Date: Fri, 28 Jan 2005 00:19:33 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Enslaved, Part 1

ENSLAVED, By Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 1

My cock was twitching and straining inside my Speedos
as I lay in the warm afternoon sunshine watching the
pool boy, Jason, going about the business of sweeping
the base of the pool with the long- handled sweeper.
He was naked of course, as my Uncle Jed is one of the
old school who believes that the appropriate "uniform"
for outdoor slaves in the summer months is their bare
hide.

"It's simple, Jon", he told me "It costs nothing!
You'd be amazed how much the laundry bills for even
shorts and Ts mount up to, and then there's wear and
tear, as the slaves just aren't properly careful with
my property and allow their clothes to snag and fray.
It's also practical: the slave ought to be sweating
heavily as he works at his assigned task, and even
loose clothes should get soaked with his sweat, and
then it can chafe him and lead to sores, so we'd have
higher vet's bills.... No, my father and his father
before him always had the outdoor slaves naked, and
I'll continue that way in spite of what those fancy
salesmen say about slave shorts made out of synthetics
and so on."

 In this particular instance I was glad of my uncle's
views on the management of slaves, as Jason, like all
the slaves selected for duties around the house rather
than out in the fields, had been selected to be
pleasing to the eye as well as having the strength for
the work. I guessed he must have had some Greek or
Middle Eastern ancestors fairly recently in his
pedigree, as his skin was tanned so darkly that his
overall complexion must be rather swarthy, and his
hair was jet black and would probably have been curly,
had not Uncle Jed's strictures on such things meant
that it was cropped into the usual half inch slave
crop. As it was, there was a thick coating of hair on
this arms and legs, a very nice thatch on his chest
with a pronounced trail leading down across his flat
stomach to his pubes, which, I mused to myself, must
have been trimmed and neatened as otherwise there
would be no way that they would set off his tackle so
well. The sweat was gleaming all over his magnificent
hide as he toiled away, and as I watched, I fancied I
could almost feel those little rivulets of sweat
coursing down his body, crossing his belly and running
down his cock, to fly off in the air as it swung there
as he worked.

Look, I don't want to give you the impression that I'm
gay! Unlike most of my friends I had never fucked any
of the male slaves on the estate, and didn't
particularly want to - after all, Uncle Jed thought of
himself as relatively liberal and deliberately kept a
number of young nubile females on the immediate house
staff. "A young man needs experience, Jon", he was
fond of saying. "When I pick out a suitable young lady
for you to marry, one who will bring a respectable
dowry of some kind, she and her family will expect you
to be well versed in the arts of love. So make full
use of the slave girls, and don't go shedding any
'wild oats' with the young ladies around here -
there's too many of them who would want to snag my
heir with some bastard, just to get wed to you. So
take your pleasure in the slave quarters, and leave
the free women alone: you want the young lady I pick
to be a virgin, don't you? So you'll need to know how
to do everything on your wedding night. And all you
southern gentlemen need to work together to respect
our young ladies - so no sneaking off for secret
trysts, as you may be spoiling the wedding night for
one or other of your friends!"

Uncle Jed had given me that advice when I was sixteen,
and you'd expect a young man to obey his guardian,
wouldn't you? So I began easing my aching cock inside
the willing slave girls in the household, and other
than a few tears from one or other of them when it was
discovered that my youthful seed had been very fertile
and they were taken off to the veterinarian to be
aborted, I'd had an easy, trouble-free period of young
manhood not tormented by the need to search the
Internet for porn to jerk off to, as are so many young
men less fortunate than me.

So why was the slave Jason apparently exciting me? His
strong muscular thighs terminated in a most pleasing,
muscular well-rounded butt for sure, but I had no
desire to have him cleaned up and presented to me for
my pleasure in bed. Perhaps it was that in so many
ways he was like me: I guessed him to be twenty-three
or twenty-four, and other than his skin tone and hair
colour, we could have been cousins as we seemed to
share the same long legs, the same lean body style,
and the same big cock. Of course he had been 'skinned,
as were all the slaves on our plantation, but
otherwise I speculated that we were very alike in the
sexual department, as, like mine, his balls were
low-hanging and swung below the tip of cock as he
worked. What twists of fate, I wondered, had led to
him toiling away there whilst I lay on this lounger
watching him?

My cock continued to stir, and I had to tug at my
Speedos to make more room as my member stiffened and
thrust itself against the shiny fabric. Life as the
heir to Uncle Jed isn't all fun and games, you know -
I almost envied Jason the freedom he had to be naked
there in the sunshine whilst my cock was cooped up,
but my uncle had always absolutely forbidden me to
swim in the nude, even when it was just us two in
residence. Another one of those things he was always
telling me was that "Free men and women have white
bodies, Jon. That's how you know you're with a fellow
free person, and not with some slave! So no naked
sunbathing - in fact, I'd rather you kept right out of
the sun so that your skin stays milky-white."

I'd obeyed him of course, until I went away to
college. When a group of us went to the beach at
weekends then, my frat mates laughed as I crouched
under a beach umbrella and only emerged for a swift
sprint into the water, and I soon joined them in lying
there under the hot sun with a beer and one of the
group of sorority girls who followed us around
creaming oil into my skin! Uncle Jed wasn't pleased
when I went home at the end of term, I can tell you,
but we'd kind of compromised and I was now allowed to
sit in the sun keeping the pale golden tan that I
took, provided I always wore as a minimum a pair of
Speedos so that there would always be a strong,
contrasting band of white across my front and butt.
"That's what comes of allowing you to go North to
school", he'd grumbled. "So much better if you'd
stayed down here and gone to the local community
college, where you could have continue dating the
flower of our local young ladies...."

I guess he'd have been really upset if he knew that I
only wore the Speedos at the pool - on the terrace
outside my suite, if I was working away on a paper, I
'd just sit there totally naked and enjoy the sunshine
(with my body slave taking the place of the sorority
girls, creaming oil into my skin!).  As I continued to
speculate about the differences between Jason and me -
he could probably not read or write, whereas I had an
exceedingly good education at Yale - I needed another
beer! Just watching him toil away was making me
thirsty, so I clapped my hands for a slave, and as
usual one appeared at once at my side - my uncle may
have had old-fashioned views about education and sex,
but still held the view that a man who owned more than
a hundred slaves had a right to expect perfect
service. One of the waiter boys knelt there, head
bowed in the proper position, and I told him to bring
me an iced beer immediately. He mumbled "Yes, master",
got to his feet and ran to the house, his young body
accelerating smoothly around the corner to where the
kitchen block was.

I never bother to keep a particular track of the
general waiters and servants as Uncle Jed changes them
quite often, and they're all much alike: probably
seventeen or eighteen, average height, slim bodies,
not unpleasant faces. You don't really need to know
their names, as they're all trained to serve generally
and wait at table, and are mostly interchangeable. I
felt certain I'd seen this one before, but perhaps he
was new - still, it didn't matter, as if one of them
failed to perform properly, the whole crew could
simply be punished so that you would be certain to
catch the guilty one. I'd often suggested to my uncle
that he had the slave's name tattooed on his face or
something to help identify them - a job not made any
easier by the fact that like all slaves involved in
the preparation or service of food they were all
shaved totally smooth all over, to avoid any
possibility of a stray pubic hair tainting the dish.
But he would have none of it, saying that it might
affect their resale value - Uncle Jed tended to sell
on these servant boys at twenty or so as he preferred
seeing lithe young men in the dining room and once a
slave acquired the fully adult musculature of a
healthy young male, he thought it inappropriate to
have bulging pecs, straining biceps and muscled thighs
where food was being consumed. Whilst it was a
continuing effort to train new slaves, he claimed it
was worth it as he made a handsome profit as other
owners would always be prepared to pay a premium for a
slave who had been "correctly" trained by Uncle Jed,
and where all the niceties of "silver service" had
been drilled deep into him by the application of the
tawse, or the threat of it!.

The young waiter slave reappeared almost instantly,
dropped to his knees in front of me, bowed his head
and held out the can of beer in his palms with his
arms stretched out in front of him, at a convenient
height for me, just above his bowed head. His waiter's
loin cloth hung down shielding his cock from my gaze,
and I let my left foot fall off the lounger, moved it
over, and pushed the covering to one side so that I
could see the slave's genitals - it's a habit I guess
I picked up from Uncle Jed, who always thought that
the waiter slaves liked to skimp on their shaving.
Even at the most formal of dinners he would
occasionally pull a slave's loin cloth off to run his
fingers over the pubic area to test for complete
smoothness, and I now ran my toes over the slave's
cock and balls performing this same test. The young
slave quivered almost visibly as my toes probed at
him, but fortunately for him he passed the test and I
would not need to order a punishment for him. It was
clearly a strain to hold my beer out at arms length
just above his bowed head, though, as I could see his
shoulder muscles bunching and tensing as he knelt
there, and I felt almost certain that the sweat that
covered him was not just as a result of the brief
sprint to and from the house and the extreme humidity
of the hot afternoon. Some masters would, I know, have
left the slave like that for a few minutes to see what
he would do - endure increasing pain in all his
muscles, or risk the wrath of his master - but this
afternoon I felt too languorously relaxed to engage in
such games, and reached out and took the can which was
covered in a mist of condensation, rather as the
slave's body was covered in his sweat.

Having started thinking about education, I was perhaps
somewhat guiltily reminded that my uncle expected me
to reach a decision soon about my future. It had been
a difficult time for me up north, not because I
couldn't cope with the work (I'm intelligent, even
though I say so myself, and can study hard when I need
to), or because I lacked the money to cut a proper
dash in a good frat (My uncle's wealth was more than
adequate), or because I lacked friends (I'm a pretty
good jock, too, and made a lot of good friends on the
field), No, it was rather the attitude of many of my
fellow students - because I came from the south, they
assumed I was some sort of bigot and were always
ascribing to me attitudes that I simply didn't have,
just because they knew my uncle was a slave owner! So
it was always assumed that I was prejudiced against
blacks (I wasn't - I'd even selected a black personal
slave for a time when I was seventeen, and there are
not many guys who are so unprejudiced that they can
share their bathroom with and be ministered to by a
black, are there?), or against women (which was
stupid, as you know I only fucked women and left guys'
butts to others. In fact, thinking about it, I had
probably fucked more black women than the rest of my
class mates put together!).

If ever it was necessary to comment on something in
the news on TV, you'd hear a lot of the white liberals
say things like "Well, we respect the Arabs, Jon, not
that you'd know anything about respect for your fellow
men...." Good god, did they think I was some sort of
monster or something? Of course I respected human
rights and all that kind of stuff - I don't think I'd
ever once made a disparaging remark about the blacks,
Arabs, Chinese and other s who infested the campus,
and I was the very model of politeness to women - my
good Southern upbringing saw to that, as my uncle had
rigidly drilled into me that young ladies were to be
respected. They seemed to think that just because I
believed in slavery, there was some fundamental flaw
in my character, and however much I tried to explain
that slavery gave the slaves a good, well-structured
framework in which to live out their lives, and that
all my uncle's slaves were incomparably better off
than most of the poor trash you saw around the world
on TV, they just laughed the idea to scorn.

I tried to explain that our slaves were well fed, well
housed, and only punished when their performance
merited it, but it was no use: I was an illiberal
bigot, and that was that!  I guess us guys form the
south mostly stuck together, therefore, and my own
frat was almost exclusively from the south. In fact, I
was probably the only true northerner in it, having
been born in Manhattan and mostly raised there. It was
only after both my parents were killed in a terrorist
bomb attack on the plane they were taking to a UN
conference on human rights, leaving me an orphan, that
my father's uncle, Jed, had taken me in and given me a
loving, supporting, albeit strict, upbringing. I still
remember getting off the plane that first day,
wheeling my suitcases on a trolley out to where uncle
Jed was waiting to greet me: he looked shocked to see
me wheeling my luggage, and at once signalled to the
huge black slave standing behind him, impeccably
dressed in a dark mauve chauffeur's uniform buttoned
high to the neck, to pick up my things. I noticed that
the slave was not allowed to use the trolley, but
needed to carry my four cases somehow, and uncle Jed
never looked back as we strode through the terminal to
his limousine, as if it never occurred to him that the
slave might not be able to keep up. Uncle Jed seemed
cross that the slave was not waiting to open the
limousine's door for us, but it was a relaxing drive
to the plantation as uncle Jed was able to focus on
me, and not worry about the traffic or anything. It
was my first introduction to how easy life could be
for a slave owner.

But now I was back from college, and Uncle Jed was
pestering me to select one of the local belles, to
settle down, and to breed - being unmarried and
without children of his own, he was nevertheless keen
to see the next generation of our family. He was
always scheming and plotting with the fathers of these
"belles", discussing dowries and settlements, and it
was almost as if my tastes were irrelevant. "Marriage
down here is a true partnership, Jon", he said one
evening after dinner when we were sitting in front of
the fire in his study, the slaves silently serving us
coffee and brandy in the calm, quiet room. "You marry
to get some advantage for the plantation, or to get a
slice of new money in to help strengthen the business.
You're both educated, sophisticated people and once
you've bred at least 'an heir and a spare', you can
mostly go your own ways - you continue to live
together in the same house of course, as we don't hold
with divorce and all that stuff down here as the
financials are too costly - but you can have separate
rooms, and you can amuse yourself with slave girls and
she can take a stud, if she wants: in fact, I know
several couples who find it's a shared interest, with
the wife giving the husband a special slave girl she's
picked out for his birthday and for Christmas, and
with the husband personally selecting a well-hung
young stud from the plantation as a gift for his wife
(after he's ensured the slave is properly tied off, as
you'd expect, as they certainly don't want any
half-breeds)."

Look, I know the system worked - several of my buddies
from high school and college were settling down, and I
guess it could have worked for me, too. But I'd
perhaps been too exposed to "northern ways" for too
long, and had a desire to use my education to make my
own way in the world, rather than relying on uncle
Jed's wealth and position. I thought I might go off
and do voluntary work in Africa or South America or
somewhere like that for a year or two, and at first
uncle Jed had been mildly enthusiastic: he was always
complaining about the price of slaves and their
availability, and suggested that I could prospect
potential new sources of supply whilst I was there -
as you're probably aware, the enormous fortunes made
in the high-tech industries of the "Information
Revolution" as they were fond of calling it, echoing
the "Industrial Revolution" of the nineteenth century,
had resulted in many, many exceedingly rich men. After
they'd acquired the trophy wife, the executive jet,
the mansion in the West and the apartment in New York,
what else was there? Regrettably for my uncle and
other "traditional" farmers and landowners, they'd
decided to acquire slaves, too, as being the ultimate
possession that one man can have, the total power of
ownership over another, and had caused the prices
recently to skyrocket. The supply of criminals and the
unemployed available for enslavement had simply not
been able to keep up with demand, and there was a
desperate shortage of new stock, leading to prices
spiralling upwards. Congress had several times debated
the possibility of importing criminals and the poor
from other countries to help stabilise conditions in
the market, but vested interests, probably the big
slave trading companies with millions of dollars worth
of stock, had used their usual lobbying and bribery to
get these sensible measures rejected.

All these thoughts were churning in my head as I
finished my beer, and I lay there drowsily in the hot
sun until there was a discrete coughing by me ear. One
of the servant slaves - or perhaps it was the same
one, as they all looked so much alike - was kneeling
there. I left him for a minute or two before
acknowledging him, as it does a slave no good to
believe that his master is at his beck and call, and
then allowed him to speak. He had come to tell me that
my current "belle", Miss Marie-Louise, had telephoned
to remind me that I was expected to take tea with here
parents that afternoon, and so reluctantly I knew I
had to leave the pool and go and dress as their
property was some four miles away.

One of the conveniences that I'd hugely enjoyed when I
was at college was the cell phone, as it was so much
easier to just make and receive such calls yourself,
but uncle Jed would have none of it: there were slaves
in the house to receive calls, and then to find the
master and pass on messages - this was the "proper",
refined, way of doing it. The slave continued to kneel
there, waiting to be dismissed, until I said "There's
no reply - get about your duties", when he rose and
loped off. It really was a bit much of uncle Jed to
complain about ruinous slave prices and then waste
prime male flesh like that on such trivial tasks - the
young slave had a good, firm body and well- developed
muscular buttocks, and could surely have been used as
a labourer on the plantation, or even sold off and a
more muscular work slave bought if that was what we
needed. These slaves in their early twenties with
pleasing bodies were much in demand by the "nouveau
riche" as adornment to their new mansions, and I felt
certain that the one I'd just been watching would
fetch a high price at auction.  Still, I had little
influence on such matters with uncle Jed, who I
sometimes thought really wasn't interested in the
actual work of the plantation at all, leaving all the
day to day decisions about the crop management,
harvesting, the operation of the packaging plant for
our major customers and so on, to our overseer,
Straughan.

Uncle Jed preferred the excitement of buying and
selling slaves, sometimes by attending auctions and
picking out "bargains" that others had overlooked, but
most often by doing "deals" with his wide circle of
acquaintances to swap a young slave with a reputedly
virgin ass for a field worker, or some such - he told
me almost interminably about all this as we sat
together over dinner each night, but I wasn't much
interested. I'd been to slave auctions of course, and
like most young men in my position knew the proper way
to handle and assess slave stock, but I lacked the
passion that uncle Jed showed for making the rounds of
all the slaves on display at the dealers and taking
the time to weigh their balls, squeeze their muscles,
and so on.

One of the difficulties of agreeing to uncle Jed's
plans for my future was that it was by no means
certain that he and I could ever agree to the way in
which the plantation was managed - I thought we needed
a more "scientific" approach, with the slaves being
set quotas, being measured against them, and then
being punished severely if they failed to make the
grade, before being culled for continuing failure.
This was the basic method described in the excellent
"Managing slaves for profit - essays on modern methods
of improving productivity" that had been at the top of
the best sellers in business books last year and which
I'd bought uncle Jed for Christmas, but he would have
none of it. He preferred the old-fashioned methods of
just whipping all the slaves in a coffle if the coffle
was thought to be under-performing, which, as I tried
to point out, failed to totally maximise the energy of
each individual slave.

It was with a heavy heart that I climbed the stairs in
the mansion, towards my suite. I really didn't want to
go to this "tea" and Marie-Louise wasn't really my
"belle" - it was just another one of those infernal
things hatched up by my uncle Jed and her parents, to
"size each other up", as both families - apart from me
- were keen to make a match.  As usual Sam, my
personal slave, must have been listening for me - or
perhaps the waiter salve by the pool alerted him:
these slaves are always whispering and communicating
behind our backs - as the door to my suite opened just
as I reached it, and there was Sam, smiling as usual,
before falling to his knees in welcome. I'd had Sam
for about four years, and so there was no need to
speak as he knew my requirements exactly.

I'd thought of taking him to college with me, as it
was irksome to have to do all my own laundry and
stuff, but for some reason they didn't allow slaves in
the rooms and I think I only survived because uncle
Jed upped my allowance so that I could send all my
stuff out to local launderers and cleaners (who,
incidentally, in spite of all their fancy machinery
and extraordinary prices, didn't do nearly as good a
job as Sam!). I'd no idea what he did whilst I was
away, but every vacation there he was, waiting, as
ever.  He eased my Speedos down and off me, and I
strode towards the bathroom where the shower was
already running at exactly the right temperature -
this, for those of you who have not tried training
slaves, is something of a triumph: for some perverse
reason most slaves always adjust the shower
temperature to some value they think appropriate,
rather than the one that their master has chosen; it
had taken me several weeks to break Sam of this habit,
and much use of the tawse, but it just goes to show
that a lesson properly beaten in to a slave does
endure.

It's funny, really - like most guys in a team at
college you get used to showering with your team
mates, but you never touch them, and the idea of them
touching you is, frankly, disgusting. But I hardly
noticed Sam's ministrations as he soaped me all over,
then gently rinsed me off before wrapping me in one of
the huge snowy-white bath sheets and rubbing me dry. I
guess it's because I've had Sam for so long and have
got so totally used to having him around doing this
stuff for me - but don't get me wrong, I never used
him sexually, even though he had a nice body and
well-formed butt. In fact, I didn't keep him naked,
even though that's obviously the norm for personal
slaves - when he wasn't showering me, I let him wear a
very short, light tunic that mostly covered his body
and kept his tackle concealed unless he was reaching
up, and siting down. I knew though that he was
intensely sexual himself - I'd occasionally overhear
snatches of whispered slave conversation, and it was
generally understood that he was an extraordinary
cocksman, and much in demand for fucking the waiters.


I had to put on one of those ghastly "afternoon
visiting outfits" that are much in fashion. I'd have
rather worn Jeans and a T, but uncle Jed had told me
he regarded this afternoon as important, and there was
no way I was going to upset him by getting a report
back to him that I hadn't taken proper care and
attention! So I stood there patiently as Sam rolled
the skin-tight "hose" over my calves and thighs, not
really liking the way the very soft silk jersey fabric
crushed my hairs down onto the skin.

"A pouch first, Sam", I snapped, as he went to roll
the hose up further.  "Yes of course, Master Jon. But
forgive me, sir, but aren't you going to a special
tea....? It's not considered polite for a gentleman to
wear a pouch under his hose on such a formal occasion,
sir..."

He was right, of course. I hated wearing these skin
tight hose, as once they were rolled up you every
detail of your anatomy could be seen. I shook my head
in agreement, and he carried on working; it was an
example of how close we had become that he had dared
to make such a suggestion, and that I had agreed with
him. As men and women did not really get together for
casual sex in the circles we moved in, I suppose you
needed some way of letting the other family see
exactly what they were getting, and so the fashion had
therefore sprung up of wearing those very tight
"hose", or panty hose, really, I suppose, but made out
of very fine silk and wool with some Lycra or stuff
in, that outlined the body. I usually insisted on
wearing a posing pouch underneath - boxers or briefs
were just not possible because of the visible lines
they would leave - and this was acceptable if you were
going to an evening soiree or whatever. But for an
intimate formal occasion, it would be considered
grossly impolite, so I had to stand there as Sam
smoothed the fabric over my dick and balls, and
finally pulled them up to finish just at my waist.

On top I wore a tight Lycra and silk shirt that
stretched over my body and which showed hints of my
dark aureoles through it. It was vilely uncomfortable,
as in the heat you really wanted lose clothes, but
fashion is fashion! To make matters worse, it had a
high, stiff collar that almost forced me to keep my
head up, and Sam now stood there tying a bright cravat
around my neck, and fluffing it out a little at the
front as if to attempt to conceal my pecs from view. A
short jacket - very short, so that my butt was totally
exposed and there was absolutely no concealment for my
tackle - completed the ensemble, and Sam then fell to
his knees to help slid on the knee- high black leather
boots made form the softest, most supple leather.
Finally, I sat at my desk whilst he brushed my
short-ish dark blond hair to shining fitness, then
held out my arm so that he could strap on my
beautifully thin, very expensive, gold watch.

Thus attired, I felt I could tackle the world,
provided, of course, I did not get an erection! I
began to understand why it's rumoured that a PA is
called that because Prince Albert, back at the end of
the nineteenth century, needed to tie his dick to his
thigh in order to avoid such embarrassment in front of
the queen and her ladies!

The slaves opened the doors at the front of the house
and as I stepped out from the cool of the
air-conditioned hall the heat and humidity hit me. I
could almost feel the sweat starting to break out, but
one has to do one's social duties, I suppose. My pony,
Blackie, had been brought around whilst I was
dressing, and he stood there in the shafts of the
light, one-man rickshaw, as I went down the steps.

The slaves in the stable are complete idiots, and
needed whipping! I always inspect Blackie before
starting a journey, and, as usual, they'd tightened
the head strap much too much so that the bit was
biting in the corners of his mouth. Of course the bit
needs to be tight, as it also holds the tongue plate
that keeps his tongue down and prevents him from
speaking, but if it's too tight you lose all
sensitivity and a gentle pull on the reins goes
unnoticed. I pride myself on my driving, and I don't
like to be seen to be hauling of the reins to get the
slave to respond - the gentlest of tugs should be
sufficient, if the slave has been properly trained.
Actually, I have always wondered about the real need
for tongue plates and so on: it's self evident that a
pony doesn't need to speak, after all, so why not just
order him to be silent? I know there's an element of
"total control" in the idea of forcing his tongue to
be stationary and depriving him of intelligible
speech, but perhaps a simple order would more
appropriately demonstrate an owner's power? But I
suppose I'm a bit of a conformist, and the "norm" for
ponies around by our place is that, in harness,
they're physically prevented from speaking, so that's
how it was for Blackie.

Blackie is the first slave I've ever owned myself -
uncle Jed gave him to me as a graduation present and
I'm really proud of him. It's one of the only times
I've really enjoyed going to the slave auction with my
uncle - I guess it's because I had a specific purchase
in view - and we'd had almost an entire day trawling
through all the big males on offer. Uncle Jed had
suggested that I have a pony of my own so I could
"visit", and so we were keen to get a tall, well-
muscled slave with long legs and a big lung capacity.
Pulling a one- man rickshaw is not so much about
strength as about endurance, and long legs and a good
heart are almost prerequisites. I'd been expecting to
find a black, as those slaves most generally fit the
specification, and had almost settled on a really
interesting jet- black one, when, lurking at the back
of the room, almost as if he were being deliberately
concealed, I saw Blackie.

His height and colouring caught my attention - he was
six three, and had very white skin, and pale, almost
greyish hair. As I approached I saw his eyes were also
pale grey, and hanging down in front of his lithe body
was a most respectably sized dick and balls which were
well in proportion to the whole. He almost trembled as
I reached up and read the tag giving his particulars
that was hanging from his left tit. I could hardly
believe it - he was an illegal immigrant from one of
those Eastern places you've hardly ever heard of, a
genuine Slav type, so very, very rare when most slaves
are blacks or Hispanics. He'd been caught after
working illegally in the US for a couple of years "to
feed his wife and children" it said, although I was
inclined to disbelieve that as at twenty one he was
hardly old enough.

Twenty one is a good age to start a pony off, as you
may or may not know: much younger than that and they
just have not got the true adult musculature that is
needed; much older, and they're harder to mould to
your precise requirements, and it can be difficult to
establish a real rapport between rider and steed (or
so says in "You and your pony - the practical guide to
all you need to know".)  You may remember that under
the Illegal Aliens Act, Congress decided that those
who entered our country illegally evidently wanted to
be here, and should be given the opportunity to stay
permanently therefore. Consequently captured illegals
are automatically enslaved - for life! You may also
remember that about ten years ago there was that
namby-pamby "Constitutional Treatment for Slaves" act,
that decreed that those enslaved for less than life
(as increasingly happened, as the courts were under
pressure to both rid the streets of petty criminals,
debt defaulters, and the like, and at the same time to
increase the supply of slaves: it had become common
for slaves to be enslaved for five, ten, fifteen or
twenty years only) had certain rights. And that were
held to be "inalienable", and that these included the
"right" not to be bodily modified.

Fortunately these provisions did not apply to slaves
for life, who were ruled just to be chattels of their
owners and could therefore be modified as required.
Turning him around, I almost trembled with excitement
as I was able to lean forward and trace my finger
along the big "S", for slave, branded into the slave's
left ass cheek: this was the sure way of identifying a
"lifer", as only they could be branded like this. I
rotated him back, feeling him almost quiver under my
hands, then, as I looked into his eyes, I reached down
and began to stroke his penis.  The slave owners'
handbooks always tell you that it's most important to
test a new slave's reaction to you by closely
observing their face the first time you exercise your
rights over their sexual organs, and Blackie responded
by firstly almost moving as if to strike me (which of
course he could not do as his wrists were securely
cuffed to his display collar), and then by a quivering
of the lips that suggested that he was fighting back
tears of despair, or humiliation. Altogether, most
satisfactory - a slave with spirit, which could of
course be broken, and one who had probably not been
"used" so far, so was an empty book waiting for his
owner to write his mark in.

Uncle Jed's familiarity with the auctioneers and
dealers came in very handy that afternoon - he called
in favours and made trades to ensure that there were
few bidders for Blackie, and we got him at a bargain
price. Of course it did take a long time to train him,
and I spent most of the next two months hard at work,
to produce the superlative pony now in my rickshaw. At
the same time, I learned some valuable lessons about
slaves, and one in particular that has stood me in
good stead since. It was in the second month, as I
recall, and Blackie was responding well to learning
the pony commands, and to running under control. His
feet had toughened so that he could run over open
country or blacktop equally well, and he was used to
the bit (I had had the back teeth removed on his lower
jaw, so that it fitted comfortably at the edge of his
lips, and after his gums had healed he had adapted
well). That particular afternoon it was hot, and I was
just wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants, and was
exercising Blackie on a long "leading rein" - I was
standing in the middle of the exercise ring, with
Blackie running around and around me on the end of a
long rope attached to his bit, with me varying the
pace by voice command and by the judicious use of a
long "driving whip" - the sort that doesn't harm the
flesh, but that just stings a little when it makes
contact: I'd always thought that you can't punish a
slave seriously with one, but it serves admirably to
manage and control a slave, especially one being
trained as a pony.  I was exhausted from the heat and
the humidity as I stood there holding the rein as he
raced around, and Blackie was clearly flagging, as in
spite of my commands and urging with the whip, he was
slowing down: this was meant to be an exercise to
increase his stamina at "gallop", and the most he was
managing was probably "full trot".

I noticed that Straughan, my uncles' overseer, had
come up and was leaning on he rails of the training
ring, watching us. Finally, I'd had enough, shouted
"whoa" to Blackie, and walked over to release the
rein, patting his rump affectionately as I did so. He
did look totally exhausted, with his eyes flaring, his
chest heaving to suck in air, and tiny veins at his
temples pulsing as the blood was pumped around him
under stress.  "Why are you stopping, Mr Jon?",
Straughan shouted.  I walked over to him, fleeing
dishevelled and unkempt in my own sweat -stained
casual clothes, as Straughan was, as ever, immaculate
in his canvas jodhpurs tucked into polished boots, and
a dazzling white shirt with a gaudy silk cravat at the
throat.

"Obviously, Straughan, he's exhausted."

"Nonsense. He's still standing."

"But he can't run any further..."

"Mr Jon, let me give you a piece of advice about
training slaves. Even the most willing slave, one who
idolises his owner, and who sincerely wants to serve
him, gets betrayed by his own body. The slave thinks
he's exhausted because all his muscles are signalling
his brain that this is so, but in fact there is always
that 'strategic reserve' that the body keeps, and
never wants to release. A slave is only properly
broken when his owner can tap into that reserve, to
get the remaining five percent of effort out of him."


"Oh rubbish, Straughan. I've been working him for
hours, and he's totally exhausted."

"With respect, Mister Jon, you have not been working
with slaves for as long as I have. I suggest you learn
this lesson, as one day you'll need that reserve from
the slave, and you need to understand how to get it."


"Well, Straughan.... I suppose I could be
convinced...."

"May I, Mister Jon?" Straughan asked, taking the whip
out of my hand and catching hold of the end of the
training rein.  I watched as Straughan made Blackie
start to trot around again, then, as I stood there
mesmerised by the sheer rapidity and brutality of his
strokes, he whipped and whipped away at the poor
creature's back, butt and thighs. I know I've told you
that the riding whip doesn't cut the skin, just causes
that sharp intense pain to signal to the slave, but
under Straughan's expert hand Blackie's body was soon
running with blood - and Blackie, in spite of his
exhaustion, was properly galloping around the ring.
Straughan went on and on, way past what I believed was
possible, and I watched with fascination. Finally, the
spectacle had to stop, as Blackie fell to the ground,
and seemed unable to rise.

Straughan came over to me, handed me the blood-soaked
whip, and said "There. Now, next time he seems
exhausted, just whip a little harder- the body
remembers, and I think you'll find there's something
left in there you can use."

That advice has proven invaluable on many occasions
since, as although Blackie does I believe enjoy his
work and is not deliberately lazy, he does need stern
"encouragement" from time to time.,  It took Blackie a
day to recover, and much longer for the scabs and
scars from his back to heal, but it did seem easier to
train him after that. And now, here he was, in front
of me, the perfect specimen of a pony - I don't think
I've ever had so much pleasure and excitement from a
present.  He was naked, as you'd expect, apart from
his harness, which was at a minimum. I don't believe
in all that elaborate "play" stuff of boots that look
like pony hooves, tails rammed up the ass, and odd
helmets with mock horse ears on them - in my view a
pony slave is just naked, totally naked, and you only
need a light rein to join the bit to you as he ought
to respond to your touch, and your verbal commands.
You don't need to chain him to the rickshaw or
anything either , as a well-trained pony would not
dream of stepping out of the shafts unless commanded
to, and this is another mans of signalling to
cognoscenti that you have a properly trained steed. I
had made a slight modification, however, in that
Blackie wore a helmet made of thin leather straps that
connected to a thin leather collar around his throat
by a strap at the back. He has to have his head
totally shaved for this to fit snugly, as you might
suppose, but you can see his normal colouring as I
allow him to keep a neatly trimmed patch of hair to
complement his dick, and his whitish-grey hair makes
an interesting contrast to the honey-glow of his now
completely tanned hide.

After I had adjusted bis bit and "Muffler" (the
technical term for the tongue depressing plate, that
stops him speaking), I moved my hand to the back of
his head and tightened this connecting strap a little,
so making him pull his head back: there's a terrible
tendency for ponies under stress to put their heads
and shoulders down to try to get more effort into
their locomotion, but I think this looks slovenly and
prefer to lose out a little on the power in favour of
having a pony stepping out with his head held high. I
do also attach blinkers to the helmet so that his
eyesight is severely restricted - not because I can't
trust him not to look around about him as he's
running, but because it again it signals to those
watching that I am a skilled rider: the pony and his
rider have to have complete confidence in each other
if the pony is to run at high speed over rough ground
when he can't see properly where he's going. The slave
has to rely on his master's signals and obey
implicitly, to avoid falling, and the master in turn
needs to understand the pony's strides, scan the
ground, and make the appropriate small course
corrections. Of course, if you're just out for a
gentle trot, you can always remove the blinkers and
then Blackie, like the exceptional slave he is, does
all the work for himself and I can sit back and enjoy
the countryside.

I suppose I'd better confess to you that I am a bit of
a softy at heart, in spite of my businesslike approach
to slave training - I'd let Blackie keep his balls!
One of the advantages of a "life" slave is of course
that his owner owns him totally and can order whatever
modifications he chooses to the slave's body, and as
such I could easily have had Blackie gelded. Most
owners of ponies do, of course, as it's considered
"kinder" to the pony not to have the balls swinging
freely as he runs, and possibly causing him pain as
they are unsupported. Frankly, I think that theory's
something from the past century! Scientific studies
have long since shown that the human body is designed
to run naked, and that it's only relatively recently
that athletes have felt the need for supporters,
briefs, and so on. Of course it's painful at first
when you start to run naked if you're used to having
your balls supported in a jock, but you soon
acclimatise. I tend to the view that keeping the balls
makes the pony more "alive" and frisky, and he works
harder for you - and, of course, you're saved the
expense of all those medications to keep him looking
like a real man by replacing the hormones lost when
his balls are sliced. But actually, this is all
"rationalisation" - I think the real reason is that I
like my own balls a lot, and I'd hate to lose them;
and at some point in Blackie's training I wondered how
he'd feel if I deprived him of this essence of his
manhood.

All in all, I felt pleased with Blackie and my hard
work had paid off, as I received numerous compliments
from my friends and acquaintances. I got into the
rickshaw, gave him a little caressing flick of the
whip across his butt to reassure him that I was in
charge, and shouted the traditional "Ride on!". All in
all, in spite of the gloomy outlook for the rest of
the day when I would have to make polite social
chit-chat, I felt pleased with life and my place in
it.

Oh, and before I conclude this first part of my
narrative, I know many of you are already calling your
slaves to take a note to me asking "Why 'Blackie'?"
Well, when I got his enslavement papers I saw his real
name was full of C's, Z's, W's and H's as those Slav
names tend to be. I did think of shortening it, but
there is of course the school of thought that says
that the newly enslaved adapt better to their new role
if they also get a new name. I sat with "Five Hundred
Slave Names" one night, trying out some suggestions
they made, but none seemed exactly right. I wandered
over to the stables to take another look at my pony,
perhaps to get inspiration, and found him fucking away
vigorously in his stall! I didn't disturb him, but
stood there quietly watching his magnificent butt
pound his dick up and down into the slave underneath
him - an then, whimsically, decided on "Blackie": it
is, after all, a traditional pony kind of name, and
the body underneath that was giving my new possession
so much excitement was decidedly black - and that's
fairly unusual as most black slaves fuck other black
slaves, and the whites fuck the whites, or so it seems
to me: there's relatively little racial crossover,
unless a master orders it to amuse himself.

End Of Part One