Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2006 03:55:43 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dray Slave, Part Three

DRAY SLAVE

By Pete Brown.   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part Three

You'd have thought that after putting those rings
around our dicks and the collars around our necks that
would have been the end of it.  But we were all lined
up in the waiting line thing again and now it was even
worse - with our dicks pushed out so prominently there
was just no way you could avoid having them nudging at
the butt crack of the guy in front of you, and his
sweaty, warm butt felt so strange to my dick head as
we stood there.  And I could feel the guy behind me,
too, as my butt was prised apart by his dick.

I was standing there behind the guy who I thought of
as the oldest amongst the eight of us remaining - the
ninth, who'd been bought at the same time as the rest
of us but who had been castrated for striking Steve
and Jon, had been taken away and never reappeared in
our cage.  From his whole manner and attitude I
guessed that he'd been a sergeant, and I thought he
was probably in his mid thirties, whereas of the rest
of us were in our twenties .  My eyes were looking at
his thick muscular neck and his body was all warm as I
pressed against it - they had pushed us all together,
so there was no space at all, as this seemed to be the
way they treated us in this line.  Behind me was the
young Arkansas guy - he was only twenty - and he was
getting to be a bit of a bore as whenever he could he
kept going on at the rest of us about how unfair it
was that he was with us at all, him being a Southern
boy.  Personally,  I think I'd have kept quiet about
it as Southerners were not flavour of the month with
the rest of us, and we really didn't want to hear
about what a great state Arkansas was.  They evidently
raised them big and tough down on those Arkansas
farms, though, as his body kind of overshadowed even
mine as he pressed up against me, and his dick felt
distinctly big as it nestled in my butt crack - and
like me, after we'd been in that position for about
twenty minutes ,he started to get an erection.

I muttered "Sorry, Sarge...", to the guy in front and
he kind of shrugged, but the young Arkansas guy didn't
bother to say anything to me.  I suppose they're not
strong on manners in Arkansas, and he probably hadn't
been in the marines long enough to learn that you need
to have respect for your buddies, or they'll decide to
teach you some one day by beating the shit out of you.


One by one we were taken out of the waiting line and
sat on a metal chair they'd brought in.  There was a
guy with a tattooing machine, and when it was my turn
I was told to raise my left arm, and I had to sit
there and watch as a six digit number was tattooed
into my skin in my pit.  "Get to know that, boy!", the
man told me.  "It's your Slave Identification Number -
SIN as we call it - and sometimes they'll check you
off on the inventory using it."

That wasn't all, though - on my right upper arm he
then went on and tattooed a barcode, one of those
things you see on all kinds of packaging and stuff. I
guessed it's so that they can check us automatically,
and indeed that was the case - later on when we were
"working" they quite often had a portable scanner and
just went along the line of us scanning our numbers
in.  Fucking hell - if it wasn't bad enough being
collared and having my pubes trimmed and everything,
and then having to stand there half-erect most of the
time because of that fucking cock ring, now I was
labelled just as if I was some piece of valuable
property they owned.  They could read my code, and
check me off on their inventory! They'd stopped
treating me as a man, and now I was just another
"thing", some item that they owned that had a value,
could be recorded in their computers, and so on.   I
was muttering this to myself when I was back in the
waiting line and  "Sarge" as I thought of him turned
around and said "Dave, get real, man!  That's what we
are now.  Just pieces of property, and I guess we're
in their inventory files with a value, we're being
depreciated at so many percent year so we get 'written
down' during our working life, and if they train us
for something they'll increase our value...."

"But Sarge, it's not right.... We're guys, not
animals.  We're marines..."

"Dave, they taught us all to try to survive as part of
basic training, right?"

"Yes, but..."

"So wise up, boy!  The way to survive this, at least
for the time being, is to conform.  They hold all the
cards.  There's nothing us naked guys can do against
guns and slave prods, except to cause ourselves
needless hurt.  Conserve your strength, as there may
be opportunities later...."

I was going to argue with him and say it wasn't right
to treat guys this way, not at all, and that we ought
to struggle against it.  Except that the guard came
over and said "You fucking slaves - keep quiet!
Anyone would think you were a load of men, chattering
away like that.  Silence, or you'll feel the prod!"
And that was that.

When they'd done all eight of us I thought that it was
all over for the time being, but then they started
taking us off the front of the line again.  This time
it was so that they could tattoo a giant number on our
backs!  I was made to lie down on a portable table
that they'd dragged in, and it seemed to take for ever
- I could feel the pricking of the needle all over my
back, and it was really uncomfortable as they did it.
When I was allowed to stand up it was painful as I was
herded back to join the rear of the line.  "Sarge" was
still in front of me, of course, and as they pushed me
up to him I saw that they'd put a huge figure "2" on
his back -  it ran from just below his neck, and the
base of it was just below his waist, just above the
top of his ass crack.  It was very black, although
there was a sheen of fresh blood all over it.  I told
him what he'd got, and he whispered back - we were
still worried about the guard - "Yes, Dave.  The guy
in front of me has a big "1" and so I guess they put a
"3" on you!"

I'd never been on for tattoos - some of the guys in
the barracks thought they were "manly" and had
several, and I don't really object to them on other
men.  But not on my own skin, thank you, and I'd never
even had a "bulldog" or "semper fi" or "mom" or
anything done to myself, and I'd put up with the
good-natured joshing of my buddies and told them I was
waiting to get married and then, if she liked it, I'd
have her name tattooed on my dick!  They all laughed,
and my best buddy in the Corps said I'd better have it
done on the underside so that when I went out to bars
for a casual pickup, as that's what all married guys
did, the women wouldn't be put off.  And now here I
was - I suppose the SIN wasn't all that bad, but to
have my back aching from a huge, gross number....
Well, what was the point of it?

My "3" was confirmed when the Arkansas boy was pushed
up against me once more - at least he could read
numbers, but you can never tell with those country
boys of course, and some time later he told me that
he'd had a "4" put on him as the guy behind him had
told him.  So we all guessed we were being numbered
from one to eight - what the fuck for, we wondered -
after all, we'd all got names, and if they wanted to
give us orders or something they could use those,
couldn't they?  I whispered this to "Sarge", and he
turned around as much as he could and added "It's part
of making us fell like slaves, Dave.  When I did a
tour on guard in military prison, they told us we
should only call the prisoners 'prisoner' and not use
their names at all, to make them realise they were not
free and were now totally under our control.  I guess
it's the same kind of thing:  they've shaved our hair,
collared us and stuff,  put barcodes on us... All to
make us think we're no longer men.  And now they're
marking our bodies like this for two reasons, I
reckon:  one so that they can easily identify us.... I
mean, when you have a group of eight guys like us, all
much alike, running around naked, how else can they
easily tell us apart?  And secondly, I think you'll
find they'll only call you 'three' from now on, and
you'll never hear them call you 'Dave' or anything
like that.  It dehumanises you, you see.  You're just
a number to them now."

The young guy, Steve, came along the line and
"watered" us again when all the tattooing was done,
and then the waiting-line was opened and under the
watchful eyes of the guards we were marched out and
across the yard - it was good to see a bit of natural
light again, although it did feel funny to be out of
doors in the nude like that, with my dick sticking
rigidly out in front of me.  Especially as the yard
was pretty busy, with men and slaves (see... I've
started to think of the world as being composed of two
kinds of people now, almost unconsciously!) going
about their business.  No one seemed to give us much
of a second glance, though, as it looked as if it was
normal for groups of naked guys to be marched around
the place!

We were led up to a set of what looked like modified
running machines that you see in gyms, and the young
guy, Steve, addressed us.  "You were all soldiers, and
pretty fit, but we need to get you back into tiptop
condition before you really start work.  For this
afternoon, therefore, it's running practice:  you
don't need to run fast, but it's sustained, medium
pace we need from you to enable us to keep to our
schedules.  So you'll be on these machines all
afternoon, and some of you may be familiar with them
from your own gyms:  they're variable speed, and we've
introduced a few variations, like a timer that varies
the speed occasionally so sometimes you'll just be
walking fast, and at other times you'll jog, and
occasionally you'll have to put a little spurt on.
The angle changes, too, so a lot of the time you'll be
running on the flat, but you'll also be going uphill,
too - gentle slopes, mixed in with quite steep hills.
We're a pretty flat town here, but like everywhere
there are hills that you don't notice in a car or
truck, but are very obvious when you're running!  And
finally, as you'll be 'loaded' when you're working ,we
simulate this by harnessing you to these elastic
straps, so you'll always be pulling against a load."

"...and one more thing.... Don't think you can slack!
We're not going to stand around all afternoon watching
you, but you can't escape as you'll be manacled on to
the machine.  You'd better keep up the pace then, as
if you fail, the belt will carry you backwards.... And
at the end of the machine it there's a set of very
sharp spikes, just at butt height, and believe me, you
won't want them stabbing in to you!"

My back was really hurting from the tattoo, and
walking hadn't been all that much fun as my skin had
stretched and pulled and all the little scars and
scabs from the needle had pulled free.  I guessed my
back was oozing with blood again, like most of the
other guys.  So I wasn't looking forward particularly
to having to run - although it would be good to do a
bit of real exercise and use my muscles again, I
thought: I like to keep fit, and after some days
without real physical exertion yo start to feel
frustrated and even depressed, I find.   When they
came to put me on to my machine, I found it was worse
than I thought, though:  first, the harness thing was
made of elastic, and it hurt my back even more.  And
then they told me to take off my boots, as "Master
Steve" had decided that "his team" were going to work
barefooted and that we needed to start toughening up
our soles ready for the roads, and that exercising on
the rough surface of the running machine would be a
good introduction for us.

I hate running barefoot.  Well, it's OK if you're on
vacation, on a beach or somewhere.  But for really
serious workouts you need proper foot support, I'd
always been told.  But now  I could feel the rough
texture of the belt underneath me as it started quite
slowly and "warmed me up" from a walk to a gentle jog.
 And they'd always said that just as a guy needs a
jockstrap for support when he's working out, so he
needs proper trainers or boots to support the foot.
Still, we'd found out that you can do without clothes,
and so I guess the stuff they talked about proper
sports shoes was a load of marketing crap as well -
after all, primitive man ran on bare feet, so we'd
probably get uses to it.   The running was harder,
much harder,  than I thought - the pull of the elastic
around my chest made it much more difficult, and when
I relaxed for a moment I almost screamed as the sharp
spikes dug into my butt for an instant.

Look, I'm really fit, but after about half an hour I
was really sweating and after about an hour my lungs
felt as if they were on fire.  I'd done all sorts of
combinations of walking, jogging, running, and even
sprinting for a few seconds, on level ground and up
quite steep "hills".  I'd long since forgotten the
pain from my tattoo as now it was my lungs, and to a
lesser extend the muscles in my legs, that were
complaining.  Sweat was pouring off me, too, and even
with the ring holding my dick and balls cinched out
from my body I was feeling "uncomfortable" down there
as I'm not used to exercising without proper support.
  It was worse than being at boot camp, I reckon!
There the sergeants and the instructors drove us on
and on, right up to the limits of our endurance;  here
it was the sheer unrelenting motion of the belt that
we had to keep running along, and the harsh pain of
the spikes at the rear of the thing if we failed!
Personally I'd go for the sergeants' swearing at us
all the time, given the choice.  But at least my time
in the forces had taught me that you can endure stuff
like this, you can drive your body on if you have to,
you can almost "wall off" in your brain the pain and
complaints that are coming from your body, providing
you focus on just surviving.

We were all totally exhausted when we were finally let
off the machines, and  we were led back to our
overnight cage via the shitters, then had to kneel
there as young Steve came along the line of us and
cranked our food into our mouths with the feeder
thing.  It really was pretty humiliating to be made to
do this, but what could we all do?  We were all naked
and the guards had their prods, and that was a pretty
powerful argument for doing as we were told - that and
the fact that we were all hungry from the work our
bodies were doing, and we knew there was no food for
us otherwise.  I heard Steve asking the older guy, who
seemed to be his mentor or something, whether it
mightn't be a good idea to feed us more, but I heard
him reply "No, most of these men have some excess fat,
even though they're pretty fit.  It will do them good
to get down to a real 'working weight'.  And if you
have them constantly hungry, they're less likely to be
complacent, they're more on edge, and more receptive
to commands.  You've got to think about the general
look of them, too - even big muscled guys look better
when the skin is really stretched taut over the bone.
The amount we're giving them now is about right, I
reckon - but you just need to monitor them and if
they're starting to look too skinny, or if they aren't
really working as hard as you think they could, then
you increase it by a quarter turn of the crank."   So
that was that!

Most of us jerked off that night, I reckon - I mean,
in the barracks you heard the gentle "slap, slap" of
your buddies' hands on their dicks most nights, and
here it was the same really.  Except, of course, that
there was absolutely no hiding what we were doing:  we
were packed in really tight, there were no sheets and
blankets to muffle the noise, and you couldn't help
but feel the motion of another guy's arm sometimes,
however careful he was as he was so close to you.
It's funny, really - I mean, everyone knows that guys
jerk off if they can't fuck.  And especially young,
fit guys as we all were.  So we all knew we did it,
but in the barracks you didn't talk about it, except
to make a joke about it sometimes.  It was much harder
to ignore it now, especially as there  was nothing you
could do with your cum -  no wad of toilet tissue to
be disposed of discretely the next morning.  You just
had to shoot off down into the straw, and then you
were always worried that other guys might smell it  -
or perhaps I as just being too sensitive, as I could
certainly smell my own as I lay there, so I thought
the others must be able to do so, too.  And then there
was the thought that as we all shuffled around in the
night you might end up lying on a bit of straw that
was damp from cum.  It all didn't bear thinking about,
really, but there wasn't much any of us could do about
it as we had to jerk off, didn't we?  I mean, a guy
can't go for ever without relief, and the alternative,
which was to have your dick constantly erect and
dripping with pre-cum, and that low ache in your balls
all the time, just wasn't worth it.

We fell into what was to be our daily routine the next
morning - Steve and Jon came and woke us all up (it
was surprising we were all sleeping so soundly, but
then the work was exhausting.  And I guess the
stripped-down existence we had meant that we had no
worries about paying the bills and all that sort of
shit), and we stood there in the cage trying to ignore
each others erections.  Then we had to kneel in a line
outside the cage in the "approved" position I've told
you about before with our knees apart, ankles
together, our butts resting on our heels, back
straight, hands clasped behind our backs at the top of
our butts, and head bowed.  Steve came down the line
of us then, with the feeder, and then we waited to get
the command to rise, about face, and march off to the
shitter and the showers.  This morning was different,
though, as Steve stood there and called out "Now
listen up, you men - from now on you are forbidden to
have sex without my explicit approval.  Sometimes I'll
declare that a night is a 'free sex' night, and you
can do what you want.  But beyond that, if you want
any sexual relief at all, you have to ask... And that
includes jerking off!  I don't want to find that any
of you men have given yourself relief without my
express permission - I think it's good for men to be
in a state of tension most of the time, and so I won't
always grant you permission.  But it's essential you
ask, just as you'd expect to ask your master for any
special favours.  Of course there will be severe
punishment for anyone who disobeys this rule."

He looked up and down the line of us as we knelt
there, and asked "Is that clear?  Is there anything
you don't understand in what I have just told you?"

We saw the guards looking threateningly at us, and
chorused, as we'd been taught in the services, "Sir,
no, sir."

"Good.  I'm pleased you understand.  Now, do any of
you men want to jerk off now, before you get to work
today?"

Hearing the question like that was pretty horrific.  I
mean, imagine having to ask, in front of your buddies,
to be allowed to jerk off!  And what happened if
someone said "yes" at this point?  Surely he wouldn't
have to do it as he knelt in the line of us?   But
where else was there?  Still, it didn't happen, as we
all sort of mumbled "Sir, no, sir",  again.

When they led us out to the exercise machines after
that and the sun was full on them and there was a big
tub of some sort of sun cream standing there.  Some of
us went to get a handful and smear it on ourselves -
my torso and calves were pretty darkly tanned already,
but of course my ass and thighs were pasty white and I
was worried about getting sunburn to add to all the
other aches and pains  I was suffering.    But as I
dipped into the barrel, Steve shouted "Stay still, all
you men!  Stand there, and put your arms above your
heads, and spread your feet!"

We all stood there for a moment, wondering what the
fuck was going to happen, and soon found out:  he,
Steve, scooped up some of the sun cream and came down
the line of us rubbing it into us himself.

Look, you may think that his was a pretty generous
thing for him to do, as the sun is fierce down here,
but you've got to remember where we needed it most:
on our butts and thighs!  I'd never had another guy
stroke cream into me down there before, and having to
keep my hands in the air and my feet spread made me
feel very vulnerable indeed.  Steve's hand slid over
my butt and thighs, and at first that wasn't so bad.
But then he became very thorough, and muttered "I need
to do inside the crack too, Three" to me as his
fingers slipped down between my cheeks.  And then, of
course, he greased my dick and balls, too.  Look, I
know it was kind of "medical", as I needed protection.
 But even so, having another guy's hand stroking your
dick covered in cream is just too much - it's like
when you're having a really sensual jerk-of with lube
and stuff.  I just couldn't help going hard, and Steve
muttered "Easy, Three.  Easy there, boy!" to me, just
as if he was talking to a favourite animal.

It was fucking hard, running away all morning, but at
least we were allowed off the machines for a break at
lunch time - not that we got any lunch, as it seemed
we only got fed twice a day, in the morning and
evening.  But they slipped a wire rope through the
loops on our collars so that we were effectively
tethered together and couldn't escape, and let us rest
for an hour or so out in the yard.  It was quite
interesting, I suppose - seeing the trucks arriving
and docking at the warehouse building, and wondering
what was going on inside there.  At least it reminded
us that there was still "real life" out there
somewhere, a life in which stuff was manufactured,
things were shipped and distributed.... But somehow it
all seemed to be a long way from being a naked slave
huddled together and chained to a group of others.  It
was almost unreal.  It was as if I was in some sort of
mad fantasy world where everything I knew was now
different.

After the afternoon's exercise, and a visit to the
shitter and showers, we were kneeling again to be fed
for the evening, and when Steve had finished he stood
there and said in a loud voice, so we could all hear
clearly ""Do any of you guys want to jerk off tonight?
 Now's the time to ask, remembering what you heard me
say this morning...."

Out of the corners of my eyes I could see the other
guys kind of weighing up what he'd said (as, indeed,
was I), and wondering whether they were going to say
they wanted to do it.  You may think it's easy, but
it's not so simple to have to make a request like that
in front of all your buddies!  We all wanted to jerk
off of course, but I've told you that in the forces we
all did it but didn't "admit" it, and here we were,
having to make a public statement about it.  And
anyway, when you think about it, its' pretty
humiliating, isn't it, to have to ask another guy if
you can jerk yourself off?    None of us said
anything, and when we were finally locked into our
cage, Sarge, Two,  called us together and said calmly
"It's part of their plan, men - part of the way that
they're turning us from free men into slaves.  Taking
charge of our sexuality is just another step down that
road from freedom to slavedom.."

"Sarge, can they really do that?"  It was the Arkansas
farm boy, Four, who'd asked, and Sarge answered him
quite tolerantly, really.

"Look, son, I don't know if they've got the right
under international law or whatever, but that has
never mattered all that much in times of war....
There's always been a pretty lax attitude towards the
treatment of prisoners.  And I guess that anyway
they've changed the laws around here so that the
normal stuff doesn't apply - men are treated one way,
and slaves another!  After all, you can't go around
burning a brand into a guy's butt in a normal prison,
can you?  The Constitution would call that 'cruel and
unusual punishment'.  So their must be a difference
for slaves, right?  So if they say we're not allowed
to jerk off or anything without permission, I suppose
they can.....  But we're thinking 'law' here - the
Constitution, the Declaration Of Human Rights, that
kind of crap they were always going on about in basic
training.  But now we need to think that at the end of
the day it's the guy with the power who can tell the
others what to do, and that with their guns and prods
they've got the power now.  That's always been the way
it's been, I guess, especially in wartime."

I lay there in the straw, feeling the heat of another
one of my buddies against me, and wondered what the
fuck to do.  My dick was rock hard and usually I just
have to jerk off before I can go to sleep.  Several
times I reached down and felt my dick, and that only
made it worse.  I thought about disobeying the order,
as it was dark in the cage and I'm sure no-one could
see, but then I remembered how it was in basic
training:  they gave you a whole lot of new orders and
instructions about your behaviour, care of your kit,
and so on, and then for the next few days they came
down really hard on anyone who wasn't doing it
properly.  It occurred to me that the same things
might apply here, and I certainly didn't want to be
made an example of, so I lay there, desperately trying
to sleep and willing my brain to ignore the sensations
from my dick as it brushed against my buddy, and the
straw!

Although you think you are never going to get off to
sleep, you do eventually, I find.  Anyway  I was
deeply asleep, in some really erotic dream, when I
woke up suddenly.  The lights were on, and Steve and
Jon and some guards were banging on our cage bars,
telling us to get to our feet.  We all did so, and you
know how it is when you rouse a lot of guys in the
middle of the night - some snap awake almost
immediately, but some stand there looking as if they
have no idea where they are or anything.  We were
rubbing our eyes, scratching our butts, and generally
looking confused, when we were told to go out of the
cage and kneel in a line.

Steve stood there in front of us then, and sounded
really angry.  "I told you slaves this morning that
there was to be no sex at all without my approval.
Two of you  slaves have chosen to disobey me, and
disobey me on the very  day that I issued the order.
I will not tolerate such behaviour from my slaves, and
I told you that disobedience results in one thing -
punishment."

"I was astonished when I went past the guard post this
evening on my way home and saw on the TV monitor that
right here, in this cage, there were two of you
jerking off, in complete defiance of my orders."

He turned to the guard and went on "Keep these slaves
under tight control, as Jon and I punish the
disobedient ones:  any trouble, and you have my usual
full permission to prod them, and prod them hard!"

There were a couple of the punishment "horses"
standing there, and he and Jon now pulled them forward
so that we could all see them clearly.  My heart began
to pound and I could feel sweat breaking out on me
with the tension - although I knew I was not guilty
myself, I was worried about my buddies, and what he
might do.  After all, the last time that horse thing
had been used, it was to castrate the ninth one of us.
 Surely he wouldn't do that again, would he? Or would
he....?

"Right, Two and Four - you deliberately disobeyed
me.... Get up, and go and straddle those horses...."

Two glared almost insolently at Steve, as he walked
proudly across and lay down on the thing.  But Four
started "Sir, please... I'm a Southerner, like you,
sir, a good Arkansas boy.... Please don't punish me,
sir... I was only doing what all young guys do,
sir..... "

"Silence!", Steve snapped.  "We've been through all
this before.  You are not a Southerner any longer, and
especially not a Southerner 'like me'.  You forfeited
that right when you took part in the illegal invasion
of us by the Northern army.  You are a slave, and I
want to hear no more of this nonsense.    Now, get on
the horse, before I decide to punish you more...."

What a whining coward, I thought to myself.  After
all, he must have known he was guilty, and what's the
point of begging and pleading with the enemy?

We watched as the two men were strapped on to the
horses, and then Steve walked up and down in front of
us waving a cane in the air.  "This is a punishment
cane", he told us.  "Sometimes  a tingle from the
slave prod is not sufficient to get the message over
to you slaves.  A cane across your butt will provide a
more lasting  reminder of the need to obey.  The cane
has the advantage that it stings when it strikes, and
then that mellows to an ache that lasts for hours, as
a constant reminder to you of your disobedience.  And
you carry the mark of shame around with you for a long
time, too - the lasting stripe from the stroke that
will show other men that you are disobedient and
wilful."

He swished the thing, which was about three feet long,
around in the air, and then positioned himself to the
side of Two.  It was almost beyond belief when the
next down stroke of the cane landed on Two's butt!  We
saw his whole body jerk with the surprise and pain,
and Two gave a great shout of rage and pain - I'm sure
he didn't want to cry out like that, but  it was
completely involuntary.  Three more strokes landed on
Two, each accompanied by a similar reaction from him,
and as we knelt there we could see the bight red marks
it left of it on Two's butt.   I found it hard to
credit that one man could beat another in cold blood
like that - if you're fighting, or on the battlefield,
some physical "damage" of other guys is inevitable.
But it's a far cry from that and having one man
deliberately and carefully cause physical pain to
another.
Steve moved to stand next to Four then, and he started
to whine once more.  "Please, sir, please don't,
sir.... Please don't punish me.... I'm a Southerner,
sir...."

It made no difference, though, and four strokes went
onto Four, accompanied by screams of terror this time.
 That Four really was a wimp : Two had cried in a
manly way, with the shock of the pain.  But Two was
whimpering and crying like a real coward. And when it
was over, there was silence, except for actual sobbing
from Four.  It's not right, is it - I mean, we were
all soldiers, tough guys.  And guys don't sob in
public, not from just a bit of pain!  There's just no
excuse for a man not behaving like one.

Steve prowled up and down, looking at us as we knelt
there, and then  had a whispered conversation with
Jon, which we couldn't hear.  He seemed to be a bit
doubtful about what Jon was saying , but then he
evidently made up his mind, as he addressed us all
again. "These two slaves are so desperate for sex that
they defied my orders.  Well, I need sex, too, and so
does Jon.  As these two slaves are so conveniently
accessible now....."

As we watched, Steve walked over and stood there
behind Sarge, Two.  At first I couldn't believe it -
he began to fumble with his belt, and then dropped his
jeans to the floor, followed by his boxers.  He had a
nicely muscled ass for an eighteen year old and I
suppose I'd never thought about things like that
before, but Steve must take care of his body and work
out, I thought.  But then he shuffled forward, and
Sarge started to shout "NO!, No.... Please...."

We watched with a mixture of fascination and horror as
Steve's hips thrust forward, and we knew he must be
forcing his way into Sarge.  Then, with Sarge still
gasping and crying "No, no, no....", Steve went into
classical "fucking" mode, his butt heaving in and out
and his thighs straining to drive them.  Look, I don't
want you to think I'm a fag - I mean, when I've
watched porn in the past I've seen a guys' butt of
course as he powers his dick into a woman and it's
kind of interesting to watch "intellectually" so you
can compare how other guys do it with how you do it
yourself (not that you can see yourself fucking,
unless there's a big mirror on the wall, and I think
that's a bit kinky).  So I suppose I stared at Steve's
butt as he powered away in a kind of "scientific" way
- was this muscled young butt better or worse than
others I'd seen?  And did it make a difference that he
was fucking a guy, rather than a woman?

Well I suppose you don't expect a young guy to take a
long time to cum, do you? And Steve was no exception:
almost as soon as he'd started, it was over and he was
standing there between Sarge's legs, regaining his
breath.  Then he pulled back, and fumbled to drag his
boxers and jeans back up his legs.  He turned then and
stood there doing up his fly buttons and his belt,
looking smug and satisfied as he saw the look of
horror on our faces.

"You men had better understand that a slave is always
available for his master's use", to told us.  "Two
here is  a pretty good fuck, I can tell you.... Nice
and tight.... He might even have been a virgin.  So I
expect that once you all get used to it  I'll be
getting lots of requests from you other guys to use
him.... Or perhaps he'll be asking me if he can fuck
one of you...."

"I'm not a fag, sir!", one of the guys at the end of
the line called out.

"What you mean, slave, is that no one has yet been up
that ass of yours.  But that will change - all of you
slaves are available for my pleasure, and your views
on the subject are not relevant.  As and when I choose
to use you, I will."

He looked around then and said something to Jon, and
Jon now went and stood behind Four.

Four screamed and cried a lot more than Two, and it
went on for a lot longer as Jon clearly wasn't
operating on such a hair trigger as Steve had been.

When we were all locked back I nhe cage most of the
others ignored Two and Four, as if they were somehow
embarrassed or ashamed at what had happened:  it
wasn't their fault, after all.

I sidled up to Two and tried to say I was sorry for
what had happened to him, but he was tight-lipped and
jsut muttered back "Dave, we're slaves.  You've
probably seen the ultimate demonstration of that."

End Of Part Three