Date: Wed, 19 Oct 2005 04:06:37 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 26

Dad And Me by Pete Brown    petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 26

I suppose I should have built on what I'd started with
dad.  God knows that weekend had cost me enough
emotional effort to gear up to it,  and then to
basically break down like that.  And it was just so
draining - for a couple of days after I felt so tired,
so utterly worn out.

Tony, Miles and me managed to get together on the
Wednesday of the week after, and that revived me a bit
- well, I did enjoy Tony's hairy body, and having
Miles there with his lovely long limbs just adds o the
fun.  Mind you, I was tired, and after I'd fucked him
I just lay there next to Tony, with Miles on his other
side, panting slightly as my heart and breathing
recovered.

"You're silent today...", Tony said.  "You're usually
kind of exuberant afterwards, laughing...."

"Oh, I'm just tired...."

Miles cut in  then, in his usual laconic way.  "Oh
leave Steve alone, Tony - he's tired.  And who
wouldn't be, fucking you, when he's getting so out of
condition?   All that slapping as his belly hits your
butt.... I remember when he was all toned and
tough...."

"Hey, Miles, cut it out... I'm in good shape...."

I said it bravely, but I knew it wasn't true.  All
those business lunches and formal dinners.  And I'd
mostly given up exercise, no longer ever ran, used the
limo instead of walking, and didn't even go in "my"
pool at the bank.   I glanced at Miles, and there he
was, thing as a rake:  he had the best deal of all -
the right parents!  He could sit on a couch all day
and gorge himself with food, and Miles would never
gain an ounce.  And Tony, well, although he was
generally "beefy" his job was so stressful that he
hardly had time to at anyway, and what he did eat, he
burned off in nervous energy.  But me:  well, I just
react well to stress, letting it slide over me, so I
need to exercise, and exercise hard, to keep in shape.

"Oh come on, Steve!  Tony and I can both see  that
you've put on weight.  You used to have a fantastic
body, and now we can't see your ribs!  We're worried
about you, Steve:  you're still only a young guy, and
you ought to be taking care of yourself.  At least
when you were a slave you had a long life to look
forward to with all that manual labour you did.  You
need to exercise more - you used to like swimming,
didn't you?"

"Hey, Miles, it's OK.  I'll take a vacation ,and
restart some exercise..."

Tony cut in then.  "Steve, Miles and I are your
buddies.  We care about you.  And we all know you're
not going to take a vacation - not a proper long one.
You need to work out  regularly, anyway.... There's
the pool at the bank -  you could have everyone turned
out of it for an hour whenever you  wanted..."

"Guys, thanks... But the problem is that the exercise
is no fun.  When  I was a slave I had no choice - I
either worked, or was tawsed or caned.  But just
exercising on a machine, it's plain boring!"

"Get one of those personal trainers", Miles advised.
"They're cheap enough and there are specialised
dealers -  I've seen their ads - who will even rent
you a personal trainer.  They own him, keep him
kennelled, fed, all that stuff - so it's painless for
you.  Just pay the weekly rental, and the slave is
there whenever you want him to guide your workouts, go
running, whatever."

"Miles, if it were that easy, don't you think I'd have
done it already?  I hired one a few weeks ago just to
see what it was like, and it looked promising at
first:   the slave was big and tough-looking, in
superb physical shape, and he had been taught how to
advise guys on exercise and did all the right stuff
about warming up and so on.  But then, when I started
to flag, all he could do was encourage me to continue
- but as he was only a slave, that's all he could do
as he couldn't order me to go on, or drag me along, or
whatever.  And as you guys know, I'm used to being in
control, and so I soon had him just doing what I
wanted - which wasn't proper exercise at all!  I tried
another one, and another, but they're all the same:
they have to make sure they have properly 'broken'
slaves because a lot of these personal trainers are
hired by women."

I stopped here, and smiled, and went on "I actually
felt sorry for the guys - underneath their shorts
they're locked into some kind of penis sheath made of
steel, fastened to their balls with a ring:  when we
were showering afterwards they look really odd, but
they said it's so that there can be no question of
impropriety with lady clients.  They can piss, and the
tubes are wide enough so they can have a hard on, but
there's no way they can fuck, or even jerk themselves
off.  Still, that's all window dressing, really - they
were all so servile that they wouldn't touch a free
person anyway.  And that's no good when the slave has
to give orders, had to be obeyed."

"So it looks as if the only exercise you get is
sex....", Miles said, reaching over Tony's body to
play with my nip....."

_________________________

Look, I did know  I had a problem, and I knew I ought
to do something about it.   But it's like a lot of
things, isn't it:  you don't actually need to do
anything "immediately", and so more important things
keep coming up.  And of course with all the slaves
around in the apartment and at Manderleigh, the sort
of stuff that would worry an ordinary guy, like his
pants getting too tight, never even impinged on my
senses:  my clothes were let out, or replaced,
automatically.

Still, I did hate the layer of fat that was on my
belly and around my waist, and sometimes I'd stand in
the bathroom and look at my body in the big mirror and
really hate it - especially when I looked at the body
of the bath slave lurking in the background.  They're
always chosen to be easy on the eye anyway, and I
guessed that when not "on duty" in the bathroom they
are made to work out really hard to keep them looking
good.

I'd taken particular care to cultivate the
acquaintance of the Police Commissioner having seen
how he'd gone out of his way to help Mr Hwawthorne by
giving him notice of Charles' arrest,  and had made
sure that the bank was a lavish and frequent donor to
the police benevolent fund and a major sponsor of
their annual fund-raising ball.  This had led me to be
invited by him to sit on a panel of "concerned
citizens" to act as a channel of communication between
the police and the community, and although I was not
particularly interested in this I'd done it as one of
the "civic" things that senior people in the bank did.
 After all, most of the tedious work of reviewing
papers and such like was done by underlings who just
gave me a brief précis of what was expected when one
of the occasional meetings was due, and it did enable
me to meet other influential people and be "in the
know" when major initiatives were planned which might
affect the bank, or where there might be the
possibility of business.

After one such meeting the Commissioner was eager to
show us the new downtown headquarters, and most of the
other Committee members declined.  I was vaguely
curious - I don't know why - and as I was anyway
trying to get closer to the man, agreed to go on a
tour.  We saw the squad rooms, the high-tech incident
control room, and all that stuff, then he asked if I
was interested in seeing the holding cells.  I nodded,
and we went a couple of levels below ground, where the
atmosphere changed abruptly from the modern airy
brightness of the areas where the police worked, to
grey poured cement walls down here where the prisoners
were.

"Of course we don't have many real criminals here", he
told me.  "It's mostly just a holding tank before
those who committed a crime after the courts are
closed are kept until the next morning."

It certainly looked bleak enough -  the cells were
more like the slave cages we used at Manderleigh,
being just over six feet long, about the same wide,
with a solid bunk (devoid of covering) along the back
wall.

"Much better than the old place", the Commissioner
told me.  "It's been designed so that the men brought
here start to get a feeling for what's going to happen
to them - we bring the vagrants, the unemployed, the
petty criminals down here, and they're almost all
going to be enslaved when they're taken to court the
next day, so it's as well that they start to get used
to life as a slave."  He paused and went on "Are you
familiar with the mechanics of slavery, Mr Masters?"

"Oh yes - down at my plantation I have several
hundred, and we keep them in humane, clean
surroundings like this.  Mind you, we'd normally put
at least two slaves in a cell like this:  the close
contact that is unavoidable in such a confined space
makes them more aware of their bodies, and generally
more 'biddable' when they're taken out and cleaned up
for work."

The man nodded, and our conversation would I am sure
have been interesting had it not been for a lot of
shouting and cursing that started.  We both looked
around, and saw four big cops manhandling a brawny
white guy towards one of the cells - he was shouting
and cursing, and kicking out at the cops until, that
is, one of them touched him with a slave prod!  He at
once collapsed and they dropped him, letting him
writhe there on the floor, as you'd imagine would
happen if you've any familiarity with the way that we
deal with totally unruly slaves.

The Police Commissioner coughed and looked a little
embarrassed.  "Mr Masters...  Perhaps you could
overlook this..."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The prisoner, Mr Masters.  As you saw, he was verging
on the violent, and my men were obviously concerned
for their safety...."

"Yes, of course.  Perfectly natural."

"But one of them used a slave prod, sir, as perhaps
you observed?  The problem is that city ordinances
forbid the prodding of men, sir - slave prods are just
that, only to be used on slaves. This man will be a
slave tomorrow, sir, as he's been taken in as a
vagrant, and has absolutely no money and so will not
be able to show 'visible means of support'. But,
technically, he's still free, and as such cannot be
prodded."

"Oh no problem, Commissioner!  Your secret's safe with
me."  This was good - he now owed me a favour.  But I
remembered Billy's story about nearly being enslaved
as he was out of money and so on before Tony found
him, and went on "This man - this soon to be slave -
what's he done, then?"

"Oh nothing, except run out of money, be unemployed,
and have no place to stay!  It was a response to all
the vagrants and panhandlers who used to plague the
city:  once the new ordinance came in saying that
anyone without money, a job or a home was
automatically a vagrant and therefore of no use to
society and could therefore be enslaved, the streets
became a lot pleasanter!  Mind you, I do sometimes
feel sorry for some of these men -  some of them
served their country well...."

"How so?"

"Well, Mr Masters, perhaps you don't realise it, but
one way of securing the future for a young man who
can't afford college is to go into the army.   In
general, it used to be possible to enlistt more or
less for life, but now it's mostly 'twenty years and
you're out' as there's enough young, fit men coming
along behind and no point in keeping those who are
ageing.  It's fine, a good system, as most enlisted
men learn some sort of trade and can get employment at
the end of their service.  But some men, of course,
are trained to do what fighting men are supposed to
do:  fight!  Marines, Seals, Special Forces.... Those
kind of people.  The outlook for them at the end of
their period of enlistment is pretty bleak - they get
a leaving bounty, of course, but most of them are
unused to civilian life so they soon squander it on
women and drink.  And then they think it will be
easier to find work in the city.... And the rest is
obvious."

He shouted a few sentences to the men who had by now
picked up the still-twitching body of the man from the
floor and thrown him into one of the tiny cells, they
replied, and he looked at me and went on "Yes, as I
thought - a man with spirit like that to take on four
of my men, warders specially trained in subduing
prisoners - he put up a good fight, didn't he?  Well,
he's fairly typical of the sort of man I was talking
about:   thirty nine years old, they say, and
discharged honourably two months ago.  He was in some
sort of Special Forces group, and  so all he knows is
fighting, and there was never any possibility of him
finding work here - but he did get lots of
opportunities to spend his money.  And now he'll be
enslaved tomorrow - and I expect he'll fetch a good
price, as he's got a good body."


"But who would buy a potentially violent slave like
that?"

"Oh, anyone who likes danger!  Some rich men - I'm
sure that doesn't include you, sir - would have him
closely chained and then 'break' him at their leisure.
  Or, of course, he could be 'calmed' - that's the
polite term for castration - and turned into a
pleasure slave with hard, strong ass muscles like
that.   Or he could simply be permanently cuffed to a
delivery dray - that's becoming more popular as a
response to the pollution n the city - the driver
would soon tame him with constant whipping, and he
couldn't escape...."

I thought for a moment then asked the Commissioner if
I could have a few words alone with the prisoner.  He
shrugged, and suggested that I met him back in his
office for a drink before I left, and turned and
headed towards the elevators.  I walked along and
stood outside the cell holding the guy, and looked in.

"Those bastards....", he muttered.  "They used a slave
prod on me!  That's not legal!  You saw it, didn't
you?   Will you testify against them, or are you a
cop, too?"

"No, I'm not a cop.  And I suppose I could testify to
what I saw... But it won't do you any good, you know."

"How so?"

"By the time your case against those cops could get to
court you'll be a slave.  And slaves can't  use the
courts - they have no rights, after all, so why do
they need access to the courts?"

"But if I bring an action against them, it will show
they acted illegally... They can't make me a slave..."

"Hey, buddy, you must be living in the past!  You've
seen too many of those cop shows from earlier on in
the century where if the cops didn't exactly follow
procedure and process, the evidence was ruled
inadmissible, or the case was thrown out.  We're more
advanced now:  the courts just look at what the 'real'
facts of the case are.  And irrespective of whether
those cops prodded you or not, the facts are that
you're broke, unemployed, and homeless.  Am I right?"

"Well, yes, but...."

"No  'buts'.... The simple facts will do.,  Once the
court hears that in the morning you'll be enslaved,
and that's that."

"But it's so fucking unfair...."

"What's unfair about it?  It applies to everyone.  The
law's clear and simple...."

"But I've served my country, served it well, and
they're going to make me a slave....  Please, sir, are
you a lawyer or something, in that fancy suit and
everything?  Isn't there something you can do?"

"Well, what skills do you have?  I might be able to
find you a job...."

"I can fight!   That's what I'm trained to do."

"There's not much call for that here in New York!
Can't you do anything else... Don't they always say
the forces turn out plumbers, and electricians, and
electronics specialists, and supply chain managers,
and...."

"Sure, but I never did any of that stuff.   I was a
fighter...."

"And now you're pretty damned useless, then!  So I
guess there's no hope for you."

I felt sorry for him, actually.  He was a few years
older than me, but in great shape:  he radiated a
sense of physical strength, and every move he made as
he anguished about his fate showed his taut muscles
moving enticingly under his clothes.  He looked
fearless, fit and trim, and ready to take on anything
that life would throw at him - except slavery, I
guess.

"You're pretty fit looking....", I continued.

"Yes, sir.  I was a physical combat instructor for the
last two years  in the forces.  Training all the young
recruits.... You have to be fit for that."

"So why don't you get a job as a personal trainer, or
something?  That's a skill you have..."

"I tried!  But most of the work in that line is done
by slaves, so the money is dreadful, even if you can
find someone who wants a free man as a trainer -
barely enough to live on - and... Well, I was with an
agency, but there were complaints.... And they took me
off their books."

"Complaints?"

"I was too tough, they said.  Well, I was used to
giving the recruits a tough time.... And I guess I
just didn't think about what a free man wants from a
trainer..."

I remembered how unsatisfactory it had been for me to
use a slave as a trainer as they were too timid, and
maybe, I thought, this what I needed - a really good,
tough trainer who would take me on in some sort of
tussle. I was used to dealing with powerful men now
after I'd got used to the power struggles that went on
in the bank,  and he'd find it hard to intimidate me!

"Strip off, and let me take a good look at you."

"What?"

"You heard - get naked, so I can see you properly.  I
might find you a job, but only if your body pleases
me."

"Fuck you!  I don't strip for fags..."

I just laughed at his pathetic insult.  "Listen, boy,
and listen well.  Tomorrow they'll take you up into
the courtroom, and the prosecutor will say that you're
unemployed, homeless, and broke.  The judge will ask
you if it's true, and you'll have to tell him yes.
And then he'll sentence you to enslavement.  It's a
simple as that - it takes all of two minutes.  It gets
interesting then, though - at least for the crowds who
throng the courts early in the morning to watch the
enslavements.  They strip you, there and then, in the
courtroom -  you're a slave now, remember, and a slave
has no need of clothes.  They like to show you that
your status has changed irrevocably by parading you
around the court room, with everyone getting a good,
long look at you, as they take you to the collaring
station.  You have to bend right over - no hiding your
ass or dick or anything - whilst the machine fastens a
collar on you.  And then its back around the room to
be taken out."

"So you might want to consider stripping for me now,
as I could always get a good look at you tomorrow.  Of
course, you'd be a slave then, not a free man...."

He looked at me, and was clearly wavering.  So I went
on "Then, of course, you'd be straight off to the
public auction rooms.  Have you ever been to a slave
auction, boy?"

He shook his head.

"Well, it's interesting.  Interesting, that is, for
the potential buyers, but I guess it's a bit tougher
for the slaves.  They cuff your wrists to your collar,
behind your head, to make your body 'accessible'.
Then they simply chain you by one ankle to the floor
in the display hall, along with all the other slaves,
and leave you there for the buyers to come along and
take a good, long look.  You're still naked, of
course, as the buyers need to be able to see all of
you... And they don't just look, you know:  they want
to inspect you properly - feel your muscles, erect
your dick to see how big it really is, stick a finger
up your ass to see if it's good and tight...."

"No... Surely...."


"Yes!  Of course they do.  How else can a prospective
owner get the true measure of a slave?  Now, do you
want to go through all of that?  I can always go along
to the auction, you know, and see what I want to see
there.... I can always buy you if you please me, after
all.  But you could avoid all this if I decided to
employ you:  which would you rather be?  Employee, or
slave?"

Slowly, looking confused, he undid his shirt and
dropped it to the floor.  Then he undid the fly on his
jeans and let them fall to his ankles, to stand there
in front of me in grey cotton briefs.  He looked very
promising - really hard, lean muscle with a pleasing
thatch of hair on his chest and a nice treasure trial
running down his flat belly over a good inverted navel
to disappear into those briefs.

"Were you shy about your body in the forces?  I
thought you guys slept in barracks, showered
together...."

"No, of course not shy..."

"And I don't think you've got anything to be shy
about.  So get those briefs off!  When I said 'get
naked' I meant just that..."

He was going to argue, but thought better of it.  He
looked somehow defeated as he pushed his briefs down
to join his jeans around his ankles.  A really nice
dick, uncut, was revealed - but with a 'skin that only
just fitted over the head so that there was no
unsightly 'loose' bit dangling at the front.  He
didn't shave his pubes, which were a riot of curly
black hair stretching from thigh to thigh, and I could
barely see his balls as they were not shaved.   He saw
me looking intently at him, and blushed slightly.

"Turn around!", I commanded, and he rotated his body,
slowly and awkwardly, as you do when your clothes are
around your ankles like that.  I liked what I saw,
though - wide shoulders, narrow waist, a nice butt and
big, long thighs.

"Turn back!" I said, quietly, and when he was once
more facing me, added "Show me your head."

"What?"

"Your dick head - show it to me.  Skin back..."

"Fuck you!"

"Suit yourself!  I'll swing by the auction rooms
tomorrow afternoon, and then when you're standing
there, completely helpless, I'll get one of the slaves
to come over and 'skin you back.  Or perhaps I might
even do it myself."  As I said this, I turned and
began to walk away.

"Please, sir.... Wait....", he called, and  I turned
and sauntered back, having established my superiority.


Glaring at me now, and really going a little red in
the face, he reached down and took his dick in his
left hand and used his thumb to draw back his 'skin to
reveal a nice fat dick head, a good deep colour, with
that sheen of sweat and stuff on it that uncut guys
always have.  At least it wasn't oversized in relation
to the shaft, or too small.  I wondered how I'd
persuade him to lose that 'skin once he was working
for me!  But perhaps it wouldn't be too difficult -
this getting a free man to act as if he was a slave
was actually quite interesting:  I was used, of
course, to having my subordinates at the bank to obey
me, but there were limits.  As Tony was always telling
me, most of the men at the bank were skilled and could
leave and get jobs elsewhere, and that's what
ultimately differentiated them from slaves who had to
stay, whatever they were ordered to do.  It would be
an amusing challenge to get this man to work for me,
but then to act mostly like a slave, and the more I
thought about it, the more interesting it seemed.
Mind you, he had been in the forces for twenty years,
and that preconditions a man to obeying orders, so
perhaps all that was necessary was for him to accept
me as his superior officer.  And there again, no one
with a really 'free spirit' would join the forces in
the first place, would they, knowing that they were
going to be under 'discipline' and 'command' all their
lives?

"Nice body!", I said.  "You can put it away now.  I've
seen enough."

He started to dress, and as he did so, I went on "So
do you want a job?  I'm looking for a personal
trainer.  As you know, the pay's not good at the best
of times, and I can see no reason for paying over the
odds - in fact, given the present circumstances, I
guess you'd probably be willing to work for the
absolute minimum wage?"

"Well a job would fix one thing.  But I'd need an
advance as I've got no money now.  And if you paid me
too little, I couldn't afford a place to live..."

"You don't negotiate very well - you're just pointing
out your problems! Perhaps it would be easier if we
just let the enslavement go through, and then I bought
you.  That way I'd know exactly what  I was letting
myself in for - I'd pay upfront for all the training."

"No, please... Please.... Hey, I don't know what to
call you..."

"Oh, 'Sir', will do!  Or Mr Masters. And what's your
name?"

"Wright, Sir.  Look, please, give me a break, will
you?  I think you'd get a better job of personal
training done from a free man than from a slave...."

"No, what's your name?  What am I gong to call you?"

"Jeff... And you?"

"Listen, Jeff, to you I'm 'sir' or 'Mr Masters' - that
way we keep a proper distance between employer and
employee.  I'll pay you the national minimum wage, for
thirty five hours a week. And you can stay in my
apartment, temporarily - it's big enough.  I'll expect
you to train with me whenever I need it - early
morning, late evening, or sometimes during the day if
I have a break in my meetings, and all weekend, of
course, so you'll be kind of 'on call' permanently,
but you only get paid thirty five hours... No time off
at all, really - although you could study or something
when I don't need you. Is that understood?"

"I guess I don't have much choice, do I... Sir?"

He looked as if he was smiling, faintly, and I think
he knew the score:  he was desperate, and I'd shafted
him, but he had no choice.  "No, Jeff, I guess you
haven't.  Now, I'll go and talk to my friend the
Commissioner, and I guess you can come home with me
after that - I take it you've got no stuff to collect
from anywhere, as you were picked up as destitute."

Before he had a chance to answer,  I turned and walked
away.  It's not good to have long conversations with
slaves - or servants.

The Commissioner was agreeable to releasing Jeff as it
meant that there was less paperwork for his men to do,
and so after we'd had a drink together and he'd
escorted me to the lobby, Jeff was waiting there.  I
was pleased to see he got to his feet respectfully as
I approached.

I nodded to him, shook hands with the Commissioner and
walked towards the entrance door, with Jeff following,
as a servant should.  I stood in front of the door,
and waited for him to open it for me, and then strode
down the steps.  The chauffeur - a slave, as you'd
expect - held the door open for me and I told Jeff to
scoot around the other side and get in too (after all,
you don't want to slide across the seat, do you?).

The chauffeur ran around and got in, and we purred off
uptown, with Jeff sitting there looking a bit uneasy.

"You're a rich guy, sir...?"

"Yes, of course.  How else do you think I could afford
to employ a full time personal trainer?"

"But you've got slaves?"

"Yes, lots of them.  Only ten or so at the apartment,
but on my plantation, several hundred."

"I don't really agree with it..."

"Agree with what?  Agree with me owning slaves?  What
business is it of yours how I spend my money?"

"I mean with slavery..."

"Well, tough!  It's up to you, you're a free man and
entitled to your opinion.  If you ever earn enough to
be able to afford a slave, you can exercise your
choice and not buy one, or you can buy one and free
him, or do what ever you like.  But slavery is a fact
of life, and has been for a long time now - the
country couldn't run without them."

"But it's not tight, I might have become a slave..."

"Well that's true.  And you still might, if you get
unemployed again. But the slavery of free men is
getting less and less of a problem: most slaves these
days are bred - you'll be coming down to my
plantation, Manderleigh, and  'studding', which is
what we call putting a buck to a bitch, is one of the
entertainments.  Probably the only entertainment down
there in the country!  And a slave that's bred doesn't
find it a problem at all - he grows up knowing he's a
slave, and he's usually bred for a purpose:  big tough
bucks for the fields, or for drayage;  neat little
ones for around the house;  ones with nice bodies for
pleasure.  They're bred for a purpose, born to it, and
accept it.  Within a couple of generations we probably
will see the end of enslavement - it's just too hard
to 'break' a free man and turn him into a truly
obedient slave:  all they're good for is for being
coffled to labour in  the fields, or chained to a
factory bench, or something."

"But it's not right..."

"Hey, Jeff, I employ you as a trainer, not as some
sort of preacher, OK?"

"Yes, sir", he said, somewhat icily, and sat there
looking out of the window.  This was going to be
interesting!

End Of Part Twenty Six.