Date: Mon, 14 Jun 2010 08:28:16 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: "A Bargain"

A BARGAIN
By Pete Brown   (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Author's note: I have not written for some time, but yesterday had some
thoughts about slave selection and "A bargain" began to take shape.  This
was meant to be a story with much more detail about the selection of a
personal slave, but as I wrote this rather got swamped as my interest in
thinking about how the master would handle a relationship with his existing
slave started to intrude.  The "bargain" was meant to relate to the low
price paid for the slave, but, actually, now I re-read it, I see that the
bargains occur in several place - the original purchase of Steve, between
Steve and his owner, the owner and the colonel, and so on.  I could have
made the story longer to cover the selection in more detail, but I wanted a
short story after such a long absence as I only had a day available to
write it.  Unusually, I have written from the master's perspective, rather
than the point of view I usually take - that of the ubiquitous "Steve".

This story takes as its background the social and political milieu I
describe in more detail in "The Spoils Of War" and I do not elaborate on
aspects of the continuing civil war.

Enjoy!

Pete

A BARGAIN

I'd been invited to our local army base for a dinner to celebrate Republic
Day held by the colonel and his officers.  These things are usually a
terrible bore, but as a prominent local citizen I consider it's my duty to
attend this kind of thing to show proper support for our men, and as the
base runs up to the borders of my own land it's not that much of a journey,
I suppose.  The whole of local society would be there and so there would
probably be opportunities to conduct business, and therefore the whole
evening would not necessarily be a total waste of time.

I took some time dressing - it's important to get the right tone for this
kind of thing, I believe.  One of my formal dark suits that I wear when
business calls me to Atlanta would be out of place here in the country, and
although Republic Day is normally pretty informal with the major
celebrations in town being a family picnic / jeans and T-shirt kind of
event, going totally casual would not be appropriate as I was certain to be
seated at the Colonel's top table because of my status.  It almost drove my
clothes slave to distraction as I tossed aside one shirt after another, and
commanded him to bring more and more slacks and jackets from the storage
closets - I expect he was thinking of all the work involved in pressing
everything before putting it all way again, but he's not got anything else
to do, after all, as I do believe in being absolutely immaculately turned
out in a way that's hard to achieve without a lot of manual effort. Some
people think I'm extravagant, but he was not very expensive: that's one of
the advantages of living on my plantation in the country as young niggas
like him are so readily available - if I'd gone to the market in Atlanta to
buy him, I'd probably have had to pay twice as much.

I finally settled on a sharply-cut linen jacket in a dark cream linen and
silk mix that I'd bought on my last trip to Milan, pale grey slacks in a
fine-textured Marino wool, and soft black leather loafers.  It took me
several attempts to get just the right tie to wear with my cream silk shirt
- nothing too formal, but not too gaudy, either, as I felt certain I would
have to make a short speech on behalf of the town thanking the colonel and
the regiment.  The nigga was particularly irritating as he failed to tie it
correctly on the first attempt - he knows I like my ties to hang so that
the two pieces are of exactly the same length, and you'd think that would
be easy to achieve as he has ample time to practice.  I slapped him hard a
couple of times across his face to show him my displeasure more tangibly,
and told him that if it happened again I'd replace him and he'd join the
other slaves in one of the field coffles.

Still, it was one of those perfect early summer evenings we get down here,
and as I strode out of the mansion and down the steps to where my trap was
waiting, all was right with the world.  Just as the slave was settling me
in, my personal trainer jogged around the corner of the house and seeing me
at once ran over and stood attentively waiting for me to acknowledge him.
He'd cost me a stack of money when I'd bought him three years ago, but I've
never regretted it - and, after all, a man should indulge himself
sometimes, shouldn't he?  It's rare to get a white slave so big - Steve was
a match for even the biggest nigga on the estate - but what had
particularly attracted me to him when I'd seem him in the pens at Natches
was his moody good looks: that indefinable "something" about his face and
the expression he had that lifted him from being merely handsome into that
next indefinable category of masculine beauty.  At another time I suppose
he might have made a good living as a model, but the civil war has changed
so many things in our lives and it's no longer acceptable to have magazines
and so on devoted to clothes and other fashionable excesses.  Even though
he was white, had I not bought him it's likely that he'd have ended up down
the mines as he'd been in the North's marines: such men are usually
considered to be too dangerous for use as general slaves, and need to be
placed in environments where their natural aggression and tendency to defy
authority can be strictly controlled.  The dealer had even warned me
against buying him as he had caused trouble from the moment he had been
taken there, and he told me that Steve had not accepted slavedom in spite
of two whippings.

That added to his attraction in a strange way as I like a man to show
spirit in bed, so I thanked the dealer for his advice but asked that Steve
should be stripped anyway as I wanted to see if the rest of his body was as
desirable as the outline visible under the slave smock and shorts
suggested.  Steve did not unclothe when ordered to, as I'd rather expected,
and there was a lot of shouting and swearing before finally the dealer lost
patience and ordered the guards to use their prods to render him incapable
of resistance so that they could forcibly strip him (I could see the dealer
shrugging inwardly as he sensed a lost sale, but he did as I requested
anyway as his Atlanta head office had ordered that I should be treated as
the valuable client of the firm that I was).  Steve's body was, and is, a
sheer delight - broad shoulders, narrow hips, flat belly, sensuously
flaring bubble butt, lovely low-hanging balls with a cock properly in
proportion to the rest of him, dark good-sized aureoles, and the whole
agreeably furred: not too much, but a nice pectoral thatch, a pronounced
trail across that lovely belly, and pleasing manly hairs on arms and legs.
His whole body had that air of erotic maturity that a man only gets when he
is older - Steve was thirty at the time - and when the muscles are built
from hard work rather than exercise in the gym.

Even when he was standing totally nude in front of me It was impossible for
me to carry out a proper inspection of him because of the threat of
violence. But I'd seen enough to know that he would be a total delight to
all my senses assuming he could be properly tamed and used as a personal
servant.  The dealer was glad to sell him at a price that he'd get if he
had to be sold to the mines, so I knew that in principle II had a bargain.

This is not the time for me to recount how I tamed Steve without breaking
his spirit completely - clearly continued whipping was not going to achieve
it and would likely only lead to permanent unsightly scarring.  But after
he'd been branded (all my slaves carry my ownership mark) I think he
started to realise that his life had changed utterly, then when I had him
circumcised - without anaesthetic - he could see that my power extended
further than he imagined.  I summoned him for a private meeting, without
guards there, so that we could talk "man to man" as he might describe it,
but more properly, owner to slave.  Of course he was in chains - a short
hobble chain joining his ankles, and cuffs holding his hands in front of
him.  He stood there when the guards had left and it was rather amusing to
see that he tried to cover his genitals with his hands, and I had to order
him to raise them so that I could inspect his circumcision.  He hesitated,
so I said, casually, "I can order them to take your balls, you know.  Or
even that cock...".  That started to make him think, but when I revealed
that I knew he had been married, divorced, and that he had a son, a son who
had been abandoned by his ex-wife and who was now living in an orphanage in
the North, he started to calm down.  Look, to cut a long story short, I did
what an owner should not have to do with a slave - I bargained with him!
His twelve year old son could be brought to live on the plantation with
Steve, provided Steve acted as a properly dutiful slave: there was no other
choice available, actually - if Steve ever wanted to see his son again, and
didn't want the son to grow up never knowing his father, that's how it had
to be.  So now Steve and Shane share a room in the slave quarters, and
Shane goes into the local town each day to school.

I'm expecting problems next year, though: Shane will be sixteen then, and I
don't think Steve realises that I can then exercise my rights and have him
enslaved as he is the progeny of a slave I own!  He'll be a really valuable
asset, as there are not a lot of very young, handsome white virgin slaves
around.  Steve will be outraged at first, but once Shane has been branded
with my ownership mark Steve will see that I don't intend to sell him, and
that he will continue to be able to see his son (or, actually, rather more
than "see" him: I'm looking forward to taking Shane's cherry, and then on
having both father and son in my bed as my sex partners).

Still, there Steve was, a line of sweat running down the front of his
T-shirt from his run - something I find rather sexy - and it occurred to me
that I might subtly punish him for not being there when I was dressing to
advise me on the choice of tie, and so on.  He'd known of the invitation -
it was in my diary - and he should have realised that it was his duty to be
there; but then, Steve is not much of a thinker and planner, he's more of a
"doer", and I suppose that's another thing that I find attractive about him
- it's not that he's unintelligent, rather the opposite, but that his
intelligence shows itself in different ways.

"Steve, I'm off to the base.  And I want to talk to you - so take off that
T - it's soaked in sweat anyway - and slip between the shafts.  The pony
can have the night off, and you can pull me there and back."

"But sir, I've just been running...."

"Oh well, Steve, if you think you're not up to it, if you're not properly
fit...."

I smiled inwardly as Steve pulled off his T and I was treated to the sight
of his belly flexing as he raised his arms to get it over his head.  He's
so easy to manipulate - no need to issue a direct order, just suggest that
he's not able to perform properly and he'll try to prove you wrong.  I'd
let him keep his body hair as I like a man to feel like a man when I'm
enjoying his body, and I could see it was engagingly plastered to his skin
with his sweat.  He moved over to the pony and told the nigga he wouldn't
be needed, but then as the nigga went to leave, I called out "Actually,
Steve, you'd better take the pony's uniform - your shorts are all
sweat-stained anyway, and if you've been running, as you say, I might need
to help you by encouraging you a little...."

Again I smiled to myself as Steve so nearly lost it, and had to stop
himself from making some remark back to me - as I've told you, that's one
of the things I find so special about him: that rebellious nature, so close
to the surface, and yet usually restrained by his will.  Almost visibly
holding himself in check he exchanged a few more words with the pony, and
the nigga tugged at the bow on the string around his waist holding his
running pouch in place.  Steve dropped his shorts, and probably without
realising it, "flipped" his cock to free it from where his sweat was
holding it against his balls - so many men seem to do this almost as if by
reflex, even though they might otherwise be embarrassed by their nakedness,
as Steve was.  It doesn't matter how many times I explain to Steve that a
slave need have no shame in appearing naked in front of others as he is
merely a piece of property and not a free man, he still doesn't get it and
is always awkward when there's someone other than me in the room when he is
nude.  So now he stood there with his hands trying to shield his genitals,
and I somehow find this a little endearing - it took me ages (and a few
punishment sessions on the triangular bar) to get Steve to accept that when
he went swimming he had no need of Speedos and I'm glad I persisted as
there were no unsightly white patches on his butt or thighs as he stood
there shifting uneasily from foot to foot as if hoping that some "rescue"
might yet occur.  But I called out "Steve, get a move on!  Put on the
running pouch, and do it now as I want to be off.  Or, if you prefer, leave
it off - but get between the shafts, and quickly!"

I'm an enlightened owner as you'll realise, as I let my ponies wear running
pouches when they're in my trap.  They're all very well-built, and that
generally means they're "well hung", too, and it always seems to me that a
pony runs better when there's some support for his dick and balls.  It's
not a question of modesty, as I've already explained my belief that a slave
has nothing to be ashamed of appearing nude - no, it's a simple matter of
practicality: the pouch leads to better performance.  Still, Steve could
make up his own mind (yes, I do give my slaves some freedom of action as an
owner cannot possibly specify every single thing that they are to do.  I
like to think Steve appreciates being allowed these little choices).  But,
as ever with Steve, some fragments of his life as a free man were causing
him problems: his choice was to run naked and so expose himself to many,
many people on the road and at the base; or to take the pouch which the
nigga pony had worn and put it on.  It's strange how some men have an
irrational fear of wearing other men's clothes, especially their
undergarments, and this issue was plainly Steve's concern now.  Actually I
do sometimes wonder whether by being an enlightened owner I'm actually
doing Steve a favour - he might have hated it if I'd ordered him to run
naked, or to put on the pouch, but at least he'd have been spared the
necessity of making a decision which he clearly did not relish.  Still, as
I watched he took the tiny white triangle of silk and tied the two strings
around his waist, then reached to pass the bottom string between his legs,
pulled it up his ass crack, and twisted his torso around so e could tie it
to the waist strings at the back - actually, I'm glad he chose to wear the
pouch as all those movements displayed his musculature to me in a most
agreeable way; and, of course, I think that the sight of a male dressing
(even if he is a slave) is somehow erotic.

We were off then - I flicked at his lovely buttocks with the carriage whip
to tell him to move off and he strained to get the trap into motion.  One
of the advantages of slave ponies is of course that after training and
familiarisation with the local area, the owner can simply order them "to
the club" or "the train station", or whatever, and they have the
intelligence to select the best route for the time of day, and take you
there without you needing to do anything more except "encourage" them with
the carriage whip if they show signs of flagging.  Don't get me wrong - the
whipping is not cruel as a carriage whip is not designed to punish or mark
the slave as a bull whip would.  Rather the sharp sting it administers is
to remind the slave to stay focused on his work, and to give of his all and
not allow himself to slacken.  I know that some owners go in for bridles,
bits, reins, and even complicated harnesses that can force a plug in the
slave's ass as encouragement, but all this seems unnecessary to me: if
you're going to put effort in to "drive" your pony rather than rely on his
intelligence, you might as well use an animal.  Again, some owners have
their slaves elaborately cuffed into the shafts, but surely one of the
purposes of having a pony slave is to demonstrate that you have another man
so totally under your control that he will stand there gripping the shafts
and pull you.  I use none of these costumes and devices of course, so it
was easy for Steve to swap places with the nigga.

Steve seemed to be pretty exhausted when we arrived at the base - it's only
four mile, at the most, but I'd sensed his tiredness and had had to
"encourage" him several times in the last mile or so - I expect it was his
earlier running as normally this would not have proved a problem to a man
with his considerable fitness.  He was sagging visibly as we stopped at the
gates whilst the sentry checked my invitation, and I had to snap at him to
tell him to smarten up and stand tall as we made our way up the drive to
the Officers' Mess building - and, indeed, he had to be encouraged" several
times when I ordered him to "high step" the last hundred yards or so as I
could see several people on the balcony watching the scene as we got
closer.  Yes, I know ponies hate it as drawing the knees up to navel height
on each step is very tiring and somehow unnatural, but I do think it makes
for a real "entrance" for the owner and again demonstrates his control over
the slave.

It was an unusual reception before dinner as the Colonel and his officers
had enlisted men acting as waiters!  It was somehow audacious to have free
men serving in such a menial capacity, and yet at the same time clearly
demonstrated the difference between army and civilian life - even with my
considerable wealth there's just no way I could afford to pay free men to
experience the humiliation of carrying around the trays of drinks and
offering them to the guests, as this is something that slaves now do on
such occasions.  I felt my cock straining at my underwear at the sight of
these young men who ought to be at the front fighting our enemies in the
North having to move amongst us like this, and I wondered also at how much
time had been wasted in their grooming as their uniforms were immaculately
starched and pressed, with the brass buttons and leather belts and boots
all shining to perfection - still, I expect they had slaves to do that, as
even if the army did not provide them, a bunch of young guys could easily
afford to buy a slave themselves for such tasks.

I pursued several of my business schemes as I circulated amongst the other
guests, and when a sergeant-major announced that dinner was served, I was,
as expected, sitting at the top table and was able to reassure the Colonel
of the town's support of the army: quite apart from anything else, the
presence of the garrison so close to hand meant that if there were ever to
be another dreadful slave revolt like the one that is described so vividly
by one of my favourite authors, Pete Brown, it would swiftly be suppressed.
The colonel either didn't know though, or, more probably, though it was
politically unwise to comment, on the current view of the Army Council on
the progress of the war.  He asked my views and I was quite clear: for
business men like me the war had initially been a near disaster with the
loss of our markets in the north (and, to a lesser extend, the loss of
international trade following the UN-led sanctions against us as they
mistakenly thought that the North was "the member" of their organisation -
a situation not unlike that which persisted for so many years after the
second world war when they insisted that China was some small offshore
island!).  But, as I explained, those of us who adapted our businesses to
diversify into agriculture, and into manufacturing in the South those
things that used to be made in the North, were now doing well - in fact,
exceedingly well!  With labour costs almost nil because of the slaves, we
were able to undercut almost any other economy on the planet, and exports
were booming - in spite of the supposed sanctions.  Indeed, to some extent,
I explained to him, I was in favour of the war continuing for at least
another ten years - we needed the supply of fresh slaves it produced to
keep slave prices down and therefore protect our profits: it would be some
time before the breeding farms that some far-sighted businessmen like me
had set up would be producing their first "crop", and until then there
simply were not enough criminals to prevent slave prices taking off because
of demand outstripping supply; only the war, with captured soldiers being
brought forward constantly to the auctions, kept slave prices reasonable.

"You'll be glad to hear that there's a new batch arriving tomorrow, then",
he told me, leaning closer to share this confidence with me.  It was indeed
actually interesting economic intelligence, as I knew that in general it
took three weeks to take a captured soldier and process him into a slave,
so if I held off making purchases in this period I could hope to buy much
cheaper when they were released to the markets.  "Yes", he went on, "The
battle of Omaha went well, and they'd thrown a lot of not very experienced
men into it - I think the North is gradually being worn down and they don't
have time to train the men sufficiently, as the ones who are being trucked
in tomorrow are all in their early twenties and there's very little real
combat experience in there.  Of course it helps that most of the training
expertise was down here in the South anyway...."

"Most interesting", I replied.  "I've been thinking about acquiring a new
personal slave in his early twenties, and although there are a number of
suitable niggas on my plantation, I prefer a whitey."  He nodded, and I
added quickly "I'm not prejudiced, of course, and I'll fuck a nigga as
easily as a whitey, but somehow I find that having a whitey around me in my
private quarters is somehow more 'natural', if you see what I mean."

"Quite so, dear sir.  We have something of a similar problem here - the
army is fully integrated, of course, but the white enlisted men don't like
sharing barracks rooms with blacks - not that we have many blacks, of
course, as so many young black men commit crimes and are enslaved.  But
there's a widespread prejudice that any black skin in the showers must be a
nigga slave, and there have been several unpleasant incidents where new
black recruits have been abused - no actual rape, fortunately, as the men
don't do that in the showers.  But some of the black recruits have been
severely beaten up when they were in the showers and mistaken for nigga
slaves, who then refused to service the cocks of the men...."

"Very distressing....", I added to empathise with him.  "It must make
commanding a base like this very difficult.  I mean, you can hardly punish
the men for an understandable mistake.  But I expect those liberal
newspapers would have a field day if they heard that black recruits were
apparently so much at risk.  Still, we all have these difficulties - some
people can't accept my slave Steve because he's a whitey, and I have some
black overseers on my estate who find it very hard to be treated properly
when they go into town and want to go into a bar or restaurant... We can
only hope for more enlightened times in the future, when people treat all
men equally regardless of the colour of their hides.... I mean skin, of
course... Only slaves have hides; men have skin."

"It's good to see that you are a liberal in spirit, dear sir.  As I am
myself.  It distresses me to see young whiteys enslaved, of course, but if
they are misguided enough to join the army of the North and then come and
try to fight us here, what else can we do?  Only about five percent of
those we process here are whiteys, though, as the North's army is mainly
recruited from the ghettos in their cities.  Still, it is a problem for my
men, I know, as they dislike...."

This had aroused my interest, so I cut across him.  "So there are some
young whiteys in the slaves coming here for processing tomorrow?"

"Yes, fifty or so, I believe."

"And mostly young, you said?"

"Nineteen to twenty three, generally.... But why do you ask?"

"Colonel, I'd consider it a very great favour if you were to allow me to
come and select a slave tomorrow...."

"Impossible, I'm afraid.  Army regulations and all that... They all have to
be processed, then sent for public auction...."

"I'm not suggesting that there should be anything improper, of course.  I
would naturally expect to pay the price the army gets from the dealers.  In
fact, for the right property, I'd pay considerably more.  Or, if that's too
difficult, a generous donation to the mess funds?  Events like this
splendid one this evening must be a big strain on the regiment...?"

I could see I had "hooked", and after I'd made my speech fulsomely praising
the regiment on behalf of the guests, making particular mention of the
Colonel's many sterling qualities, we spoke again after dinner.  I was a
little surprised at the size of the "generous donation" I had apparently
agreed to make to the mess funds, but, he assured me, I could spend as long
as I wished looking over the arrivals tomorrow, and "suitable arrangements
could certainly be made" to ensure that my choice found its way to my
estate via a "friendly dealer".

Steve made quite fast progress home - he'd rested during the reception and
dinner, and I only had to "encourage" him a little.  But when we got back I
insisted to took the trap around to the stables before he came into the
house, and this seemed to sour his mood - or, at least, so it seemed to me
when he ultimately stood in front of me still wearing the tiny running
pouch.  Actually it was very erotic, somehow: I was used to having him
naked of course, but now the outline of his thick cock and prominent cock
head through the thin silk was very alluring, especially as his sweat had
made the material almost transparent.  "See, Steve, how sensible I am to
insist you keep your pubes close trimmed?", I said, jokingly.  "That pouch
would look dreadful if your pubic hair was sticking out all around it."

"I might as well be naked, for all the good it does", he snapped in reply,
looking at himself in the mirror through the door of my dressing room.
"It's not right...."

"Steve, I don't want all that again!  You're a slave, remember?  And a
slave should not feel embarrassment...."

"It's all right for you, you don't have everyone looking at you...."

"Steve, stop it!  So what if everyone is looking at you?  They're admiring
you, I think, and wishing they had bodies like yours.  Anyway, you're all
sweaty... Get showered, and get into bed... I don't want just to look at
your body, I want to feel it...."

I watched as he undid the ties holding the tiny pouch on, and was pleased
to see that he was semi-erect when he shook his dick free.  But then he
disobeyed me, and advanced towards the bed.  "No, I don't think I'll
shower.  All this sweat is your fault, making me run at such a pace, and I
think you ought to experience it...."

For a moment I was scared - he's big, tough, strong and at thirty three
could easily overpower me and do me serious harm before I could hope to
summon guards.  But then I saw those little signs of that slightly
rebellious nature which had attracted me to him in the first place as his
mouth twitched just ever so slightly and his eyes sparkled... Reinforced a
moment later by his cock, which began to erect seriously.

He flung himself onto me and pinned me on to the bed, and I was overwhelmed
by his weight, and the intoxicatingly sensuous smell and feel of his hot,
sweaty body.  He forced my hands above my head and pinioned them there with
one of his big hands as he straddled my chest, allowing his naked ass to
press down on my belly.  His cock hovered above my pecs, and I cold see a
glistening jewel appearing form the nerd of it - not sweat, but pre-cum.
"So, sir, I've got you.  You're helpless.  I could rape you, and there's
not a thing you could do to stop me....".  His mouth was now in that big
grin that I find so attractive.

"So you rape me.  But that would be the last time you ever had sex.  Ever
wondered what it would be like to spend the rest of your life without
balls, or a dick, with just a little tube sticking out from where it used
to be?"

As I said it, I realised I'd gone too far.  In spite of his tiredness,
Steve had wanted to play.  But my words, even though spoken in the same
way, had brought the real world crashing in on to us.  Steve let go of my
hands, swung his leg up and got off me (as ever, moving so lightly and
sensuously that it was if the weight of his body didn't exist).  He lay
beside me, on his belly, one arm bent and his head buried in the crook of
his elbow.  He looked so dammed desirable, his whole body exposed to my
view, that it was all I could do not to mount him immediately.  But that
would only have made matters worse - Steve still liked to think of himself
as a "straight man" and didn't like proper man-to-man sex.  I knew he never
gave himself willingly to me and was only ever acquiescing to being used as
my sex toy, and on this first occasion when it seemed he might have been
entering willingly into a little foreplay, I'd got it wrong.

It's important to retain control of a slave at all times, though, and
although I wanted to say something soothing and helpful, I judged it more
important to assert my authority now.  So I stroked my hand down his spine,
thrilling to the way it slid on his sweat and enjoying, as I always did,
the feeling of his spine.  I rested it a moment on his butt, then slid a
finger down the hot wetness of his ass crack.  I was so aroused now and
wanted to fuck him immediately, but then I thought that he'd been out for
several hours exercising and then pulling me, and that he had not had time
to flush himself out.  I hate getting my own dick covered in shit, so I
thought I would be generous - I slapped him on his butt, causing him to
stir, and said sharply "Get down on my cock, Steve.  And when I've
finished, you can spend the rest of the night with your son".

He's a good cock sucker, actually - it took a lot of training, but now he
can take my whole length without gagging.  But because he doesn't like
doing it, he does it quickly and for me, that is hugely enjoyable: to see a
big naked guy like Steve lying there, his head bobbing up and down on my
cock so frantically, is really exciting.  I soon felt myself starting to
cum, and, as usual, Steve was in tune with this and went to pull his head
off - but I'm wise to his ways, and put my hand on his head to hold him
down on to me so that I could shoot into his mouth.  Of course there's no
way I'm strong enough to hold him down if he actively resisted, but as in
so many matters of slave control, it's the psychology that's important: the
pressure of my hand on his head reminded him of my authority, and he lay
the patiently as my "after shocks" filled his mouth.

I made him lie there for a few minutes afterwards, ensuring he licked my
cock nicely clean before I told him to go to his son, then, as he walked
across the room with his cock bouncing in front of him, I called out "Be
sure to be here early, Steve.  We're going back to the base tomorrow."

"I suppose I've got to be your fucking pony again....."

"A good slave is happy to serve his owner in whatever capacity his owner
demands", I retorted.  "But no - I want you fresh as I'm selecting a new
slave and I'll need your help.  You can run alongside the nigga."

"But why...."

I didn't want to answer his question as I wanted to keep him guessing about
why I was going to have a new slave, and why I needed his help.  Knowing
Steve, he'd worry about it most of the night and that would keep him
slightly off balance and very alert.  So I said, in a stern, but not
unfriendly tone, "Enough, Steve.  I want to get to sleep.  Now get out,
before I change my mind and decide to fuck you anyway...."

I slept well, and awoke with a most satisfactory erection as I lay there in
the early morning light allowing my thoughts to range over the selection of
a new personal slave - should I have a blond or darker hair, a long thin
cock or a short thick one, how tall should he be, how old....?  Each
attribute has its attractions, but it's the overall package that's the
point of it, of course.  I was leaking pre-cm and stroked my cock a few
times - it's a long time since I've masturbated myself as I usually have
Steve do it on those occasions when I decide not to fuck him or one of the
other slaves.  The novelty was such that I almost shot my load, but decided
that the selection process would be all that more exciting if I was really
horny - and, after all, I was almost certainly going to fuck the new slave
later in the day, and at my age you do need to think about conserving your
cum as older testicles just don't produce the volume that young ones do.
So I told my "dresser", who was waiting patiently in the corner of the room
for me to wake fully, to run my bath and to send Steve away (when I give
him the night off to be with his son, he knows he has to be outside my
bedroom door early in the morning in case I should need him).

Slave selection is always a manly, rugged kind of business, I think, so I
elected to wear a sea-island cotton polo shirt in a medium knit in pale
blue, and a pair of well-tailored dark blue jeans.  The dresser held out
tailored silk boxer shorts and cotton briefs for me to select, but I
decided to "go commando" - when the new slave saw me remove my jeans he'd
therefore see my erect cock lurch upwards to my belly immediately, and that
should get my session with him off to a good start.

Steve was waiting in the breakfast room for me, standing against the rear
wall with his hands neatly clasped behind his back in the traditional
"slave rest" position.  I always allow him to sit at the table and eat
breakfast with me (well at least when I do not have house guests - most of
my friends would be scandalised at the thought of having a slave at table),
but I do not want him to consider this to be a "right", and anyway it's a
good reminder to him of his slavehood to have him wait.  So as I came in I
said "Good morning, Steve - help yourself to breakfast, and get stuck in as
I want to get off".

"Help yourself" is merely a courtesy on my part, as you might expect.
Steve knows he's not allowed to pick anything from the chafing dishes of
sausages, bacon, eggs, kidneys, black puddings, and finnan haddock that are
always waiting there as I am concerned about the health of such a valuable
property as him and restrict the fat in his diet.  Likewise he's not
allowed the sugary cereals in their gaudy packages and is restricted to
selecting bran or porridge, which he must take without sugar and only with
skimmed milk.  He's always hungry though and took a huge bowl of porridge -
almost overflowing - then sat at the table waiting for me to be served by
one of the waiters.  I deliberately took my time selecting my breakfast - I
had half a grapefruit to begin, as I always do - as it amuses me to see
Steve sitting there eyeing his food and anxious to start shovelling it
down: he has to finish when I do, even if he has not eaten everything, and,
as I said, he's always hungry as I keep him deliberately a little short.  I
find that "big" slaves like Steve can so easily put on a layer of fat, even
when they are exercised hard as he is, and I'm determined that this should
not happen to him, both as a protection of my investment, and because I
find the sight of taut skin and the outline of bones aesthetically
pleasing.

He bent over his bowl, wolfing down the porridge, his shoulders moving with
the efforts he was making to get big spoonsful to and from his mouth as
quickly as possible.  I insist that he always wears a shirt to the table,
and for breakfast this is generally a simple singlet which leaves his
shoulders bare as I find this interplay of his muscles first thing in the
morning particularly pleasing as I eat (this "shirt to table" rule is
something I would advise all owners to consider - even when we have our
lunch at the side of the pool and Steve has been swimming, I insist he dons
a shirt, and his cock and balls hanging down below the hemline then adds a
particular frison of excitement).  He soon finished, then sat there looking
at me imploringly as I toyed with my fruit, until, smiling, I said "OK, you
can have another bowl, as we've got a busy day and you'll need a lot of
energy.  But only half."

He sprang to his feet to serve himself and as ever I enjoyed the sight of
his muscular thighs below the simple slave shorts as he stood at the buffet
serving himself.  It was amusing to see how he had interpreted "half" -
Steve has become an expert at obeying my commands in such a way that I
can't actually complain without an unseemly argument: his bowl was almost
three quarters full, but not so much that a dispute about whether it was
"half" or not could be seen as a matter of interpretation. My decision
would be the one that counted, of course, but somehow having to make a
ruling on something as trivial as this debases an owner - and, anyway, as
I've said, part of the attraction of Steve is the way he pushes the
boundaries like that in a way that a nigga wouldn't.

After my grapefruit I had a single piece of wholemeal toast,
freshly-churned butter from our own dairies, and some of the special
English marmalade I have specially imported for me.  Steve is allowed
toast, too, but he tries to wolf down five or six slices as I eat mine -
he's not allowed butter, and normally I only allow him to have some of "my"
marmalade as a special treat, perhaps after a night when he's been
unusually sensual in bed, and the rest of the time he has to eat the peach
jam made in the kitchens from the peach trees on the plantation.  I'm
hoping that his brain establishes the subtle connection between outstanding
behaviour in bed and the mark of my favour the next morning when I offer
him marmalade, but I have to say I'm not overly optimistic - it's rather
like training a puppy, I guess: any punishment or reward has to follow the
action immediately, and it's no use punishing it some hours after it's left
a mess on the carpet.

I did let him have a big mug of tea with his food - I take a thin china cup
of freshly-brewed coffee.  But in England, on one of my many business trips
there, I'd been visiting a building site to review the progress of my
investment in it and had been invited into the site canteen for a break.
The sight of the rugged workers all sitting tucking into enormous plates of
food washed down by big mugs of tea was extremely stimulating, so I'd
adopted the practice when I got home: Steve had a half pint thick
earthenware mug of tea, with milk, and he was allowed to stir in two
spoonsful of sugar, and I always enjoyed seeing his Adam's apple bobbing as
he swallowed the hot liquid in big gulps between his slices of toast.

After breakfast we went out to the front of the mansion and my trap with
its nigga was waiting.  I saw Steve begin to look concerned in case he had
to pull me again, but I said cheerily "Just jog alongside me, Steve, so I
can talk to you as we go.  I'd let you ride with me, but I'm a little
concerned about being late and I need the nigga to run flat out, and he
can't do that if he's got to pull your weight, too".

"No problem, sir!  It's a lovely morning for a run", Steve replied, looking
visibly happier when he realised that he as going to be able to continue to
wear his shirt and shorts.

I can't remember what I talked to Steve about on the way to the base - I
probably asked him about the finer points of getting a young slave really
fit, then maintaining that fitness.  But it amused me to keep asking him
more and more questions as he was visibly having difficulties in replying
as I'd set a fast pace for the nigga (reinforced with a lot of
"encouragement") and Steve had difficulties in keeping his voice even and
calm because of the effort of breathing - as usual, Steve wouldn't admit he
ever had problems with anything physical.

When we arrived and were directed at the gate to head over to the
administration block, and I told Steve that he was to accompany me as I
needed his advice on the choice of slave - after all, they were going to
have to live and work together, and so providing the slave met my exacting
criteria, there would be no harm in letting Steve think he had some part of
the decision, too.  But before we went in to the building I stopped him and
said "You can't go in like that, Steve!  Look at all the sweat soaking your
shirt and shorts.  It will be unpleasant for those we meet to have to stand
there and smell your body - strip off, use the clothes to give yourself a
quick rubdown, and then you'll find a fresh set of shirt and shorts in the
hamper on the back."

"Here, sir...?"  I could see Steve looking around at all the men and women
coming and going into the building, and starting to be concerned.

"Of course here!  Where else?  I want you being a credit to me when we're
inside."

"But...."

"Just do as you're told, Steve!  There's no harm in you stripping off out
here - you're a slave, after all, and that's perfectly apparent to anyone
coming past as they'll see your brand."

I sat there, amused, as Steve pulled off his shirt and used it to wipe
under his pits, mop his face and chest, and then stand there, still
uncertain.  "Get a move on!", I snapped, my tone sharper now, and Steve
slowly and very reluctantly peeled down his shorts and stepped out of them,
then stooped to pick them up (allowing me one of my favourite views of the
male body as he bent), and quickly and sort of furtively scrubbed at his
ass crack and then at his pubes with them.  He clutched the shorts to him
as he went around to the back of the trap to get the clean clothes, as if
they somehow gave him confidence as they concealed his tackle - but of
course they left his lovely ass exposed.

A soldier in uniform showed us in to the Colonel's office, and again I
marvelled at how a free man was being used for this menial task, and the
Colonel offered me coffee.  The orderly - another uniformed soldier -
poured me some and went to offer it to Steve (who had assumed "slave rest"
against a wall to the side), too.  I was almost shocked by this failure of
etiquette, as not only had the orderly failed to ask me, Steve's owner, if
he could have coffee, but he was treating Steve as if he was a man.  Still,
I suppose the quality of enlisted men these days is not all that high, and
seeing my face change, the Colonel immediately understood what had happened
and offered profuse apologies.

We quickly got the formalities of the proposed transaction over and I gave
the Colonel a handsome cheque for the mess funds, and he then led me over
to the window.  "The arrivals are just being released", he said, pointing
at a number of those huge trucks that they use to transport livestock
standing outside - through the open slats in the side I could see faces
peering out, human faces - well, slaves, of course - rather than the cattle
they had originally been built for.  As we watched, soldiers opened the
rear doors of the trucks and lowered the ramps, and then the men began to
stagger out.

"It's disappointing, Colonel.... So many niggas!  I was hoping for a big
selection of whiteys...."

"As I said, my good sir, the North is mostly conscripting niggas from the
ghettos in their cities.... But don't worry, there will be a goodly
selection for you - at least ten per cent of the North's foot soldiers are
white."

"...and the don't look in a very healthy condition..."

"Well that's more or less inevitable - most of them have been locked up in
the transporters for two or three days and they get only minimal food and
water, providing the drivers can be bothered, that is.  But don't worry -
it might be a good thing for you: any slave you pick today can only improve
when you feed him properly and so on."  He paused, seeing my doubtful look,
and continued "....but in any event, should you fail to be completely
satisfied, you can return the property and come to the next input day, and
so on, until you find something to suit.  I do understand how a gentleman
of your discernment and taste will want a perfect animal, and I can see
from your slave there that you have a good eye for male flesh.  But let me
call in my sergeant who is responsible for input processing, so that he can
look out a selection for you."

He used his intercom and a few moments later the door opened and one of
those "old time" sergeants, clearly a career soldier, marched smartly in
and saluted. His uniform was crisp and neatly pressed, his boots shone, and
his physique was a match for Steve's - had I not already owned a slave like
Steve, I'd have been tempted to ask the Colonel if there wasn't some way
that this sergeant could be disgraced and enslaved, then sold to me!  We
began to talk about my requirements: "A whitey, probably 22 or 23 years
old, and an anal virgin....."

"Well that will be difficult, sir", the sergeant said, a smile crossing his
face. "Most of those former soldiers won't admit to a little pleasure in
the barracks, and there's no certain test for virginity..."

"Well then, let's say someone who has bred - if he's been fucking women,
it's less likely he's experienced his fellow soldiers.  And it will also be
useful to have a proven fertile male as I will at some point almost
certainly want to stud him.  So that implies a properly sized dick,
too..... And I like a slave with low-hanging balls so that if I'm watching
him fuck from behind, I can see his balls slap into the flesh of the other
man... And that 'slap' noise you get as they slam forward into the skin is
a turn on, of course..."

"Cut or uncut, sir?" The sergeant interjected.

"It's immaterial.  He'll be circumcised anyway, as all my slaves are - I
don't believe in allowing a slave to hide any part of his body away from
me."

"...and general size... Height.... "

"I don't want anything as muscular as Steve there", I replied, gesturing
towards Steve.  Someone more with a runner's body - slim, of course - and I
like nice long thighs and a bubble butt."

"...hair colour?"

"Dark, I think.  Steve's sort of blond, and I'd like a bit of a contrast.
I don't mind a hair chest, but absolutely no hair on the back."

"I think it best, sir, if I pick out the whiteys who have bred, in your
preferred age and body type, sir", the sergeant said. "Then you can come
and make a more detailed inspection and selection."

I nodded, and after a few exchanges with the Colonel, the sergeant
departed, and the Colonel and I had another cup of coffee and discussed
matters of mutual interest, before the sergeant came back and told me all
was ready.

They'd lined up the selected captured soldiers in the gym - around twenty
five of them - well surrounded by armed guards, and they well all clearly
military as they were in a line, and standing "at ease".  The sergeant
asked me if there were any there I could say immediately I didn't want, and
I shook my head.  "A very good selection, sergeant.  I can see you have an
eye for male flesh..."

He nodded, and barked "Prisoners.... Strip to the waist."

There were some protests, quickly suppressed by the guards who used their
rifle butts to club a couple of men to the floor.  I mentally ruled out the
fallen as potential slaves, as it's best to avoid trouble makers - or, at
least, those who are bold enough to make trouble publicly.  Once their
torsos were exposed I could rule out some of them immediately, as they
lacked the kind of prominent aureoles and nipples I prefer, and many had
large, unsightly tattoos.  Then, after a short discussion with me, the
sergeant ordered the remainder to lose their uniform trousers.

Three of the men were "commando" - a good sign, I thought, and made a
mental note to look at them more closely, but soon all were entirely naked
- as I've told you I always enjoy seeing a man strip off his undergarments,
but the sight of over twenty of them doing it almost simultaneously was
especially arousing and my cock stiffened inside my jeans.  Steve was
standing behind me watching, too, and I wondered what was going through his
mind then - had he been part of a selection process like this, I wondered.

It was easy to eliminate those with "unsuitable" cocks and balls then - the
long, thin asparagus dicks, the beer-can thick ones, the small tight
scrotums with the cock almost mounted on top, and so on. We were left with
only three at the end of that, and I decided that a close personal
inspection was needed, and after discussion with the sergeant, they were
led off into a small office at the end of the gym.

When I went in, followed by Steve, two of the men made some attempt to
conceal their nakedness from me but the third seemed almost proud of his
cock and I'm sure I saw him almost push his hips forward a little, as if to
give it greater emphasis.  The sergeant barked at the other two to move
their hands away so I could see them all properly, and, frankly, there was
little to choose between all three as they all had the kind of body I was
looking for, and were all pleasantly well hung.

I moved to inspect the first slave more closely, and he made no attempt to
stop me taking his dick in my hand.  As it lay there in my palm it began to
stiffen, and he moved his hips slightly so that it slid slightly in and
out.  A smile was playing on his lips - some might call it an insolent
smile - and he gave a small sigh of pleasure.  My suspicions were aroused,
and I asked "How many kids do you have, soldier?"

"Two, sir.  But that's before I divorced, and began to have proper sex...."

"Steve!", I called out.  "Over here.... Down on your knees, and feel this
ass for me."

Steve looked almost rebellious, but I suppose he judged that this was not
the time or place to make a stand, and he knelt in front of the soldier,
reached around behind him, and started to wriggle his index finger up the
guy's ass.  The soldier grunted and his cock stiffened further.

"Well, Steve?"

"Fairly slack, sir.  Not much resistance....."

"Not that one then, sergeant.  I really want a virgin.  So that leaves me a
choice between these two."

I ordered Steve to "finger" each if them in turn, and was gratified to see
them both protest at the indignity and then give small whimpers of pain as
Steve persisted in his examination.  Satisfied that they were probably both
virgins, I asked them about their families, and one had a young kid, and
the other confessed to having only just got married as he'd made his
girlfriend a couple of months before.  So they both had the breeding
potential I was looking for, and as I could see little to choose between
them, I asked Steve for his views, as you will remember had been part of my
plan.

"I don't know, sir", he told me, looking worried.  "I mean, sir, it's such
a personal thing.  And if I pick one and it turns out he's unsatisfactory,
sir, you'll blame me...."

"Have you got a proper inspection horse, sergeant?" I enquired, and the
sergeant nodded, opened the door and barked out an order, and soon two
soldiers came in struggling to carry one of the solid "horses" with
provision for restraining a slave slung across its back by means of cuffs
and shackles on its legs.  Why on earth army didn't use slaves for such
work, rather than enlisted men, goodness only knows - but that's not my
problem.

Both slaves were pushed across the horse, side to side - I could see they
didn't like their naked bodies pressed close to each other - and they were
securely fastened down.  "Right, Steve - the test.  I want you to fuck each
in turn - five strokes in the first, then five strokes in the second, five
in the first again, then five more in the second...."

"Please, sir, no...."

This was too much!  The sergeant was carrying one of those "swagger sticks"
much beloved in the military, and I gestured to him to lend it to me, and
slashed very hard at Steve's butt a couple of times.

It was as much for show as anything, as it did not hurt Steve terribly and
the real reason he started to obey me was because at the same time I
shouted "Do as you're fucking well told!  That is, if you want to see your
son again - I could have you taken from her with these slaves, you know,
directly to the dealer...."

Steve dropped his shorts, and stood there, a picture of misery as he
stroked his cock into a very reluctant erection.  The sergeant leaned
towards me and said "Very nice, sir - you're a lucky man, to have a slave
like that..."

I nodded, pleased that my excellent good taste had been recognised. Then we
both watched as Steve moved behind the first man and struggled to get his
dick down the guy's crack and into his hole.  The guy struggled - futilely,
of course - and began to scream and blaspheme as Steve entered him.  I
could see Steve looking really unhappy as he raped the guy, and was really
pleased to know that he had moved on so far in his conversion to a slave
that now the threat of being sold was sufficient to cause him to do
something that was so evidently contrary to his nature.

He didn't look any happier when he moved on to the second slave, and I
suppose this was a bit easier for the guy as Steve's dick was now slimed
with the first one's ass juices.  It didn't stop him screaming and
shouting, though, and I took this as a good sign as it probably confirmed
that he was indeed a virgin.

When Steve had finished, he stood there blushing with shame and
embarrassment, his dick jutting out in front of him.  "Well?", I asked.
"Which one do you prefer?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Come on, Steve!  You must have some preference.  Which one's ass gripped
you tighter, which one gave you the bigger thrill...."

"Please, sir, I honestly don't know...."

I nodded, took a coin out of my pocket, and tossed it.  Then said to the
sergeant "the one on the right, please".  I thought it would be a good
illustration to my new slave that I considered him of so little importance
that he could be selected at the toss of a coin.

The sergeant released the guy from the horse, and he stood there in front
of me.  What's your name, boy?"

"Private Williams.  3408217.  I'm a prisoner of war, and only required to
give my name, rank and serial number", he snapped.

"Steve - take the slave and spank him across your knee.  He needs to learn
to obey me, right from day one."

Steve looked startled at first, but I do sometimes use him to discipline
the nigga waiters and other house slaves, so he knew what I meant.  The
soldier - or should I say "my new slave" now - tried to resist but Steve
quickly overpowered him, knelt on one knee and threw the slave across his
other, and administered six very hard slaps to the slave's bare butt - I
could see most satisfactory red hand prints appearing in the milky-white
skin which, presumably, had never so far been exposed to sunlight
(something I would soon remedy).

When Steve let him up the slave stood there rubbing his butt with his
hands, and I was amused to see that, like so many men who are spanked, he
was sporting an erection - something that then caused him acute
embarrassment when he realised that the four other men in the room were
observing it.

"What's your name, boy?", I asked again, and he said, a little hesitantly,
"Darren, sir."

"Good. Well, Darren, you're no longer a soldier.  You're a slave, my slave.
One of my personal slaves, like Steve there.  We're going to leave this
place now and return to my estate, and we'll start training you."

"Excuse me, sir", the sergeant interrupted.  "But all slaves need to be
branded and tattooed before they can leave, in case of escape."

"Don't worry, sergeant!  All my slaves are branded with my personal
ownership mark, as you can see from Steve's upper arm.  We'll do that as
soon as we're home."

"But sir, those are standing orders...."

"...and didn't I hear the Colonel tell you to assist me in every way
possible?  Shall we go back to his office and tell him that you will not
let me remove my property...?"

"But, sir, the risk of escape... These Northerners can be sly...."

"I see you have a pair of handcuffs on your belt, sergeant.  Be so good as
to cuff the slave's left wrist to the right wrist of my slave Steve there.
Then there's no risk of escape - he cannot, as we have already seen, stand
up to Steve."

And that was it, really.  Steve pulled on his shorts, and we went out
through the building to where my nigga was patiently waiting by the trap.
Darren seemed suitably embarrassed by being naked, but it was good for him
to start to learn that if that was how I wanted him to appear, that was it.

Steve and he jogged together behind the trap as we made our way home, and I
didn't particularly care that I could not see their bodies - I am always
considerate of other users of the highway, and had they run alongside the
trap they would have caused obstructions.  And, in any case, I wanted to
lie there with my eyes closed thinking of the bargain I'd got - my generous
contribution to the mess would be tax deductible, and I'd ended up paying
substantially less for a young whitey slave than I would have probably had
to in open auction: a real bargain.  Equally important, though, I had had a
choice, and had been able to verify - as far as one ever can - that he was
breeder and a virgin.  But even as these thoughts crossed my mind the more
pressing ones of tonight's excitement began to close in - Steve would have
to hold Darren down as I began to instruct him in the ways I like to be
pleased.  And, after that, I went on to think of the medium-term future:
what delights there would be next year when Shane was enslaved and I could
"mix and match" from a thirty-four year old, a twenty-two year old, and a
sixteen year old, all superb examples of male flesh.

The End.

petebrownuk @ yahoo.com    London, June, 2010