Date: Tue, 2 Aug 2005 07:09:52 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 3

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

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

Part 3

Well what happened the next morning was the same as
what happened to me every day I was there - and I was
there for about twelve weeks, I reckon (when every day
is exactly the same as every other and you've got no
way of keeping a record as all we "owned" were our
slave shorts) - the guards came down the corridor at
some ungodly early hour, running their night-sticks
along the bars of our cells to wake us up.  Then we
had to line up outside the cells (and, like me,  a lot
of the guys visibly had their morning piss hard-ons
still!).

They marched us outside for an hour of gymnastics in
the early morning light, and it was not fun as it had
been at school - this was real "work out" stuff, like
they say they do in Marines boot camps.  You know the
sort of thing:  push-ups until you think your arms are
going to drop off, running on the spot, very fast with
the requirement to raise your knees up to your chest
every step, jumping jacks, then ten laps around the
exercise yard then back to push-ups.  The guards made
sure you really worked at it, as there was always one
of them there with a light cane which fell on your
butt or your shoulders if they thought you were
slacking.  The leader of the exercises was a big nigga
slave, at least six-six, who just didn't understand
that the rest of us couldn't keep up the pace as he
raced around the yard, and he ran up and down the line
of us "encouraging" us with the cane.

By the end of an hour we were all totally exhausted,
and I felt really sorry for the guys who didn't start
out as fit as I had - they had a really dreadful time
of it, but they were not spared as one of the
objectives was to burn off surplus fat (and a lot of
young niggas tended to run to fat, probably because of
their poor diet).  Some of them could barely summon up
the energy to drag themselves off to the showers, when
we were given fresh shorts for the rest of the day,
and then went into breakfast.  It was funny at first,
really, just to be wearing shorts whether you were
inside or out, but that's all we were given and after
a time I suppose I ceased to notice the wind on my
body or anything.  The breakfast - like all the food -
was good, though:  a big bowl of oatmeal, followed by
a bowl of cut-up mixed fruit, and a big beaker of
milk.  A lot of the niggas complained at first as they
weren't used to eating like this, as they always had a
burger for breakfast, but it didn't do any good:  you
were given your "ration" in your bowl, and you had to
eat every scrap as they said that it was a slave's
duty not to waste the food your owner provided, and,
anyway, you needed the energy to work hard.

After breakfast we had lectures and demonstrations in
slave lore.  At first I couldn't understand why some
of this stuff took so long to get over, as a slave
stood there in front of us and lectured us and we had
to recite stuff by rote - it would have been much
easier to have read it, but a lot of the young niggas
couldn't read properly!  We chanted over and over
again things like "A slave obeys", "I obey my owner",
"I will not waste my owner's time", "A bad slave
deserves to be punished", and "A slave keeps himself
healthy and fit".  And in-between we had to practice
the slave "positions":  the hardest for me was the
"slave rest" - you know, the one a slave is supposed
to drop into when he's doing nothing else:  feet
apart, hands clasped behind his back at the butt, and
the head down, with the eyes looking at a point about
three feet in front of him.  It' so fucking boring,
just to stand there like that with nothing to do, and
they made us practice it for hours on end, with the
guards and the trainer walking up and down making sure
we didn't move, not even to sway, and that we didn't
raise our heads.  We were told we had to learn to be
still and silent like this as if we were sold as
servants our owners might like us to remain in the
corners of the room until called on to perform some
service, and that might mean standing still like that
all evening so as not to disturb our owners.

"Display" is hard, too, after a time:  keeping your
hands clasped behind your neck, with your shoulders
back and hips thrust out gets tiring, especially as
you are still meant to have your eyes downcast even
though your head is back.  Of course I only discovered
the reason for this when I was first told to assume
this position when I was naked:  your dick is nicely
forward, convenient for your owner to feel, and your
balls are swinging between your open legs.  I couldn't
understand the reason for the first kneeling position,
though, when you kneel there with your heels together,
your knees apart, your back straight, your butt
resting on your heels, and your head back with your
hands clasped behind you on your butt.  It only makes
sense really of course when your owner is standing in
front of you and wants to push his dick into your
mouth with you completely passive and not even allowed
to touch it at all.  But I didn't know that then
(although some of the niggas evidently did, as they
talked about it afterwards amongst themselves), and so
I thought it was pretty pointless.

After that we usually exercised again, then had lunch
(usually a lot of salads and vegetables with a small
piece of meat or cheese), and then another classroom
session - and woe betide anyone who was seen not to be
paying attention and drifting off into a doze after
lunch:  those fucking guards seemed to have eyes in
the backs of their heads, and their canes were ready
to rain down on anyone not thought to be properly
attentive.  We finished the day with another mammoth
exercise session after that, starting with a general
"warm-up" as we'd done together in the morning, and
then individual exercises for each of us:  the fat
guys were made to run some more, for example.  But
because  I was judged to be properly lean and
muscular, I was put onto a multi-gym so that  I could
"develop":  and, as ever, the guards patrolled up and
down to make sure I really did work at it, and didn't
try to sneak some of the settings down to a lower
level!

They gave us a thick stew with all sorts of meat and
fish and stuff in it for dinner.  One or two of the
niggas objected at first to eating "flesh of unknown
origin", they said, as it was against their religion
or something, but a few sessions with the cane, and
even a light whip for one particularly stubborn guy,
and they were soon cured of those fads.   I suppose
you can understand it really - an owner isn't going to
want to buy a slave who's got things he will and won't
do just because he says it's against his religion, so
the sooner that superstition is beaten out of him, the
better:  its kinder for the salve in the long run, I
suppose.    And then it was off to bed, and most of us
were just too exhausted to do anything but jerk off
and go straight to sleep - the first night as I lay
there with my dick aching  I was ashamed to try to
stroke myself to climax in case any of the niggas saw
my bedclothes moving or heard that unmistakable
"slapping" noise of hand against dick. But when  I
heard the noises of guys all around me doing it, I
soon overcame that.  After all, groups of men living
communally all behave the same way, don't they? - they
all jerk off, and they all know all the others do it,
but no one talks about it.  Silly, really, as it's
perfectly natural.

The only thing that was different in all this time
occurred on the first day, and then every four days,
or so it seemed:  with everything absolutely the same
and with nothing to write with, it's hard sometimes
even to remember how many entire days have gone by.

The first day was the worst, I suppose.  After we'd
breakfasted they took me and the other new guys out
away from the others and we had to wait in a corridor,
lined up outside an office. When it was my turn to go
in a guard was standing against the wall looking
tough, and with his complement of whips and stuff
hanging from around his waist.  I decided not to upset
him, if at all possible.  Other than that there was a
young guy, probably twenty two or three, behind the
desk, with a pile of file folders.  He took the one
off the top and opened it, read briefly, said "Steven
Masters?"

"Yes, I'm Steve..."

"Fucking slave, haven't they told you that free men
are 'sir'?"

"Steve, sir... They call me Steve." I said, looking
nervously at the guard.

He told me to put my right arm on the desk, then as I
sat in front of him, he strapped a metal thing with a
power cord coming out of it onto the underside of my
wrist.  He consulted the folder again and fiddled with
the box, then said casually "This won't hurt really -
it will be uncomfortable for a couple of minutes as
the automatic tattooer does its job, but just stay
calm and hold tight, understand? Try not to flex your
wrist or anything as it spoils the finish."

"Sir, tattooer?"

"Yes. Of course.  All slaves have their Slave
Identification Number, their SIN, on their right
wrists so they can be identified.  Everyone knows
that!  Where on earth did you grow up, boy?  Now, hold
tight...."

The thing strapped to me made an angry buzzing noise,
and, well, it was more than "uncomfortable" but it
didn't actually hurt so much that I couldn't bear it.
The underside of your wrist's pretty tender and it was
"unpleasant", shall we say, but it was only for a
minute or so, and then the guy was unstrapping the
thing from me.  He got a tissue and some fluid from a
squeeze bottle, held my hand down, and with the other
rubbed away at my wrist - and  I winced and howled as
the fluid must have been antiseptic, or alcohol, or
something, as it stung viciously where the tattooer
had punctured my skin.  But as he washed away the
blood that was oozing out, I could see in characters
about three quarters of an inch tall, in thick, black
type, 24601 staring up at me from my skin.

"Remember that, it's your SIN", he told me.  "A lot of
masters catalogue and control their slaves by it:  if
you're on a big plantation, they'll probably call the
roll and issue your daily orders just using your SIN,
as it's too much trouble to name slaves on places like
that."

I think it was the completely routine nature of this
process that was upsetting, and not just the thought
of being marked like this as if I was some sort of
object.  And the thought of now being indelibly
"numbered", and that they might not "bother" with a
name.... They were taking away my humanity, starting
to turn me into something else.  That young guy, who
looked as if he was bored out of his mind, evidently
did this day after day to guys, and I suppose girls,
and thought nothing of it.  It was normal, routine,
something he did for a living, something totally
accepted and acceptable to treat slaves like this.
But for me it was completely dehumanising and I felt
that I'd taken another step on the road to becoming
something else, a slave, rather than a person.

With my wrist still sore and stinging from the tattoo,
I had to wait whilst the other guys were done and then
we had the only other part of our routine that
differed from day to day:  the four day shave.  Look,
I'm a pretty virile guy, but at sixteen even I didn't
need to shave every day.  But they decided that every
four days we ought to do so, to keep us looking neat
and tidy. So after we'd showered, they ordered us to
shave,  but there were no mirrors or anything, so you
had to stand there and shave another guy.  It was odd
- it's all the wrong way around, as you get used to
shaving in reverse in a mirror.  But even odder was
the fact that you have to stand really close to
another guy if you're going to use a razor on him, and
as you do, and you're both naked, you just can't help
brushing his body with your dick, or having his dick
touch you as you move around.   I'd never felt another
guy's skin against my dick before, and it was somehow
vaguely erotic - all eight of us standing there naked,
warm and moist from the shower, and most of us at
least semi-erect.  Mind you, none of us wanted to talk
about it, and it was as if we just ignored it as we
manoeuvred around each other.

So life went on, and about every week the guards would
come through us, look at the ones who were considered
to be "ready", in that they'd lost enough weight, or
put on enough muscle, and then these guys were taken
off for sale.  After I'd spotted that this was what
was happening, I was expecting to be taken myself
quite soon - I'd never been overweight as I was a
jock, and after a couple of weeks of the strenuous
exercises we did, I knew that my body was in even
better shape than before I went there.  And the guards
could see it, too, as on these "!inspections" they'd
make me ball my muscles and so on, and I could see
that my number was being written on their clipboards
along with the other guys ready for sale.  But
nevertheless, week after week, when we were all lined
up and the numbers of the slaves to be taken off to
the sale were read out, mine never came up!  Time went
on, and all the guys that I'd been with initially had
long gone, together with a whole lot of guys who had
arrived long after me, but still I was there.  No one
explained, no one ever aid anything, I was just left.

As I said, it was difficult to know for how long, as I
had no way of recording the passage of time, but it
was certainly weeks and weeks - I noticed the autumn
tints coming on to the trees that surrounded the
place.  I went through that thing that all prisoners
must go through - at first, everything was new and
vaguely scary as us new boys had to adapt to the
routine of the place, and then, just as things were
running smoothly, most of them were taken off for
sale.  But for me the routine went on and on, and on
and on, and it got at first very, very tedious, and
then just dull and repetitive.  They didn't allow us
TV or radio or newspapers or anything as they said it
did us good to be "away from the things we knew" as it
helped us adapt to our new lives, so there was
absolutely nothing to do except follow their routine,
and chat to the other guys.  And even that got boring
after a bit - sure, here was a constant supply of new
guys arriving, but I soon learned that they couldn't
be real "buddies" as they would probably disappear in
a couple of week,  whilst  I was still stuck there.
And they were suspicious of me anyhow -  in that sea
of black bodies in the showers, I was the only whitey
and that seemed wrong to them.  And once they found
out that I'd been there for weeks and weeks, that
seemed even more wrong:  I nearly got beaten up on
several occasions as some tough niggas said that I was
getting special privileges as  I was a whitey, and
therefore needed to be taught a lesson.  Fortunately
the guards broke up those kind of scuffles as soon as
they started, but in some ways that made it even
worse:  they then said I must be some sort of snitch,
spying on them for the guards, which is why they
protected me (actually it was because they didn't want
"the goods" to get damaged!), and so then they'd just
totally ignore me.

So mostly I was bored, bored, bored.  And about the
only thing I could do to relieve the boredom was to
work especially hard at the exercises, and then at
night to jerk off, usually several times!  But, as  I
said, I guess all prisoners ultimately adapt, and
after some weeks I found I could almost switch off
from the mind-numbing boredom and repetition, and just
let it all happen around me, with my body functioning
almost automatically.  I thought about all my old
buddies, and about dad of course, but I almost ceased
to wonder what was going to happen to me as the weeks
slipped by and I was never selected to go off to the
sales.:  it didn't matter, anyway, as there was
absolutely nothing I could do to change things, one
way or the other.

A prisoner on death row who'd dodged his execution for
months or years must feel a bit like this, I suppose:
living the prison life becomes the norm, and you just
don't expect that it can finally happen and things
will change.  So at first when my number was called
out at the weekly "selection", I didn't pay any
attention - I'd got to that point when I just knew I
was never going to be selected.  So I gave a scream
when a guard slashed my across the butt with his
paddle, and told me to step forward with the others
who'd been chosen that week.

I was almost in a daze as I realised  I was going off
to be sold at last - and then I started to worry. I
mean, I'd heard the niggas talking about god-looking
men being sold as sex slaves, and even if that didn't
happen, the life of a draft slave, or a farm worker
chained naked in a coffle, didn't sound all that good.
 "You'll be OK", one of the niggas had told me
"There's a lot of white bosses who want a change from
fucking dark meat, so you'll fetch a high price, and
that's good."

"Why should I care?", I'd asked, and he'd explained
that it was a simple matter of economics:  if your
owner had paid a lot of money for you, he had a real
incentive to keep you fit and healthy to preserve your
value, so you'd be properly housed and fed, given
medical treatment if you needed it, and not worked
into the ground.  "Think of buying a car", he'd said.
"If you buy a new BMW from the dealer, you really look
after it as you want to protect your investment.  But
if you buy a beat-up old heap from a cheap used car
lot, you don't care about it so you don't have it
washed, or serviced..."

Well, I could see the sense in that, I suppose, so I
wasn't too worried that I wouldn't get a good owner.
But  I was terrified of this idea of being used as a
sex slave - or a "pleasure slave" as I later found out
such guys were described as in the dealer's catalogue.
 I mean,  I was only sixteen, and the thought of being
a kind of toy for some old bitch really turned me off:
 I just couldn't imagine having to fuck someone old
enough to be my mother, or even my grandmother!  When
I mentioned this, though, the niggas around me fell
about laughing.  "Boy, a cute body like yours, a big
dick, and that great ass you've got, it won't be no
white woman that will buy you:  it will be a  white
man!  Everyone knows that whiteys like ass, and the
thought of being able to fuck young white ass, rather
than go up a nigga's hole, will drive them into a
frenzy.  You'll make absolutely the top price at the
auction, you see!"

As they drove us away from the training centre to the
auction - they put collars around our necks that were
locked with a small padlock, and then chained us
together by the collar into a coffle - I just sat
there in the back of the truck really gloomily.  I
didn't want sex with men, and I didn't want my ass
used as a plaything for some rich guy, but there
seemed to be nothing I could do about it:  I knew I
was a slave, slaves were sold to the highest bidder,
and their owners then did with them whatever they
wanted.  The usual laws against forced sex and all
that didn't apply to slaves, who our society treated
as if they were just animals - no, worse than that:
you're not allowed to have sex with animals. If my new
owner wanted to fuck me, he would (he'd probably have
guards and stuff, and anyway although I was strong, I
was only sixteen and you just don't have the strength
to resist a fully grown man at that age).  I just sat
there, wondering what it would be like to have to suck
a guy's dick, or have it poked up me :  I'd looked at
some stuff on the Internet of course, and there seemed
to be a lot of screaming and pain when you were
fucked.  It seems odd now, looking back on it, but it
never occurred to me to  even think about what it
might be like to have a guy suck my dick, or to thrust
it up his ass.

It was good to be able to see "life" again, though,
proper life, with cars and stores and stuff as we went
through the streets - the slave transport wagon we
were in has a row of slits along the side to allow
cool air to blow in, and you could see all that
happening as we went along.  Mind you, I couldn't help
thinking of those big transporters you see taking farm
animals to market - when you go past them on the
highway, you can just about see  the heads of the
sheep or cattle through the ventilation slits, and I
guess that's what we must have looked like to people
outside.

They took us about fifty miles, to the next
medium-sized town, and there we went right into the
centre before pulling into an alley by the side of an
expensive looking building.  The transporter stopped
and we all sat there until the doors were opened, and
we were led out - it's quite hard, actually, to jump
down from a truck when you're chained by the neck
in-between two other guys.  There was only one guard
watching, but he had the usual complement of paddles,
canes and whips hung from his belt, so I suppose they
thought that we weren't any kind of threat, being
chained together - and of course they were right:
there were fifteen of us, and there's no way that
fourteen chained niggas and a whitey, all of us clad
in just a pair of slave shorts, could make a break for
freedom.

Inside the building there was a featureless room, and
we all stood there with the guard saying nothing,
until another guy came in, with a clipboard.  He came
down the line of us as we stood there, and picked up
our wrists to see our SINs and checked them off on the
list on his clipboard.  Once again, I felt just like a
piece of goods, rather than a person, as he didn't
speak or anything, just grabbed our wrists, read the
numbers, ticked them off on his list, and moved on.
Once he seemed satisfied, he moved away so that he
could see us all at one time, and said quiet quietly,
but in a kind of bored way that suggested that he'd
done this lots of times before "Right, you slaves,
listen up.  You're here to be sold.  This is the
premier auction house in this part of the State, and
we've got a good reputation, a reputation we intend to
keep!  So at the slightest sign of trouble from any of
you, there will be swift and definitive action:
you're all familiar with the slave prod?"

We mumbled and nodded, and in an instant his whole
tine changed "Fucking niggas!  I thought you'd all
been to slave school!  You already deserve punishment
for that sullen attitude you have.  Now, when a free
man asks you a question, don't you know how to
respond?  I'll ask you again - do you all know what a
slave prod is?"

"Sir, yes, sir", we all chorused.

"That's better!  The buyers who come here want to see
enthusiastic, trained slaves on the block, and that's
what we aim to give them.  Now, if there's any trouble
- any at all - or any disrespect, or any signs of any
of you becoming uppity, we'll prod you.  Is that
understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir".

"Good.  Now, we'll process you in to our stock,
photograph you for the catalogue, then you'll be on
display tomorrow morning, with your auction tomorrow
afternoon.  By tomorrow night you'll all be safely
shipped off to your new owners, all ready for your new
life!  Any questions?"

"Sir....", one of my companions began.

"Shut the fuck up!  You're lucky I don't order a
prodding for you, as we don't like uppity slaves here!
 You're a fucking slave, remember?  Slaves don't have
questions!  Slaves listen, and obey. You wait until
your owner tells you what to do, and then you do it.
So how can you possibly have questions about what's
going to happen to you?  It  doesn't matter, it's of
no concern to you.  We will tell you all you need to
know, we will process you, and that's that."

I listened to all of this, and even though we'd heard
stuff like this before at our training sessions, this
is the first time that I'd seen it in action - I
realised I'd better be careful, and keep quiet as much
as I could as I do like to know what's going on!

"Right, let's get started.  Shrug those shorts - you
won't be needing them here!"

We stood there and did as we were told, and he ordered
us to form a straight line, facing the door which led
on in to the building.  Oh shit, I thought - this is
it, it's starting to happen:  he's said we're not
going to be needing shorts, and yet we're going to be
up for inspection, and for sale.  All of us were going
to have to go through this entirely naked, having the
buyers inspect us.... I wondered what it would be like
to have to stand there totally exposed, and have men -
and women - run their hands all over me as they could
if they wanted to test my muscle tone, or even feel my
dick!  Was that what dad had had to endure, too? I
just couldn't help it - as I thought about that, and
what it would be like to have someone's hands on my
body, I began to spring a wood.

Fortunately I was saved from the humiliation of boning
up in front of the guy in charge and the guard (I
suppose I'd got used to doing it in front of niggas)
by the fact that they marched us through the door at
that point, and in the next room we went through a
kind of "tunnel" of showers, in line, all moving, as
we were sprayed with shampoo and soap, and ordered to
clean ourselves, and then rinsed thoroughly.

One at a time, then, they undid the collars that were
holding us on to the chain, and in turn we had to go
and stand against a big white wall that was ruled with
a grid of black lines at one foot intervals.  There
was a camera set up in front of it, and the guy barked
at us to "face the wall, hands to the sides,  turn
around... your back to the wall.  Face left.  Face
right.  Face the front.  Arms out.  Make a star.." (by
the last, he meant that we had to make that sort of
pose that you see in those old books, with a guy
inside a big circle).  And as he did this, there was
the clicking of the camera shutter as it was all
recorded - hadn't he said something about a
"catalogue"?
Evidently all the merchandise at this place could be
viewed without the necessity of actually coming in to
the sale rooms.  I wondered how far these pictures
would travel on the Internet - how many perverts would
be jerking off as they looked at my young body with
its dark black hair, strong young man's muscles, and
big dick?  And no doubt it would be even more exciting
as they'd know I was a slave, about to be sold with a
whole lot of niggas, to whoever wanted to buy me.

As we were photographed we were taken and locked in a
holding cage - not a bad one, I suppose, as there were
only three tiers of bunks, and actually a bit of space
to move around in front.  They fed us, too - the usual
mixture of stew and fruit, and there was lots of water
to drink.

They kept all us young guys in one cage, but in the
holding area there were several cages like ours, each
with a different kind of stock.  On either side of us
there were cages of mature men - guys in their
twenties and thirties, some even in their forties I
suppose, but across the isle it was women!  Like us,
they were stark naked, too, and like us I suppose
they'd got used to being like that a they made no
attempt to shield their tits and cunts from our view -
well, I suppose we weren't trying to hide our dicks
from them, either.

Us young guys were mostly used to being together by
now, so we settled down to pass the time as best we
could.  They fed us, too, as you might expect - after
all there's no point, I suppose, in having slaves
going up for sale who are looking miserable or
unhappy, and most young guys look a lot more cheerful
with a full belly.  The older guys, though, seemed to
be in two categories - there were ones who looked fit
and happy, with well-formed muscles and so on:  if
they hadn't been naked and black, they might have been
ordinary people.  The others, though, were
sad-looking, and as they stood there or just sat
slumped, you could see that their skin was deeply
scarred with what could only be whip marks.  I
shuddered as I saw this - I mean I knew that slaves
were whipped, and  some of my former buddies even
liked going to the public whippings that were staged
by the town's whipmaster, where owners of very
disobedient slaves could send them for more  extreme
punishment than they could mete out themselves.  But
I'd never liked the thought of that - just as some
people find the process of going to a bull fight
utterly loathsome, and some don't mind.  So at an
intellectual level I knew slaves could be whipped, but
I'd never practically seen it - and here now, right in
front of my eyes, was the evidence of what a whip
could do when it tore through human flesh.

We managed to sleep, but in the early hours of the
morning the guards came down between the cages banging
on the bars to wake us all up.  They shouted at us to
tell us that we all had to sleep with our hands
outside the blankets, as we  were not allowed to jerk
off that morning as we were going on display!  I
suppose that applied to the women as well, although I
wasn't sure what they might be doing with themselves
that would be a potential difficulty for their sale -
I could understand why you might want a guy "on the
edge" as his dick would display better, but it's not
really the same for women, is it?    As they went
past, though, the guards pulled a couple of the women
out for themselves and took them off - they left the
young girls, muttering that there would be hell to pay
if they were found messing up with the virgins.  The
ones they selected didn't seem to mind, though, and
the guards were laughing to themselves about how nigga
women always liked a white dick.  They brought them
back about an hour later, and then, at least, we were
left undisturbed for the rest of the night.

In the morning we were fed, then taken off, cage by
cage, for the most thorough shaving and showering I'd
ever experienced.  And to my horror, after I'd
thoroughly cleaned myself in the showers, a young
nigga slave came and squatted down in front of me with
a pair of clippers and proceeded to shave my balls!  I
don't know if you've ever had this done, but, if you
have, it's probably because you wanted it, and it was
pretty exciting.  Well I can tell you that if it's
done to  you when you don't want it, and when you've
never had another guy touch your balls, and you don't
want a guy messing with you down there, it's
disgusting.  I went to stop him, but one of the guards
pointed his slave prod at me threateningly and told me
to put my hands behind my head and hold them there.  I
didn't have any option, obviously, and just had to
stand there as the nigga spread my legs, then actually
grabbed hold of my dick and held it up against my
belly as he first ran the clippers roughly over my
balls, and then changed the cutting head on them for a
finer one, and proceeded to move and stretch my ball
sac so that the skin was flat and he could effectively
"shave" off the stubble!  I could feel myself getting
hard as he did this, and I tried desperately to
suppress it and mostly succeeded -  I wasn't
completely limp, but at least the nigga didn't have to
really press it to hold it out of the way.

The guard came over, and as I stood there, now
blushing furiously, he reached down and cupped my
balls in his hands and kind of rolled them around a
bit - again, no one had ever done this before, and it
was worse that this was a white guy doing it to me -
somehow having a nigga slave touching me had been bad,
but not as bad.  The guard pronounced himself
satisfied with the  work that had been done on me, but
then said to the nigga "Just trim him back a bit
generally, though, so that folks can get a good look
at him."

The nigga fell to his knees again and the clippers
buzzed, and I realised he was cutting off a lot of my
pubes!  Like my dad, I've got a lot of thick, black
hair and ever since it started to grow down there it's
always spread right across from one hip to the other.
Now I realised that the nigga was trimming it so that
there was a much smaller bush just around my dick and
balls, and then trimming the length of that so that it
was no more than a half an inch long all around.
When he stood up after finishing, the guard looked at
me again as I stood there, and snapped at the nigga
"take some off his pits as well -  a young lad like
this shouldn't have all that up there, and it might
put some buyers off."

The nigga came close to me, and as when we shaved each
other at training school, his dick brushed against my
hips as he came close up to me, then he gave me a
friendly wink as he reached up and the clippers buzzed
under my arms.

I was done then, and as I was marched out, I caught
sight of myself in a big mirror by the door - I almost
gasped with astonishment, as my dick was now so
prominent,  I've told you that I'm pretty well hung -
well, as far as I'd been ably to judge from looking at
the other guys at school in the showers, and even
compared with most of the niggas I'd been "trained"
with.  But now I looked really enormous:  having all
my pubes trimmed away, and reduced in length, meant
that you could see my dick handing there over my balls
so much more easily, and my balls, without their thick
covering of hair, looked so much bigger, too as they
hung down behind it.

In the next room they put a collar around my neck  -
a  leather one, which fastened with a little buckle.
It didn't feel all that odd at first, as I sometimes
had to wear "formal" shirts with a buttoned up collar,
and the tightness wasn't all that different.  But when
they then put my hands up behind my neck and fastened
straps around my wrists to the collar, I felt utterly
helpless.  It's one thing to stand there with your
hands behind your neck because a guard has told you to
and will prod you if you don't, but quite another to
be physically unable to move your arms down, even if
you wanted to.  I suppose I felt a sense of mild
panic, as I was so totally vulnerable:  someone could
punch me in the gut, or pull my dick, or do anything
he wanted to with my body, and I'd be totally unable
to stop him.  One of the men who were presumably part
of the auctioneer's staff came up to me then, and
turned my wrist so that he could read my SIN from the
tattoo.  He consulted his list, said to me "You're
Steven Masters?"

I knew by now what was expected, so I said politely
"Sir, yes, sir."

"Good, it's important to check and get these things
right", he said affably.   He fumbled around at some
things he was carrying, then pulled out a big plastic
ticket - yes, that's the best way I can describe it -
a ticket, or luggage label, perhaps, about eight
inches by four inches.  There was a string on it, and
he stood there and tied it to the front of my collar
so that the label hung down at about my belly.   He
picked the thing up then, and read it out to me "White
buck, age sixteen.  No record of violence. Believed to
be virgin".

"That about sums you up, doesn't it, boy?"  His tone
was sneering now.  "A sixteen year old buck, just
right for fucking!  Now let's get you a good position
in the viewing hall."

End Of Part 3