the fight, all the stuffing had gone for me (literally, I suppose you might say!). Then with Charlie's hot ass pressing into my back now, Coon pushed the nozzle into me again and I had another fill of water.

It took four "flushes" until the two slaves seemed satisfied, and then they went through the washing process, as they had the day before. I felt all weak and trembly from my ordeal, and I was shivering from the exertion of violently crapping all that stuff, and from the cold water. Very gently, very tenderly, Charlie and Coon wrapped their arms around me, pulled my body close to theirs, and Charlie whispered "Easy, Steve - you'll get used to it. We have to do it as the doctor will want to inspect your ass, and the Colonel prides himself on never sending a slave to him 'dirty' - the doctor can do a rectal exam on you without the need for a rubber glove, as you've had the crap cleaned out of you. The Colonel considers it's one of those extra little touches - consideration for others, like the doctor - that differentiate a real southern gentleman from ordinary men."

"Yes, Charlie, but what about me?"

Charlie and Coon were rubbing their hands all over me now, and I didn't care - the friction was warming me up. I'd even failed to notice that their dicks were touching mine, and sometimes pressing into my flesh - I was just glad to be getting warm. "Steve, what about you? Don't you understand, yet? You're a fucking slave, man. You don't matter at all, compared to the needs of a free man, especially one who's a 'gentleman' like the Colonel, or master Billy-Joe, or Mr Straughan."

Straughan came in at that moment, and saw us clustered together. As soon as Charlie and Coon were aware of his presence they immediately assumed a respectful "rest" position, heads down, hands neatly clasped behind their backs.

Straughan looked at me and snapped "Get some shorts on. Now! Or come naked."

I hastily pulled on my shorts, and followed him as he strode out of the door. In the yard outside a pickup was waiting, and on the back platform there was a large barred cage, rather like the things you transport dogs in. Straughan opened the mesh door at the front, and said, calmly, "Get in!"

When he saw me looking with astonishment at what he'd asked, he snapped "Have you forgotten what happens when you don't immediately obey orders? My crop is waiting...."

"Please, Mr Straughan, sir, can't I just sit in the passenger's seat?"

"The Colonel likes all slaves leaving the estate to be properly secured. When you're here, we can keep an eye on you. But off the estate, slaves need chaining or caging."

"But, sir, I'm not really a slave. When master Billy-Joe comes at the weekend, all this will be cleared up. I'm not going to try to escape, am I?"

"Oh, very well. But strip off. You'll be less likely to run off if you're bare."

He couldn't be serious, could he? Yes, he was. I weighed up the choices, and sitting in the passenger seat without shorts seemed less unpleasant that being crouched in the cage with them on. So I dropped my shorts, and climbed into the passenger seat. Straughan got in the driver's side, started the engine, and we drove off.

It was vaguely erotic, somehow, being driven along in the nude. When I was still a teenager and had just learned to drive I sometimes used to drive along with my dick out of my fly, just for the excitement - would some trucker in a high cab stop by me at the lights and look in? Well, it was just the same now, only more so.

Straughan said "Don't try to escape, boy. The folks around here don't take kindly to escaping slaves - they tend to take the law into their own hands, and not even bother to turn you in to the sheriff. You know, don't you, that the penalty for escaping is castration? Well, folks would take one look at you with your collar and know you were a slave, even if you managed to find some clothes. Then they'd probably string you up, as a warning to their own slaves."

"String me up, sir?"

"Yes, you know... Like in the old movies. Just toss a rope over a branch of a big tree, then hang you. Folks around here think that's a pretty good demonstration to their slaves of what would happen if they got restive. It's a lot more immediate than turning the slave in, then waiting until he comes back without his balls."

"But surely, sir, they couldn't do either of those things to me - I'm a volunteer, and mutilation and permanent body modification isn't allowed."

Straughan gave me one of his thin smiles, as if not wanting to contradict me, whilst at the same time not wanting to agree with me. "Quite so. Some things a master might reasonably do to a slave are not allowed for volunteers." He remained silent for the rest of the journey, and I just sat there and watched the gentle countryside role past. It was pretty uncomfortable, though - the pickup had those synthetic leather seats, and as I sweated in the heat I slithered and slid around, with nothing between the fake leather and my skin to stop me.

The sign out side the doctor's office said "Jeff Green, MD(S). Slave medicine. Slave surgery. Regular maintenance contracts undertaken." I guessed that the "(S)" after the MD meant that he specialised in slaves, and I wondered how this differed from the medicine practised for free men - surely we got the same diseases, and if we broke an arm or something, you'd need to do the same things?

Straughan parked outside, manoeuvring the pickup to take advantage of the shade cast by a solitary tree, then commanded me to get out. I must have been getting used to nudity now, or something, as it didn't even feel strange to be by the side of the highway like that. Still, perhaps it was because I was going into a doctor's office - you get used to taking your clothes off there, don't you?

We went in, and was surprised to see that the doctor's examination room opened directly off the street. Well, that was one change from an MD and an MD(S) - no fancy receptionist, no waiting room, no consulting room. If another slave came in when I was being examined, he'd see me - all of me! I guessed this was another example of how slaves were not meant to be body conscious.

"Good afternoon, Mr Straughan", the doctor said rather ingratiatingly. "Is this the slave we discussed?"

"Yes." The reply from Straughan was quite curt. There was none of the normal politeness that patients show doctors. It was quite clear that Straughan considered the MD(S) to be some sort of servant, or contractor.

The doctor came over to me and without even asking, turned my slave collar around to read the numbers. "Is this a permanent slave in the Colonel's household?

Shall I open up a record for him and add him to the general maintenance contract? Or is this a "one off" - you just want a simple examination and report, for a one-off fee?

"No, he'll be part of the estate, so you may as well add him to the contract. Although he doesn't belong to the Colonel, he'll be living there as if he does. Proceed, doctor, I haven't got all day!"

It was astonishing how the doctor totally ignored me and only dealt with Straughan. I felt like telling him that he was wasting his time, and that if I did need a doctor whilst staying at the Colonel's, it would be a proper MD and not some fucking MD(S) with the manners of an oaf. Straughan's riding crop was in his hand as ever, though, so I decided to keep quiet - after all, this would all be over at the weekend.

I'm used to having medicals, of course - at school, in order to attend college, when I wanted to join the football team, for my job... And, initially, this one was no different, in fact it was more thorough. Firstly, there was a complete "going over" of my body by the doctor's cool hands - he felt all my major muscle groups, twisted arms, legs, neck, shoulders from side to side to make sure I was really flexible, then made me bend over and grip my ankles whilst his finger probed my anus as he examined my prostate. "Thank god you prepare these slaves properly, Straughan", I heard him say. "Some owners bring them in here totally unprepared, then fail to warn me - I like to do rectal exams without gloves as it's so much more sensitive, and I hate getting my fingers covered in shit!"

The doctor listened to my chest, made me blow into a meter that measured my lung capacity, took my pulse when stationary, and then after he'd had me jog on the spot for four minutes (embarrassing that - I could feel my dick bobbing up and down, with the doctor and Straughan watching), and then it got more sophisticated: he had an ECG machine whose electrodes had to be stuck to my skin, for example. And unlike an ordinary doctor, this one then sat me down and gave me a full dental exam, probing with those horrible metal things into all the cracks and crevices in my mouth. This seemed to please him, though, as me murmured to himself "Excellent, really good."

I was expecting a blood sample to be taken, which it was. But when he gave me the usual small vial to give a urine smple in, I wasn't allowed to go to the bathroom as you normally are: I had to stand there in front of him and Straughan and piss as they watched. And then, to my utter amazement, he handed me one of those round glass dishes with a top, and said, in a way that implied that it was absolutely routine, "semen in here, please."

It can be really difficult sometimes to get an erection, can't it? And with two men watching me, I can assure you it was tough going. I had to beat away at my dick, all the time knowing that Straughan's riding crop was twitching in his hands, as if he was waiting for me to fail. Enough manual effort will always produce a result though, won't it? And even though I was sweating all over from the effort (or the embarrassment?), I finally shot a load into the dish. I put the glass top over the bottom, and handed it to the doctor. I was expecting him to put it with the blood and urine for later analysis, but instead he took the top straight off again and dabbed his thumb and forefinger into the white fluid. He pulled out a big strand, and sniffed at it.

"Good elastic texture, Straughan, and a good clean healthy smell. Now, let's just take a look through the microscope..." After a few moments manoeuvring the dish under the barrel of the instrument, and moving it around to get a better view, I suppose, he went on "Yes, this is fine. Really strong swimmers in there. If the boy always produces as much of this, and they're in such good condition, he'll do well at stud. Do you intend to breed from him?"

"I have no idea what his owner has in mind for him", Straughan replied. "The slave seems to think he has some arrangement with his owner, so perhaps they've agreed it between them." Turning to me, he snapped "Have you and master Billy-Joe discussed your use as a stud?"

Well of course we hadn't! I wasn't some animal that could be used like that: I was Billy-Joe's friend. But it didn't seem wise, somehow, to bring all that up again a it seemed to annoy Straughan, so I just said "No, sir. But master Billy-Joe knows I like the ladies, and it's women problems that led to my voluntary enslavement... But I don't think he'll 'stud' me, as you call it - it's hardly something a friend does to you, is it? I mean, picking up girls together in a bar is one thing, but having to fuck, because you're made to... Well...."

Straughan just shrugged, but the doctor had been listening and said, suddenly "Mr Straughan, is this a voluntary slave? The things we discussed... The American Medical Association, slave section, would strike me off if I operated on a voluntary slave. It's specifically forbidden to make permanent modifications to a voluntary slave who's going to return to normal society."

What the fuck were they going on about - these "permanent modifications"? But Straughan was now speaking. "This slave thought he could evade the rightful process of the law after he raped his girl friend, by colluding with the Colonel's son in this idea of voluntary enslavement - the Jackson manoeuvre, or some such, it's called, I'm told. I totally disagree with the whole idea - a man should take his punishment as a slave properly, if he's broken the law. Fortunately for justice, there was a lawyer in the courtroom who this one had consulted about his rape defence, and he told the judge once he was no longer bound by attorney-client privilege after the voluntary enslavement. There wasn't much the judge could do, but this idiot agreed to the period of voluntary enslavement being increased to five years and a day."

"Ah, I see...", the doctor cut in. "So you applied for the new powers under the recent amendment to the state constitution?"

"Quite so! I called the judge this morning, and he at once agreed to the extension. So the slave is no longer a volunteer slave, but a slave, pure and simple."

"What?" I almost shrieked.

That terrible thin smile was playing around Straughan's face again. "Yes, slave. If the period of enslavement exceeds five years, an owner, or his agent, which is what I am for master Billy-Joe, can apply to the courts now for the enslavement to be made permanent. It passed a month ago through the state legislature here. It's thought to be kinder for the slave - after all, when a man's been a slave for five years, he's unlikely to be able to adapt to proper society again, is he? So best to get it all out in the open, up front. Enslaved for greater than five years means enslaved for life, if the owner applies and the court agrees. I applied, and the court did agree, so you're a permanent slave now." He turned away from me, and added "So, go ahead, doctor!"

"Righty-oh, old chap, pop back into the chair", the doctor said, looking at me. He'd adopted that irritating habit a lot of doctors have of treating even responsible adults as children.

"No, wait... Please...."

"Get in that chair, you fucking slave", Straughan had gone menacingly angry now. "Else I'll order you out to be flogged. There's no limit to what can be ordered for a slave, you know."

I still made no move, and the doctor simply leaned over to his desk and pressed a button. Turning to Straughan he commented "It's one of the problems in specialising in slave medicine. Some of the patients are so uncooperative. I have to keep security staff - mostly they're not needed, so they're just an unnecessary expense, so I have to find work for them; and that means that when you do need them, they're not here immediately."

The door to the street burst open, and four big, sweating slaves cascaded into the room. "Put this slave in the chair", the doctor commanded, "and make him secure."

The four big blacks approached me, each grabbed at one of my limbs, and the next instant I was carried bodily back to where the doctor had earlier done the dental exam. I was literally thrown into the chair, and the sweating men pulled straps out of the arms, from around the back, and from the leg rests, and I found myself held there, immobile.

Even now I don't want to really think about my circumcision. It was horrific. Of course it hurt, hurt like hell, as Straughan told the doctor there was no need of anaesthetic. But added to that was the sickening realisation that these men could do anything to me that they wanted - as a "proper" slave there was no end to the power that another man had over my body.

Stripping naked in front of the court, being collared, having Billy-Joe inspect me.... All these were steps on the road to slavedom. When the sheer physical power of one man over another was shown to me, shown to me in a way that affected that vital part of me, my dick, I knew that something irreversible had happened - I truly was no longer a man, but a slave.

Even the run-up to the process was dreadful - the doctor sat between my legs and squeezed at my foreskin to make my dick head appear. I was too terrified to get an erection, I suppose. He actually discussed with Straughan how much of my foreskin he should remove! I wasn't consulted. It was as if I wasn't even there, as the two men talked. The doctor was all in favour of just removing a little of my 'skin, so that when "at rest" about half my dick head and my piss slit would be exposed, leaving the meaty flange decently covered. But Straughan would have none of it. "My dear doctor", he said, in a kind of lazy way, "I know you want to practice your plastic surgery skills, but you'll need to do it on some other slave. As you know, as you've done enough business with us, the Colonel insists on the slave's head being fully exposed. He can't stand to see a part of the slave concealed from sight. And when the slave's dick is at rest, we want no unsightly folds or flaps of skin - a nice smooth shaft. But, at the same time, there's to be no restriction on his erection - leave enough so that is totally unimpeded. You know the house style - now do it, as you always do."

"Yes, Mr Straughan. Another boring 'high and tight'".

He looked down at me, and I said "No, please..."

"Now, old man, don't be silly. You've heard Mr Straughan's order, on behalf of your owner. You want to please your owner, don't you?"

"But Billy-Joe would never order this. I'm his friend. He wouldn't want me 'skinned..."

I screamed in pain then, as once again Straughan's riding crop lashed out at my nipples. My whole body tensed, trying to arc up out of the chair as the pain flowed through me, but I was secure. "I warned you, slave! You always refer to your owner respectfully. Now, if there's any more of this nonsense, I will order you flogged."

"Perhaps he should be muzzled", the doctor added. "If he doesn't have enough proper self-control now, before I start, he'll probably scream the place down. And I've had some complaints from the better business bureau recently, saying that the noise coming out of here sometimes is preventing shoppers from going about their business normally."

So saying, he went to one of the wall cabinets and came back with a standard plastic slave muzzle - the kind that slides between the teeth, has a strong dick-like protrusion to fill the mouth and hold down the tongue, and a piece that completely covers the lips to prevent sound escaping. He held it up to me, and I kept my mouth resolutely closed - no way were they going to treat me like that. Straughan, seeing this, swiped at my dick with his riding crop, and as I cried out in agony, the doctor simply pushed the muzzle home and fastened the straps behind my head.

It's a terrible sensation. Your tongue can't move. You have to breathe through your nose - and mine was now running with mucus, making it difficult. And you feel totally impotent as you try to form words and get them out, but cannot. Straughan told the doctor "Dispense with the anaesthetic and get it over with quickly - he's muzzled, so you won't disturb the neighbours now, and we know the bindings will hold."

As I've said, I don't want to talk about it really. The cutting sensation as the scalpel sliced through me was bad enough. But I actually fainted clean away with the pain when the doctor painted an astringent disinfectant onto the open wound afterwards to prevent infection. I just at there afterwards, sweat trickling don my body, tears rolling down my cheeks, and big drools of mucus hanging out of my nostrils and trickling down over the muzzle.

"You know", Straughan said, "Whilst we've got him here, and your slaves are in attendance, we may as well mark him. I was going to wait for his owner to think about the logo he wanted to use, but for a slave of this quality, who'll probably be sold several times during his working life, that seems unnecessary - it might reduce his sale price, as the new owner might want to impose his own mark and find there was no room. So let's just go for the standard 'S' - do you have time?"

"Always time for a good customer, Mr Straughan. The slaves can move him whilst the iron is heating up."

To my horror, I realised they were planning to brand me! I'd seen the big 'S' scarred into the butt on Charlie and Coon, and had at first though it must be some sort of tribal marking, until I heard the slaves' history and knew they were not fresh imports from Africa. I shook my head vigorously from side to side in protest, and tried to shout that Billy-Joe would never agree to this, but the fucking muzzle totally prevented me from making any sense. In any case, I don't think I could have influenced things - the doctor was clearly completely subservient to Straughan, who must be a very good customer.

With grim inevitability the four slaves undid the straps holding me in the chair, the carried me over and threw me onto what I now know is a punishment horse - the same straps that hold you when a flogging is planned do, of course, hold you just as securely when you are about to be seared and scarred.

The doctor held the branding iron, with its electric cord tailing down from the handle, up to his face and spat at it. "Not quite hot enough yet", he commented, and waited a few minutes. When his spit hit it the next time, it spat back, and he turned to Straughan and asked "You or me, Mr Straughan?"

"Oh, you do it this time, doctor. Then I can tell his owner that it was all done properly, by a professional man. Sometimes I think Billy-Joe believes I'm gratuitously cruel to slaves, even though I just employ the proper procedures, and I don't want to give him any reason to complain to the Colonel about me."

Mercifully I passed out shortly after the white-hot iron touched my left butt. I now know they have to hold it there several seconds, to make sure the iron cuts right through the surface layers of skin - if you don't do that, the brand is not sharp and crisp, and can even partially heal over - now I know more about it can see that it's better to have it done right, the first time, even though the pain is prolonged, than have the possibility of the slave having to endure a second attempt if the first is unsatisfactory. I came to and there was delicious smell of barbecue - my mouth almost drooled at the thought of seared meat.. Then I almost vomited, and probably would have done so had it not been for the muzzle, as the realisation came that that charred smell was me - it was my flesh that had been burned.

If only that had been all. Even as I watched, the doctor unplugged the iron and laid it aside, warning Straughan to be careful not to touch it as he didn't want any accidents in his office! He plugged in a second one, with a smaller end, and waited, and spat, until pronouncing that it, too, was ready. It was my right arm that got the attention this time - right on the side, so that the top of the "S" was almost level with the top of the shoulder. I didn't pass out this time, but I could see what was happening - I watched in horror as the white-hot metal approached, then felt its heat as the doctor positioned it properly, then saw the smoke curl up from my skin, and the flesh start to erupt in an ugly writhing pile as he held it firmly against me for at least five seconds. I thought I would be beyond feeling new pain at this point - the ache from my dick was almost forgotten, as the terrible pounding from my butt flooded my nerves and my brain with desperate signals: but no, the injury to my arm now took over as the thing that clamoured for my attention.

The two men left me lying there strapped to the horse for a few minutes, as the doctor offered Straughan coffee, then they completed the paperwork and Straughan signed to say he had incurred the doctor's charges. "Shall I give him a painkiller?", the doctor asked as they worked away, but Straughan simply said "No, he's only a slave, and I don't want to incur unnecessary expense. A little pain always does a new slave good, to remind him of how the world now runs for him."

When the slaves were then ordered to release me, I could hardly stand. I just kind of slouched there, desperate to shout, to rage, to kick, to lash out at my tormentors - but the muzzle kept me silent, and the presence of the slaves, and Straughan's crop, kept me from physical action.

Now I really knew I was a slave - there was no way that this could be done to a free man. The other stages on my via dolorosa were as now nothing compared to this. Some part of my brain was , though, saying that there was now nothing more that could be done to me, that there was no further indignity that could be heaped on me if Billy-Joe truly intended to treat me as a slave. I still clung to the belief, though, that he would sort all this out at the weekend; and I even wondered if there was some plastic surgery that could be done to restore my 'skin, or wipe away the brands. If only I knew: there were yet more steps on the road to total slavedom, and that I would tread all of them.

End Of Part Five

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part six

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

AT LAST! A REUNION WITH BILLY-JOE

I suppose Straughan was as kind to slaves as his nature would allow. I was so weak, so totally unable to act after being cut and branded that he didn't even suggest that I got into the cage on the back of his pickup. Sitting in the front seat was clearly impossible, too, because of my new brand. And so he told me to lie in the back, on my belly. It was a mixed blessing, as the hot afternoon sun beat down on my naked body, and if I wasn't already suffering such agony from the branding, I'm sure that my white butt would have been complaining about incipient sunburn.

Charlie and Coon had to almost carry me off the truck when we were at the estate, and it was a relief to get into the shady confines of my normal cell. "Oh man", Charlie whispered, "I told you that those visits to the doctor were a bit of a problem. Now, just rest."

I wasn't allowed to rest though, was I? It seemed that almost as soon as I had drifted off into a merciful sleep, a sleep that brought an end, at least temporarily, to my agonies, I was being shaken awake. As soon as my eyes opened the pain started all over again, and I could now distinguish for the first time the different areas of my body that were injured - prior to that, it was the latest one that had simply assumed precedence. Coon stood there looking down at me, and said "Feeding time, Steve."

"No... I couldn't at anything... I'm dead...."

"Come on, Steve. If Straughan finds out you're refusing food, he'll punish you. It's a requirement here - you have to eat everything you're given, and no more. They weight out the stuff carefully to make sure you have just enough to keep your work rate up and to maintain or grow your muscles, whichever they're after at the time, but not so much that there's ever any danger of you going to fat. Come on, Steve.... Let me help you up, and then you can eat."

Forcing that horrible, flat-tasting, hard-to-swallor food down was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. But Coon stood there, and tried to help. He even, slyly, and with obvious fear of the consequences, tried to help me out by taking a piece himself and eating it surreptitiously. I offered him another piece, but looking around nervously he said "Sorry, Steve - I've risked enough already. I've tasted Mr Straughan's lash before. Come on - only four pieces to go - you can do it."

I later found out that pissing was just about OK, but when I tried to crouch down to crap, all the scabs that were forming over my butt brand cracked and started to weep, and I was in fresh pain from it all.

They left me in there for two days, with just Charlie or Coon coming to give me my slave chow. Then, on the third morning, Straughan appeared. "I think you've lain there for long enough, boy. Time to get you working. A bit of hard work will soon make you forget the odd residual pain."

Well, if Straughan thought that what I was still experiencing was "residual", then god knows he must be tougher than me.

"Follow me", he snapped, and I dragged myself up and half walked, half shuffled, half limped down the corridor into the washing area. I hadn't showered or anything since my "operations", and the dried sweat on my body, and the traces of crap where I hadn't been able to crouch properly, had left me with a fetid stink, I realised. Charlie and Coon were there, and I couldn't believe that two guys could be so considerate, so gentle. As Straughan watched they washed me all over, but they were so solicitous of my brand, and the scars on my dick, that it was almost as if they'd washed them with a feather. I'd flinched as soon as the water was turned on, but Charlie, whose back was to Straughan at the time, had whispered to me "Don't worry, Steve. We've all been in this position.

We won't hurt you - I promise." I couldn't help contrasting the kind, considerate behaviour of these slaves, who'd only known me a couple of days, with that of Billy-Joe, my old college chum, who'd got me into all of this, and was now ignoring me.

Afterwards, Straughan handed me a pair of slave shorts, and I slowly and very gingerly pulled them on.

The cut was the problem - they stretched tight over my butt, and over my dick, and the scars in both places at once started to protest. I winced and moaned as the coarse fabric rasped against me, but Straughan didn't seem to care. "Stop being such a wimp, boy! Real men can take it. You'll feel much better after a couple of hours of hard work - the ache in your muscles will help you forget these little local difficulties with your brands and your dick."

"Mr Straughan, sir...."

"Yes, slave?"

"Is it worth making me work like this? Isn't today Friday? Won't master Billy-Joe be here this evening, after he's finished work in the city, and then...."

"The answers are yes, yes, and no. It is worth it, it is Friday - not that makes a difference as work here is continuous, seven days a week, but Master Billy-Joe will not be down here. He telephoned today that the friends he met last week have invited him to their country place to continue the party, so he won't be down. The Colonel's a bit upset, I tell you, as he thinks Master Billy-Joe parties too much."

Well, I thought, there's something the Colonel and I can agree on! How could Billy-Joe abandon me like this, just to go to some dumb party where he'd drink too much, eat too much, and then, utterly pigged out, find he couldn't even shag any woman he'd managed to pick up?

"So, slave", Straughan was saying, "Let's hear no more of this. Master Billy-Joe will get here in his own good time, and until then I think you'd better work for your keep, like the other slaves. It will do you good, too - out in the fresh air, exercising that body of yours. It will take your mind off things, stop you brooding and fretting. At night you'll be so tired all you'll want to do is sleep, believe me."

He was right, too. I was assigned to a gang of seven other slaves, all blacks, who got the hardest, most difficult work to do on the estate. Need this delivery truck unloading and the 50 Kg bags of slave feed, or cement, or whatever, carried to the warehouse? We did it. Want that fallen tree sawn and chopped into proper-sized pieces for burning in the fireplace? We did it. Want this hard, dry vegetable patch turned over using forks and spades? We did it.

We never knew what task was to be done next, but each day had a totally similar pattern. Up at dawn. Troop along the corridor to the communal wash area. At the entrance, two by two, side by side, crouch over the open bars of the crap pit and do your business. Then into the showers, and, every third day, stand there and shave your fellow, and have him shave you. Line up in the corridor and go past the scanner, and receive your handful of slave chow (all the other slaves had kind of barcodes tattooed onto them, underneath their 'S' brand on their upper arms, and I understood that I would have one too when my scar was sufficiently healed. The amount of chow they got was thus automatically dispensed for each man. I always caused a hold-up, about which everyone complained, as I wasn't yet properly "in the system"). Then pick up a pair of shorts - three heaps, small, medium, and large, and you just took the top pair, regardless of how dirty they were), and then outside into the yard.

We always had an hour of vigorous callisthenics first.

It was widely regarded that this "warmed you up" properly so you could work hard all day, and also ensure that every part of you got some exercise. Then on to the day's assignments - we jogged off as a group of eight, then worked watched by a supervisor or trusty slave, who was always ready with a light lash to strike us across our sweating backs if the pace seemed to be wrong. We had two fifteen minute breaks during the day, but that was all - no more food until we jogged back to the slave quarters in the evening where we were allowed to crap again, were hosed down, and fed.

The only difference between me and the rest of the slaves was that at night they all slept together in the rooms in the slave barracks, ten to a room, whereas I was always put back into my individual cage-like cell. The other slaves in my gang seemed to be really nice guys, though - we weren't allowed to talk when we were working (it brought immediate strikes across our backs with the lash if we tried it). But in the showers in the morning, in the line as we waited for chow, and in the shower at night we got the chance to talk a bit: not that there was all that much to talk about as nothing much ever happened.

We had no access to TV or anything, and slaves never left the estate except to go to the doctor's office, so there was no news of the outside world. And most of the time we were very tired, and so conversation was kept to a minimum.

I've never worked as part of a real team before - at my employers they were always going on about "teaming" and working together, but no one really did it - I mean, in an office environment, what does it really mean? But when all eight of us were working away we were really working together - for one thing, in some jobs, you truly do need to co-operate: if you're holding the logs as another guy swings the axe down, you've got to trust him!

It really was tough working like this, though: I'd thought I was fit, but now I found I was using muscles I'd never even dreamed I had, even when I'd been doing serious football training at school and college. The pain from my brands and from by 'skinning was soon forgotten as I worked away, and apart from the scabs and a sudden twinge if I sat down on my butt, or if I forgot and started to try to jerk off, it was really this tremendous overall feeling of sheer weariness that got me down. I couldn't wait for Billy-Joe to come and get me out of it - hey, it's good to work, I know, but there are limits!

On Saturday morning that week I was waiting in my cell to be taken off to the showers for another day's work, when Straughan came down the corridor and said "There's a visitor for you, slave, come along with me!"

My heart leapt with joy. Billy-Joe was here at last. But when we got to the outer room, there was only a rather sad looking guy standing there - he was in his forties, I supposed, but he had long hair tied in a ponytail, and generally looked pretty seedy.

"Mr Straughan, sir, please, sir.... Where's...."

"Haven't you learned yet not to speak until spoken to?

But I'll let you off this last time. I suppose you are wondering where your owner is, as this is the weekend? Well, he's off on vacation, in St Thomas - a friend has taken a house there. He called me yesterday and said he wasn't sure when he would be coming down here - it depends on how much fun they have.

My spirits, which had been soaring, crashed. Fucking Billy-Joe, I thought. He was having fun, but what about me? Straughan had that terrible thin smile on his face, and I thought I would risk another question.

"Please, Mr Straughan, sir, did he tell you to do anything about me?"

"Yes, slave. He asked how you were doing, and I told him you were settling in well. He had been thinking of trying to squeeze a few hours here before leaving for St Thomas, but it would be a big imposition for him as he'd lose one day of vacation. He was really glad to hear that you were doing fine, and told me to tell you to enjoy yourself, and said he'd see you as soon as he could fit it in."

I felt utter dismay. Had Straughan lied to Billy-Joe?

Was Straughan lying about what Billy-Joe had said? Or was Billy-Joe actually not concerned about me at all? In the old days I'd simply have flipped open my cell, keyed his name, and asked him. But using a phone was of course unthinkable for a slave. So I had no real way of knowing what was happening, and I felt another wave of frustration and impotence flow through me.

"Sit on the stool, slave!", Straughan commanded, and I suppose I was getting so used to obeying orders that I just did as he said, being careful, though, to make sure I didn't hurt the scar on my butt.

The little shrivelled guy had opened his case and got out an instrument of some sort, and I started to get scared - what was going to happen to me now? Straughan saw my whole body tensing, and I almost got up off the stool, and he snapped "Easy, slave. Stay where you are. This won't hurt - much - not like branding and 'skinning. We're simply going to add your bar-code to your arm, so that you don't keep holding up the food line. And lots of guys have tattoos all the time, so stop worrying, it doesn't hurt much."

I'd seen that when we were fed they just scanned the slave's arm, and had taken a look at some of my team underneath the "S" high on their arms was a set of lines, just like those bar-codes you see all over packaging in the supermarket. They had one of those little bar-code scanners, and it took almost no time for a slave to be scanned and for his chow to fall down the spout into his hands. It always held things up when I got to the front of the line as they had to look up on a piece of paper how much chow I was allowed, and enter in manually.

"Please, Mr Straughan - not a tattoo! I hate tattoos on guys..."

"Who cares what you like or dislike, slave? This is a matter of operational efficiency - all the slaves are bar-coded here, as it makes management and control so much easier."

"But sir, I won't need it - it's only until master Billy-Joe gets back from vacation... Surely we could carry on as we are until then...?"

Straughan gave me another of those evil, pinched smiles. "We'll have to see about that, won't we. Now, let's get you marked...."

Well, he was right. It didn't hurt - much. The sharp pricking of the needle was uncomfortable at first, but I soon got used to it and the whole thing only took about twenty minutes. The little man never said a word, just twisted my collar to read my ID number from it, then looked up stuff in his book - I suppose to translate the numbers into the codes - and then got to work. When he'd finished he wiped the blood away from his work, and proudly showed it to Straughan. Straughan in turn pulled out some sort of pocket scanner - it was no bigger than a cell phone - and pointed it at my arm. The thing beeped, and Straughan told the tattooist "That seems' to be working. Thank you. Submit your bill as usual."

I don't know - was being marked with my slave number worse than being branded? It didn't hurt so much, obviously, but there's something utterly degrading about being made to wear a permanent identification number. Somehow, I'd always thought that once Billy-Joe sorted things out, them my slave collar could come off I'd forget all about being a slave. But now, with these brands and my number permanently inked into my flesh, it somehow seemed to be becoming more and more permanent. I didn't have time to brood, though, as Straughan was tapping his crop on his hand, and pointing me through the door to crap, shower, and get my slave chow.

It was horrible, really - it's one thing to have a guy give you slave chow, and a quite different experience to have a machine scan your number, then dish out the right amount automatically - I felt as if I was one of those steers on some beef farm, where the farmer accurately controls his feeding all automatically. I stood there, alone now as all the other slaves were already out, and just munched the horrible dry stuff, forcing it down. Straughan was watching me, and said "That's right, eat up. You're on high rations at the moment, and we're giving you the 'build up' chow, rather than the regular 'maintenance diet'. I've decided you'd look better with about 30 pounds extra of muscle, so I've authorised more food than usual, and you're getting the variety with the steroids mixed in. You'll be surprised how quickly you'll build the muscle, and then we'll put you on the standard diet, and then lower your intake. I don't like using the steroids at all, really, but it does so speed up the process of making a slave look really good - and we always make sure it's not a high enough does to cause your testicles to start to shrivel: there'd be no point having a magnificently muscled slave if he had tiny balls, would it? I always think a slave needs to be in good proportion, if he's to be truly desirable for his owner."

Oh, fuck me! Not only was I being made to work like a slave, but Straughan was now feeding me up and starting to manipulate my body as if I was a slave. I was going to protest, but Straughan looked impatient, and I knew there wouldn't be much point and he might turn nasty. Resignedly, I went out of the door, and jogged off to join my team, after Straughan told me where we were working that day.

He must have been having a whole lot of fun, as it was a month - well, about that much time - before Billy-Joe did come to the estate. When you're used to seeing TV, having newspapers, a diary, a watch, you're aware of the passing of the weeks. But without any of those things, and when every day is exactly the same, it's really hard to keep exact track of the days. There was no Sunday church for us, or a special dinner on Friday night, or anything - just endless days the same. So it was a complete shock when, one day as we were toiling away digging the rock-hard vegetable patch, when two men on horseback rode up, and a voice called "Hey, Steve!"

I'd have recognised it anywhere - it was Billy-Joe! I threw down my shovel, and ran over to him as he towered above me. "Billy-Joe, thank the fuck...."

I screamed out, as Straughan's crop landed extremely hard across my shoulders.

"Hey, Straughan old man, that's a bit much..." Billy-Joe said, in a normal sort of voice.

"My Billy-Joe, sir, please remember what we discussed earlier about maintaining proper discipline amongst the slaves. I have fifty of them working out here on the estate, you know, and another twenty indoors. And I only have four guards for the outdoor crew - making sure the slaves work properly, and maintaining good order, is a matter of great concern for us, and slaves need to understand that there's a proper disciplinary system involved. Might I please therefore remind you, sir, that slaves are not allowed to stop work without permission; they are not allowed to speak unless spoken to; and that when they do speak, they must be properly respectful, and call free men 'sir' and their owner 'master'. This slave has just broken all the rules - and he's known for being generally hot-headed, disobedient and disrespectful. Now that you've come, perhaps you will assist by agreeing to the slave's proper punishment, and by making sure, sir, that you treat the slave properly. It's a two-way thing - the slave must obey and be respectful, and the owner, on his part, must take control and must demand respect."

"Quite so, Straughan. You're right, as usual. It won't happen again." Then turning to me, Billy-Joe said "Well, Steve, you're looking fantastic! You always were in great shape, but you're different somehow now - leaner, tougher looking, and you seem to have got even more muscular. Yes, a lot of changes...

The life here on the estate must be suiting you...."

"Billy-Joe, please! Yes, there have been changes! Look at this fucking brand on my arm, and this bar-code". I turned my arm towards him, and pointed at it, angrily.

Billy-Joe looked down at me from his horse - until you're standing next to a man on horseback, you really don't appreciate how they tower over you. Billy-Joe peered down, and said "And you've been 'skinned, too, Straughan tells me... Let's see that...."

"Billy-Joe! That's my dick you're talking about...." My angry words were cut off as Straughan slashed out at me viciously again, and I shouted out.

Straughan snapped at me "Do as your master commands, slave, unless you want more of this. Drop those shorts, and let your owner see..."

"Come on, Steve", Billy-Joe added as if trying to make light of it. "It's not your dick, strictly speaking, you know, it's mine now...."

Well, what else could I do? I pushed my shorts down over my hips, and stood there. Billy-Joe peered down at me again, and said "Hey, Steve, that's really nice - I always thought that 'skin of yours was too long, and I always wanted to see your dick head.... You know, I think it improves you. Go on, put those short back on... Although you've got nothing to be ashamed of, you know - that 'skinning and those shaved balls really make you look a whole lot better when that thing was poking out from that big thatch of hair you had. Anyway, come on, jog along behind us back to the house..."

My spirits started to rise. At last. But Straughan spoke. "Please, Mr Billy-Joe.... Please don't disrupt the normal operation here. The slave is working. He's part of a team. Without him they all have to work harder. And it's bad for discipline for a slave to be given special treatment like this. Please send him back to join the crew, then you can take him into the house after he's been properly cleaned up tonight... You remember how we discussed that? It really would be a lot better, from every point of view."

"You're right, as ever, Straughan. Steve - back to work, buddy, and we'll get together later when you're showered and fed."

I was so astonished that I didn't protest, and had no chance to either, as Billy-Joe turned his horse's head around and cantered off. Straughan looked down at me and said "You heard your master - now get back to work!"

I don't know how I got through the rest of the afternoon. At one level, I was elated to think that this was the last afternoon I'd spend toiling away under the hot sun. But I was worried, too - Billy-Joe hadn't really treated me properly, had he? You don't order your buddy to strip, do you? And he was the Colonel's son - if he'd really cared about our friendship, he'd have told Straughan to go and fuck himself! Jesus Christ, what the hell was going on?

When we'd jogged back to the slave quarters at the end of the day I went with my fellows from the gang and crapped, showered and was fed as usual. I was in an agony of suspense - what was going to happen? As one of the guards was leading me off towards my cage, though, Charlie and Coon were standing in the corridor in the "rest" position. As we approached, Charlie, keeping his head lowered respectfully, said "Permission to speak, sir?"

The guard nodded, and Charlie said "Sir, Mr Straughan has ordered us to wait here, and then take that slave off to prepare him to meet his owner. Mr Straughan asked me to tell you, sir, that it was OK to release the slave to Coon and me, sir."

"Suits me", the guard said. "Off you go, boys."

I loped along the corridor after Charlie and Coon, and soon we were in that room where I had been prepared on the first day. "Hey, Steve, man", Charlie said "Nice to see you again! Now, let's all get naked, and get started."

I hadn't really seen Charlie and Coon since our initial meetings, as I was an outdoor slave, and they were indoor slaves. "Hi, Charlie, Coon.... Nice to see you again. I think I'll be seeing more of you in future now master Billy-Joe has arrived - I'll be in the main house, with him."

"Oh yes", Coon chipped in, rather enigmatically, "You'll certainly be seeing more of us if you belong to master Billy-Joe! Come on, man, strip off, and let's get started."

"No need, guys... I showered a few minutes ago. Billy-Joe and I are old buddies - I don't need any special preparation to see him."

"Come on, man, please don't be awkward. We're slaves too, you know, and if Mr Straughan found out that we were not obeying his orders....." Charlie slapped his ass a couple of times as he said this, and I knew what he meant.

"OK, then..." I slipped out of my shorts, and I expected us to get under the shower together as we had before. But Charlie pulled up the stool, that stool where I'd first been cropped and shaved, and later where I'd been forced to have an enema.

"Come on, Steve, you know the drill. On your belly now, so we can get you washed out..."

"No fucking way! You're not doing that enema thing on me again. I'm just going to see master Billy-Joe...."

"Steve", Coon said, advancing on me rather threateningly. "Charlie and me don't want Mr Straughan beating our hides. He's said you're to be cleaned out, and we're going to do it. Now you can either fucking well bend over the stood yourself, or we'll put you there. Or do you think that now you've put that muscle on you can take on Charlie and me?"

"Come on, Steve, please...", Charlie chipped in. "Look, you've had it done before, and we'll be as gentle as possible. You don't want us slaves to suffer, do you? You know what Mr Straughan's like..."

"Look, guys, I won't tell. I'll be effectively a free man tonight, but I won't tell anyone you didn't do it - trust me."

"Sorry, Steve, but orders is orders. We can't risk it, even for a regular guy like you. And if you're going to be a free man, we certainly can't. A slave can sometimes trust another slave, but he can never trust a free man. So please, before Coon starts to get nasty, just do as we ask..."

So what was I supposed to do? I didn't doubt that they could overpower me. But I felt sorry for them, being so scared of Straughan. As soon as I'd talked to Billy-Joe, I resolved to try to do something about the lives of the slaves like Charlie and Coon: they were decent enough guys, just like Billy-Joe and me, and if things had been different it would be them who were going free now. I decided I ought to try to make things easier for them until I could fix Straughan properly - perhaps I'd get Billy-Joe to get he Colonel to fire him, and employ someone else. Until then.... well.... I went and lay down over the stool, feeling it pressing into my belly.

I decided to try not to think about it at all, and didn't look as Charlie and Coon finished their preparation. I don't know which of them it was who gently pried my butt apart, or who inserted the cold steel nozzle into me - I shivered as it touched the delicate skin of my pucker. Then I had to wait whilst the water ran into me, until Charlie told me to get up, and then, as he had before he stood behind me and massaged my swollen belly. I could feel his dick stabbing at my buck, as if it was trying to burrow its way into me. "Great, Steve", Charlie was crooning into my ear "You're one lovely slave, man. Now you've bulked up a bit, you're one fucking great slave. Will you fuck with me when you're free? This boy would really like to get up your ass, and to have that fuck-stick of yours up mine..."

"No, Charlie! I don't fuck with guys. And get your dick out of my ass, OK? Else when I am free, I'll have you caned. You can't treat a guy like that!"

"Steve, it's only what guys do...."

"No it isn't! Guys fuck with women, Charlie - you know that. You weren't enslaved until you were grown up: didn't you have girl friends in Jamaica?"

"Yes, Steve. And I got kids, too. That's why I had to come to the USA, to try to earn money. But there ai'nt no women here.... And a man needs to take sex where he can find it. And Coon here is great in bed. Man, his ass is sweeter than any pussy I ever fucked..."

"I don't want to hear about it, Charlie! And get that dick away from my butt, right?"

The foul stuff erupted from my ass, and, as they had before, they took three more washings before they were both satisfied that I was properly cleaned out. We did all shower together then, but Charlie and Coon didn't seem to be enjoying it as much as they had before - they did, as I expected they would, slide their soapy hands all over me, but they seemed very subdued. Perhaps they'd understood that doing your job was one thing, but taking your pleasure from another guy's ass, or dick, was another.

When we'd finished Coon dropped to his knees in front of me and started to soap my balls again. "Cut that out, Coon!", I snapped, getting angry now.

"Steve, I've got to shave your balls, and your ass. And we've got to clip your hair neatly again, and shave your chin..."

"There's no need for that, as I've said. I'm going to meet my old buddy, not go out of some date..."

"Steve, please...", Charlie cut in. "Please don't make it hard for us, man. You've had your balls shaved several time since you've been here - one more time won't hurt, will it?"

Well, they were right, I suppose. And, actually, I liked having my balls silky-smooth, and had decided to keep them that way when I was free. When I fondled them as I jerked off, they felt so much nicer without their thick covering of long, wiry black hairs. I wasn't sure about having my ass shaved, though - I've got really thick, luxuriant hair as I've told you, and my beard grows at the sort of pace that means I've got five o'clock shadow by about two! And my body hair grew like that, too, so when my ass was shaved after a couple of days it got uncomfortable as the stubble grew and started to push into the opposite cheek - I guess when your ass hair's quite long, it doesn't interfere, but when it's pushing it's way through freshly and is about a tenth of an inch long, it's fucking irritating.

It's not that bad, after all, once you're reconciled to having another guy touching your most intimate parts, and Charlie and Coon were experts. I hardly noticed them doing it, and it was only when the electric clippers whirred into life that I protested again.

"Oh, come on, Steve", Charlie said "We've got to trim your head to make you really neat. And whilst we're at it, we're just going to take your pubes and pits down to a respectable level again - man, you sure have grown it quick."

"What's all this 'respectable'? A man's pubes are his business..."

"No, Steve. Mr Straughan told us particularly to trim you properly again. Mr Billy-Joe apparently told you how good you looked when you stripped for him earlier on, and Mr Straughan wants to make sure that master Billy-Joe knows you've been well looked after."

This was madness. Here I was, about to be freed, but I had to go through all this humiliating trimming of my pubes to prove to the guy who was going to free me that I was being properly looked after. But there was not much point in arguing with these dumb slaves, was there? I might as well let them get on with it, as the quicker I got out of here, the quicker I would be with Billy-Joe and free. So I let them get on with it.

But even more humiliations were to follow - they told me to sit down on the stool again, and then they bent over me and cleaned out my ears with a tiny cotton thing. Scissors were used to probe into my ears and cut away any hairs down inside. When I told them they were wasting their time, Coon said "Haven't you ever had a tongue in your ear, man? It's so sexy... Suppose master Billy-Joe wants to tongue you and then there's all those wiry hairs there..."

"Master Billy-Joe isn't like that, Coon.... He likes fucking women."

Both slaves kind of rolled their eyes and shrugged their shoulders. What on earth could they mean?

When they then used the scissors to trim my nose hairs, I protested again. "Look, he's not going to stick his tongue up my nose, is he?"

"No, man. But when he's kissing you, he might look and a lot of men like to see a nice empty nose..."

"I've told you, Charlie, that master Billy-Joe isn't like that. He isn't going to kiss me." Both slaves shrugged and rolled their eyes again, and I thought they were just being stupid, so I ignored them.

It can hurt when a cotton-covered tooth pick is used to clean out your navel! As they probed into me, I squirmed and wriggled as I always get that kind of sick feeling when my navel is interfered with. I don't even use my little finger in the shower to clean it out for that reason, and so I told Charlie to stop.

"Sorry, Steve, but we want you nice and fresh, don't we, in case master Billy-Joe's tongue goes in there..."

This time it was me who just shrugged my shoulders, as there clearly was no telling these slaves.

They must have finished then, I thought. But no! They told me to stand up, and then Coon started to trim around my nipples. Look, I've got big, dark brown aureoles and so my tits are always very prominent, especially now that my pecs were so defined. They'd always stood out well, even before I'd come here and most of the pelt on my chest had been shortened. They made my thick, pink nubs stand out well, too, and I'd always thought I looked good without a shirt on: I felt so sorry for those guys who have little tiny, pink, insignificant nips. But now Coon was trimming so carefully right around the edge of my aureoles, clearing away any of my chest hairs that bent over them.

"Oh come on, Coon!", I almost snapped. "This is ridiculous!"

"Hey, man, we're bath slaves, right?", Charlie cut in. "And we want our masters to know that we're doing the job properly. It's the little finishing touches like this that make those important differences to the look of a slave - you can always tell a slave that's been properly prepared. We're proud of the job we do, even if you aren't proud of your body and don't appreciate it."

What a load of rubbish! Of course I was proud of my body - I always had been, and now it was in so much better shape, I felt really good about it. I hated losing my 'skin, of course, and having the disfiguring brands and tattoo on me, but everything else was great: I'd hated the hard work, but the extra thirty pounds of muscle I'd put on had, I considered, turned me from the very good to the absolutely exceptional. But I didn't intend to show it off in this detail to Billy-Joe, did I? He'd be lucky if he saw me without a shirt on for some months as I re-established my identity as a free man!

Coon finally handed me a pair of slave shorts, but the moment I touched them I knew there was something different about them. Instead of the usual coarse but tread-bare cotton, these felt silky-smooth: they were made of silk, or some artificial material like that. As I pulled them on I realised they were even tighter than usual over my ass, and the legs were cut even shorted, and the waistband came up even lower - as hard as I tugged at them, there was no way that the waistband concealed the top of my ass crack at the back! And even my trimmed pubic hair was peeking out over it at the front. The biggest difference of all, though, was that these were fly-fronted, with no fastening other than a small overlap of the two sides of the opening. My dick and balls were bulging suggestively, and I felt that at any minute they might just pop out through the opening.

"Hey, guys... Give me some regular shorts... These are obscene."

"Sorry, man... Mr Straughan's orders. You're to have these play shorts, that the 'toy' slaves wear."

"Hey, you're some cool-looking slave... Don't worry about the shorts, I expect you'll be out of them soon enough." As he said this, Coon slapped my ass, half playfully, half in earnest. "Stop worrying about it, Steve, let's get you on up to master Billy-Joe's suite."

Oh, what the fuck, I thought. He was right - I would soon be out of these shorts, as I intended to demand proper clothes from Billy-Joe straight away: I might even wear some of his tonight. Although I felt almost naked dressed like this, it was only for a few more minutes then Billy-Joe could find me some decent clothes.

We went up the back stairs, not the grand staircase I'd used when I'd last stayed at the house. The bare concrete treads hardly affected my feet now, as my soles had really toughened up in the past weeks. Charlie opened a door out from the staircase, and I was back in familiar territory: the wide corridor, the antiques standing around, the beautifully shiny floor, the lavender smell of polish, the scent of the fresh flowers so artfully arranged in their big vases.

Charlie led the way to a big polished oak door, then he and Coon stood on one on either side of me and he said "Rest position, Steve", as he and Coon assumed that familiar stance, head bowed, hands neatly clasped, and eyes focussed on the floor in front of them.

"Don't be so fucking stupid... Is this master Billy-Joe's suite?"

"Yes, Steve, but you're not allowed in until master Billy-Joe invites you. Now, calm down, and just stand here properly like a good slave..."

No way, I thought, and pushed past an astonished Charlie and opened the door and stepped in.

END OF PART SIX