Date: Fri, 4 Aug 2006 03:16:56 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Falsely Enslaved, Part Ten

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  Ten


There's something that adds that extra spice of
eroticism to sex when you do it in your parents'
house, I've always thought:  I remember sneaking girls
in on long, hot lazy summer afternoons, then being
terrified that mom or dad might walk into my room
without knocking and find me riding her.  It all added
to the excitement and the challenge, and even a fairly
standard fumble could turn into something really
special as my ears strained to catch the creak of a
floorboard or the slamming of a car door that might
announce the presence of others in the house.

So too was it with fucking Jamie:  I had to wait until
mom and dad were probably asleep, then creep along the
hallway, terrified I'd be heard - I even started
carrying a book as some sort of pathetic cover story,
as I'd tell mom or dad that I was going to Jamie's
room to see if he had the sequel, or something by the
same author!  Well, as they wouldn't expect me to be
going there to fuck my brother, they'd accept that
kind of explanation without question.

Jamie didn't take it easily, though:  he's a sexy
little buggar, and he likes to throw himself about a
bit and make a lot of noise during sex.  After the
shock of me fucking him the first time, he quite
entered into the spirit of the "brotherly love" thing
though, and wanted to moan and cry as I entered him,
then shout out in time to my thrusts.  Well I couldn't
let him do that could I?  I mean, no way would mom or
dad believe me if they found me inside Jamie's ass and
I told them I was only there with him because I was
cold in my own bed, or my room (formerly Jamie's) was
too small for me and I missed my old room!  Well, I
suppose we might have got away with it if we'd both
got boxers and Ts on, but I like proper, raw,
skin-to-skin sex, so we were both totally bare in bed
together.  Consequently the second time I went to him,
before we started I stuffed my boxers into his mouth
as an impromptu gag - it's risky, though, as you do
then have to concentrate a bit on making sure the guys
isn't choking, so it takes away some of the fun;  but
on the other hand I could relax a bit more as I was
that little bit less concerned about mom or dad
disturbing us to find out what the noise was.

Look, I don't want you to think badly of me - I really
do love Sam, and there's no way I'm ever going to
leave him.  So fucking other guys is, you might say,
going a bit far!  But on the other hand what Sam and I
had was special, and a fuck is just a fuck, after all
:  Sam was my partner, my friend, my lover, my
confidante, everything;  Jamie or any other guy I fuck
is only that, a good fuck, a nice way of spending time
- I can never understand why people get upset when
their partners have been having sex with other people:
 it's just sex, after all, what the human body is
designed to do.  No way did I love Jamie in the same
way I loved Sam - I was just using his ass and
enjoying sex with him as he was the only available
male thereabouts with any kind of half-way reasonable
body.   I suppose I could have gone to the
disreputable bar that clung to business in the seedier
part of our little town, but the people there were
mostly on the lookout for women, and you know how long
they take to get to the point of agreeing to let you
fuck them.  There were some guys around - I saw some
older high school kids hanging around on the corner
one night and thought that a twenty would probably get
me at least a blow job, but I really like a good fuck,
and even if I could persuade one of those kids to open
up, where would we do it?  I've long since given up on
the uncertain pleasures of the grass in the park, or
up against a tree!  And the kids these days are anyway
so suspicious - I'd have to agree to use a condom, and
then, when I whipped it off before thrusting in to
him, there'd be all kind of shouting and argument
afterwards.  No, it was all too much trouble, and, as
I said,

Jamie was fit, kind of cute, and, most importantly,
available.  It also added a touch of excitement over
breakfast, as Jamie tried to discover if this was the
day mom intended to do the laundry - we made quite a
mess of his bed, of course, and it must be hard for a
young guy living at home to know his mom is probably
looking at his sheets as she changes the bed anyway,
and even a simple jerking off must need some effort to
catch the cum in toilet tissue or something.  But
there's no way she could fail to notice the big stains
of cum and shit all over his sheets after we'd been
going at it.  So when mom said it was laundry day,
Jamie bolted like a startled jackrabbit and reappeared
a few minutes later heading down to the washer in the
basement with his sheets.  Mom stopped reading the
paper for a moment, looked at dad, and said "Mark must
be a really good influence on Jamie!  That's the first
time since he' been living back here that he's ever
volunteered to help around the house.  You see, it's
as I said:  Mark has learned about how nice it is to
have a fine home from living in the south - it can't
be wholly bad - and he's being a good influence on
Jamie now."

I smiled (an inwardly almost fell about laughing) and
asked mom if I should go and fetch my sheets (which I
knew were pristine, of course), and she put her hand
down on top of mine a it rested on the table.  "No,
Mark.  You're the guest, and we won't have you for
long.  Just enjoy your stay, and have a relaxing time:
 I expect you have to work so hard back home with a
big house and all those grounds to look after."

Mom went out, and dad put down his paper.  He looked
at me, and I went to get up from the table.  "No,
Mark.  You and I need to talk.  When are you planning
on coming back home properly?  Your mother has been a
different woman these last two days, having you
here...."

"And you, dad?  How do you like having me home?"

"You're my son, Mark, you'll always be welcome here."

"A stock answer!  You've never really liked me, never
liked the things I do, or agreed that my plans were
OK.  All you ever did was to try and make me do well
at school, as you wanted me to graduate well, get a
'good' job....."

"It's what any father wants for his son."

"No it isn't, dad!  It's what you wanted for your son.
 Some fathers want their sons to grow up strong and
independent, and are proud when they make their own
way in the world, and do what they want....  You hated
it when I tried to take my freedom, and went off on my
bike...."

"And look where it got you!  Running  around naked,
treated like and animal....."

"....yes, but I survived it.  And found my life-long
partner.  And ended up rich.  But you don't care, do
you, dad?  You don't care that I'm happy now, that I'm
living my own life.  All you want me to do is to come
back here, and get a 'respectable' job."

My voice, which had started calm, was almost shouting
now.  I couldn't stop myself as I carried on "Well I'm
not coming back, not ever.  It's all washed up here.
There are no good jobs.  The fuel's running out and
the winter's are terrible.  And I can't bring my
partner here, not ever."

"You're being hysterical, Mark!  Of course you could
come and live here with your partner.  She'd always be
welcome, and your mom is looking forward to the
grandchildren.  We'd prefer she was your wife, and it
only has to be a small, simple wedding.... But if you
two don't want to marry, I think we can live with
that.

"Dad, my partner's a slave, and that's why we can't
come and live here in the north.  It's forbidden to
bring slaves out of the south.  If I was discovered
doing it, all my land and everything would be
forfeit."

Dad raised his eyebrows.  "It's very noble of you to
partner a slave, Mark!  I suppose it's a black
one...."

"Yes, actually, dad.  But you and mom always told me
not to be prejudiced."

"Quite so, son.  And your mother and I won't worry
about the prospect of having  dark grandchildren.  But
we would prefer you to marry- that is possible, in the
south, isn't it?"

"I don't know, actually.  I've no idea whether you an
marry a slave or not, but I think the answer's no.
And kids born to a slave or fathered by a slave are
themselves slaves of course.  But there aren't going
to be any grandchildren....."

"The purpose of marriage is the procreation of
children...", dad began, intoning those dreadful words
in the marriage ceremony with a  terrible solemnity.

"Dad, my partner's a guy, dad!  It doesn't matter
whether Sam is a slave or not - I can't marry him down
there, or even up here, as same sex marriages still
aren't legal anyway in the USA, unlike most civilised
places."

I thought dad was going to have a heart attack!
Finally he managed to splutter "Mark, you have truly
shocked me   I thought your mother and I had always
raised such a normal son, a bit wild, perhaps, but
perfectly normal!  And now you dare tell me that you
have been having relations with a man!  And a black
man, at that.  A Slave."

"Which of these is the problem, dad?  The slave, the
black, or the man?  You and mom always taught us not
to be prejudiced, and when I demonstrate it in the
most practical way possible, you seem upset...."

"Upset?   Upset? !  A son of mine being some sort of
disgusting pervert, consorting with an other man in a
totally unnatural way...."

"But you told us not to be prejudiced...."

"It's different when it's your own family, Mark!"

I gave a little shrug.  "You only discover the truth
about your friends and family when it really matters,
dad!  It's easy, isn't it, to be unprejudiced until it
matters to you personally.  Like all those folk who
are perfectly keen on integration, until a black comes
and lives next door to them.  You know what, dad?
You're a hypocrite!"

"How dare you call me that...."

"If the cap fits, wear it, as they say."

"I don't think I want you in this house, Mark.  It
will upset your mother terribly.  And I don't want you
spreading your vile ways to Jamie.  I suggest you
leave immediately, go back to the south, and your
lover..."  Dad almost spat out that last word, and I
was so  angry that for a moment I felt like telling
him that there was no risk of me corrupting Jamie, as
he'd long ago began to take dick.  But what was the
point?  There's no sense in arguing with rampant
prejudice, is there?  Nothing I could say would change
dad's mind, as he wasn't amenable to rational
argument, or even the emotional one that Sam and I
really loved each other.  So reluctantly and a little
sadly, I turned and stormed out of the room.

Mom was terribly upset when she saw me coming down the
stairs with my suitcase, and asked me what on earth
had going on:  dad had told her I was a disgusting
pervert.  So I stammered a few words about loving Sam,
and she kissed me softly.  "You'll always be my son,
Mark.  Your father's a difficult man, but he'll come
around in time.....  Take care, please.  And if you
truly love this man, that's all that matters....".
She hugged me, and we both had tears in our eyes.

I  didn't wait to see Jamie, but on my way in a cab to
the airport left a message on his voicemail telling
him that his secret was safe and that dad was only
pissed off with me, and knew nothing of Jamie's
enjoyment of proper sex, and suggesting he call me the
following day for the whole story.    There was of
course no problem in getting a seat on the next,
nearly empty plane  home, and taking a last look at
what used to be my home environment, but where I now
felt totally unwelcome, I went to go through security.

They still have all this rubbish at the airports even
though the number of passengers is so small and the
seats so expensive that terrorists would stand out a
mile, so I had to endure the indignity of having a man
sweep his hands over my body because I "bleeped" in
the machine.  Why they should think that someone like
me, so obviously wealthy , could possibly be a
terrorist, I don't know; it's time they started
thinking about who might be a criminal if you ask me,
and strip searching all the Arabs and such like,
leaving decent folk like me totally alone.

It must have been some deep memory in my body that
alerted me - I certainly hadn't taken as close look at
the man as he began his work - but I glanced down as
he knelt there bringing his hands up my calves,
patting and probing, and my dick gave an involuntary
twitch.  He carried on, telling me gruffly to raise my
arms so he could run his hands up my ribs inside my
jacket, and now I was looking at him closely:  there
as no doubt about it at all - he was the younger of
the two cops who'd taken me of my bike all those years
ago and who had sold me off to the slaver, Jed!  He
was  the one who'd undid my jeans and pulled down my
boxers to "show" me to Jed, and he'd knelt there to do
it on that day just as he had now knelt in front of me
to pat my legs in his odious search.

He'd changed a bit - as a cop, he'd been a trifle
overweight, but heavily muscles had showed through his
tight pants and his short sleeved shirt, and his hair
had been neatly cropped, and he was clean shaven.  Now
he looked as if he was definitely running to seed a
bit - there was clearly a roll of fat visible at his
waist on the cheap, mean, polyester uniform he now
wore, and he looked as if he generally did not take as
much care of himself.   His uniform shirt had a food
stain on it and there were some sweat marks at his
pits, his hair was long and kind of greasy, and I'm
sure he hadn't bothered to shave that morning.

I stood there wondering what to do, but he muttered
"You're clean.  On your way, bud." And when I
hesitated, he almost snapped "Move on!  We've got
proper work to do here you know." In a tone that
suggested he deeply resented the folk like me who had
nothing better to do than catch aeroplanes, even
though his job depended on us!  His broad southern
accent had mellowed a bit, but still sounded odd as my
ear was now once more tuned to the nasal twang of
Boston.  My mind raced - what should I do?  Call the
cops, and tell them he was an escaped criminal?  Or
perhaps I just could be mistaken - those big, southern
"cop" types were after all a not uncommon subset of
humanity, and maybe my mind was playing tricks on me
as I was still upset from that scene with dad.   So I
went on and boarded my flight, and was gratified to
find that it was a southern airline, and instead of
the ungenerous steward I'd had on the way up, my needs
were to be attended to by a young black slave - and
there was no doubt that I could if I wished now fondle
his enticing butt, as his uniform consisted only of a
tiny pouch in the airline's colours  to cover his
genitals, and a bow tie on a ribbon around his neck.
As well as the "S" burned into his butt there was a
motto tattooed "Here to serve".

The guy sitting next to me saw me looking in
astonishment, and asked "First time to the south?
Your first view of a slave?"

"Oh no, I live there.  Have several of my own.  I was
just surprised to see one here, given the attitude to
it up here - I thought it was illegal to take slaves
out of the south., and that he'd have the right of
sanctuary here...."

"I think it's some sort of agreement they negotiated -
they treat the aircraft like a ship, or an embassy -
it's  "flying the flag of the south" and remains part
of the south, even though it lands in the north.  So
our laws apply on board, and the airline can use
slaves - so much better than some of those
straight-assed stewards on the northern companies,
don't you think?"

"I agree - I went to stroke the butt of a cute steward
on the way up here, and he threatened me with jail!"

"No problem like that with this young beauty - I
travel this way occasionally, and I've decided that my
next job is going to be slave master for this airline
- judging from all the slaves I've seen, he must spend
all his time a the markets selecting absolutely the
choicest stock:  what a job, eh?  Inspecting all that
slave flesh to pick out the absolute best for cabin
crew...."

I smiled.  "Sure.  Problem is, I guess it pays
peanuts, so you'd never be able to afford to
travel..."

He laughed. "Who'd want to travel, when I could be in
the office administering the new employee tests?  I'd
almost pay them, never mind them giving me a salary."

I laughed, but went on, rather more seriously "But why
doesn't he escape, the moment he touched down at
Boston?"

"Part of the landing procedure:  when the Captain
announces 'Cabin Crew - ten minutes to landing' on the
way north, the cabin services director simply manacles
the slaves to the crew seats, then they're unlocked
when we're ready for takeoff on the way home.  Now, if
you'll excuse me......"   He pressed his call light,
and when the slave hurried up, the privacy curtain was
pulled around his enormous seat, and shortly I heard
the unmistakable sounds of lips slobbering up an down
a dick, accompanied by the sighs and moans of my
travelling companion.  I thought of taking a little
relief myself as there was a nice, very pale brown
nigga who came to offer me another glass of champagne,
who appeared to be pleasantly well hung as his tiny
pouch was bulging  with hidden delights, but I thought
of Sam waiting for me, and so did nothing except run
my hand over the nigga's butt, just for practice, as
you might say.

As soon as I got home - and my reunion with Sam at the
airport was ecstatic - I put a call in to Stu.  Our
rendezvous as I came off the flight was not something
I'd ever experienced before: to have a guy run up to
me and throw his arms around me and hug me and slap my
back.  I heard someone say as we were standing there
embracing that it was good to see a master who was so
good to his slave that the slave was delighted to see
him come home.  The lady's companion muttered "he's
some sort of wimp, who brings slavery into disrespect.
 A slave should be cowering in terror when his master
comes home, fearful that he'll be whipped because he
might have let standards slip in his master's absence.
 And if a master isn't like that, it  doesn't say much
for him:  a slave is a tool, after all, and if a
master doesn't use his tools properly....."  Still, I
didn't care - I just wanted to feel Sam's body
pressing into mine, to smell his sweat, to feel his
lovely breath against my skin.  I hadn't realised how
much I'd missed him.

Stu called me back when Sam and I were kissing and
cuddling on the couch later this evening, and I told
him I thought I'd seen the young cop at Boston.  I
heard him typing  away, and then he muttered "Yes, the
bureau's keeping track of him...."

"But why the fuck isn't he in jail, or on the slave
block for sale...?"

"Look, Steve, it's difficult..... When we realised
that you and the others had been falsely enslaved, we
mounted a huge operation to round up all the dealers,
slave trainers, and all the other involved people.  Of
course we had to ask the local cops for support as so
many places had to be covered and so many people were
involved.... And someone goofed as they asked the
local force where you were 'taken'.  The cops look
after their own, of course, and someone tipped off the
two who'd been taking guys like you - and they fled to
Mexico.  The older one died - he was humping some
whore or other and his heart gave out.  The younger
one couldn't find any work down there - well, there
isn't any, is there?  All the Mexicans come here,
always have.  So he scraped up every penny he had and
managed to get on a ship going to New York so he
didn't have to come through the south.  We know where
he is, as he was a bad cop and therefore always a
potential security risk....."

"So why don't you arrest him and bring him to trial?"

"Steve, there's no point, as it wouldn't work.  If we
arrested him in the north, they wouldn't extradite
him.  His lawyers would say that he was being
extradited to a state where slavery was legal, and
that the punishment for the crime of which he was
accused  is enslavement.... And therefore the
extradition would not be allowed.  And he can't be
tried in the north, as there was no crime committed
there!"

"Fuck me!  That's outrageous.  He's a known criminal,
and he's going Scot free. There's no justice in
it...."

"Steve, you have to accept that justice and the law
are different.  Justice is something we all
understand.  The law is a set of rules, a set of
complex rules, that lawyers play with."

We chatted a bit, and Stu promised to bring his new
wife down for a vacation with us, and I chuckled about
finding some afternoons when she could go to the
beauty parlour so Stu could have some real fun, and he
said that would be great.

That night, in bed, I could hardly focus on Sam as I
was so pissed off about the thought of that cop living
as a free man even though he was a criminal, I kept
thinking about it so much that I couldn't  even think
about how dad had treated me.  I suppose it was just
as well, actually, or else I'd have been consumed with
hate for dad and his prejudices, and for being so
two-faced about it all:  preaching tolerance and stuff
to us all his life, and then, when it mattered, being
like the rest of the world.   Sam did his best to
distract me - and his 'best' is truly excellent - so I
did eventually get to sleep, but the next morning I
was seething with impatience to "do" something about
the cop, and Sam and I jogged over to Dave's pace, as
he's a found of useful information about all matters
related to slavery.

He stopped checking his records with a slave when we
appeared - it must have been a morning for paper work
-  and at once called for cooling drinks and showed us
to a seat in the shade on his veranda.  I couldn't
help noticing how his eyes roamed up and down not only
Sam's body but my own - it was a hot morning so I'd
only bothered to pull on a pair of brief slave shorts,
like Sam's, and a small T that exposed my belly if I
moved.  Well, slave clothes are after all designed to
be light and airy so the slave can work easily in the
heat, and so if you want to go running they're not a
bad choice and one hell of a lot cheaper than the
fancy designer gear you see in the big sports shops.
I suppose they are designed to be a bit revealing,
though, as a master naturally wants to appreciate his
slave at work, but that's not a problem to me:  I
have, after all, got a nice body, and the tiny shorts
and T did emphasise my long muscular legs and my hard
flat belly; and I don't mind folk seeing the outline
of my dick as, well, as you know, I've got nothing to
be ashamed of!  Dave carried on looking, though, and
as I sat there and stretched my legs out I suspected
he was trying to sneak a peak up the legs of my
shorts:  if he wasn't married to Sheila, I'd have
thought that he fancied my body, actually.  But then
the thought occurred to me that being married had
nothing to do with it if he was contemplating just a
"bit of fun on the side", as so many married men do.
Perhaps Sam and I ought to ask him over for an
evening's poker - strip poker, that is!

Still, we sat and talked and Dave gave me a wealth of
information about slave transporters, slave cages, the
effects of shipping slaves immobilised, and all that
sort of stuff.  Sam sat there and listened, and I
could see him looking curiously at me from time to
time, wondering why I needed all this information.  We
jogged home - or, rather , ran, as Sam said I was
getting out of condition and needed to work a lot
harder, and when I failed to keep up with him he
pulled a switch from a bush and came up behind me and
started to hit my butt and back.... It didn't hurt -
well, not as much as a carriage whip - but with Sam
shouting "run you idle fucker" like Brett used to
sometimes, and with the feel of the switch on my skin,
it somehow made me determined to run in step with Sam
just as we been made to as ponies.  So when we got
home I was really tired, and almost collapsed.  Sam
raced me down to the lake, though, and we threw
ourselves in and swam a bit, then, floating close
together, lazily treading water and enjoying the feel
of each other as we kissed and stroked our dicks under
the water, he suddenly asked "So what the fuck was all
that about?"

"What?"

He squeezed my balls, and laughed.  "Cut the crap,
Steve.  Assuming you're not planning to sell me and
ship me off in a crate, what was all that earlier....?
Come on, the truth, or else I'll squeeze a little
harder...."

"What makes you think I'm not going to sell a slave
who hits his master, and who hurts his balls....?"

"Because you like it!  And you deserve it - you know
it's good for you to exercise properly.... Now, come
on, cut the crap."

Over the next few weeks as I firmed up my plans and
acquired stuff and prepared to leave for Boston, Sam
begged and pleaded with me to give up on the scheme
I'd planned.  He was terrified that I'd fail, and get
caught, and then our life would be over:  he begged
and pleaded with me to stop, as if I was caught I'd
surely be imprisoned in the north for many, many
years, and he couldn't even visit me "even if they
don't the sue you for enormous damages, and I get sold
off as part of your chattels", he added.  I hugged him
and it was almost with tears in my eyes that I told
him there was nothing on this earth I valued more than
his love, but there were some things that a man had to
do if he was to be a man.  "You love me for what I am,
Sam.  Not just for my body, but for me, the person who
is Steve.  And I can only be that person if I do the
things that I hold dear, the things that are critical
to my life.  You don't want to be with someone who's a
wimp, someone who has a burning hate inside him that's
consuming him but which he lacks the courage to do
something about.....  So you see, Sam, it's for us
that I have to go and do this....  If I don't, there
is no 'us', a the Steve part of the 'us' wouldn't be
the Steve that you love.  As John Wayne used to say,
'a man has to do what a man has to do', and I'm a man,
Sam, and I have to go and do this."

Sam shook his head slowly, as if denying my words.
His eyes were filled with tears, and he whispered
"These fucking slavery laws, Steve.... I ought to be
there, at your side...  I ought to be fighting with
you:  I was a marine, and I can handle trouble.... "

"I know, Sam.  But there's no point in making a bad
situation worse... What I'm going to do is risky, but
even trying to take me with you would just double it.
You're doing all you can, Sam, with your love and
support.  Now, look after things here whilst I'm away,
so I don't have to worry about the other slaves
fucking things up, so I need to spare not even a
moment's effort in thinking about or worrying about
everything that's going on here."

Sam and I journeyed almost in silence to the airport,
and I kissed him in the taxi and asked him not to come
in to the terminal for a final farewell.  "I need to
start my mission here, Sam.  I need to be tough and
strong, and leave behind everything else.  This is a
kind of 'cut off', Sam:  the current Steve and my life
with you is here and now.  And when I step out of this
taxi, the new Steve has to take over.  Help me
here....."

Sam kissed me, deeply, and toyed with my dick through
my pants.  "Come back to me, Steve.  Whatever else you
do, do that."

I got out and walked in to the terminal and never
looked back - if I had, and had seen Sam still there,
I don't think I would have go on.  But this is
something I had to do, to do for myself.

My mood on the flight was calm and severe, to the
extent that I don't even remember whether it was a
cute northern boy in tight pants or a nearly-naked
nigga who served me.  In Boston I visited the
companies I had dealt with on the internet and phone,
and my plan started to roll.  I hung around the
airport as much as I could - even in my expensive
clothes, the hysteria surrounding potential terrorist
attacks still persisted and I couldn't go there too
often or stay too long.  But I located the ex-cop on
duty, and discovered his hours.  I lurked in the back
recesses of the terminal to find out where the bus for
the staff parking left from.  He wasn't on it, so he
must take the subway somewhere, so the next day I was
on the platform... And my heart almost skipped a beat
when he appeared, still looking vaguely scruffy in
cheap clothes and seeming to be rather downtrodden and
weary.  I followed him on to the train and got off at
the same station, watched as he downed a couple of
beers in a seedy neighbourhood bar (a very poor
neighbourhood, full of blacks and Mexicans), and then
as he crammed a disgusting burger in his face, before
trudging along the mean streets to a grungey,
broken-down apartment building.

The next night I was waiting for him in the shadows
outside the apartment.  As he fumbled with the key, I
crept up behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck
and pulled, so he couldn't breathe, and my other hand
went up to his face with the rag soaked in the slave
drug that Dave had told me about.  As I released the
pressure on my arm, he sucked in a great gasp of
air... and collapsed.

I was at the biggest risk as I had to drag his inert
form into the back of my hired truck - there weren't a
lot of people about, but he was heavy as he was a big
guy, and it took some time.  But once inside I began
to feel safe:  I cuffed his arms and legs, and managed
to get one of the special slave gags in to this mouth
and secured behind his head - the kind that keeps the
mouth wide open with a big "O" ring, but which makes
it impossible for the slave to make a noise because of
the tongue plate:  you usually use them when you want
to cum or piss into the mouth of a reluctant slave,
but for my purposes they were excellent as they
ensured silence and minimised the risk of suffocation.
   I thought about stripping him before stuffing his
body into the crate I'd purchased:  he'd certainly
need to piss on the journey, and maybe even to crap,
and it would be kinder to him if he could do that
without clothes on - but there was little enough time
as it was, and, after all, look at what he'd put me
through, so I didn't.

The crate was filled with small plastic balls so that
his body was supported and he couldn't move around,
but air could flow in - provided he didn't need too
much.  I screwed down the lid, checked the address was
correct, and drove to the 24 hour a day UPS depot.

It was out of my hands now.  If UPS fucked up, if he
vomited and drowned in his own vomit, if the customs
officers were very vigilant at the border....   Still,
I'd done all I could.

I was very careful to "clean up", returning my rental
pickup, throwing away the clothes I'd bought to wear
on my mission, and finally returning to the expensive
hotel I was checked in to for a shower and long call
to Sam.  I had a limo to he airport for the morning
flight home, and was so relieved that, like my
companion on the last flight, I pulled the privacy
curtain around my seat and availed myself of the
nigga's soft, sensitive mouth to relieve my throbbing
dick.   I'd told Sam not to come to the airport as he
needed to be at our place to receive my crate, so
there was perhaps some justification in my use of the
nigga as I wouldn't be home all that early (hey - why
do  I need to justify this to you, or anyone?  It was
only a bit of casual sex, after all, nothing
serious!).

Back at our place I was too anxious to be able to
focus on Sam or, indeed, on anything.  I was like a
bear with a sore head pacing around nervously.  I kept
checking the progress of my UPS crate as it edged its
way across the country (although I could have afforded
it, I'd thought the rare and extremely expensive air
freight might have attracted too much attention).  Sam
tried his best, but ultimately kept out of my way, as
I snapped at him every  time he made some sensible
suggestion, like going for a run to release the
tension.

It finally appeared late at night, and I was in a
fever of excitement as I checked to see if my security
tags were intact - they were, and I began to relax a
little.  Sam and I dragged it out to the barn, and
then we opened it - it had been deliberately designed
to be difficult to open to deter casual thieves, and
it took us quite a time.  There was a faint movement
in the plastic spheres then, which gave me some hope
that the cop was alive, and we scooped them away so we
cold get to the cuffed figure near the bottom:  he had
indeed soiled himself, as I'd expected, so it wasn't
pleasant, but at least he seemed to be alive.  Sam and
I pulled him out and he had difficulty standing, and I
did feel desperately sorry for the poor guy as I could
imagine how he was hurting - but then I remembered
what he'd done to me, what I'd had to endure, and felt
less bad about it.

Sam uncuffed him and he stood there rubbing at his
wrists and ankles and trying to stand, still.  I
ordered him to take his disgusting clothes off, and he
stood there looking totally bewildered.  Even when I
pointed out that they were soiled, he made no move to
do it - although perhaps the thought of having his
soiled body exposed was even worse!  So Sam did it,
with a harp knife, totally ignoring the cop's protests
as he stumbled around.  And it was Sam, too, who used
the hose to clean him up and at least make it so that
he no longer smelled so vile.

He stood in front of me then, perhaps an inch taller
than me, but not in such good general condition:  I
could see his fat belly and his tits were beginning to
sag, but nothing, I reckoned, that some good exercise
couldn't cure.  He made a feeble attempt to shield his
dick and balls with his big hands but I commanded him
to move them to his side, and when he hesitated, Sam
stepped over to him and slapped his face.   He was
nicely hung -  once a lot of the thick thatch of his
pubes was removed, he'd be better.

"You're a slave now", I told him.  "Do you remember
how one night you and your partner pulled a young guy
off his bike, and sold him to the man you called Jed?
Well, now you're in the same position:  I've taken a
lot of trouble to acquire you, and tomorrow we'll
start your journey into slavedom.  You'll sleep
chained up in here tonight, and I'm leaving your gag
in as I don't want you disturbing my pony who also
sleeps in here.  You can drink through the gag, but
I'm not feeding you - you're going to lose that
flabbiness and I'm going to turn you into something a
little more pleasing to the eye.  I'd ask you if there
were any questions you had, but now you're a slave,
that doesn't apply:  slaves don't have questions!"

He tried to say something, and failed of course.  Sam
pushed him rather authoritatively into one of the far
bays of the barn, and I watched as Sam locked an ankle
cuff around his ankle with the other end secured to
one of the shacking eyes in the floor.  We left him
with a bucket of water, and went back to the house.

As we lay in bed, Sam asked me what I was going to do
next, and I shrugged.  My planning hadn't gone further
than capturing him and bringing him here.  "You can
turn him over to the authorities", Sam commented.
"Didn't your mate Stu say that he could be prosecuted
here?  That might be best - after all, he doesn't know
where he is, we could drive him fifty miles and leave
him somewhere trussed up with a note referring to his
past crimes....."

I nodded.  "That would certainly be one way.  And he'd
probably end up as a slave.  But I want him not only
to be a slave, but to know that he's been falsely
enslaved.  He did it to me, and it's only right he
gets the same in return."

"You're taking a big risk, Steve - if you're found
out, won't you be guilty, as he is?"

I just shrugged.  You need to take risks, to get
rewards.

End Of Part Ten