Date: Fri, 21 Oct 2005 05:24:32 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 28

Dad And Me by Pete Brown    petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 28

Jeff looked a bit uneasy when I said that after our
run that evening we were going out for an evening's
poker.

"What's the problem?  I thought soldiers all played
stuff like that...."

"No, sir... Well, it's just that I've got no money.  I
haven't been here a month yet, and as you know, I was
right out...."

"Oh that's OK, I'll give you an advance."

"Well, sir, it's not that... But if you're playing
with your buddies, sir, well, there's no way I can
keep a place at the table:  you've got so much money,
sir, and I guess your buddies are the same...."

"Well, yes.  Both Tony and Miles are in good jobs at
the bank  But we 're not stupid, you know!   This
poker's just for fun.  We set a limit before we start
- fifty bucks - and that's all any of us is allowed.
I'll happily advance you fifty on your salary, so
you'll be on the same basis as all.  And ,who knows,
you might make more money from the game than you do
from working... Are you any good?"

He gave a kind of wolfish grin.  "Oh, OK, you know.
I've had some experience... I hope you guys aren't put
off by playing with an expert...."

It was my turn to smile now, but secretly:  Tony was
an ace player - his whole job was keeping  his hand
concealed as he wheeled and dealed. And Miles had such
an analytic brain that he just sat there quietly
studying every player and every move.  And me - well,
I'd been a trader, too, hadn't I?  And I was pretty
used to "reading" men by now as I ran the bank.  I
thought Jeff would be in for a tough time - and, with
any luck, we'd take his fifty off him so at the end of
the month he'd have even less money than he was
expecting, so binding him closer to me.

That evening we took the limo to Tony's - Jeff and I
had had a long swim after my meetings  had finished,
then a light supper - I made sure Jeff had a couple of
beers with his - and then we set off.  It was "casual"
of course, and Jeff looked really good in his tight
jeans and loose T, with a pullover draped over his
shoulders.

Miles was already there and Tony made us very welcome,
kind of holding on to Jeff's hand as they shook and
taking a step backwards so that he could take in a
good look at Jeff's body.  Miles was more subtle, and
we were soon all seated around the table.

Look, there's an art to poker, isn't there?  Not just
the playing of each hand, but the need to keep a
"view" of the whole evening:  you want to give your
opponents a sense of their own superiority, so that
when you strike for the "big one", they feel secure
and have an inflated sense of their own abilities and
fall heavily!

Jeff was a good, no, above average, player, actually.
But with experts like us, he really had very little
chance and a the evening progressed, lost steadily -
although he was probably not aware of this because
after a loss he'd win, but then there'd be another
loss, and a win, and each time the loss was a little
larger than the win.  He was steadily and surely being
suckered into gambling more and more of his precious
fifty at each shot..

Finally, at about ten, when we'd agreed we'd only play
five more hands, I struck.  I just knew he was
bluffing - the tightness at the corners of his mouth,
the set of his shoulders, the way his feet pressed the
floor:  I'd been observing him all evening.  But he
thought he was on to a winner, as I'd lost several
smaller hands to him in similar circumstances before.
Now, though,  I cleaned him out, and he sat there
looking almost devastated when he thought about how
much of his month's wages he'd lost.

"That's me out, then!", he said ruefully.

"Hey, I'll stake you", Miles cut in.  "Another fifty?"

"No, thanks, Miles, but  I can't afford it.  And my
old dad always told me never to gamble what you can't
afford to lose."

No amount of persuading him would cause him to budge,
so perhaps he wasn't as stupid as I was hoping.   Then
Tony said "Jeff, we agreed to play five more hands!
Come on, you're new here... Don't spoil the evening
for the rest of us.  We'll all give you a chance,
won't we, fellas?"

Miles and I nodded, and Tony went on "OK, so you don't
want to risk more money.  But don't you want to try to
win back what you've lost?"

Jeff nodded now.  "OK, then... We'll play strip poker
for the last five hands.  Is that OK with you?"

Jeff looked doubtful, but Tony pressed the deal home
with "We're all guys here, after all... And you've got
nothing to be ashamed of, have you?"

Well, Jeff couldn't refuse a challenge like that,
could he?  He nodded, and we dealt him in.

It was like taking candy off a baby now, on this "home
straight".  In short order Jeff  lost his sneakers (he
hadn't worn socks!), T and jeans, and was sitting
there in his boxers.  The next round saw them go, and
he was smiling ruefully as he had to stand there in
front of Tony, Miles and me and push them down:  we
made a lot of fun out of it, and cheered and clapped
as he pushed them over his hips and stood there in
front of us totally in the buff.

"Well, that's me, totally out of it now", he said,
when we'd stopped.  He didn't seem all that upset,.
Well, I suppose he was used to being naked in front of
me after our exercises at the pool, and in the forces
he may after all have done stuff like this before.

"No, Jeff... You can't stop now!   We agreed on one
more hand."

"But I've got no money, and no clothes...."

"Oh don't worry about that.. Come on, buddy, sit
down", Tony was almost commanding now.

Jeff sat there, his naked body sweating slightly and
gleaming in the lights, and we dealt the last hand -
which he lost again.

"Sorry, guys...", he said, and got up from the table
and went to pick up his boxers.

"Not so fast!", Tony called out.  "You've got to 'pay
up' for the last round!"

Jeff just shrugged his shoulders, and said, smiling,
"Well, there you've got me!  I can't get more naked
than this.  I've got nothing left to give."

"Oh, you're wrong there!!.  Tony was in an almost
jovial mood, but there was a hard edge of command to
his voice.   He swept the cards and chips off the
table and said "Up on here, Jeff.  Kneel - but you can
put your feet over the edge, so it's not too
uncomfortable."

Jeff looked, then saw Tony just sitting there,
indicating the bare table, and shrugged again and
climbed up and knelt down.  Miles and I sat completely
silent, almost afraid to make any noise at all in case
it broke the atmosphere .

Tony looked at us, and said "There, that's Jeff.  Look
at him - he played in the last round, even though he
knew he'd got nothing left to pay up with if he lost.
But I think there is one more thing he can 'take off',
don't you?"

Miles and I shook our heads slightly, as we didn't
know what to say.  I wondered for a moment if Tony was
going to tell Jeff to jerk himself off, which I felt
certain that Jeff wouldn't do, and the thing would be
spoiled.  But instead, Tony said, quietly but firmly,
"Jeff, the whole point of strip poker is to get
totally naked if you lose.  And there's still one
thing you've got on you, covering you..."

"Hey, man, no there isn't!  I'm as naked as the day I
was born....", Jeff interrupted.

"Well, Steve and Miles and I all think differently -
you're still covered..... So why don't you 'skin back
and show us your head?  That's the last bit of
'covering' on you, so we'll take that in payment of
your losses.  Come on, just pull it back, and let's
get a proper look at you."

"Hey, guys, come on.... You can't ask a guy to pull
his 'skin back like that...."

"We're not asking, Jeff!  We're telling you!  You
don't want us to think of you as a guy who welshes on
his bets, do you?"

"No...  But I'm already naked... "

"So if you really thought you'd taken everything off
already, why did you take part in the last round?
Come on, Jeff:  pay up!  Let's see you."

Jeff looked around, as if some help could come from
somewhere, but Miles and I sat there impassively.
Slowly, very slowly indeed, he reached down and took
his dick in his hand, then kind of rolled it around a
bit in his palm, then gripped his shaft and tugged
back.... And then there it was:  his dick head, all
dark, and moist, popped out.  There was a tiny jewel
of pre-cum or something just lurking in the end of the
piss slit and I wondered if Jeff was finding this as
arousing as I was - my own dick was battering itself
against my underwear, so hard it was almost painful.

"Attaboy!", Tony said. "There, that wasn't so bad, was
it?  But tell me, Jeff, is it true what they say about
guys who still have their 'skins?"

"What's that?", came the reply, rather suspiciously,
as if Jeff was expecting Tony to play some trick or
other on him.

"Well, they do say that a guy with a 'skin never feels
so naked as when he has to show his dick head to the
world.  And that's why guys like you always turn
towards the wall in the showers and stuff when they're
washing - they don't want other guys looking at them.
And now we've seen it, it's nothing special, really...
But I suppose its all in the mind.  Have you ever done
this before?"

"NO.  Of  course not...."

"There you are!", Tony said, looking at Miles and me.
"I think that proves a point, don't you?  There's
something special a guy with a 'skin feels about his
dick head!"  He broke into laughter, and went on
"Anyway, Jeff, you've done it now.  You've got no
secrets left from us.  Come on, buddy, get dressed,
and I'll send the slave out for another beer for you."

Well, all the way home in the limo Jeff was strangely
silent.  Finally I could stand no more.  "For fuck's
sake, it was only a bit of fun!  The whole game was
only a bit of fun.  So, you had to strip - you've been
naked in front of other guys before."

He sounded really angry.  "Look, it was fifty bucks.
That's more than a day's work for me!  Almost two, if
you take tax into account.  You guys were all playing
together, against me..."

"I can assure you we were not!  We all compete, all
the time, at everything. But we are pretty good at
poker.  But it's not about that, is it, Jeff?"

"No.  Tony humiliated me. Making me 'skin back in
front of you all..."

"Oh come on, it's not the end of the world.  Guys do
that kind of stuff all the time - I went to a cousin's
wedding once and at the stag party they grabbed the
bridegroom and stripped him and his best bud actually
'skinned him back for us all to see...."

"But it's private..."

"Hey, Jeff, perhaps you ought to remember that if you
had been enslaved you'd have lost your 'skin totally
by now.  Most owners don't like their slaves to have
'skins, you know:  I mean, a slave has no business
hiding any part of himself from his owner, does he?
So if you were a slave, you'd be trotting around now
with your dick head always on show:  think about all
the waiters and bath servants at the apartment - you
see their heads all the time.  And down at Manderleigh
all the niggas in the work coffles, without exception,
are 'skinned.  So lighten up - it's no big deal."

He still sat there silently, so I went on "And if it's
the money, well, I owe you a bit anyway:  Two of the
bath slaves you've been giving it to are pregnant, and
I was able to sell them at a good price as they'll
have a light-coloured piccaninny inside them.  Down at
Manderleigh we charge twenty bucks as a stud fee when
one of my whiteys covers a nigga bitch:  I don't know
what the going rate here is in New York, but it's
bound to be more, as everything's more expensive.  So
let's say twenty five dollars for each one - I
comfortably made a whole lot more on them - so I owe
you fifty.  You've come out of this pretty neutral,
I'd say."

"What?  They're pregnant?"

"Hey, Jeff, you're not sterile, are you?  What did you
expect if you fuck nigga bitches so consistently?"

"I assumed they'd be taking some sort of birth control
pill..."

"Oh no.  Look, they're young-ish women, and we only
buy good looking ones.  Then when they've got a
piccaninny planted inside them - a half breed, so it
will be lighter - we sell them at a tidy profit.  It's
normally hard to get a white stud to fuck a nigga as
there aren't a lot of whitey slaves around, and most
owners, with a good-looking whitey, choose to use him
for proper man to man sex.  So you've made me a nice
little profit - and you'll go on doing so, I suppose,
as you like bitch slaves..."

"No I won't!  It's wrong.  Where have you sold them
to?  They're my kids...."

"Jeff, where have you been all your life?  They're not
'your' kids!  They're slaves - all the progeny of
slaves are slaves, and they belong to whoever owns the
mother at the time.  So unless you've got a big secret
stash of money, forget it - you'd have to buy them,
and, as I said, good looking young niggas waiting to
drop a 'breed fetch good prices.  In any case, I don't
know where they've gone - as soon as it was clear
you'd got them started, Henry would have sent them off
to my regular dealers.  I'd think they'd have been
sold on two or three times by now."

Jeff just sat there with his head in his hands as we
sped across the park.  I did think he was making all
too much of this - I mean, I had tens, if not
hundreds, of progeny, and countless little 'breed
half-brothers from dad's activities.  It's no big
deal, is it?  I mean, it's one thing to have a
brother, or a half-brother, or a son, who you know
well and live with.  But all these 'breeds are unknown
- you never meet them, and if you met them in the
street, you'd never know anyway.  I thought he was
being a bit stupid, worrying where a few spoonsful of
his semen was going, and told him so.

Still, by and large, Jeff and I got on very well.  He
was a diligent worker, and  I never managed to catch
him out by demanding that he come and exercise and
finding him somewhere else - in effect, he was "on
duty" 24 hours a day, seven days a week.   In-between
times I sometimes wondered what he did - and I started
to check up more regularly on his activities.  He did
a lot of exercise on his own account , making use of
the private gym in the apartment, and "perfecting" his
swimming in the pool if he found he had an hour or
more to wait for me at the bank.  In spite of his
protests, he continued to fuck the slave girls who
served him in his room, although, after his first
salary check, he sneaked out and bought condoms.  I
was very amused by this and gave orders for them to be
replaced with defective ones when he was out - he
therefore ended up with the worst of both worlds:  he
denied himself the proper pleasure of sex with bare
skin against bare skin, and yet he was still
fertilising the niggas for me.  But most of all he
seemed to be trying to educate himself!

Jeff had barely managed to graduate from High School
before going in to the forces, and he seemed to be
feeling it now that he was in contact with his
betters.  He realised he knew little about the world
of business, of international affairs, politics, and
the way that the world really works.  And in matters
of taste and culture he was sadly lacking:  I
sometimes gave him unwanted tickets to symphony
concerts, the ballet and opera when I was attending
some event or other that was sponsored by the bank,
and he appeared to be bored.  He didn't like seeming
to be ignorant of the finer things of life, either,
and when we were dining together had no idea whether
the wines I had selected were good or not (or even
appropriate for the meal we were eating!).  So I
observed him sitting around the place reading
"lifestyle" magazines, researching stuff on the
internet, and ploughing his way through all the
weighty supplements in the quality newspapers.  He was
not unintelligent, and more and more often managed to
ask me the right questions to be able to carry the
conversation on if I mentioned to him something of
importance.

He'd been really disappointed, though, after the first
month!  Although we'd agreed five dollars an hour (I
do of course always work in "new" dollars, introduced
to stabilise things after the runaway inflation
earlier in the century, just as Germany had to
introduce the Deutschmark after that war in the
twentieth century.  It amazes me that some people
still function, or try to, in the "old" dollars:  I
just can't handle the millions and billions of "old"
dollars needed for even simple transactions, let alone
the zillions that would be needed for most of the big
decisions in the bank.) and that he'd be paid for a
straight forty hours, even though he was "on call" for
many more, he was seemingly unprepared for the result.
 I had to explain it to him like this: forty times
five is 200, times four weeks is 800, less taxes and
welfare payments makes a nett of 500.  Then you owe me
for your board and lodging - you don't expect to
reside in luxury in the heart of the most expensive
city in the world, with the finest food and wines,
slaves at your beck and call, all for nothing, do you?
After you've paid for that you're left with a hundred.
 Then there's the new clothes you bought - running
shorts and so on.  And the fifty you lost at poker -
if you really won't let me pay you the stud fees we
talked about.  That's why you're only getting twenty
this month!

"But sir, twenty, for a whole month's work!  And it
won't be much better next month, either... I'll never
be able to save anything and move away..."

"Jeff, stop whining, will you?  What on earth do you
expect?  You've got no proper education, and you're
lucky to have a job at all, especially one that
provides you with a place to live and decent food.
You know that there's no real job market for the
unskilled any longer, and, frankly, you're lucky not
to be a slave!  You should be grateful that I've given
you a job at all, and a place to stay: you know what
was about to happen to you when I took you in.  And I
could, after all,  easily buy  a slave to do what you
do:  after the initial outlay, which I'd mostly recoup
when I sold him if I only kept him for a couple of
years, it would cost me almost nothing:  a few
handsful of slave chow every day rather than expensive
food and wines; I wouldn't need to provide a luxury
bedroom as he'd sleep in that spare kennel you turned
down; and most of the time he wouldn't need clothes at
all, other than a simple slave tunic like all the
others wear."

"Yes, but twenty bucks for a whole months work...
That's not work, that's virtual slavery..."

"Jeff, stop playing with words!  If you think it's
'virtual' slavery, you can always try the real thing.
Just go downtown and turn yourself in as a destitute -
but perhaps you should let Henry know, so that when
you come up for auction I can bid, as I've got quite
used to having you around and it's tiresome to break
in a new slave to my requirements."

"But I'd like to be able to save, sir.  Isn't there
anything we could do?"

"Well I'm paying the fair rate for the job - that's
the Government-set national minimum rate, you know,
and you can hardly expect me to pay more for unskilled
labour.... You don't have a degree in physical
education, do you?  As a responsible employer I deduct
the appropriate taxes and so on, as the government
doesn't want guys like you to get to the end of the
year and find they have no money to pay their proper
share of the costs of running our country.  You could
ask to go over to pay at the end of the year, but I'd
warn you against failing to pay up when they send you
the tax demand, as that kind of debt to the IRS will
get you up on to the auction block almost without you
knowing!  So that only leaves your living expenses -
and I think I'm being more than fair in what I charge
you:  this is an expensive city.  You could always try
to find a room somewhere, but do be certain that it's
close to the apartment and the bank, as I don't want
to be kept waiting when I need you.  There won't be
the requirement for new clothes every month, I
suppose..."

"I hear what you say, sir... But this is just like
slavery...."

"No it isn't, Jeff!  You can quit whenever you want to
- or, at least, after you've worked out your three
months notice period.  A slave can't do that.  And
you're forgetting the other things, too..."

"Three months?  When did I agree that?  And what
'other things'?"

"You signed a contract of employment, as I recall,
which sets out the minimum notice period:  it's for
your own protection, as I can't arbitrarily fire you,
you know.  Oh, and whilst I think about it, don't
forget that you're bound by absolute confidentiality -
there used to be a spate of so-called 'kiss and tell'
books and stuff after servants left their employers,
and perhaps it's a good time to remind you that you'd
be dragged through the courts, and would almost
certainly end up as a slave, if you ever spoke or
wrote about anything you saw or heard in my
employment.  And the 'other things'...."

"Yes, what else is different about me and a slave?  I
have to work all hours there are for almost no money.
In effect, I have to live at your place.   It looks to
me just as if I'm a slave..."

"Jeff, when you piss me off, as you are almost doing
now, being so ungrateful, I carry on arguing with you
- if you were a slave of mine, you'd have felt the
cane across your rump by now.  And you don't have to
wear a collar.  You have your own clothes, even though
I'd quite like to see your body displayed a bit more -
a slave tunic would suit you, I think.  And, I seem to
remember from that poker evening, you've still got
your 'skin!  Any owner would, as I explained, have had
that off you by now.   Your attitude to 'studding'
needs adjustment, too - you don't seem to mind fucking
the bath slaves, but you're denying me a profit by
using those condoms:  as a slave of mine I could sell
you of most afternoons and bring in additional
money...."

I paused for breath, so he could see I was pretty fed
up, and went on " So put up or shut up, will you -
either carry on working ,or quit:  I'll waive the
three months notice.  You've got your twenty bucks,
so get out now, if you don't like it."

I saw him wavering, and almost cursed myself for going
too far - my plans for Jeff still had a long way to
go, and I hated the thought that I'd pushed him too
hard, too soon.  I saw his body language, his fists
clenching as his brain sorted through all the factors
involved in his life.  Then he shrugged, just a
little, almost imperceptibly, but it's things like
that that give you away during a negotiation.  "When
are we going to exercise, then?", he almost growled.
"I need to work off something..."

Smiling, I said "OK, lets' go now.... And I want a
good, hard workout, OK?  I'm starting to get into
shape, and I sometimes think you're not doing your job
properly..."

_________________________

I thought that after this conversation I was making
some progress - Jeff now understood that he was
probably going to have to work for me for a good long
time, as even if he really economised, his "savings"
would only grow very, very slowly.  I tried to tempt
him to another poker session with Tony and Miles, but
he wouldn't do it - he was almost gracious about it,
saying that us guys really outclassed him and that if
we ever got inducted into the military we could at
least make a lot on the side in the barracks!  So he
just sat there quietly all evening, sipping a beer and
watching my play intently.

It was time I went to Manderleigh again, as my
training with Jeff and assorted commitments had kept
me in the city on the weekends for too long.  Or was
it that I was somehow trying to avoid dad?  I mean, I
am in control of my life and my diary, and could
easily have deputised one of my direct reports to go
to one of the tedious dinners or charity functions
that I accepted in that period.  Anyway, on the plane
down, I was curiously uneasy as I hadn't sorted
through how I was going to react to dad:  that last
time had been spectacularly enjoyable, but now, what
was I to do?  One part of me wanted desperately to
feel him close to me again, to revel in his lovemaking
as we had before.  Another part was saying that it was
time I grew up, it was time that I made my own way,
found my own friends, my own amusements - a guy can't
be tied to his dad all his life, can he?  I needed
somehow to move the relationship on.

Jeff seemed to sense my vague unease, and just sat
there quietly on the plane, not making conversation,
even though he was bursting to!  I guessed he'd
probably only flown a little before, if at all, before
he joined the forces, and after that it would have
been in military transports and such.  My private jet
was a different world, with its comfortable chairs,
space to move around, and the slaves to serve you
whatever you wanted.  The principal slave was
extremely good looking, and as he bent over to serve
me a glass of champagne I was sorely tempted to reach
up under his short tunic and fondle his balls which
were so delightfully revealed - quite often, on a
Friday evening in the past I'd had one of the slaves
on the plane as a kind of "relaxation" before the
weekend, but with Jeff there I decided to hold myself
in check as I wasn't yet ready to show him that I was
a powerful and inventive lover.

Stryker met us at the local airport and as we came
down the steps of the plane I saw him looking intently
at Jeff - Jeff who, as ever, was casually dressed in
his figure-hugging Jeans and a T.  After the
introductions, in the limo to Manderleigh, I saw Jeff
eyeing Stryker, too:  I was inwardly amused, knowing
that Jeff would be impressed by Stryker's evident
musculature, but wondering how he'd react if he knew
that Stryker's impressive bulge in his formal shorts
was the result of the plastic "inserts" he still
effected.

On our arrival, Jeff seemed stunned: he was used to
the space and opulence of the New York apartment by
now, but had clearly never experienced anything on the
scale of Manderleigh.  As was customary, all the house
slaves were lined up along both sides of the steps
leading up to the front door, and I strode past,
hardly noticing them;   but Jeff clearly found it
difficult to imagine that so many slaves were employed
in keeping the mansion running to perfection.  He said
this to me as we strode up the steps, and I just
shrugged and said casually "There are some in the
pleasure grounds, too - but the vast majority of the
slaves are in the nigga sheds down on the actual
plantation itself as they're not allowed near the
house as they're too brutish."

Over dinner Stryker did his normal update for me of
all matters affecting Manderleigh, and I was pleased
that it was showing a slight profit - well, if you
didn't count the capital tied up down there, that is:
all those hundreds of slaves represented a
considerable amount of wealth, and if I invested it on
the stock market I'd have a sizeable income.  Not that
this was a problem, of course, but sometimes people
think that owning a big place like Manderleigh and
having all those slaves at your command is something
you can do at no cost:  I was lucky to break even on
the revenue account most years, and the loss on
capital employed meant that the place could never
really be profitable.  It was perhaps fortunate for
the local economy that there were rich financiers like
me willing to continue to "carry" places like
Manderleigh and uphold the old traditions, as without
us the whole countryside would soon revert to small
farms with  virtual peasants scratching a living with
only a couple of slaves to help.

Jeff, though, was looking at the slaves - it was
summer, so even though the air conditioning kept the
dining room at a reasonable temperature for us, the
slaves were in their summer uniform.  I liked to see
the change of the seasons at Manderleigh, and so
although the slaves in the New York apartment always
wore the same tunics year-round, those in the house at
Manderleigh had varying uniforms depending on the time
of year.  The summer uniform was just a tiny loincloth
suspended on a thin gold chain around the slave's
waist - the piece of thin white silk was not really
designed to conceal the slave's tackle at all, acting
instead as a reminder that these were trained house
slaves, pleasing to the eye, who could equally well
work naked as those in the plantation coffles did.
Their butts were entirely uncovered, and I was a
little displeased to see a slave who was bending over
to serve Jeff some of the excellent lamb from the
estate still had the remains of a severe caning
glowing in red lines across him.

Stryker saw me looking, and flushed with
embarrassment.  "I'm sorry, sir", he said quietly.  "I
ordered this slave punished yesterday for dropping a
plate, which smashed - one of the specially imported
ones from England, sir.  Then I forgot to alter the
duty roster."

"Get him out of here, Stryker - you know I like
perfection around the house!  And have him whipped
this time - even if you omitted to have him withdrawn
form the roster, he should have known better than to
appear in front of me and my guests like that and
should have begged a moment with you to remind you.
After all, it's only you, me and Jeff here, but it
might have been important guests."

I quite relished this opportunity to show Jeff that I
was a firm but fair owner, and of course to emphasise
his relative unimportance, but to my surprise, when
Stryker got up to carry out my orders, he blurted out
"Sir, a whipping?  For that?"

"Of course.  It's the only way to maintain standards!
When the other slaves see the result of a real
whipping, they'll be especially careful to think about
the house rules.  When you're ordering punishment,
it's not just the slave himself you're punishing, you
know - you have to consider the broader picture."

He was strangely silent for the rest of the meal, and
when it was time to turn in, I said casually "Oh,
Jeff, there's one more change down here from New York
- all the house servants like waiters and bath slaves
are male.  The only females are the laundresses and
cooks and such like, and they are not usually allowed
above stairs.  It's an old tradition in the south,
where most masters find it more agreeable to have a
pert young male nigga to service them.... Of course,
if you want a woman, I can tell Stryker to find
something down in the basement service areas for
you..."

He looked almost affronted!  "Sir, it's OK", he
managed to splutter.  "I can do without for a couple
of nights, you know..."

"Well, suit yourself, but I like my guests to be
comfortable... In fact, I think Stryker has assigned
the most perfectly trained pair of bath slaves to your
suite - Amos and Andy.  I can never tell them apart -
see if you can.  He must think you're important, to
give you these two, as they've always been my
favourites."

"It's OK, sir... I can look after myself... Have this
Amos and Andy yourself, sir...."

"I won't think of it, Jeff. This is your first visit
to Manderleigh, and I want you to experience true
southern hospitality."

I clapped my hands and told one of the waiters to show
Jeff up to his suite then, and waited for Stryker to
re-appear.

"So, Stryker, I think Jeff is in for an interesting
night!  Those two niggas are difficult to resist,
aren't they?"

"Oh yes, sir.  They've had more experience as bath
slaves than any other niggas in the state, I reckon.
And I've briefed them very, very thoroughly, as we
discussed earlier in the week.  They understand that
if they don't succeed in shaving the guy's balls, and
in trimming back his pubes generally, they'll have the
worst caning they've ever known.  I think we can rely
on them!"

"They do know, don't they Stryker, that Jeff is to end
up with a neatly trimmed patch, but not a full 'slave
bar' just above his dick?"

"Sir, please don't concern yourself.  We discussed it,
and I have instructed Amos and Andy.  Jeff will be
much more pleasing to the eye, sir, when you next see
him naked."

End Of Part Twenty Eight.