Date: Wed, 28 Sep 2005 15:19:35 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad & Me, Part 16

Dad And Me   by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part  16

The following day Charles came and stopped me cutting
the grass with dad and told me to follow him.  He
walked briskly, with me trailing after, right across
"our" part of the plantation towards the gate that
gave entrance to the "working" part, where the niggas
all lived and slaved away on the crops.  As we
approached it, my collar began to tingle, and I
remembered what I'd been told all those years ago
about not trying to leave the place.  Charles looked
around, saw me hesitating, then got a small thing,
rather like a cell phone, from his pocked and keyed in
some stuff.  A moment later my collar went to its
normal dead state, and Charles looked at me and
remarked sternly "Don't try to make a run for it, or
do anything stupid, Steve - remember, we've still got
your dad in here.  And, in any case, you wouldn't get
very far, without any money, or any clothes!"

I recognised the bit about clothes as I was only
wearing the brief, stained loincloth which was all we
wore for cutting the grass, but, to tell you the
truth, I'd rather forgotten about money, until Master
Charles mentioned it - well, for year now I'd never
had a need to buy anything, had I?    I wondered,
idly, if the USA was still even using the same dollars
and stuff that I'd know before enslavement.  Still, I
could see Charles' point, and so I just followed him
through the gate and along the path towards the nigga
sheds.  It was quite a thrill, actually -  you
probably can't imagine how it feels to have spent so
long confined into one area - albeit a very large one,
as the gardens and yard were extensive - and suddenly
to be allowed out, into some different environment.
As we walked along I saw several nigga coffles coming
from or going to the fields - I felt really sorry or
them, as their collars were thick, black iron and you
could just tell that they were weighting their heads
down, even without the lengths of chain joining them.
Each coffle had an overseer with it, an overseer with
a  tawse and a cane (as Mr Stryker used on dad and me
occasionally), but the overseers appeared to be much
more active - if the coffle halted, or if there was
some kind of hold-up that meant that the chains went
very slack, or very tight, they'd quickly go along the
line of slaves, slashing and striking, to restore what
I assumed was "proper" separation between the niggas.

I remembered dad telling me how awful life was in the
coffles, even without the thought of all those big
nigga dicks fucking you - and wondered if this is why
I was being brought here:  Was II going to be attached
to a coffle, and made to work the rest of my life
chained like this?  But then  I remembered Mr
Hawthorne saying that I was a really expensive piece
of property, and so it seemed to me that he wouldn't
"waste" me just chaining me up in a nigga coffle, and
I relaxed a bit.

We stopped at a kind of corral - a fairly big open
space, surrounded by a post and rail fence, and
watched as a a truck reversed in through the gate into
it.  There were several overseers, with their canes
and goads out, rather than their tawses, and as I
looked more closely I could see that the truck was one
of those you usually find transporting animals - they
have kind of slatted sides to let the stock breathe as
the truck bowls along. Except that peeking out through
these slats were not sheep or cattle, but niggas!

"We're getting a new delivery of niggas today, Steve",
Charles told me, "And so it's really convenient - I
can get a lot of stuff done to you without needing a
lot of additional admin, and expense.  You can just
join the new niggas for a bit, then I can collect you
tonight."  As he said this, the overseers opened the
tailgate of the truck, and the niggas inside began to
stumble out:  they were a very mixed bunch as far as
dress was concerned, with some being in Jeans and Ts,
some on slave shorts, and some wearing those really
fanciful outfits you sometimes see free niggas wearing
(well, you used to, as I recall) - you know the sort
of thing:  baggy white tracksuits, with all sorts of
odd words on them, or  basketball gear several sizes
too big, as if to emphasise their limbs.  I assumed
all these niggas were newly enslaved and had been
bought by Mr Hawthorne, or why else would they have
been transported like this, and be here?

"Right, you men", an overseer called out through a
bull horn as the  niggas stood there, evidently
wondering what to do.  "Strip off - we need you all
naked.  You were all convicted and enslaved, and here
at Manderleigh, nigga slaves don't need clothes:  your
nigga hides are good enough."

I watched as they behaved as you might expect:  some
of them were clearly resigned to have become slaves,
and just stood there shedding their garments onto the
ground, and some of them rebelled, and started
shouting and arguing - the overseers soon stopped
this, though, as a few examples were made, and once
the others saw the effects of a prod on the body, all
of them began to obey the order.  They stood there
then, and again there were two basically different
types:  one who was proud and unashamed, and just
stood there, his hands by his sides, or clasped neatly
behind him;  and the other, who tried to shield his
dick and his balls with his hands, as if this was
going to do him any good in the long term!  I mean,
surely everyone knows that niggas sold into work on a
plantation go around naked?  As I thought this,
Charles said "You too, Steve - drop that stupid
loincloth, and go and join them."

"Please, sir, please don't make me join a coffle....
Whatever it is I've done, I'll try harder..."

Charles just laughed. "It's nothing you've done!  It's
what you are, how you look - you heard me telling my
uncle why no one is choosing you to stud.  So I'm just
using the regular services that we put new niggas
through.... You'll be back cutting the grass, with
your daddy, before the day's out, don't you worry."  I
wasn't sure that I could trust him, but I didn't have
much choice, did I?  I let the grubby shred of cloth
fall to the ground, and strode over to join the niggas
in the centre of the corral.

They all stared at me - well, I suppose they weren't
used to seeing a whitey naked, especially not a whitey
like me, magnificently tanned, with a superb body!  I
stood there, definitely one of the "unashamed" guys,
and gradually the overseers herded us into a line,
then marched us off out of the corral and in to a barn
at the side.  As we went through the door though, we
went between two parallel rows of horizontal bars  -
one  at about knee height, one at waist height, and
one that was just under my armpits.  They shouted at
us to put our arms over the top two rails, and then we
just stood there, and waited.

After a time, the line shuffled forward, then stopped,
then shuffled forward again.  Outside the bars an
overseer was sitting at a small desk, and Master
Charles was standing next to him.  "This is the one",
I heard him say.  "Make sure you don't fuck it up, or
you'll be out of a job!".

I watched as the overseer wrote something on what
looked a bit like one of those luggage tags you see
hanging from suitcases at airports, then he stood up
and clipped it to my left tit - there was a kind of
small crocodile clip, and a tiny length of chain on
the tag.  I hissed under my breath as the clip bit
into the sensitive tissue of my nip, and it felt
really humiliating then to have to stand there with
that tag hanging down from me.  I saw Master Charles
smiling to himself as he saw me, and I was tempted to
reach up and snatch the thing off - except that the
overseer was there with his goad at the ready.  "Move
on!", the man snapped, and I took a few paces forward,
until I was right behind the guy in front, and
stopped.

It seemed to take almost the entire morning as we all
stood there lined up between the bars.  At one point
the overseers made us all move so close together that
I was completely sandwiched between the guys on either
side of me, my dick pressing into the cleft of the
butt of the guy in front, my chest pushing against his
sweaty back, and with the guy behind me doing the same
to me.  Well, it wasn't very special for me, as I was
after all used to being in very close contact with
niggas, but clearly it was a bit different for the guy
behind me, as I felt his dick stiffen and stab at me
as we stood there.  It must have been really
embarrassing for him, as he was muttering "Sorry,
dude" to me, until an overseer came along and ordered
him and me  to remain silent.

The first thing they did as we stood sandwiched there
was to take us one at a time into a wider section of
the parallel bars and shave us - well, they looked at
the tag hanging from my nip and I was spared that, as
of course I already had the amount of body hair that
Mr Hawthorne liked, and my balls were always shaved
clean anyway.  But the niggas were shaved totally
smooth, as they stood there between the "rails".  Some
of them tried to protest as the razors ran over their
chests and pubes, but it was no good - the overseers
totally ignored their pleas, and brought their canes
down onto the shoulders of the niggas as they stood
there if they made too much noise. But I wasn't so
lucky at the next "station" - most of the guys seemed
to be passed through without halting, but when they
got to me they came and strapped a ball gag into my
mouth - it was already wet and slimy from a previous
usage, but that wasn't a particular problem for me:  I
mean, when you're used to kissing guys like My
Hawthorne, and dad, a bit of spit on a ball  gag isn't
anything to worry about, is it?  I wondered why they'd
done it, though.

A moment later a gate was closed across the front of
the "rails" holding me in and I was pushed right up
against it, and then another gate was closed behind me
and squeezed right up against my butt.  As I stood
there, now pinned helplessly, one of the overseers
reached in and quickly tied my knees to the side
railings with a leather thong, so preventing me from
clamping them together.  I was now completely helpless
as I stood there, unable to move my body at all, and
two more leather thongs then quickly went around my
wrists, holding them to the side rails, further
increasing my sense of helplessness.

I stood there for a moment, wondering what the fuck
was going on, and wondering why so many of the niggas
had just been passed straight through, and I'd been
stopped. And then I found out why:  another
overseer-type stepped up to the side of the rails, and
then I began to scream - well, only inarticulate
muffled sounds came out, but all the power of my lungs
was going into screaming!  The pain that sot through
my dick was absolutely indescribable, and it seemed to
go on and on.  It was hot, and searing, and kind of
sharp and spiky, and there was nothing I could do to
stop it:  lashed and pinned helplessly there, I
desperately tried to move my body in any way possible,
but I could not - and then I  knew what was happening
to me:  they were circumcising me, without the benefit
of any anaesthetic.  They'd pinned me like this so
there was no possibility of me moving, and the ball
gag was designed to stop me alarming the other slaves,
or distracting them from their work.

It went on and on, and then finally there was a shaft
of pure agony, as I heard the overseer who'd being
doing it say "There - he's done:  that's the
antiseptic and styptic solution - he should stop
bleeding soon."

At the next "station" as my progress resumed again,
through the tears that I had been unable to prevent
pouring down my face, I watched the nigga in front of
me to see what was happening, They pushed a rod
through the bars in front of him, then pulled his head
down so that his back was parallel to the ground, and
a clamp was run across between the side bars, holding
his neck there.  I was looking directly at his ass
right there in front of me, and the overseers quickly
bent down and read his "tag" and read off a string of
numbers.  As I watched, a square box-like thing was
moved across the nigga's back, and he was evidently in
some discomfort, as his body tried to writhe, within
the limits that it could, and he kept moaning.  It
didn't seem to take long as there was then a "clank"
as the neck clamp was released and the belly rod
pulled back, and the nigga stood up.  There, right
across his shoulders, where dad had "Joe" tattooed,
the  nigga now had a five digit number.

I now saw what was going on:  they didn't bother to
give these niggas names!  They were so expendable, so
much like dumb animals just to be herded in their
coffles, that all they needed was an identifying
number.  It must be the ultimate degradation, when you
think about it, to be owned by another man but  for
him to have so little regard for you that he doesn't
even bother to give you a name, just some sort of
inventory number.

But even as I thought this, the cold steel of the
belly bar was pushed across in front of me, the
overseer was pushing my head down, and the neck clamp
closed around me, holding me there. "This is the
fucking troublesome one!", the overseer called.  "He's
got to have letters, not numbers.  It looks as if his
name is 'Steve'."    I had to stand there then, bent
double, as they fiddled and messed around with the
box thing, fitting different templates of something in
to it.  Then I felt the cold metal on the skin on my
back, and the next  moment there was an endless series
of terrible pricking and prickling:  now I would be
like dad, I knew, with "Steve" right across my
shoulders in future, as this was an automatic
tattooer.

They had to do one more thing to me, though - my
identification number had to be added in a second
"pass", just as dad's was, on my lower back right on
the slopes of the top of my butt, almost disappearing
down the top of the crack.

They hadn't taken the ball gag out of me, but as we
all moved along between the parallel bars confining
us, they came and gagged the guy in front of me.  The
rails disappeared through a door, and I thought I
could hear something on the other side of it but
wasn't sure what.  The door opened, I was encouraged
to move forward through it, and found myself standing
on a grill in the floor.  There was a terrible sick
stench in the room, and as I stood there, it was as if
I was standing over some sort of open sewer.  A belly
bar came across again, I was bent and clamped once
more so that I was again horizontal, and I wondered
what the fuck was going to happen - after all, my back
was already full of tattoos!

I suppose they don't want to alarm slaves, as they
didn't bring out the branding iron until I was
absolutely immobile and couldn't do anything about it.
   I started to scream in sick anticipation even
before I felt the kiss of its heat as it was brought
near to my butt,  but nothing can prepare you for the
searing pain of having a white-hot branding iron
pressed into your skin.  And the terrible thing about
it is that the pain goes on and on - they have to hold
it in there, burning its way through the layers of
your skin, I discovered later, or else the brand will
simply heal over and not swell up properly to make the
 sharp, raised mark in your hide that an owner wants.
The singed smell of charring meat assailed my nose,
and I knew it was my own flesh that was burning. And I
found out why this station was on a grill over an open
sewer, too - even I was totally unable to prevent my
bowels opening - I just lost it, and a great slick of
shit ran down my legs as I stood there whimpering and
sobbing into the gag.  At least the ice-cold water
they used to wash my legs served to take a little of
the terrible heat out of the brand, but only a very,
very little.

It was over for me then -  I already had a slim-line
"high-tech" collar, of course.  But the niggas in
front of me had one more process to go through:  the
heavy iron collars that were favoured for niggas had
to be sized, put around their necks, squeezed closed
with a giant pincer-like device, and then welded
permanently shut.  Finally, we were routed back into
the corral, where we all stood, looking utterly
shell-shocked, and all hurting from our tattoos, and
our terrible, scarring brands.  It was worse for me,
and a small number of the others, of course, as we
also had the additional stinging pain from our
circumcision.  None of us spoke to each other - it was
as if  we simply could not believe what had happened
to us.  These poor guys had come in on the truck, many
of them looking quite like "free men" as they were
clothed, and all evidently very recently sentenced to
enslavement.  And now here they were, tattooed with
their ownership number, branded with the big ornate
"M" on their butts, their bodies shaved totally
hairless, and the heavy collars bowing their necks.

And what did I think, when I could think above the
waves of pain assaulting my senses?  I now knew that I
was a slave, finally, once and for all.  I think that
up until this point I'd harboured, deep down, some
glimmer of hope that it was all sort of bad dream.
Dad was clearly a slave, with his tattoo and brand and
rings around his dick and balls.  But I, after all,
had had none of this done:  other than getting fucked,
and being made to run around substantially naked a lot
of the time, my body had been untouched.  Sure, I was
wonderfully, deeply tanned, and my hair had lightened
from the constant exposure to the sun, but other than
that, I was still "me".  I was still, somewhere
inside, a "man",  But now I could have no illusions -
they'd taken my 'skin, tattooed me, and seared the "M"
for Manderleigh into my flesh.  There was  no way that
I could doubt that I was a slave - there's no way that
one man can order this to be done to another, unless
he is absolutely and totally confidant that that man
belongs to him utterly and completely, in the same way
that the owner owns any piece of his property.  It was
this realisation, as much as the terrible pain I was
in, that made me dreadfully, totally depressed.

I had no idea what Charles might order for me next - I
watched as they niggas were taken and their collars
chained together to make coffles, and wondered what
was going to become of their lives now:  not so long
ago I'd seen these guys getting out of the slave
transporter as "men" and now here they were , like
animals - animals who were to be kept naked without
even a scrap of cloth to cover their most intimate
parts, animals who were numbered, and not even named,
animals that were going to be chained together for the
rest of their lives, animals who would be whipped and
prodded to make them give all their strength and
energy for their owner.   Resignedly, I thought that
this would be me, too:  at least as a slave with dad
I'd had some variety in my life, but now as a coffled
animal there would be nothing except the unrelenting
toil in the fields of the plantation, and, I realised,
endlessly being used by the niggas at night in the
nigga sheds, as dad had always worried about.

But Charles came up and ordered me to follow him, and
through a haze of pain I stumbled after him, and back
through the  gate into "our" bit of the manicured and
cultivated pleasure grounds surrounding the house.
That night in the mower shed it was almost impossible
to sleep - I couldn't lie on my back, because of the
tattooing and the brand on my butt, and if I tried to
lie on my face, the sharp stabbing pains from the
wounds on my dick made sleep impossible.  Dad tried to
all he could to make me comfortable - if I lay of one
side and kept very still, it was just about bearable.
But you know how it is with two guys in a narrow bed -
however hard he tried, dad sometimes brushed against
me, and then I'd wake up, moaning with the discomfort.

Work wasn't much fun the next day, either - Charles
was by the pool when I appeared to do the usual
morning routine, and watched as I tried my best to do
the cleaning and sweeping without stretching my back
and butt too much.  When I'd finished, he beckoned me
over to him and then ran the tips of his fingers
lightly over my various wounds and scars.  "Nice,
Steve", he murmured, as if to himself, "Very nice.
You're so much more like a slave now."

He'd evidently ordered Stryker to give me no respite
from normal toil, either, and I suppose I ought to
have been grateful that it was a grass cutting day -
at least then I didn't have to wear shorts, which
would have constantly hurt my brand scar, as our
loincloths left it mercifully uncovered.

Still, things got better, day by day - I was a tough,
young, fit guy, after all, and about a week later
Charles again examined me as I was doing the pool.  As
I stood there, trembling slightly, he took my dick in
the open palm of his upturned hand, and gently stroked
at it with the tip of his fingers.  "Nice", he said,
not to me particularly, just generally making an
observation. "Nice, now we can see you properly, and
the head isn't covered by all that 'skin.  Now, let's
see....."

He carried on stroking me, and, naturally, I started
to go erect.  Soon my erect dick was lying there in
his hand, and now his finger tips brushed the area
just under the flange of he head, where the skin was
still pink and tender from my 'skinning.  "This will
soon colour up", he told me, "And then your dick will
be more uniform - our 'skinners do a lot of men,
comparatively speaking, and they usually do a nice,
neat job, like this.  No scarring, no excess skin when
you're soft, and yet no obstruction to a full
erection.  Just what a stud needs, and what the guests
like to see:  you're altogether  more, more...."  He
groped for words for a moment and then went on "More
sleek.  Yes, that's it - sleek.  I always think that
our guests appreciate a really nice, buffed body, but
they want to see a dick that's neat, and sleek, as you
are now.  I think you're going to find yourself busy,
Steve.  You seem to have healed well - have you fucked
with this yet?"

"No, sir... It's still a bit tender..."

"And so you've had to just jerk off!  That must be
hard, being in bed with a body like Joe..."

"No, sir.  I haven't been able to jerk off, either."

Charles carried on stroking my dick as he was
speaking, and it was getting distinctively
uncomfortable.  "So you've got a whole week's worth of
cum in those balls, have you?  Well, I wonder if we
can stud you this afternoon?  Still, it wouldn't be
much of a show, I suppose, as you'd shoot almost as
soon as we'd introduced you into her!"

He was proved wrong, though, as the stimulation of his
fingers on my sensitive dick proved too much.  I felt
my balls suddenly tighten, and before I could do
anything about it, I began pumping out huge streams of
cum, with incredible force.  They shot out and
fortunately Charles had my dick pointing slightly to
the side of him, so long, white streaks of my cum
appeared on the tiles of the pool surround.

"You fucking animal!", he screamed at me.  "Look at
what you've done!  How dare you!"

"Sir, I'm sorry, sir... But you stimulated me, sir,
and I haven't cum for a week..."

"You fucking animal!  And you haven't learned, have
you, Steve?  You're trying to blame someone else, as
usual.  How dare you even think that this disgusting
exhibition is anything other than your own fault.
I've a good mind to have Stryker take you out and flog
you - it's about time you slave learned to control
yourselves."

I was seething inside, as once again, it was so
fucking unfair.  I mean, if you hadn't been able to
cum for a week, and then someone started stroking and
teasing your dick, what would you do?  I opened my
mouth to tell him this, but somehow, with a heroic
effort, managed to get myself under control.  "I'm
sorry, sir", I muttered, although I had to fight to
get he words out.

"Just as well!", he said.  "After all this trouble I'm
going to, it would be a pity if your back and butt was
all torn up with whip scars:  it would spoil the
effect I'm trying to create."

He let go of my dick then, but held his hand up to my
face.  I could see that there were a few dribbles of
my cock snot there which had evidently dribbled out
either before or after I'd shot.  I realised what he
wanted, and reached out to hold his wrist gently, so
that I could bring my head down and gently lap his
palm and fingers clean.  The utter subservience of
this action seemed to calm him, and when I'd finished
and let his hand go and stood there in a submissive
slave stance, he just turned and walked away.  I have
to say I breathed a sigh of relief - if he'd ordered
all this stuff to be done to me already, I didn't
doubt that he'd order me to be flogged, if I upset
him.

Dad and I were working away later that day, though,
when Charles appeared again.  "Come with me, Steve!",
he snapped.  Dad looked at me, and his eyes said it
all - "Just do as you're told!  Don't make trouble!
Keep calm!".  But then Charles said "Oh, and you too,
Joe... There's a bit of unfinished business for you as
well."

Dad and I followed him and we went into the workshop
where minor repairs and stuff were done to the
plantation machinery, and there was a guy who, I
realised, dad recognised.  "I want the same thing done
to this one...", Charles said, pointing to me, "...as
you did to that one", pointing to dad.

The guy gestured for me to get up onto one of the work
benches, and to sit there with my legs dangling down.
He stood between my legs and began to handle my dick
and balls, pushing my balls right down in my sac,
pulling my dick and sac away from my body, stroking my
dick so that it went erect and then repeating the
process, and all the time kind of feeling around me,
grasping my tackle in one of his hands, as if sizing
it somehow.  I was on edge, I can tell you!  I mean,
we all  know how it is when someone is touching your
balls - your body just knows there's a lot of pain
there if they get it wrong!  But this guy seemed to
know what he was doing, as although this "examination"
went on for some time, and he really did stretch and
pull me, I can honestly say that he didn't actually
cause me any pain at all.

Still holding my dick and balls in one hand, he ended
by pulling them away from my body as much as he could,
and then with his other hand used a pair of callipers
to measure the "bridge" joining them to my body.  He
had a big case with him which he then opened and
fussed around selecting stuff.  And then I realised
what was going to happen to me - I was to be banded
and cinched, just as dad had been right from the
beginning.

Look, as I said, he was an expert:  it didn't hurt at
all as the first ring went around the top of my sac
and was tightened, pushing my balls down, and then the
one at right angles to it was fixed to hold my sac and
dick up and thrust away from my body.  It only took a
very few minutes, and then he said "OK, get down, and
let's see you running on the spot, to make sure
everything is properly in place...."

Watched by Charles, dad and this guy, I therefore
jogged up and down, and it did feel very strange:
having your balls held like that, and your dick thrust
out from you subtly alters the way your body "feels" -
it's almost like being slightly off balance.   After a
couple of minutes I was told to stop, and then the guy
knelt in front of me and ran his fingers all over his
handiwork again.  "Perfect!", he declared to Charles.
"Nice and tight, so there's no danger of it coming off
- that's the beauty of the dual ring arrangement, of
course: owners who only have them cinched often find
the cinch ring slips a bit, but as it's held by the
sac stretcher in this arrangement,....."

"Quite!", Charles interjected, cutting him off in mid
flow.  "He looks good, and that's all that matters.
It won't affect his performance, will it?"

"Oh no, sir.  He'll be a bit off balance until his
body adjusts to the new positioning of his dick, but
in many ways he'll work better:  with his balls more
out of the way like that, he'll learn to be less
cautious - did you notice how, when he sat down, he
went slowly as a naked man is always worried about
trapping his balls somewhere.?  Well, after a few days
he'll have learned that this isn't such a potential
problem, so he'll be less cautious...."

"No, I mean will it affect his ability to stud?"

"Oh no, sir.  The operation of his balls isn't
affected - indeed, some would say that the sight of
properly ringed balls swinging there as the stud does
his duty is rather erotic.  And when he starts to
fire, you'll see the contractions much more clearly.
Many owners think it vastly enhances the spectacle,
sir."

"And it doesn't affect his virility, having his balls
pushed down like that?"

"Good heavens, no!  With an inexperienced fitter
there's a danger of damaging the tubes between his
balls and his vesicles, but I've ringed lots of slaves
and know what I'm doing.  He'll be in some pain for a
few days, though:  as you know, sir, a man's balls
constantly rise and fall in response to temperature
and so on, and now his can't as the ring prevents them
rising in his sac.  Until his body adjusts and leaves
them hanging down even if it's cold, there'll be some
pain - no, let's say discomfort - but no loss of
function, or of sperm volume."

"Good.  Now, the other thing.... I want both of them
done, as I mentioned.  'Modern Slave Owner' says that
gentlemen of discernment always have their studs done
in that way, as it signals quite clearly the function
of the slave, and that the gentleman can afford to
have a slave whose function is studding and he isn't
constrained to use any old buck who happens to be
passing!"

"Yes, sir, I'm getting a number of requests like
yours.  Right down here we are a bit isolated, and I
don't think you gentlemen owners appreciated what the
folk in Atlanta and Raleigh and the other fashionable
places were doing.  Since that article in 'Modern
Slave Owner', I've had quite a lot of business from
your neighbours, and  I think it's a as well you're
having these two done, sir.... You wouldn't want to be
thought to be lagging behind the times, would you?"

"Quite so.  Now, get on with it, then, as my father is
coming down tonight, we're having some gentlemen over
for supper, and I want these two ready to perform as
an entertainment afterwards."

The man got dad and me to kneel by the side of one of
the work benches, with our backs to them and our
calves underneath, and then  to put our heads back to
rest on the bench top.  I watched as he went and stood
in front of dad, between his knees, and pushed against
dad's chest with his body.  One hand went around dad's
throat, as if to hold him, then there was a sudden
movement with something in his other hand, and dad
gave a shout as his body kind of jerked in reaction.

Before I could see properly what was happening, the
man was in front of me, pushing me backwards.  His
hand was hot on my throat and held me quite firmly -
but  I could still breathe easily - then there was
something cold in my nose.  The next instant a searing
pain went through me, there was the sound of a
sickening, crunching, grating noise that seemed to be
right in my head, and I got a horrible salty taste as
blood flowed into my throat.  I too shouted out, but
the man had let me go and I was able to bring my head
forward.

"Don't touch", he snapped, as I went to feel my nose.
"Right, you two, that's the worst over.  I've punched
a hole through your septums, and now I can ring you...
 It's best to do it quickly like that if you're not
being anaesthetised.. Most of the pain is in the
anticipation, rather than the execution, for the
cartilage punch."

Well, how the fuck did he know? It felt pretty painful
to me as I knelt there.  He was working away again,
though:  I saw him push dad back again and still
couldn't quite see what was happening as his body was
blocking the view.  But there seemed to be some
fiddling around and a lot of adjustments going on.
And then it was my turn:  it was painful, sure, but I
could bear it, especially after what else I'd been
through recently.  Something was in my nose, something
that needed pulling, tugging, moving, and general
manoeuvring.  I could feel blood running down my face
and falling into my mouth, and then when I clamped my
mouth shut to stop the horrible taste, it dribbled off
my chin onto my body.  But then it was finished, and
the man stepped back.

"There you are, sir", he told Charles.  "A perfectly
matched pair.  And very handsome they are too, if I
may say so.  There's no doubt they're studs now."

I looked across at dad, and saw a huge steel ring
hanging down from his nose - it almost filled his
nostrils, and hung right down to rest on his upper
lip.  I reached up, and found I had the same thing -
as I touched it, I realised it wasn't exactly a ring,
more of a sort of elongated shape, like a paper clip,
so that it could be fitted high up my nose and still
hang down. My nose was incredibly tender, and there
was blood and snot pouring out of it.  I couldn't help
it - as if my reflex my tongue came out and licked
around this thing hanging there on my lip.

"You should ensure that they keep the snout rings
moving for a few days", the man told Charles.  "You
want scar tissue to form in the septum and not get the
ring embedded in the wound.  Are you going to be using
them?"

"Oh yes, as I mentioned, they'll be studding this
evening, and I intend to use the new methods."

"That will be sufficient, I'm sure - although you
should make them slide them around every few hours for
the next couple of days, just to be certain that
healing proceeds properly."

I could see dad listening to this, as was I.  It's one
of the problems of being a slave that men like this
tradesman don't speak to you directly - they talk to
your master about you just as if you're not there,
rather like a veterinarian might talk to an owner
about a pet dog, knowing that it's the owner who will
ultimately decide what's to be done.

Charles looked at us, and snapped "Off to Amos and
Andy, you two!  You're studding later tonight, and I
want you properly cleaned, as I'm expecting that
there'll be a lot of interest in using your asses,
too."

I went to pick up my shorts, but he went on "You don't
need those.  In fact, neither of you are ever going to
need them again.  Big studs like you should always be
on display - after all, you're collared, and that's
all a slave really needs to be decent.  So get rid of
yours too, Joe - it's bare hide for both of you from
now on."

It's not that either dad or I were particularly self
conscious by now - we were used to being naked in
front of other people - but somehow what had been done
to me seemed to mark some sort of change in my status.
 I had been a slave since I was sixteen, after all,
abut in-between times when I was being used sexually,
or was doing my daily duty cleaning the pool, I'd gone
around in slave shorts (or a loincloth on grass mowing
days).  But now Charles seemed to be saying that both
dad and I were never going to have anything other than
our bare hides, ever again.  At a stroke, he'd somehow
downgraded us - we were now just like the niggas, who
were of course always kept entirely nude.  Our owner
could not even be bothered to give us a scrap of cloth
to differentiate us from an animal. It felt odd, too,
to have my dick sticking out so prominently in front
of me as we crossed towards the house and the
preparation area, and I began to realise how easy it
was for dad to be semi-erect all the time and to have
his massive erections at the slightest stimulation:  I
felt myself going semi-hard just from the way the
cinching and ringing trapped the blood in my dick.
These rings in our noses - snout rings, Charles had
called them, hadn't he? - were vile, though.  I looked
at dad, and he looked at me, and instead of seeing a
handsome man, I saw something else:  a man reduced not
just to being a slave, but to being some sort of blank
canvas on which men like Charles could play out their
fantasies of utter domination and control.

I said something  like this to dad, and he seemed
resigned to it.  "Look, Steve, what's done is done,
and neither you nor I can change it.  Just accept it,
will you?  If you're cross, or shout, or even seem to
be angry at what's been done to us, they'll only
punish you.  It's not worth it, Steve:  we're slaves,
remember?  And a slave just has to accept his lot."

"But dad - we're to be kept naked, erect most of the
time, and with these snout rings... We're not even
slaves, dad, we're more like some sort of beast..."

"Steve, shut the fuck up!  Just learn to accept that
this is what Mr Hawthorne wants, and as he owns us,
owns us totally, that's what he gets."

End Of Part 16