Date: Wed, 3 Aug 2005 12:25:03 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 4

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

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

Part 4

I expect that most of you have been to slave auctions,
so I don't have to say much about what happened to me
after that.  I hated having my whole life summed up in
those few sentences, and it was utterly demeaning to
be labelled for sale, just as if I was something in a
fancy store.  But otherwise, I suppose it was OK -
they made each of us stand on a low podium, about a
foot high, and once  I was in place, there was a
manacle on a short chain coming out from the top of
the podium that was snapped shut around my left ankle.
 I wondered why they were worried about the
possibility of us escaping - we were all naked, after
all, and with my hands fastened to the collar around
my neck, I wouldn't have got far even if I had tried
to make a run for it!  But perhaps they were trying to
make a point, trying to make it look as if we were
animals who potentially might escape, to make it more
interesting for the potential buyers.

We were all mixed up:  there was a big nigga next to
me, liberally covered with whip scars, on the other
side was a good-looking nigga aged about twenty five,
who judging from the way his skin was totally smooth
as he had no hair at all, must have been used for some
specialised purpose, and opposite was a nigga woman
who was probably in her thirties, as her tits were
sagging a bit in spite of them being thrust forward as
she, too, had her hands cuffed behind her neck .
Thinking about it,  I suppose I was surprised that I
could be standing there stark naked opposite a woman
like that and not getting an erection - I usually only
had to see pictures of naked women in dad's porn
magazines to spring a real boner.  With nothing else
to do my thoughts ran on and I wondered whether this
was because she was a nigga, or was it the atmosphere
of the slave hall with so much naked flesh on display,
or was it that I was getting used to the ideas that  I
was a slave, and that slaves had to be accustomed to
going naked if that's what their owners wanted?

Whatever the reason, my dick stayed down, thank God,
and a couple of minutes later the same guy who had
labelled me came by and put a small notice on a stand,
next to me.  By moving and bending where I stood on my
little podium, I could just see that it said "Not yet
18. Look as much as you like, but touching forbidden."
  The guy saw me reading it, and commented "Stupid new
laws the State imposed last year  - you're a slave for
fuck's sake, and once you're bought, your new owner
can handle your body as much as he likes - so why
shouldn't he be able to do so when he's deciding if he
wants to buy your or not?  As if it makes any
difference whether you're younger or older than
eighteen!  They'll be saying that an owner can't fuck
his young slaves next - those busybodies from the
American Society For The Protection Of Slaves ought to
leave honest folk to get on with their lives, and quit
interfering!"

Still, as the day progressed, I for one was glad of
that rule.  The buyers - and they were a pretty motley
crew, by and large, wandered around with their
catalogues in their hands looking at the stock - I
suppose I should say "the stock like me" that was
standing there naked in front of them.  I think a lot
of them were small, independent dealers, rather than
private buyers, as they had that slightly flamboyant,
slightly seedy air that men who do jobs like running
used car lots, and small-town slave dealerships, have.
 Their suits had checked patterns that were just too
loud, the heels on their cowboy-style boots were just
that bit too high, they had an excess of rings on
their podgy fingers, and you could see through the
open necks of their loud shirts a load of thick gold
necklaces and gold medallions on them.  Although they
were presumably in competition with each other, they
mostly seemed to know the others, and  the hands that
were one minute cupping the balls of one of the niggas
next to me, or jiggling the tits of the women, were
the next being shaken vigorously, along with much
backslapping and mock bonhomie.  The odd private
individuals wandering around looked faintly
embarrassed by the whole thing, or perhaps slightly
intimidated.  They came pretty close to me to get a
close-up look at my skin texture, and several of them
bent down so they could scrutinise my dick and balls,
but the "do not touch" rule was obeyed totally.  The
slaves around me were not so lucky, though, and as I
watched in fascination, the nigga woman opposite me
had her tits played with and her cunt fingered just as
if she was in one of those porno movies of dad's.

The men didn't escape either, though, and it seemed
that anyone taking a serious interest in buying a male
slave needed to grasp his balls and "weigh" them in
the palm of the hand, separating the balls out and
examining them carefully.  As most of the niggas were
young, I suppose that wasn't altogether a bad idea as
it enabled the prospective buyers to make sure the
nigga didn't have testicular cancer, which I
understand is quite common in young guys.  And now I
understood why my balls had been shaved - they
presumably did all the males, to make this examination
easier.   Mind you, some of the potential buyers
seemed to really know what they were doing - you could
tell that they had a "system", starting at the nigga's
shoulders and running their hands down his back, over
his butt and down his flanks to gauge the power and
strength, then doing the same down his front, pausing
to tweak his nipples to judge his reaction, and
focussing on whether his belly was muscular or flabby.
 I couldn't imagine how it must feel to have to stand
there whilst a man did that to you, examining you just
as if you were a horse or something that he wanted to
buy.  Occasionally, too, and especially for the
unscarred young nigga next to me, one of these
potential buyers would order him to bend over and
spread his butt wide, and then, using a rubber glove
which they all seemed to have as one of their "tools
of the trade", they'd stand there and force their
finger up his ass hole!  Look, I'm no prude, but I
can't believe you need to do that to a guy, even if he
is a nigga, before you decide whether to buy him or
not.

 It was distressing too to see some of the groups of
college guys coming through - they had no serious
intention of buying, I'm sure, but nevertheless they
did a lot of handling, of the male niggas as well as
the females.  They laughed and joked amongst
themselves, and seemed to take a delight in really
twisting the nipples of both the males and females,
watching for their reaction.   And they seemed to get
a great deal of amusement from making the males go
erect, and in doing what amounted almost to a detailed
gynaecological examination of the females.  They had
several horrible tricks, too, like fingering  the
women's cunts, and then drawing their fingers
seductively under the noses of the males!  I just
couldn't help but see how the  scarred male to the
side of me became totally hard and leaked drops of
pre-cum when they did this to him, and I thought of
how dad would have had to come through this place, and
probably would have suffered these same indignities.

They made a loudspeaker announcement half an hour
before viewing was to finish, and then at fifteen
minutes, to give the potential buyers one last chance
to take a look at all of us as we stood there.  I
think I'd attracted a lot of attention, although it
was hard to be sure as they weren't allowed to touch
me, but I'd seen lots of people making marks in their
catalogues as they came past me.
I thought that after being stood there like that in
full public view for three hours I'd have lost any
sense of embarrassment. But when it was my turn to go
up onto the auction stage, once I was at the bottom of
the short flight of steps up to where I would be sold,
I almost panicked as I thought that about two hundred
people would be staring at me!  To make it worse, I
was half boned as when they took us off our podiums
and lined us up, I'd got sandwiched between two women.
 They made us stand so close that my dick actually
touched the butt of the woman in front of me - she was
one of those niggas with a very pronounced backside.
But to make things worse, the one behind me could only
have been about twenty, and her firm tits had brushed
across my back as we both stood there.  Well, I mean,
wouldn't you have been in my state if you were
standing there feeling the warmth radiating from those
bodies which were so close to you?

The auctioneer called for me to mount the steps twice
as I hadn't heard him as I was so worried about my
bone, and the guard who was marshalling us slapped my
bare butt to get me moving.  I stumbled onto the
stage, almost blinded by the lights and terribly
conscious of all the eyes watching my semi-stiff dick
bob up and down in front of me.  The auctioneer, a guy
in his fifties I would think, in a smart suit, put his
hand on my shoulder to steady me, and perhaps to give
me confidence.  "Ladies and gentlemen.... Probably the
most unique property in our sale today.... A young
pure-bred white buck, just sixteen years old.   This
is not a very pale mustee, ladies and gentlemen, but a
pure white:   we had his sire through here just a few
weeks ago, and I can assure you that if grows to be
like him, this boy will be a superb investment.  He's
not known to be vicious or deceitful, ladies and
gentlemen: as he was only recently enslaved as a
result of his father's enslavement that brought about
his, as a minor.  He's had basic training, but, ladies
and gentlemen, he's believed to be a virgin!  So the
lucky purchaser will have plenty of opportunity for
training this boy exactly as he chooses.  I think we
can all see that he'll make a superb stud..."  As he
said this, the auctioneer used a short cane to lift up
my dick, and there was a murmur of comment from the
audience.  He kept me standing there for a few
moments, then his firm hands turned me around so my
back was to the audience.  "And look at this, ladies
and gentlemen", he went on, "The classic wide
shoulders, slim-hipped male torso.  What a delight is
waiting someone, and, remember, it's believed he's
still virgin... So those delightful muscles in his
butt are keeping a treasure almost beyond price for
you..."

"Is he fertile?"  A voice shouted out from the
audience.

"You have all the test results in the sale
particulars", the auctioneer replied. "You will see
that he has an excellent sperm count, as you'd expect
in a healthy sixteen year old, although he has not yet
been bred to the best of our knowledge, so we cannot
positively attest that he is capable of impregnating a
female and siring piccaninnies.  However all through
training our surveillance videos show that he
regularly produced quite superlative amounts of cum,
as he pleasured himself...."

I know I must have been almost scarlet with
embarrassment as I listened to all of this.  Not only
were they talking about me as if I was only something
to be used for sex, but now I realised that all those
nights when I'd thought I'd just jerked off quietly,
they'd been watching!  Still, my agony wasn't going to
endure much longer, as the auctioneer asked for an
opening bid, and as I stood there, I heard my price
mount in steps of ten thousand dollars until he
finally banged down his gavel, peered into the
audience, and said "Sold.... Your name, sir?"

That was the first time I was to hear my new owner's
voice, as in a strong, firm tone, a man who was
clearly used to being in charge and to being listened
to, said "Hawthorne, Robert Hawthorne".  And that was
it - the auctioneer was calling for the next slave to
mount the steps, and he patted me on the butt and
pushed me off towards the steps at the opposite side
of the stage.

There was a holding area just off stage, where we were
kept whilst our new owners paid for us and completed
the paperwork to transfer ownership to them, and I
stood there along with the naked niggas as we all
waited patiently.  Some of the slave dealers I'd seen
were in there, moving amongst the naked bodies and
kind of "collecting" their purchases into particular
areas of the floor, and soon I was more or less alone.
 And then, right in front of me, was a tall, very
distinguished man in the kind of impeccably cut very
expensive casual clothes that contrive to be artlessly
informal whilst at the same time telling you that the
wearer is exceedingly wealthy and has exquisite taste.
 We didn't see many like him down in our State, and
there was something about him, and his accent from
when I'd heard him call out his name, that made me
thing he was a rich Northern business man.  My first
thoughts were that he was perhaps fifty or so, but
when I'd blinked and got a closer look at the artful
way his carefully cut hair was concealing many strands
of grey, and the little rows of wrinkles around his
eyes and mouth, I revised my estimate to think he was
about sixty.  He was accompanied by another man, of an
altogether different type - a real local, I could tell
at once:  deeply tanned all over his face and the
massive arms that almost bulged out of his short
sleeved casual shirt, cropped dark blond hair, and a
body that suggested that it spend a lot of time
pounding the iron in a gym:  his jeans were low slung
and skin tight, and the narrow legs on them revealed
thick thighs and calves as they went down to pointed
"cowboy" boots.

The older man said in a not unfriendly tone "I'm
Robert Hawthorne, your new owner.  And this is Mr
Stryker, who is my estate manager, chief overseer, and
who is responsible for the management and discipline
of my slaves.  And you are Steven Masters....?"

"Yes, sir...."
At once the Stryker roared "You'd better learn
respect, boy ,and learn it soon!  When your owner
speaks to you, you address him as 'master'!"

Nothing had quite prepared me for this  I'd heard the
lessons at the slave school that you were supposed to
call your owner "master", and at an intellectual level
I'd accepted them.  But standing naked, in front of
the man who now actually owned me, who'd bought me at
an auction, it really came home to me that this was
something totally new.

Yes, master...", I said falteringly.

"Undo that collar, Stryker", my owner said.  "The poor
boy looks as if he's really uncomfortable and he must
have been like that for hours."

The big man came behind me and fumbled with the
fastenings, and then at last I was able to lower my
arms - which were stiff and painful - and I stood
there massaging my wrists and arm muscles.  My owner
reached out and took my right forearm in a kind of
commanding way that left me powerless to prevent him,
and turned it over so he could see the underside of my
wrist.  "Yes... 24601.... I just like to make sure
that all the paperwork is in order... Old habits of a
lifetime die hard", he said smiling faintly. "Come on,
Stryker, find some shorts for the boy, and let's be on
our way."

The big man scowled at me as if it was my fault that
he was being given orders, and from the back pocket of
his jeans pulled out a pair of very thin slave shorts,
which he dropped on the floor in front of me.  Both
men then stood and watched as I hopped around from one
leg to another pulling them on - not that there was
all that much to pull on, as in addition to the
high-cut legs, these had a very low waistline, and I
began to feel glad that my pubes had been trimmed!

My owner strode off, clearly used to the idea that
slaves and employees would follow him, and  Mr Stryker
put one massive arm on my shoulder and guided me
toward the door.  As we strode along, he said
"Although you're white, you'll get treated just like
all the other niggas - you're only a slave, after all,
so don't get ideas above your station. Just because Mr
Hawthorne has paid way,  way over the odds to get a
piece of white meat, you won't find me giving you any
slack, and if you don't behave, you'll be beaten just
as if you were a nigga.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

His grip tightened on my shoulder, and his fingers dug
painfully into my muscles.  "You call me 'boss', boy.
I'm the estate manager an chief overseer, remember!"

"Sorry, boss.  Yes, boss", I at once said, remembering
what they'd  taught us at slave school about how
important it was not to antagonise overseers and
others with the power to punish us.

Outside, in the parking lot, I watched as Mr Hawthorne
slid himself effortlessly into a gleaming red Porsche.
 Stryker led me over to a brand new Jeep, and at first
it seemed that he was thinking about putting me into
one of the slave transit cages that was in the back.
But he relaxed his grip for a instant, muttered at me
"You're not collared yet, boy, but don't try to make a
run for it!  I'll track you down and castrate you if
you do.  I've decided to let you ride up front with
me."

"Thanks, boss", I said, trying to sound grateful.  And
I suppose I was - I didn't want to be crushed into one
of those transit cages, like an animal, and I'd enjoy
seeing something of the scenery.

He was a fast, impatient driver and we soon sped out
of through the suburbs until he abruptly pulled off
the highway and into one of those medium sized malls
you see everywhere these days.  At one end of the
strip was a store called "Dave's Slaves", with the
strap line "Everything for the modern slave owner"
underneath, and Mr Stryker parked outside, then curtly
ordered me to follow him into the store.    The owner
rushed forward as it seemed that Mr Stryker was an
important customer, and Mr Stryker pointed at me and
said "One of the control collars, tuned exactly like
the one I had a few months ago - this one isn't going
to be coffled, so we need to control his movements."

The store owner came up to me, and without even
asking, ran a tape measure around my throat.  "Keep it
a bit loose", Mr Stryker told him. "The slave will put
on some muscle there as we really get him to work, and
he's probably still growing a bit anyway as he's only
sixteen and not yet fully mature.  I don't want to
have to keep bringing him back as he's choking."

The store owner nodded, and went out the back.  I just
stood there, but Mr Stryker roamed the store, looking
at the various stuff in the display cabinets -
paddles, whips, cuffs, muzzles, blindfolds, hoods,
blinkers, and all the other stuff that you might use
to control a slave.  He picked up one or two items and
held them up as if considering their suitability for
me, and I shuddered inwardly at he though of having to
wear blinkers all the time, for example.  Fortunately
the store owner reappeared with a small box, which he
unpacked in front of Mr Stryker.  Inside was a slim
metal collar, in what looked like stainless steel,
pre-formed to be a ring but open at one point.  The
store owner and Mister Stryker both needed to pull it
open so that the gap was big enough for my neck to
squeeze through, and then they briefly debated whether
it was the right size, or not.  Ultimately, though, Mr
Stryker agreed to take it and the store owner applied
some sort of glue to the open ends, then both men
forced the end together and I heard a kind of "snick"
noise as something snapped closed and was held by the
glue.

"Right, slave", Mr Stryker told me "This is the latest
technology.  We can track you at all times, so we
always know where you are.  And if you go outside
about a quarter of a mile from the main house, an
alarm sounds anyway.  It's toughened steel, so you
can't easily get it off."

I rubbed my finger along the collar, feeling its metal
coldness against my neck, and testing it:  it was a
loose, but not so loose, fit, so that I could hardly
get my finger between it and my skin all the way
around.  It was quite heavy, and that and the
tightness made me aware all the time that now I was
collared - one more step, like being tattooed with my
SIN,  towards having all the outward marks of a slave.


"It's programmed to reset and turn on once it first
crosses your perimeter... That worked OK with the last
one, didn't it?" the store owner asked.

"Yes, fine", Stryker replied.   "Add it to the
account.", and without saying anything else he turned
and walked out of the store, snapping his fingers at
me to follow him.

I sat here in the Jeep as Mr  Stryker rejoined the
highway, and I couldn't help fingering my collar
almost constantly, as if testing it.  Mr Stryker saw
me doing this and gave a faintly unpleasant smile.
"Just count yourself lucky, boy, that your owner is
going to use you as a 'fancy', and is not going to
have you coffled with a load of the work niggas in the
fields.  Then you'd know what a collar was really like
- we use iron ones on them, heavy iron ones, as it's
not worth the expense of a custom job like yours!"

"Please, boss, what's a 'fancy'?"

"Where did you grow up, boy?  Don't you know anything?
 A 'fancy' is a slave who has to work, of course, but
also fulfils the function of being easy on the eye.
Your owner keeps a number of servants in the house and
working in the immediate grounds, and they're all
'fancies' - all good looking, fit, strong, nice
bodies... And none of those very pronounced nigga
features like big flaring nostrils or wide lips -
after all, if you're going to have a nigga serving
your food in the dining room, or bringing you the
newspaper, or helping you with your bathing, he may as
well be easy on the eye.  And of course some of Mr
Hawthorne's guests, when they're staying for the
weekend, like to service a slave, and so we tend to
pick 'fancies' with pleasing backsides...  But you're
a bit special:  there just aren't that many whitey
slaves - well, not pure whitey, as you are. You can
get 'breeds of course, and some Latinos, but pure
American whitey, like you, now that's rare.  I expect
Mr Hawthorne will get a lot of pleasure form
displaying you to his neighbours, to demonstrate just
how wealthy he is:  you were very expensive, you
know."

"Please, boss, what does Mr Hawthorne do?"

"He's a big banker up in New York city.  Well, he's
actually Chairman Of The Board of some big bank or
other.  You're going to live on his country estate
down here, as one of the fancies..."

"But boss, if he's a New York banker, how can he live
here?"

"He doesn't.  He flies down most weekends, late
Friday, and goes back early Monday morning. The
estate's his hobby, and we barely make a profit on the
crops the niggas grow in the fields - in fact, I think
he only keeps all the acreage going so that he can
enjoy seeing the nigga coffles working away - he
enjoys a drive around on Saturday mornings, inspecting
the crops and watching the niggas at work."

As he was speaking, Mr Stryker drove up to a huge set
of iron gates that said "Manderleigh" over the
entrance.  He didn't need to honk the horn or anything
as there was a nigga already rushing to open them - he
was, I saw as we drove past, collared with a heavy
iron collar and form this a chain led to the gate
posts, so he had no option but to stay close to them
all the time.  As we swept past he stood with head
bowed, and I turned to see him then closing the gates
again as we drove away up a long drive, bordered with
closely-cut grass and white picket fences.

We drove on for a long time, and I said "This is a big
place then, boss"

"Yes. Two thousand acres under cultivation." Mr
Stryker replied, but as he got to the end of the
sentence, his hand lashed out and he gave me a
resounding slap on the side of my face.  I slammed
into the door, and sat there, stunned, rubbing the
throbbing hurt on my cheek.

"Let that be a lesson, boy.  I thought you'd been to
slave school!  Well, remember what they said about
slaves not asking questions?  Slaves just wait
patiently and listen attentively for their masters to
give them instructions.  They don't argue, they don't
question, they obey. I won't have uppity slaves here,
especially not 'fancies' who come into contact with
decent folk.  The reputation of Manderleigh, and as me
as overseer, rests on the good behaviour of you
slaves, and so let this be a lesson to you:  you break
the rules, you get punished.  Understand?"

"Yes, boss", I managed to mutter, even though I
thought my lip was swelling badly.

We drove on in silence, until we came around a corner
and I saw it - the place that was to be my new home.
It was one of those big white "southern plantation"
houses that you see in all the movies:  really huge,
three stories high, with tall white pillars along the
front, and wide verandas running around at the first
and second floor levels.  It was surrounded by swathes
of achingly green lawns set with flowering shrubs, and
everything seemed to be immaculately neat and tidy.
Mr Stryker swung the Jeep to a halt in front of the
broad steps leading up to the enormous double front
door, and at once a nigga ran out to open the Jeep
door for him.  Stryker said "take this new 'fancy'
around to the slave quarters, and get him cleaned up
and dress him properly, then have him wait outside the
dining room as the master will want to see him after
dinner."

"Yes, boss", the slave rapped smartly, then loped off,
gesturing for me to follow.  It was quite hard to run
following him as the gravel hurt my bare feet, but
once we were around the side of the house the gravel
gave way to a cement path, and that was easier.   The
slave stopped running, too, and reached out a hand to
me.  "I'm Amos, one of the house slaves", he told me.
"You need to obey Mr Stryker absolutely if you don't
want to get beaten.  But what he don't see, he don't
know!"

He gave me a broad grin, and I shook his hand "Steve",
I said. "And I don't know what I'm going to do.  Mr
Stryker said I was a 'fancy'...."

"You sure are that!  But come on.... It's getting
late, and if Mr Hawthorne asks for you and you're not
ready, Stryker will have us all caned."

We went in through a rear door and down a flight of
steps into the basement - well, half basement, I
suppose, as there were windows in light wells, but no
view.  "This is the house slave quarters", Amos told
me "We have our dorm, showers and stuff down here.
And the kitchens and laundry.  Come on...."

He opened a door and there was a big communal shower
room with several shower heads, and a row of had
basins against one wall.  "Strip off and shower", he
told me, and now, used to doing this when told, I just
pushed down the shorts and went and stood under one of
the showers and turned it on.  Amos stood there
looking at me, and gave a low whistle.  "My, you do
look good", he told me. "You must have cost a small
fortune!  And you really are a whitey - look at that
ass, pure white!"

I grinned at him.  "Yes, when I was free, it was
actually against the law to expose your ass to the
sun.  I guess it's different now I'm a slave?"

"You're dammed right, boy.  All the niggas on the
estate work start naked all the time.  Mr Stryker says
it saves the cost of clothing, and laundry, and it's
easier to keep them clean as a nigga's hide can scrub
clean easy enough under a shower but even shorts need
a proper laundry.  But us in the house and around the
gardens here we're allowed slave shorts.... Most of
the time."

I turned the water off, and stood there planing the
water off my skin.  Amos tossed me a towel, and I
dried myself - it felt odd to have to dry around my
collar, and Amos saw me fingering it.  "Fresh on?
Never been collared before, boy?" he asked.

"Yes - on the way here.  And no, of course not - I was
only made a slave a few weeks ago.  And you?"

"Me and my brother have been slaves for a long time -
Mister Hawthorne bought us five years ago.  Now, come
on, let's make sure you're smooth..."

Without any hesitation, and before  I could stop him,
Amos reached down and felt my balls.  "Hey, cut that
out...", I shouted.

He grinned at me.  "You have got a lot to learn,
Steve!  Me and Andy are the bath slaves, amongst other
things, and every time you go to see Mister Hawthorne,
it's our job to make sure you'll be pleasing to him,
so we have to keep your hair neatly trimmed, your
finger nails cut, your balls shaved.... But this time,
you'll do!"

"They shaved me for the auction...", I explained.

"Yes.... They would.  Still... Here...."  He tossed me
a pair of standard slave shorts, and I pulled them on.
 They were in the usual thin white cotton, with the
standard fly down the front without buttons or zip,
but on the left leg, embroidered in big black script,
was a stylish "M".  Amos saw me looking at it, and
said "You'll get used to that, Steve.  That's M for
Manderleigh, the name of this place.  Most everything
around here is marked with that.  Now, come on..."

We went up the slave staircase to the first floor,
then along a corridor with solid oak floor, gleaming
with wax.  Amos gestured for me to stop at a big pair
of double doors, and he assumed the "rest" position at
one side of them, gesturing for me to do the same at
the other side.  I went to say something, but he put
his finger to this lips in that universal gesture of
silence, and I understood why:  through the doors I
could hear the sound of male voices, and so I assumed
that if we spoke they could hear us, too, and I
remembered what Mr Stryker had said about slaves
remaining silent unless spoken to.

We stood there for what seemed like hours, but was
probably no more than one hour.   Although there were
voices inside, I couldn't make out what was being
discussed, and the predominant noise around us was the
slow ticking of a big grandfather clock in the hall
below.

Suddenly, the door opened, Mr Stryker stood there, and
snapped "Come in, Steve."

The room was huge, with big windows overlooking the
lawns and drive, and a large oblong mahogany antique
table stretching away into the distance.  Mister
Hawthorne sat at one end, and there were empty wine
glasses and a big bowl of fruit in front of him.
Mister Stryker put his hand on my shoulder and guided
me along the room, and we halted in front of my owner,
as that is how I thought I now had to think of him.

Mr Hawthorne sat there, looking at me, an amused smile
playing on his lips, then called out "Joe!".

A figure emerged form the shadows, also in slave
shorts, and it was dad!  I couldn't help it - I
stepped forward and threw my arms around him, as he
did to me.  "Dad, dad...." I was almost crying, almost
laughing, s I never thought I'd see him again.  He
hugged me to him, and I heard him say "Steve..."
before he let go of me and screamed:  Mr Stryker was
standing there holding a cane, a cane which he'd just
slashed down on dad's shoulders!

"Joe, I warned you", Mister Stryker snapped.  "We all
know he's your son, but you're both slaves, and in
this house, slaves are disciplined and remain quiet
unless spoken to.  Now, both of you, 'slave rest'."

Dad pulled himself upright, then bowed his head,
spread his feet, and put his hands behind his back.
Mr Stryker looked threateningly at me, and I did the
same, even though every fibre of me wanted to hug dad
again.  And I did think it was odd that dad was so
ready to behave so subserviently, even if he was
supposed to be a slave:  he was never like that
normally as he was a big, rowdy kind of guy who liked
to be in charge.

"Quite remarkable, Stryker", I heard Mister Hawthorne
say.  "I was pleased to get Joe, as white slaves are
so rare, but when you called me to ask permission to
bid on the son, well, I could hardly believe you when
you said how alike they were....  The son will be
taller, as you'd expect.  And he's not so well
developed yet, but that will come... The father is an
excellent specimen of manhood, and with the son as
well being so pleasing to the eye...."

"Thank you, sir", Mister Stryker replied.  I know the
son cost a lot, but when we can show that the father's
excellent physical characteristics 'breed true' by
showing them the son, I'm sure we'll be able to charge
bigger stud fees. But would you like to examine them
properly.... What really caught my eye about the son
was the similarity elsewhere..."

"Quite so", Mister Hawthorne said, almost chuckling,
and Mister Stryker, hearing this, snapped at dad and
me "OK, shrug those shorts off, so your owner can make
a proper comparison."

End Of Part 4