You Can't Be Friends With a Slave

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

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

A NEW JOB

Charlie and Coon led me off, back towards my solitary cage. "Man, you've got a great ass", Charlie told me.

"Charlie gets all the luck", Coon added. "Hey, Steve, how about letting old Coon just give you a fuck when we get back to your cage? I don't want Charlie lying with me all night, telling me how fantastic it was, unless I know for myself..."

"No way! Look, I hated it, right? I hated master Billy-Joe fucking me, and I hated Charlie fucking me.

And there's going to be no more. "

"But I don't think you hated Grunt riding your dick", Charlie said, breaking into a big smile, and he and Coon slapped each other affectionately on the butt, and broke into peals of laughter.

They kind of hung around back at my cage, as if they were half serious about fucking. Coon even stood right next to me, put his hand on my butt and his head close to mine, and whispered "Don't tell Charlie, as he'd be even worse than he is already, but I don't mind taking dick. Come on, Steve, shall I just bend over, and you can put that lovely big fuck pole up me... It will make you sleep better, man!"

"NO! Look, will you just get it into your head that I don't fuck with other guys. Master Billy-Joe made me, and I had no choice. But there's no way I'm going to fuck guys voluntarily, right?"

"Suit yourself", Charlie added. "But it can get awfully lonely at night in the slave pens, you know, and a nice body wrapped around you, a hard dick to stroke, and then a little jiggity-jig, if you know what I mean..."

Both blacks were grinning now, and were standing close to each other. To my amazement, totally without shame, they started to fondle each others balls and stroke their dicks.

"See what I mean?", Coon said. "This Charlie man here just wants a guy. Come on... Let's leave Steve here to jerk himself off, Charlie boy, and get back to our quarters..."

Arm in arm, still giggling and whispering, the two huge blacks made their way along the corridor, and out of sight, and I lay down on the leather -covered pad in my cell and tried to sleep.

I was covered in drying sweat, semen and ass-juice, and the smell of it made sleep impossible - somehow my body still wanted more. I tried jerking off, and even though I was instantly hard, it just wasn't as good, somehow, as that sensation of Grunt sliding up and down on me. But what was I to make of being fucked by Billy-Joe and then Charlie? I was sore as hell, and when I fingered my hole experimentally, it stung and hurt. I saw my fingers were covered in mucous, cum and traces of blood when I held it up. Oh, fuck, I thought - what's happened? Am I bleeding to death? I wondered what to do, as there was no way of summoning help, and lay there in a panic, sweat breaking out all over me.

The vomiting began shortly afterwards. I was throwing up from the very depths of my stomach. I just had to crawl over to the crap hole and lie there with my head down it. Over and over again my stomach heaved convulsively and the bitter bile shot up and out, leaving that awful stinging, burning sensation in my throat. Oh fuck, had they done something to my digestive system with their dicks right up inside me? I was terrified. I thought I was going to die. I crawled over to the spigot and sucked desperately at it to get water into me, to try to take away the vile taste and burning sensation inside me, but it only seemed to make it worse - I could take several mouthsful of water, but then, when they got don into my stomach, I spewed them up again, violently.

By morning, I was desperate. My ass was still leaking cum and blood and it hurt like hell. I couldn't hold even water down. There was a cold, clammy sweat all over me. I felt completely nauseous, and I was trebling and shaking all over.

The guard who came to unlock my cell called Straughan at once. He was immaculate, as usual, and as I lay there, utterly wretched, dirty, stinking, trembling, the contrast between the two of us could not have been more complete.

"Please, Mr Straughan, sir... Something dreadful's happened toto me. I was raped. They've messed up my insides... Please, sir, take me to the doctors..."

Straughan gestured for me to come up to the bars. He sad, calmly, "Let me examine you first. That doctor costs money, money the estate shouldn't have to spend on slaves." He reached in to feel my forehead. Then he put both hands in, cupped them around the top of my neck above my collar, and probed for something with his thumbs.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with you, Steve.

Your temperature's about normal, but you've been sweating a lot so I expect you feel cool. But there's no sign of any infection in your glands or anything. When did you last eat or drink anything?"

"My slave chow last night, sir. And then I suppose the beer, that master Billy-Joe gave me..."

"The idiot!",. Straughan almost exploded. His fists were making little beating gestures against the side of his clean, neat jodhpurs. "Your master ought to know better, Steve! Anything other than water, and slave chow, will cause you to vomit."

"Please sir? Why?"

"It's to stop you slaves stealing stuff when you're picking in the fields. The slave chow has a powerful emetic mixed in with it, together with a sensitive enzye-contolled anti-emetic. Normally the two are in balance, so there's no problem and the slave chow passes through you normally. But if you eat - or, in your case, drink - anything else, the enzyme is destroyed, and the emetic is left all by itself inside you... with the results you experienced. Even a single strawberry can set if off, and most slaves usually have at least one experience like yours before they know that everything that's grown on this place belongs to the Colonel, as they themselves do, and that the Colonel has ordained that slaves eat slave chow, and that the crops are for free men. But master Billy-Joe should have known better, plying you with beer! I know you probably drank together when you were at college, but he really shouldn't have given you beer last night! He'd have known what was going to happen to you."

I blushed slightly as I remembered how I had insisted on having a beer, and how Billy-Joe had said that I'd regret it later! The bastard - he could have told me exactly what was going to happen, couldn't he? I was cross at him, and cross, too, at the system here that used chemicals like that to control us. We were jut like livestock, weren't we? And all that crap about the good healthy organic food that Billy-Joe was always on about: evidently it wasn't for me!

"The best thing for you, Steve, is a good, hard morning of work", Straughan was saying. "You'll soon forget all those stomach cramps when you get to work."

"Sir, it's not only that... It's..." I was blushing furiously now "...it's well, my ass, sir. They injured me somewhere 'up there' sir, and I'm leaking blood."

"Let me see, Steve"

"Sir?"

"Let me see! Are you stupid, or something? You say you're leaking blood from your ass - so let me see it.

Bend over, and pull your butt apart."

He stood there, waiting, and I knew I had no choice. But I hated it. It's one thing to let a doctor examine you 'there', isn't it, but quite anther to have some ordinary guy want to look at you? But I knew by now not to cross Straughan, so I bent over from the waist.

"Spread them!", Sraughan snapped, and I reached backwards and gingerly - as it was sore - pulled my butt cheeks apart. Straughan crouched down, and I heard his knees "snap" as he did do. His breath felt hot against the skin of my butt, so I knew he must be taking a very close look indeed.

"OK, stand up." I did so, and he looked at me. "You'll live! There's absolutely no sign of tearing of your anus - that's usually the problem when a man really is raped. Master Billy-Joe would know better - weren't you stretched and lubed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, stop whining! You're just sore. It's to be expected the first time, and sometimes even when you're experienced if you take a big cock. And I expect he had one of the guards - up there too, didn't he? Charlie, or Coon?"

"Charlie, sir." I was blushing with embarrassment ow at the matter of fact way Straughan was talking about sex. It had been pretty horrific, pretty intimate, for me, but Straughan seemed to consider it normal.

"Well, don't worry... You'll be sore when you crap for a day or so, but it will wear off, and some good hard work today will take your mind off it. So off you go, go and join the others for the morning routine. Oh, and Steve..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Tonight you'll not be coming back here. Now your owner's taken your cherry, it will be OK for you to mix with all the other slaves at night. I could, I suppose, give you another day or two here until you're less sore... Oh, why, what the hell... You've got to learn to take it. No, you'll be in with the others tonight, and we can start getting things back to normal here. Now, get off with you..."

As I moved off down the corridor I wondered what the hell he was going on about - why should he need to leave me here until I was less sore, if I was capable of doing a day's work anyway?

News of my "loss" seemed to have spread already through the other slaves, and somehow the atmosphere seemed to be different. As we waited for a space on the bars over the crap pit, two of the guys patted me affectionately on the butt. As we were hosed down, the others laughed and joked with me as the cold water hit us, and they helped me wash, just as they helped each other. As we waited in the line for chow, members of my team smiled and chatted to me in a way they'd never done before. It seemed that I was now "fully accepted" as a normal slave, and, you know, I liked the feeling. No, not of being a slave, of course, but of being accepted, of being part of the team, a proper member of the pack. Everyone likes to belong, don't they?

In spite of my sore ass somehow the day seemed to fly by - at the two break periods the whole team seemed so much more relaxed, and I think it showed in our work, too, as there were fewer uses of the light lash on our shoulders to "encourage" us to work harder. I was in a really cheerful mood when we went back to the slave quarters that night - dog tired as usual, but happy.

There were five slave dorms in the slave quarters, each exactly alike. They all opened off a wide corridor, and on the corridor side there were the usual cage bars and a barred gate so that any guard who patrolled could easily see in - slaves have no right to privacy, of course. The other three walls had narrow bunks, stacked three high - nine slaves slept in bunks therefore, and the tenth guy had a sleeping pad on the floor in the middle. You just went down the corridor, and the guard on duty counted off ten of you, you went into the next dorm, and he locked the gate. It was possible to get into the same dorm as your team mates, but things could go wrong if you counted incorrectly.

As soon as the gate opened the guys made a dive for the best spots - the top bunks were considered the best, as there was more room between you and the ceiling than there was between the layers of bunks below - indeed, these were so close together than a big, broad-shouldered guy like me could hardly sleep on his side. The bunks along the side walls were also considered the best as you could look out through the cage bars into the corridor - there wasn't anything to see, but you didn't have a guy's feet in your face, unlike the guys who slept on the cross bunks.

That first night they were really kind to me - one of the guys who had grabbed a prime top bunk voluntarily gave it up to me, and I lay there on the narrow pad, listening to the others around me. It's hard when a group of guys has to sleep together in such close confinement, I found, especially when there were no blankets or anything to cover us - we just lay there in our shorts. For one thing, quite a lot of guys cry out when they're sleeping as they dream; others snore;

you can't help farting occasionally; and, of course, there's that rhythmic slap, slap, slap sound of guys jerking off before going to sleep. I don't suppose there was any real need to pack us in like this - there would have been plenty of space on the estate to build a proper bunk house where, once you were in bed, you could at least have had some modicum of privacy. Here, there was just no getting away from the other nine slaves: but maybe that was the idea, to emphasise to us that we were all the same. After all, what did slaves need privacy for?

There was one use to which the narrow space on the floor was put before the guy who was going to sleep there finally bedded down - those who wanted to could use it to fuck! I had been trying to get to sleep and had turned on my side in the hope of being able to jerk off without anyone seeing, when I heard a lot of noise from down below. I turned back over, and there were two of the guys fucking away, with the others watching! It wasn't like when I'd been fucked the previous night, as they seemed to be enjoying it - one was on his back with his legs up on the other's shoulders, and as his fellow pistoned away in and out of him, instead of using his hands to fight off the fucker, he was running them ecstatically up and down the thighs and arms of his assailant, and he seemed to be crying out not in pain, but in pleasure!

Two other guys fucked after the first pair, and when they were done, one of my team mates - well, he thought of himself as the leader of our team, as he was a bit stronger than most of the others - called out "Come on, Steve, Get your ass down here, and come and join in the fun. Now master Billy-Joe's taken your cherry, you're allowed to fuck with your mates."

I tried to explain that I didn't do that, that being raped with my owner was a one-off thing, but they would have none of it. So little happened in the slaves' lives that the arrival of a new ass to fuck was an event, and one that they intended to fully take part in.

Fortunately I'd done wrestling at High School, and had tried a little amateur boxing at College. I wasn't very good at it, and I soon gave it up (and I also thought the homo-erotic atmosphere of those half naked guys punching at each other was a bit much, and off-putting). But this training was sufficient for me to be able to see off my would-be assailants. I was aided by the very small amount of space available, which meant that no more than a couple of them at a time could try to get at me and force me down. Finally, they gave up.

The next morning Straughan was at the showers, and looked at my black eye, and the scratches an bruises all over my body. "So, Steve , you put up a fight, did you? That must have made for interesting viewing - I wish I'd thought to be there when you were used again. You're even more sore this morning, I suppose?"

"No, sir. My ass is getting better, thank you, sir! Yes, these bruises are giving me a few twinges, but there's no problem with my ass!"

Just at that moment the "team leader" came out of the shower area, and Straughan seemed visibly surprised a the state he was in. He thought for a moment, then clapped his hands for silence - everyone at once stood still, and assumed the "rest" position. I found myself doing so, too, as somehow it seemed to be "natural" to be doing what everyone else was.

"I will not tolerate this!", Straughan snapped. "There is to be no more fighting in the dorms. You slaves are valuable properties, and I do not want you damaged. If there is any evidence that there has been more fighting, those responsible will feel the weight of my lash. Is that clear?"

There was an instant chorus of "Yes, sir!"

We queued in the chow line then, although the mood of the previous morning had evaporated. Most of us were silent, and almost sullen. At the break period in the morning the "leader" lay alongside me and said, through his sore mouth - one very good punch had got him on the jaw - "I'll have your ass yet, Steve!"

"And you'll have to fight me for it! I've never felt Straughan's lash myself, but you guys all look pretty scared whenever he mentions it."

So a kind of truce prevailed - most of the other guys fucked regularly, and every night I could lie in my bunk and watch them at it if I wanted to. But no further attempt was made to force themselves on me. I'm not sure I liked these displays put on right in front of me - sometimes I was even in the lower bunks, and then I'd get sprayed with the drops of sweat from the guys as they went at it. But then, there was no way I could stop it, and it was kind of interesting to see how different guys did it - rather like having a living porn movie play out right in front of you, but with smell, too. I think that was the worst part - once you'd fucked, there was no way of properly cleaning yourself up, and so the bunk room had a perpetual faint smell of shit.

One other problem confronted me in the dorms - what did I do with my cum? In my "private cage" there had been a crap hole in the corner and after I'd jerked off I could kind of scrape it off the palm of my hand and down the hole. In the dorms, with our completely regular, consistent feeding, there was no need of a crap hole as we were expected to do our business regularly, morning and afternoon, and our bodies adjusted to this. So lying there with a hand full of cum, what could you do? Wiping it on the shorts wasn't an option, as you had to wear them for several days and you wouldn't want them all covered in dried cum, would you? And letting it fall on the leatherette covering of the bunk wasn't nice, either - the "Californian potato chips" left on the surface as the cum dried wouldn't be nice for the guy who next slept in there. So I had to do what all the others did who jerked off - simply lick it off my hand, and swallow it.

The first time I tried it I felt nauseous as the smell assailed my nose, but then I realised it was almost tasteless, and after my initial revulsion, it wasn't a real problem. In fact, if I ever got free I decided that I'd keep on licking it up this way - so much nicer and more hygienic than all those bits of toilet tissue lying around; and no danger of you falling asleep with your dick head still covered in tissue, and finding it stuck all over you the following morning! In those sex guides they do for adolescents, I wished they'd tell you that cum is one of those things that doesn't taste like it smells, if you know what I mean - it's not, for example, like strawberries where the smell and the taste is the same, is it? All those years when I was growing up and I was terrified mom might find a bit of tissue under the bed (or, even worse, cum stains on my sheets!) could have been avoided if anyone had ever told me that the simple solution was to eat it.

I suppose it wasn't a bad life, once you accepted that you were a slave. Straughan was firm, but fair - no slave was punished gratuitously, and the light tawses used on our backs and shoulders during the work day left no visible marks - sure, it stung a bit and it made you focus and get on with work properly, but that's all. We were well fed, in that the food, although boring in the extreme gave us enough energy to do our work, without us putting on weight; and we were well housed - at least, in comparison with some of those poor bastards I used to see elsewhere on the planet living in hovels.

The worst thing was the tedium of it all - nothing much ever happened. Just work and sleep, every day the same, always the same routine. I had been a bright college-educated guy who was struggling his way up the corporate ladder, used to thinking about problems, and using my brain. Now I was little more than a beast: a set of muscles was all I needed to bring to whatever was being done, and I was definitely not expected to think. Indeed, when I once suggested to Straughan that there was a better way of using us to cut up the firewood, arranging the gang differently, he got very angry. As the blows form his tawse rained down on my back, shoulders, and thighs, he muttered, over and over again, almost as if it was a sacred mantra, "Slaves work, men think."

In a way, becoming a slave had been liberating, though. I'd been chasing promotion, worrying about my prospects, trying to please my boss. I'd needed to go to bars and pick up women to "prove" I was a man, and when I met Chantelle I'd then had to perform for her every night - well, you know what I mean - however tired you are, you can't say you just don't want sex that night in case she thinks you're not able to get it up, can you? I'd been accumulating possessions, and even borrowing to get a better car, a new hi-fi, and that had been worrying, too. And I'd had to find time to get my hair cut, worry about the latest fashions and buy new clothes, take Chantelle to restaurants, plan vacations that I could hardly afford.... All of this was swept away. Now all I had to do was work. My clothes were provided. My food was provided. There were no vacations, no possessions, no loans. I didn't have to worry about promotion, or about getting my hair cut (I was clipped and shaved every three days, like all the slaves on the estate). Had I wanted it, sex was there just for the taking - any of the blacks and Hispanics would have been pleased to let me fuck them, or to fuck me, or to suck me off, or to have me suck them off: once I'd fought off the guys in those first few days I was no longer under any pressure to "perform", and, like most of the slaves, I just jerked off whenever I wanted to. There was no shame in it, as we all knew we did it, and our complete lack of privacy meant that we were totally unconcerned by it.

After that initial night with Billy-Joe and Charlie, I'd thought that he would take me again, and as I worked through that day I kept thinking that I'd be "cleaned out" again, and that there would be another trip to Billy-Joe's dressing room and the punishment horse. But as I was working away, we heard a roaring sound and Billy-Joe's Jaguar shot past - was it my imagination, or was the bastard waving me a cheery "goodbye" through the smoked glass window? Still, at least I had seen the car that was, in effect, keeping me enslaved, if, I thought glumly, Billy-Joe could still be trusted.

Later that day Straughan strode up, and signalled that I could stop working for a moment. "I was right, wasn't I, slave? Now you've got your muscles working, that nausea has subsided. And I bet you've almost forgotten the pain in your ass."

"Yes, sir", I said. I hated the shit, but he held all the cards, didn't he? And if Billy-Joe was right, it might be Straughan's attitude that conditioned whether I'd be sent off to be sold, or not. As much as I hated Billy-Joe's attitude to me, it still seemed to be better to remain under his ownership so that he'd free me soon.

"I've decided to give you a new job, Steve. It occurs to me that as master Billy-Joe might want to sell you, I really should do all I can to make sure you're in absolutely perfect condition. So I've decided that you're to take over the carting. When your owner is down here for the weekend, Bull can do it, as he does now."

"Sir, master Billy-Joe isn't going to sell me, sir."

"Slave, don't even speculate about things like that! Just answer me when I address, you as simply as possible. But for your information, your owner may have to sell you! The Colonel is getting increasingly distressed by his son's behaviour and has already cut off most of master Billy-Joe's allowance; if he wants to maintain that lifestyle of his he'll have to sell you."

I shivered inwardly. Had all this fucking been a waste of time? It sounded as if I should have protested more, and let Billy-Joe sell me anyway. But Straughan was continuing "Anyway, that's no concern of yours. If an owner chooses to sell a slave, that's no business of the slave. Your only purpose in life is to serve your owner obediently and completely, whoever that owner is. Now, let's take you over to the cart, and give Bull the good news!"

He strode away, and I trotted after him. It was good not to have to run everywhere, the standard mode of movement for slaves around the estate, and I had an opportunity of enjoying the crisp morning air. Mind you, I was a bit worried about this carting thing - it was universally acknowledged amongst the slaves that the guy who pulled the cart around the estate had one of the worst jobs - he had to help with the loading and unloading, and then jog with it, full, from place to place. Bull was a giant of a man - at least four inches and fifty pounds more than me - and as we worked away we often saw him really straining to be able to jog past with the cart loaded down with stuff. When I'd been in the same dorm room as him some nights he seemed to be even more worn out than I was - and if a big guy like that found it hard going, how would I manage?

One of the Colonel's other "ecological" themes was that, where possible, trucks and stuff were not allowed on the estate, to reduce the volume of gasoline used. Mind you, given the numbers we saw speeding along the highways that surrounded us, I wondered how much difference it really made - another gallon or two whilst a delivery truck went up the drive, or a whilst a gasoline-driven lawn mower mowed the huge lawns, or when one of those little gasoline driven runabouts was used to transport stuff around the estate, would surely have made no difference at all on the world scale. Indeed, having to keep slave to mow the grass, cart stuff around, and generally do work that machines could do almost certainly used more resources. Mind you, I suppose that if you do like to see men work, and work hard, under your total control, then having slaves is the only way to go, isn't it? The Colonel liked exercising power, I suspected, and what better way than to have half-naked men doing utterly pointless tasks that would be better done by machines?

Straughan signalled for the giant pulling the cart to stop, and Bull looked really glad of the opportunity - the cart was full of bags of fertiliser that had been delivered at "goods inwards" on the far side of the estate where outside trucks were required to halt, and which I guessed he was taking to the gardener's workshop just over the brow of the hill. Sweat was pouring off him. The cart itself had four wheels with rubber tyres, as it was only intended to run along the roads on the estate. The front two wheels were mounted on a bogie from which a shaft extended towards the front ; the shaft split into a wide "Y" shape about four feet in front of the bogie, and the ends of the two halves of the "Y" were joined by a crossbar. Bull stood in-between this crossbar and the split shaft, and pulled the cart along by pushing against the crossbar. Clearly, with this arrangement he also provided steering, as the cart effectively followed him.

"Out of there, Bull", Straughan ordered. "Go and join the gang working on the firewood preparation. This slave will be taking over the cart from now on."

Bull looked relieved, as a big smile broke out on his face, and then, perhaps, puzzled. "Sir, yes, sir!" he replied, then jogged off before Straughan had the opportunity to change his mind.

"He doesn't think you're up to it, Steve", Straughan said. "See how he scooted, as he thought I'd realise you're not capable of this work? So, slave, are you man enough for it? If you're not, say now, and I'll call him back."

Bastard! No guy likes to admit he can't do something, especially when it's something physical, does he? There was no way I could wimp out of this and keep what little self respect I had.

"Sir, I can do it, sir."

"You better had, Steve, else you'll be feeling the tawse even more often than when you were just labouring. Now, get in."

I ducked down and fed myself up to stand in front of the cross bar. As I put my hands on it I could feel that it had been worn thinner in places, and completely smooth, presumably by generations of slaves holding it in the same place. It even felt slightly damp where Bull's sweat had run down his arms and onto the wood.

"Right! Off you go. That lot's destined for the garden workshops - then return to the goods inwards depot and see what they've got in store for you. You do all the deliveries now, and when you've finished that, go to the work gangs and start shifting firewood."

I pushed experimentally against the bar and the cart moved forward. Hey, this wasn't going to be so bad... Until I remembered that, like all the slaves, I had to jog not walk. And the problem I was going to have soon manifested itself - it was manageable on the level as the wheels ran on bearings and so on and I just had to overcome friction - once the cart was rolling, it was relatively easy to keep it going. But the moment I got to a hill - and there were lots of gentle undulations on the estate as we were in the beautiful rolling countryside - the job became horrendous as I was in effect having to raise the weight of the cart and it's load up the vertical rise. I had to really strain and pump my legs to keep the cart moving, and soon I was sweating really hard, straining for breath, and my heart was racing to satisfy the demands of my tortured body.

Like being fucked for the first time, I think I'll always remember that first cart load I pulled. And when I got to the garden workshop, that wasn't the end of it: I was desperately in need of a rest, but the supervisor curtly ordered me to unload, and I had to hump the 50 Kg - just over 100 lb - sacks out of the cart and up into their storage space. If the cart pulling exercised my legs, butt muscles and heart and lungs, my upper body was now getting its share, too. There was no respite: finished unloading? Then jog back for another load (which, of course, I had to put into the cart).

I didn't think I could make it through the day, but at crucial moments Straughan would appear, that thin smile on his lips. I knew he wanted me to fail, as then he could complain about me. I was determined not to fail not just because of these potential complaints, but because I wanted to prove to him that I was the biggest, toughest, most robust guy he'd ever ordered around. My male pride was at stake, and this is all that I now had left. I had to protect it, at all costs.

That night there was universal admiration for me from the other slaves, as Bull had gone around telling everyone how glad he was just to be able to do a "normal" hard job. I was so exhausted I didn't even have the energy to jerk myself off, and just fell straight to sleep.

End Of Part Nine

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

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

SO YOU PREFER WOMEN, DO YOU?

It was tough, I tell you. Every day seemed harder and harder, as the never-ending job of dragging the cart around the estate continued. And always there was Straughan, watching and waiting for me to fail. My fellow slaves did what they could - at either end of my journeys the slaves would try to help with the loading and unloading. And knowing how utterly exhausted I was at night, they'd try to get me to the front of the chow line so I could force it down and stumble off to a bunk. There was little enough us slaves could do for each other most of the time as we had no resources of our own, no money, no way of giving surprise presents, or of making those little extra gestures that make all the difference in human relations; but what they could do, they did.

I'd been doing the job for about eight days, and I suppose I was as used to it as I was ever going to get, when as I toiled along I heard two horses approaching. Straughan called out to me to stop, and there were he and Billy-Joe mounted on two of the Colonel's thoroughbreds.

"Steve, I've decided to give you a day off", Billy-Joe said. "I've come down here for a long weekend, and I'm off to visit the neighbours and you're coming with me for a change of routine, and to do something you really enjoy. Slip out from the shafts, and come here."

Still covered in sweat and breathing very hard, I went and stood by Billy-Joe, and he reached down from his horse and clipped the end of a light chain trough the links of my collar. The other end was, I saw, attached to the back of his saddle. "Right, off we go!", he said cheerily, and set his horse in motion at a light trot. I had to jog along to keep up - and I needed to keep up, as had I fallen I'd have been dragged along by the neck, and probably injured. The chain was only long enough to allow me to run by the side of Billy-Joe, and my head was at about the level of his knees as he sat on the magnificent animal. I could just about see myself reflected in his highly shined riding boots, and I idly wondered how much effort poor Grunt had had to put in to achieve that.

After all my work in the shafts of the cart, the jog wasn't too bad, actually - my heart and lungs had ample capacity. We went out of the south entrance of the estate, and along the highway. "OK, Steve?", Billy-Joe enquired rather too cheerfully, perhaps.

"Yes, master. But, master, why do I have to be chained like this... It's fucking humiliating! I'm not going to run away, you know that."

"Sorry, Steve, but it's the Colonel's rules. On the estate, where we can monitor you, you have a lot of freedom. But all slaves leaving the estate must be restrained. I didn't think you could run with your wrists cuffed behind your back, so this leash is the best solution."

"Please tell me where we're going, Billy-Joe."

He looked down at me, and said, rather reprovingly, "Just because I've decided to give you a little outing, Steve, a change from routine, doesn't mean you can take liberties. If Straughan heard you initiating conversation like that, or failing to call me master, you'd feel the tawse pretty fucking quickly! So no more, right? But, as you ask, we're going to the neighbours - they have a place about the same size as the Colonel's. I'm doing them a favour, and you're going to get to enjoy yourself. You kept telling me when we had our little 'encounter' when I was last here that you didn't fuck guys, only women. So I've arranged for you to fuck a woman this afternoon - there's a maid on the neighbour's place who's in season, and from whom they wish to breed. So you're going to stud her."

I'd heard all this talk about "studs", of course, and knew that it was becoming the norm to breed slave stock as the number of candidates for enslavement coming through the courts was rapidly diminishing: young guys just didn't take the risk now of speeding too often, or getting drunk, or committing robberies: the risks of a lifetime of servitude were just too great. But society had developed an appetite for slaves, at least in the south, and with increasing affluence, more and more families wanted to own one or two. In our great economy, where there's a demand, a means of supply will arise, and a number of large fortunes had been made by setting up operations to breed new slaves - young Grunt was a product of such a breeding farm, and the stock was generally well received.

The sires used on the breeding farms were of course carefully selected for their genetic make-up: not only did they have to be superb physical specimens with no in-built genetic flaws, but they had to have desirable characteristics when it came to things like colouring (blacks had been the fashion for a long time now), hair type (straight rather than crinkley), and so on. "Temperament" was also considered to be important, and exhaustive psychological tests were carried out to ensure that slaves selected as studs were docile and subservient: the argument as to whether it was genetic inheritance or childhood experience that determined the nature of the next generation was thus neatly by-passed: what wasn't inherited from the stud was trained into the young slaves.

I'd read about all of this in a long article in The Wall Street Journal just before my own enslavement, and wondered where on earth I was going to fit in. I certainly didn't have the temperament, and Billy-Joe had talked about me getting to fuck a woman, whereas on the breeding farms the studs were generally milked, and then the dams were inseminated artificially - it was claimed to give more control of the process, to be more "hygienic", and a lot less trouble.

As if he'd been reading my thoughts, Billy-Joe suddenly said "I understand you're going to fuck a Hispanic. She's a particular favourite of the family, and they've decided to breed from her to provide continuity of service for the family's children. Think you can do it? I don't want any embarrassing failures, you know. You always said you were a stud, and at college I saw you pick up and fuck enough ladies.... Still capable of it, are you?"

Actually, I wasn't sure. I've told you already that I'd often wondered how it would be to just go and fuck someone you'd never met before. Gay guys did it all the time, I knew (there had been a programme on TV about the gay "pick-up" groups on the Internet where you could just meet to fuck after a couple of exchanges of messages). But with women it's different - the eye contact in the bar, the drinks, the chatting up - I'd never succeeded in bedding a girl at college on first meeting. But I had had lots of women, I liked the feel of women, the smell of women, the touch of women... And I'd been so tired the last few nights that I hadn't jerked off and so my balls were full. At the thought of all this my dick stirred into life, and began to tent the front of my shorts. Feeling better already I said "Master, yes! Just put me together with her, and I'll do the deed."

The more I thought about it the more I thought "hey, stop being worried. You've never had performance problems in the past. You've always liked black hair.

And if she's a maid, she'll be pretty good looking as no family would want a slave around the place who was an absolute troll. So perhaps if Billy-Joe sees that I really do like women, he'll stop all this idea of forcing me to go with men." As my thoughts went along these paths, my dick got harder and harder, and the rubbing of the coarse cotton of my shorts against my dick head started to be, well, uncomfortable. I thought I must be leaking pre-cum and didn't want to arrive with a big wet patch on the front of me (although I was sweating so much that my shorts were damp all over, so perhaps it wouldn't be noticed). Worse, though, I thought I might get so stimulated that I shot my load - well, I had fucked twice, no three times, one night, so perhaps it wouldn't matter.

Nevertheless, as I jogged along I reached down and tried to pull my shorts away to give my dick some relief.

Billy-Joe saw me tugging at my shorts, and grinned down at me. "Excited already, Steve? You dog, you! Even thinking about cunt is enough to get you turned on! Still, you always were one for the women, as we know...."

I might have replied, but just then a car approached us from the other direction. It slowed when it saw Billy-Joe on horseback, and, ever the gentleman, Billy-Joe touched his riding cap politely in acknowledgement and thanks. He also moved over, as a courtesy back to the driver, to give the car more room - and that pushed me into the verge, where the nettles and brambles at once stung and scratched my bare legs and chest.

"See, Steve", Billy-Joe said as he resumed his normal track. "Down here we're gentlemen - they show me a courtesy, I return it. That's real southern manners for you."

"Master... Can we stop a moment, please...?"

"Don't be so stupid, Steve. I don't want to be late. It's not polite. Why on earth do you want to stop? If you need to pee, just fish your dick out and do it as we go along."

"No, master... I've got a thorn in my leg, and it hurts..."

"Well, that will teach you to be more careful, Steve. I'm not going to be impolite to my hosts this afternoon just because you're snivelling about some trivial thing. Just show some consideration, will you? And try to think like a well-mannered southern gentleman, even though you're not!"

There didn't seem to be any point in arguing with the arrogant bastard, so I did my best to locate the thorn and pull it out whilst half running, half hopping along by the side of Billy-Joe's horse - but even that didn't please him, and he told me to start running properly and to stop making ridiculous movements as he didn't want to be seen as an object of fun by any more passing motorists.

We arrived eventually at the neighbours' house - another of the lovely colonial mansions with a deep veranda and tall white pillars, and Billy-Joe, with me in tow, rode up the drive. At the front entrance he casually slid off his horse, and the front door opened and a man in his mid-fifties came out and greeted him warmly. Then, glancing at me, he said "Billy-Joe, that sure is one fine looking slave. Just what we need for Maria! It's a really neighbourly thing you're doing, and I've told the Colonel so."

"Why thank you, sir", Billy-Joe replied. "It's just good out southern neighbourliness. But I sure could do with a drink - it's a thirsty ride over here."

He could do with a drink? All he'd done was sit on top of his fucking horse! I'd been working all morning, then had had to run here through the afternoon heat, and in the humidity. I was covered in sweat, my shorts were soaked in it, and I could do with a drink too. But Billy-Joe never thought of that.

At that moment another man came up - in his mid-thirties, I judged. He was only about five ten, but looked lean and hard. He wore a denim work shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal nice biceps, and this was tucked into rather tight Jeans which showed an impressive bulge at the front. As he turned around, I could see that he had a really trim waist, and the Jeans accentuated his ass, and long, strong-looking thighs. His desert boots were scuffed and dusty, as if he'd been working.

"Billy-Joe, this is Craig, my slave master. Craig... Billy-Joe, the Colonel's son, from next door."

The two men shook hands, and I saw that this Craig guy was the equivalent of Straughan - although they were completely different. Craig had that air of manly roughness that showed in everything from the way he wore his hair through the casual but workman-like style of dress he adopted; so unlike the pristine, almost foppish nature of Straughan. I somehow got the impression that if our situations had been different, and I'd met this guy in a bar, we might have got on well together.

"Craig, this is the slave we were discussing, the one who's going to cover Maria. Will you see to it, with your usual efficient way, please, whilst I take Billy-Joe through for tea, and to meet the others?"

"Of course, sir", Craig replied, crisply, then moved over towards me. He looked me straight in the eyes, and there was somehow an air of power about him, an air that said he was used to being obeyed, and that if he wasn't, there would be trouble. Without saying a word he took the bridle of Billy-Joe's horse, patted it's muzzle, and almost whispered "Come on, old fellow, you need a nice long drink, and a rest in the shade..." He hardly even looked at me, but I had to follow, as I was still chained to the saddle, as he led the animal off around to the back, to the stable block.

A slave ran out to take care of the horse as soon as we rounded the corner, then Craig came and undid the chain from my collar. "Right, fella... Done this before, have you?"

"Yes, sir, I've fucked lots of women." I wasn't being boastful, I just wanted him to know he wasn't dealing with an amateur.

"Are you the newly-enslaved guy that everyone's been talking about, the one who raped his girlfriend?"

"Yes, sir, I mean no, sir... I'm newly enslaved, but there was no rape.. It was a put-up job, I'm innocent really..."

"Slave, I don't fucking well care! All that matters is that you are a slave, you've got some experience of fucking women - although not of studding, I guess - and you're here now. Here under my control. And you'd better not make any mistakes, or you'll get the discipliner. You do know what that does, don't you? I hear that old Straughan still relies on the tawse, the cane and the lash, but I've no time for that: a quick burst of the discipliner and the slave's compliant at once. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." I inwardly shuddered at the memory of the discipliner at the court.

He looked me over, and went on "First, we'd better get you cleaned up. Can't have you looking like that for your little tryst, all covered in sweat, and with those disgusting shorts... The shower's over here...."

It was amazing! Warm water! And real soap! As I stood there and cleaned myself in this incredible luxury Craig just stood and watched me. I'd long ago ceased to be embarrassed by the thought of another man watching me as I soaped my dick, cleaned my ass, and so on. There was even a towel afterwards. And then Craig handed me a pair of shorts - not the typical rough cotton slave shorts, but satin ones, still cut very high on the thigh and low on the hips, and leaving little to the imagination as they outlined my dick and balls, but somehow sensual as I pulled them on. Maybe it was actually going to be fun, as I undressed in front of this Maria; maybe she'd slip her hands down my shorts and stroke my dick as I caressed her breasts... I began to get hard at the thought, which didn't escape Craig's attention.

"Good!", he said, as he casually reached down and slid his long, strong fingers over my dick on the outside of the shorts. "Good. I like to see a man who's ready for it. So many of the slaves we get here on their first stud are so terrified that they can't get it up. I won't have that problem with you, will I, slave?"

"NO, sir! I enjoy fucking..."

"Right, assume 'rest'."

I obediently spread my legs slightly, bowed my head, and clasped my hands behind my back. Then I felt something on my wrists, and heard a snap.

"Good, you're cuffed now. They're padded, as we don't like to see marks from the steel ones - some of you slaves get excited during the studding process."

What the fuck did he mean? What was the studding process? How was I going to make love to this woman if I was cuffed? Still, perhaps she was going to ride me, as Grunt had done - that wouldn't be as good as the real thing, but still, I'd have hot pussy around me.

My dick was stiffening as I thought about it, and Craig continued to stroke at me gently. "Good boy! Just keep it like that, and you'll do fine. Now, come on through..."

He led me into the main house, which I thought was a bit strange, as I assumed my little liaison would be in the slave quarters. We went through the hallway and into an elegant formal drawing room. The man who had greeted Billy-Joe, who I assumed to be the owner, a woman who was evidently his wife, and Billy- Joe, all sat on sofas around a low table set for a traditional British tea - there were scones and jam in elegant silver platters, small sandwiches arranged delicately with garnishes of sculpted tomatoes, a silver chafing dish over a spirit burner with hot muffins, and a large antique silver teapot. Fragile bone china tea cups, saucers and plates stood at the ready.

Craig coughed respectfully to interrupt the tinkle of their conversation, then, when his boss recognised him, said "He's ready as soon as you wish, sir."

"Fine, Craig, but stand him against the wall, and come and join us for tea. We're just waiting for another guest."

Craig gestured to me to move back to the wall, and hissed "Rest!", and I obeyed. He looked out of place sitting there on the elegant sofas in his work clothes, when the other men were in formal suits, crisp shirts and silk ties, and the lady of the house had on a flowery, flowing, silk afternoon-tea gown. Somehow he seemed so different from them, even more so than I was, as it was almost as if it was expected that a big, strong, half-naked slave was a proper accompaniment to this elegant tea party.

My dick was still throbbing at the thought of what was to come, and I heard the owner complementing Billy-Joe on me. "He really is magnificent - so unusual to get a white man with a physique like his enslaved so young. And brains, too, I hear. And he seems ready for sex - I think I can see, from that damp patch on the shorts, that he's ready for it - if you ask me, he's leaking pre-cum already!" His wife let out a polite laugh, and all four turned to look at me. I knew they were probably right, and started to blush, feeling the heat flush over my shoulders and rise over my face.

Just at that moment the door opened and a slave announced "Your guest, sir, madam."

All three men got to their feet - more of that southern manners, I suppose - and in walked Chantelle!

"My dear...", the lady of the house said, and she and Chantelle swapped kisses in the air in greeting. She shook hands with the men, then they all sat down. The small talk seemed to go on for ages, as they ate the food and sipped tea, until finally the owner said "Has everyone had enough? We don't want to keep Billy-Joe away from home for too long, as I understand he wants to dine with the Colonel tonight, so shall we begin?"

There were murmurs of approval, and Craig got to his feet and came over to me. "Into the centre of the room, boy", he whispered.

"No, please, I can't...."

"Do as you're fucking well told! Remember, the discipliner...."

He half led me, with his strong fingers gripping my biceps, to stand in front of the tea table. Chantelle looked up and said "Why, Steve! You're looking good! The life must suit you." Then turning to Billy-Joe she went on "So generous of you to take such good care of Steve. He seems to have bulked up a bit, and really looks magnificent. Your regime must suit him."

"Thank you, ma'am. He's a hard worker, I'll say that for him. And he's settling in well to the slave life."

Chantelle coughed delicately, and went on "And... and... and, you know, has he been completely inducted into slavedom...? I see his collar, and I think that's a brand on his arm. But has he... has he... you know.... has he lost it?"

Billy-Joe fluffed up with pride, as if dealing with questions from ladies was what gentlemen were supposed to do. He patted her gently, if not condescendingly, on the arm and replied "Why my dear, of course, yes. I took him myself, as any responsible owner would."

"I expect he didn't like it very much - he was always very, very, shall we say, 'sensitive' to any suggestion of pleasure in that area..."

I hated hearing the woman I'd fucked talking about me like this to the man who'd fucked me. It was almost as if they were playing a game. Surely Chantelle knew how Billy-Joe had agreed to have me as his slave to avoid her law suit? And now, here they were, discussing their usage of me as a sex object. Had they arranged all this in advance? Surely not - they couldn't want to play mind games with me, would they?

Chantelle giggled slightly, in the way that Southern belles are supposed to if they think that gentlemen think they ought to be embarrassed. "Why, Billy-Joe, that's good news. I think that's what he needed, to teach him some manners, and to show him that it's undesirable to force yourself onto other people." As she spoke, her hand rested on Billy-Joe's forearm, almost coquettishly.

"But my dear", Billy-Joe replied, now lowering his voice, and hesitating as if he too was embarrassed because he thought the others thought he ought to be, "..won't it be very terrible for you to watch, given the, the, er, history, shall we say?"

A chill ran through me. Surely they weren't going to watch me and this Maria. And especially nor Chantelle!

"Oh no. He's a slave now, and what he did as a free man is all of no concern. No, I'll be interested to watch him perform, and see if he's learned anything about respect for women. But would you do me a favour?"

"Of course, ma'am, a gentleman is always willing to oblige a lady."

"Well then, after he's 'performed', might we see how well he's adapted to slave life? Would you object if Craig found one of the estate slaves here and had the slave, er, 'perform' on Steve?"

The bitch! She couldn't be serious! Surely Billy-Joe would never agree, even though he'd fucked me himself, knowing of the history between Chantelle and me. But I heard him say "Of course not! He's due for another lesson in proper slave behaviour, and if it pleases you...."

"NO!" I yelled out. I'd listened to all of this in mounting horror and anger. It was one thing to fuck some woman I'd never met, another thing to do it in front of an audience, even worse when that audience included my former girlfriend, the woman responsible for my enslavement. But now she was going to have me fucked for her amusement. "No way!"

The next moment I was writhing on the floor, all my limbs twitching in agony. Craig was standing over me, his boot resting on my chest to prevent me from rising, and he said, through gritted teeth, "Remember your manners, boy. You're in the presence of ladies and gentlemen here. If you say one more word, the next slab of my little friend here will be at your balls!"

I lay there, still, and I could hear Billy-Joe apologising for "the unfortunate outburst", and that "The slave was only properly inducted, by me, a week ago, he's probably still a little sore, and he hasn't adapted fully to his new life yet."

Chantelle said "Oh, Billy-Joe, what a dreadful nuisance he must be. The sooner you get him properly trained, the better. We really must see him being 'taken' by another slave now, as it will be so good for him to learn a valuable lesson like that."

There were murmurs of understanding, and the owner said "I think we might as well proceed, Craig."

Craig gestured for me to get to my feet, then took something out of his pocket and stood behind me. He wrapped a silk scarf around my eyes, and knotted it behind my head. I was blinded, of course, although the whisper- softness of the fine silk was somehow sensual - what was going on?

"I can't see...", I whispered. "No", Craig hissed back "Remember what I said. Just do as I say, and take directions from me. It's the tradition here that you don't see the woman - you're only here to inseminate her, not to enjoy her."

As he spoke, Craig did something at my waistband, then

whipped off my shorts, and I knew I was naked there in front of the two women and three men.

"Oh Billy-Joe... You've had him modified! He looks so much... much sleeker, without that dreadful foreskin! And without all that hair, you can see him so much better..."

"Quite so, ma'am. Do you approve?"

"Very much so." Chantelle gave a little giggle again.

"I think all gentlemen should appear like that... So much nicer!"

"On with the show, Craig", the owner ordered, and I heard a door open and the creaking of something being wheeled in.

Craig now put his hand on my dick, and stroked the shaft - quite hard - once or twice. I'd gone a bit soft at the thought of these people looking at me naked, and now I couldn't help being erect again. Then he tugged gently at my dick, and, blindfolded and with my hands cuffed, I had no option but to follow him across the room.

It's funny, but with one of your senses out of action you seem to get heightened response from others. I was acutely aware of the cold tiles of the floor on my feet, and of the warmth of Craig's hand on my dick. Then, as we approached whatever had been wheeled in, I could hear another person breathing - that quick, raspy breathing that usually means excitement. An instant later my quivering nose picked up a faint smell - the smell with which I used to be so familiar, but which I hadn't smelled for so long: the scent of a woman, or, more specifically, the scent of a woman ready for sex.

"Easy, boy", Craig said quietly in my ear. "I'll position you at her cunt, then just go ahead, OK? Nice big thrusts, but be careful not to pull out, as I don't like having to re-insert you."

Oh no, it couldn't be like this! I was meant to have proper sex with this Maria, not just be used like a stallion covering a mare! I wanted to get away, to leave, but Craig was there next to me with the discipliner. I wanted to lose my erection, to simply refuse to carry out this lewd act - yes, that's what it was, lewd: being forced to have sex with an audience watching. But my body had other ideas - urged on by the subtle aroma of a woman in heat, my dick just refused to lie down.

Craig tugged at my dick gently and moved me further forward, urging me on by firm pressure to the base of my spine with his other hand. He felt cool and professional, not all sweaty as Billy-Joe was. Then my dick head made contact, and the thrill of warm dick touching hot cunt ran through me. Craig's hand dropped away from my dick, but he pushed me on with his hand in my back. I still wanted to stop, but Craig was now behind me, and he was gripping me at the hips, and pushing me forward. My dick slid inside the woman, and I experienced that sensation I'd had so many times before. Craig tugged gently at me and I moved backwards, and then I was almost out of control:

my body took over, drawing from experience gained through millions of years of human evolution, and I simply fucked away.

It wasn't a spectacularly good fuck - I like to think I know what I'm doing, and I like to try to give the woman some pleasure. But in all the pent-up excitement and emotion of the moment all I could do was simply thrust in and out, in and out, in and out. I forgot all about those watching ,and all I wanted to do was fuck, and cum. The primeval urge to procreate had taken over: I was doing what a man was designed for . Then I did it - I thrust forward one more time, arched my spine to push myself right in, and pumped her full of my seed.

I stood there panting and gasping for air for an instant, and came back to reality in an instant as a little ripple of applause came from the audience: a couple of loud, hearty claps from the two men, and little discrete, gentle slap, slaps from the ladies. Oh, what had I done? What must I look like, standing there all sweaty, with my dick pushed right up some cunt? So I went to pull out. But Craig's firm hands were now pressing my butt firmly forward, and he said, quietly, in my ear "Hold it in there, Steve. Statistically dicks that stay in for ten minutes after intercourse have a twenty percent improved chance of conception..."

So I had to stay there, my detumescing dick buried up this woman I couldn't see, feeling the warmth of Craig's hands on my butt, as the two men and two women carried of with their tea party. I could hear the lady of the house asking if anyone would like their tea cups refilled, the rattle of the china, the splash of the tea, the "plop" as sugar lump went in, and then the sounds of sandwiches being offered. It all sounded so normal, so proper, so gentile... It was just as if there weren't two naked slaves there in front of them, locked in a sexual embrace.

It went on and on, and my legs felt heavy and sore - after all the running earlier, it was hard to stand with my knees bent slightly forward as I had to in order to be at the right height to fuck. I was heartily glad when Craig's insistent pressure on my butt eased, and I was allowed to pull out and stand upright. I stood there then, not knowing what to do, and I heard the faint noise of the wheels again and sensed that the slave girl had been wheeled out. Craig's hand was resting on my butt again, and me moved me forward - from the delectable scent of the hot butter and the jam that was reaching my nose, I knew that I must be near the tea table. This was awful - I knew I'd have her juices and my semen all over my dick, and that they'd all be looking at it. And, no doubt, they could smell it, too, as I could: the musky odour of sex overlaid the lavender of the floor polish and the food odours of the tea.

"Thank you, Billy-Joe", I heard the owner say. "That surely is a fine slave. We've had a number of our maids covered by local studs, but I think we can say without a shadow of doubt that this is the best - it makes such a change to see a proper white ass pumping away, as one gets so tired of the endless blacks. And he really is magnificent - those long, strong thighs.. . Not to mention his genitals, which are almost the handsomest I've seen in a slave."

Oh, fuck me - how could they talk about me like this, just as if I wasn't there? Or, if I was there, as if I was a dumb animal, incapable of understanding their words, or incapable of being wounded or ashamed. It didn't matter that they were praising me: they shouldn't be thinking of me like this as some sort of object.

"Why thank you, sir", I heard Billy-Joe's normal voice drop deeper into a southern twang, "Thank you. I'm always happy to oblige a neighbour."

"Oh, Billy-Joe, are you going to oblige me now, in that other little matter?" - that fucking Chantelle again.

"What's that, my dear?" I heard the lady of the house enquire.

"I thought it might be entertaining to see how the slave is adapting to his new life, given that there was all the talk of him in the papers, so I asked Billy-Joe if we could see how well he's... well, how well he's adapting to having the sort of sex these brutes of slaves have."

"Very delicately put, Chantelle, dear" the owner boomed out. "What do you say, Billy-Joe? Shall we have another cup of tea whilst Craig here goes and selects one of the bucks from the fields, and then see how your boy reacts when it's him strapped to the horse?"

"As you know, I'm always happy to oblige a neighbour...."

I was going to protest again, but what was the point? I couldn't see, but I felt certain Craig would have his discipliner somewhere close to hand.

"Craig", the owner continued "Perhaps you'd better take the slave outside and prepare him - they can struggle as they're tied down, I know, until they're properly broken, and we don't want to upset the ladies or to have any damage in here. Then go and get that big African we bought last week - the absolutely jet black one who's from that tribe form somewhere or other who are always winning all the sporting events. He's so impressively hung, and I'd like to see him in action. It should amuse us later."

"Certainly, sir". Craig was right by my side. Then his hand was on my biceps, and another rested on my butt, and he led me out of the room. I heard the polite conversation and the bell-like tinkle of women's laughter continue as we left - this was all so fucking unreal!

Back in the room where I'd showered, Craig removed my blindfold. "Better keep you cuffed, hadn't I", he said in a not unkindly way. "I expect you're still not really used to taking it, and it's tough at first.

But don't worry, I'm good at this sort of thing, and I've never lost a slave yet!"

His attempt at humour was, at least, some spark of humanity that had been sadly lacking in all the folk earlier. But how was I going to find taking dick now?

End Of Part Ten