Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2006 22:41:19 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Falsely Enslaved, Part Two

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

A story in two parts.  Part Two.

After the way we'd been bundled in the back of an SUV
to be brought to this dealer, I assumed that the
distinguished man and his son would take us away there
and then in much the same way.  But as Sam and I
watched, they shook hands with tan suit, and left.
The goons pushed us back into the display window, and
we now had the added humiliation of having a big
"Sold!" label slapped across it, and as I deciphered
the backwards writing I saw "Why not drop in? Other
fine slaves like these could be yours."  It was just
as if we were animals on sale in a pet store - now the
current crop of puppies or kittens had been sold, you
could come in to see the next lot.

Once it was dark, though, and the passing pedestrians
had really thinned out, the real purpose of our stay
was revealed:  tan suit was chuckling to one of his
lieutenants about the additional profit he'd made on
us by taking money from our new owners to have the vet
come in and circumcise us!  Sam and I both shouted
that he couldn't have something like that done to us,
and he just went on laughing, telling his lieutenant
that we had typical new slave behaviour, and that we
clearly hadn't yet understood that an owner could have
what he liked done to us - that was the meaning of
life for a slave, to be totally under the control of
someone else, so totally under control that these
modifications to our most intimate parts could be
carried out.

They dragged Sam out first and strapped him down on
one of the "horses" that have so many uses in the
control and punishment of slaves, as I was to find
out, and it was even worse than I thought, if you can
imagine such a thing.  Tan suit was still sniggering
about how he'd made a vet's fee on the side, as he did
"little things" like this himself:  I watched as he
tore open the paper on a disposable scalpel, and went
to work on Sam's dick.

Men aren't supposed to scream and cry, especially not
men who were marines.  But when my turn came I
understood why Sam had made such a fuss.  I don't
think it's because he used the same bloodstained
scalpel on me as he had on Sam, and it must have been
that little bit blunter.  No, it's that your dick is
just so sensitive, especially when they slice around
underneath where the little triangular thing is
underneath.  My whole body was arching and spasming in
a futile effort to escape, but it was absolutely no
good of course, as once the belly and thigh straps on
a "horse" are tightened around you, and your wrists
and ankles are cuffed to the legs, there's not a
fucking thing you can do about it.

Later in my career I asked why slaves weren't given
anaesthetic when stuff like this was done to them, and
the overseer I was talking to shrugged as if it was a
a matter of no great importance.  I learned that it
was considered better for slaves to feel the pain of
stuff like branding, piercing and 'skinning, as it
helped their brains to understand that they were now
totally controlled by their owners.  "And, anyway,
most of them make so much fuss over almost nothing,
just a some momentary, passing discomfort", he went
on:  I wish I could have held him down there and then
and taken a scalpel to his foreskin, and showed him
what  "almost nothing" was!  And he went on to say
that it was another instance of the law of unintended
consequences in operation - some do-gooders had
decided that injections should only be carried out by
properly qualified veterinarians:  far from preventing
suffering by making sure trained vets did this kind of
thing, dealers and owners now simply did small
operations themselves without anaesthesia.

Sam and I were put back into the window/cage after
that, a scrap of plaster around the end of our dicks
now being the only evidence of the removal of one of
our signs of manhood.   The United Nations long ago
said that female circumcision was a crime against
humanity, but Sam and I had lost our 'skins just as if
it was totally unimportant. We lay there on the straw
in silence, almost - I was afraid that if I opened my
mouth I'd start to whimper as my brand, and now my
dick, was hurting so much, and I didn't want to appear
weak to Sam.  Of course it didn't occur to m that Sam
might be feeling the same way, and so we lay there
unable to comfort each other with even a few words.
In the middle of the night, though, we were both
awake:  I needed to pee, and there didn't seem to be
any provision for it in the window, so I had to ask
Sam to move so that  I could do it into the straw in
one corner.  Once I'd done it - the piss started the
sharp, searing pain in my dick all over again - Sam
decided he needed to, too. He knelt there, his back to
me, as he pissed into the corner, and I couldn't help
admiring his broad shoulders and the way that his body
tapered down to his narrow waist before flaring out
into his butt.  It was interesting, too, to observe
the paler skin on the soles of his feet, as Sam really
was otherwise a very dark black all over:  you see it
on their hands, of course, but it had never occurred
to me that the soles of their feet were like that,
too.

The stench of Sam's piss was very strong in the
confined space, and he came and sat beside me and
muttered a few words of apology for it - well, he
couldn't help it, could he?  And I guess mine was much
the same.  We sat there peering out into the dark
street with only the occasional car going past, and
speculated on where they were going.  We agreed that
it wasn't so long ago that we might have been out late
like that - we'd have been in a bar, chatted up some
woman all evening, and then might finally have got her
to agree to sex, and we'd be on our way to her place
or ours.  We had to stop talking like that, though, as
it made our dicks hard, and as they stretched and
grew, the pain from our 'skinning got worse and worse.
 Sam laughed, actually, and said he thought it made a
pretty good contraceptive:  if a guy got a pain in his
dick every time it went erect, there'd be a lot less
screwing going on.

We hadn't been fed at the dealer, and in the morning,
although we were given water, there was still no food.
 Sam reckoned it was not only to weaken our general
resolve, but also to make it less likely that we'd
need to crap. As he pointed out, it was pretty
disgusting when we'd had to piss in that cage, and it
would have been infinitely worse if we'd needed to
crap.  I sat there almost stunned - it was another
revelation about life as a slave:  I mean, crapping is
kind of private, isn't it?  Guys don't mind pissing in
a line in a public rest room (and most of us even
sneak a peek at the guys next to us to compare dicks,
don't we?), but the thought of crapping in public was
awful.  Sam kind of shrugged, though, and said that in
the marines' barracks the lavatory bowls were
generally not in cubicles, and you got used to it: I
could only hope he was right.

We stank a bit, I suppose, with the sweat from not
having showered or anything for more than a say, and
our sweat had that extra note to it that comes from
fear and pain.  And my face was all scratchy and
almost itching from not having shaved.  But mid
morning, when Sam and I were crouched at the far
corner of our cage as the sun coming in through the
big class windows was unpleasantly hot, the goons
appeared and unlocked the cage door and told us to
come out one by one.   As was becoming familiar by now
my hands were cuffed behind me, and Sam and I were led
out the back - we were expecting to see our new owner,
I suppose, but instead it was a UPS truck there, and
the driver was completing  the paperwork for us.
Well, to them, I suppose we were just "goods" to be
delivered, and that meant that you needed to be signed
for and stuff, just like a normal package.  But to me
it was another sign that my normal life was ebbing
away - no free man would be monitored like that, after
all.

Inside the truck there was racking along  one side
with packages of various sizes piled up, and on the
other very small cages, smaller than shower cubicles.
Two were empty, but the remainder were filled with
slaves - once Sam and I had been locked into the empty
cages, I turned to the guy next to me and was filled
with horror:  he was really big, but a deathly pale
white all over except for the rash of really ugly
tattoos all over his skin - bit swirls, terrible
expletive words, and crude diagrams of cocks and
balls, covered him.  I saw huge, ugly patches of hard,
scabbed and scarred skin on his elbows and knees, and
the moment the truck started into life, he thrust his
hard dick at me through the bars separating us.  I
could hardly move away as the cage was so small, and
he was getting more and more excited as his dick
touched my skin.  I shouted at him to leave me alone,
but that only seemed to excite him more and he thrust
his big, calloused hands through the bars to try and
grab me and pull me even closer.

"Punch him in the balls!", Sam shouted to me as he saw
my plight.  Look, I've never done anything like that
at all, not ever, but his big hands were all over me,
and he was trying to turn me around to get his dick at
my ass.  All the time he was making  strange, excited
grunting noises, and I was terrified.  Mustering all
the energy I had, I bent slightly, as much as  I could
within the confines of the cage, and struck out at him
through the bars.  His terrible moaning went up a
pitch or two, and his grip on me relaxed, and he stood
there then for quite a long time making strange,
almost unearthly whimpering.  I thought he must be
some sort of imbecile, being transported to a lunatic
asylum to be locked away so he was no danger to
anyone, but Sam explained it all.  The big men in
there were miners, he thought, being taken from one
mine to another for some reason - they were deathly
white because normally they never came above ground,
spending their entire lives deep in the depths of the
earth, and the crude tattoos all over him were "home
made", as doing that to each other was the only form
of amusement, other than sex, that they had.  That
explained all the callouses and big patches of hard
skin on his knees and elbows, too (and on his back, I
saw, as he now turned away from me and was attempting
to fuck the guy on the other side of him, who was not
resisting).  "He probably spends his entire life
crawling on his hands and knees through very small
tunnels", Sam explained.  "I saw a program on TV about
it - the productivity of the mines has soared as they
now no longer need to dig big, wide roadways, as the
slaves can crawl along pulling the tubs of soil behind
them - and the poor guys' backs suffer, too, from
scraping along the ceiling".  Sam also pointed out
that it wasn't considered necessary for slaves like
that to be able to speak, and, indeed, that the mine
owners considered that it might even stop them working
by engaging in idle chatter;  so slaves sold for
mining generally had their tongues cut out.  I
shuddered, and I didn't know which I thought was the
worse - being muted like that, or being so desperate
to have sex that I'd even do it to a complete stranger
through the bars of a cage in a slave transporter.

Fortunately our trip didn't seem to be too long -
there was no airconditioning in there, and as the sun
warmed the metal of the truck, it became almost
unbearable hot.  As I said, I was a bit rank already,
but the miner guy next to me positively stank.  And he
seemed to be totally unconcerned about personal
hygiene, as I heard him start to piss - I hated it, as
I could feel the stream hitting the floor then rolling
along and wetting my feet!  But there was no way of
avoiding it, as the cages was so small there was
nowhere I could move to.  He grunted away, though,
emptying his bladder, and in the dim light I saw him
start to crouch, as much as was possible - and drop a
huge turn onto the floor between his feet!  The smell
was awful, and I felt myself begin to gag and wretch.
Sam put his hand through the bars and tried to hold
me, to comfort me, and pointed out that it wasn't the
salve's fault, as down the mines there were no
lavatory facilities of any kind to save the expense of
having to pump it all to the surface, and so he
imagined that miners just got used to doing these
things where ever it was easiest for them.

When the truck eventually stopped, we emerged blinking
into the strong sunlight, to find ourselves ins some
sort of enclosed yard - low buildings stretched around
three sides, and a wall with a huge pair of high gates
enclosed the other.  There were guards, in smart
"uniforms" of dark khaki shorts and matching
short-sleeved cotton shirts, embroidered with "Walker
Plantation" and the man's name underneath.  A thick
leather belt around their waist held assorted whips,
tawses, a short club, cuffs, and, inevitably, I
suppose, what I now recognised as a slave prod.  Their
matching black leather boots were highly polished (no
problem, as there was a slave assigned to do this, I
subsequently discovered), and they wore khaki forage
caps to shield them from the sun.

A tall, lean man in jeans and a crisp white
short-sleeved shirt was scribbling his name
impatiently on our delivery documentation, and, when
he'd finished, and the UPS van drove away, he came
over to where Sam and I had been herded by a guard.
He looked Sam and me up and down, then spoke.  I don't
think I'm investing him with characteristics he didn't
display when I say it was harsh, and cold, and rather
cruel.  "You are at Walker Plantation now, and I am
Frank Straughan, Mister Walker's overseer and slave
master.  You will of course always call me 'sir'.  Mr
Walker has just under three hundred slaves here
working  the fields to produce high-quality fruit and
vegetables:  he is proud of his ecological record, as
none of the earth's precious resources of oil are used
in cultivation, all the work being done by slaves.  In
fact, it's a selling point for our produce, as it has
the prized 'We care for the earth' logo on it."

I remembered mom saying how she always was prepared to
pay that little bit extra on the price of produce at
the market with that symbol on it, as it was so
important to do all we could to help save the planet.
I wondered if she really knew what that implied,  and
that she was supporting this cruel life in the South
by her actions, but Straughan was going on "We have
only one rule here:  slaves obey, or are punished.
There are several other rules that flow from that, for
example, 'slaves do not speak unless spoken to, and
then only to answer the guard'.  'Slaves work at their
assigned task for as long as ordered ,and always work
as hard as they can.'  And, perhaps obviously, 'Slaves
do not escape.'  Failure to obey any of these rules
results in punishment - and you two should know that
the punishment for attempted escape is, invariably,
death.  It's not much of a problem for our regular
slaves as they are coffled when working and the coffle
chain is more or less unbreakable.  But you two are, I
am told, a present from Mr Walker for young master
Brett, and are to become his ponies.  Theoretically,
therefore, you could try to make a break for it, but I
would advise you to think carefully about it:  our
last failed escapee took two days to die on the cross,
as that is the customary method of disposing of slaves
who are so rebellious."

He turned to go, and I blurted out "Please, Mr
Straughan, I'm not a slave, and neither is Sam here.
We were captured by slavers, illegal slavers, and
we're free men....."

Straughan snapped orders to the guards, and Sam and I
were hustled along behind him into one of the low
buildings.  It was a bare space, with a concrete floor
leading to a drain hole in the middle to make for easy
hosing down an cleaning, and there were various
curious devices standing around.  Straughan told them
to fasten me to a "horse" - one of the very strong,
"industrial" models, and the undid my cuffs, threw me
down onto the hard metal surface, and snapped the
ankle and wrist holders closed.

"Leave his body free", Straughan said to the guard.
"He's new, and needs to feel how impotent he is when
he's on the horse - the more he thrashes around, the
more he begins to realise he is totally powerless."
He came to my face then and said calmly "You didn't
listen, did you, boy?  I had just told you that slaves
do not speak unless spoken to, and that infractions of
the rules are punished."

"But I'm not a slave, I was captured illegally....."

"We do not tolerate sedition here, either.  How dare
you suggest that Mr Walker would engage in any
practice that might be illegal.  That deserves a
second round of punishments."  I carried on
protesting, but he simply walked off, over to the
wall, and I saw him starting to select from a range of
canes that were all lined up on a purpose-build
holder.  He took one and swished it a few times
through the air, and rejected it.  Then a second,
which seemed to be satisfactory.

I heard the swish of the cane the instant before my
body exploded into pain.  I stopped protesting my loss
of freedom as a terrible scream ripped out of my
throat.  And as the cane fell again and again across
my butt I knew I was howling senselessly and
incoherently - Straughan didn't care what I said
anyway.

The agony stopped, and, almost as it I was an
observer, rather than a participant, I heard myself
sobbing uncontrollably.  Straughan said quietly
"Slaves who disobey are punished.  That is your first
lesson."  But I was unwise enough to manage to force
out "But I'm not a slave.", and saw Straughan shrug.
The next ten strokes were on the back of my thighs,
and if the pain from my butt was bad, that from my
taught-stretched thighs was simply indescribable.
When he'd finished, Straughan asked quietly "Anything
else to say, slave?".   My monosyllabic "No" (I'd
judged it wiser to try to get a message to the police
via a delivery man, or someone, whenever  I could)
caused two more strokes to my butt, followed by
Straughan saying, again in that quiet, cruel tone
"Remember what  I said about addressing your
superiors, boy?  Try that again - have you anything
else to say?".  I managed a "No, sir", and once more
felt my freedom slipping imperceptibly away as I
acknowledged the rules of the system under which I was
now living.

We didn't see Mr Walker, or Brett, for the next two
weeks - one of the other slaves thought they might be
on vacation somewhere like Europe.  Straughan used the
time to get us "really into shape", as he called it.
I thought I was in good condition from all the sport I
did, and Sam's body looked fine as I've told you, and
life as a a marine must have anyway been hard.  But we
both learned differently at the plantation - with all
those slaves, it was worthwhile to have a special
"training facility" to get new slaves who might be
overweight, or under developed, or both, into a proper
state to work very hard.  Only a small adaptation to
the settings and timings of the exercise machines was
necessary to take two fit, muscular guys and turn them
into exceptionally fit, and even more muscular, men.
We soon learned that it was required that we drove our
bodies to exhaustion, and then beyond that,  if we
were to avoid the electric shocks and other
punishments that the machines could deliver once we
were fixed into them.

Straughan had also identified that I was not properly
tanned, and my skin had been artificially coloured
after my capture, and so some part of this unremitting
work was in the full heat of the sun - Sam was there,
too, as even deeply dark niggas will go a shade or two
blacker when fully exposed.  I heard Straughan telling
one of the guards that exercising in the sun meant
that all parts of me got the same even colour, and it
was a pity that all those idle people who lay by the
side of a pool didn't realise that.  His timing was
erratic, though, and on several nights both Sam and I
lay there in our stall in the stables trying to rub
cool water from our drinking trough over those patches
of skin that were burning.  Yes, we were in the
stables:  regular field hands were housed in large
dormitories, but as trainee ponies we merited a stall
in the stables, along with the two sets of dray slaves
who pulled the farm carts around, and a long-limbed
slave who pulled Mr Walker's trap when he went on
inspections tours of the place.  Straughan had his own
pony who worked probably harder than any of the others
- a black-eyed Mexican of about thirty five with
muscles of steel, as he almost never stopped during
the day as Straughan constantly patrolled the place,
making sure everything was running like clockwork.  He
often told us how he missed his family, and how he
constantly rued the day when he'd decided to enter the
USA illegally and had been picked up by the border
patrol, to be sold off to help defray the enormous
expense of patrolling the border properly.

We were chained into our stall each night with a short
chain attached to a manacle around our ankle - we
could move around, but not leave the stall and could
therefore only shout to the other guys in the stables
once the doors had been closed for the night (earlier
on we remained silent in case Straughan came on an
inspection tour, before or after his dinner).  As
these things go our stall wasn't all that bad - there
was enough room for Sam and me to move around, and lie
without touching each other.  The straw was reasonably
high quality and therefore quite soft (hard straw is
no fun to sleep on, as the sharp ends stab at you all
night), and it was changed once a week.  We had water
always available in our little trough, and a hole in
the corner allowed us to piss or crap without soiling
our quarters.  It could be unpleasantly hot when we
were first taken in there in the evening after the sun
had been on the building all day, but we got to
understand that this was not necessarily undesirable
as the evenings and nights could be cold down there,
and without clothing or covering of any kind, we knew
it:  the residual heat made it at least bearable!

Master Brett was waiting when we were brought out one
morning - we were hosed down by the stable slaves and
shaved as part of the normal morning routine , which
included giving us our bowl of slave chow which was
all the nourishment we were allowed until the evening.
 Straughan was there, his cane and slave prod at the
ready, and so we knew we needed to behave.  Brett was
like a kid with a new toy - he was seething with
excitement as he ran his hands all over our bodies,
and complimented Straughan on how fit we were and how
his initial training had "brought us on" from when
he'd seen us at the dealer.  I had to stand there as
this eighteen year old then reached down for my dick
and fingered it all over, almost bubbling with
excitement as he told Straughan that whoever had
'skinned me had done a "fucking great job" as there
were no unsightly scars, and when my dick was just
hanging there, no unpleasant folds of skin were now
visible.  "It's true what they say in 'Slave Owner
Monthly'", he added.  "A slave does look so much
better 'skinned  - it's aesthetically more
interesting, and an owner deserves to be able to see
all of his purchase - I don't want my slaves to think
they can conceal any part of themselves from me!"

"I've kept them totally shaved, as you asked",
Straughan interjected, but your instructions about
their hair in your e-mail were a little unclear, and I
did not wish to spoil the effect you had in mind:  we
can take them back inside in a moment and have them
cut as you wish.  And, of course, there's the question
of owner's introductions - I assume you will be doing
it, as is customary?"

We saw Brett nod, and Straughan and he walked back
into the stables, followed by us and a guard.  There
was indeed some discussion about our haircuts - we'd
been given an all-over crop by the odious Jed, and now
Brett wanted us to have a three-inch wide "Mohican"
down the centre, with the rest shaved off.  He'd
planned to let this grow long, especially down the
neck as he told Straughan he thought it looked good to
see a slave's hair wet with his sweat, and "a pony
slave looks good with a kind of mane".  Straughan
pointed out, though, that Sam's hair would never do
that as it was short and very curly, "like a typical
niggas's", and that therefore if Brett wanted a
matched pair, mine would need to remain short.  Brett
then had the stable slave brush fierce straightening
gel in to Sam's head, and the poor guy cried out when
a moment's inattention caused a trickle of it to run
down into his eyes.  Even such a legitimate complaint
caused Straughan to strike him on the shoulders with a
tawse, though, and I heard Brett say  "Well done,
Straughan!  They need to learn that ponies are silent.
 I had in fact considered having them muted."

A wave of cold horror went through me as I heard this
- I remembered the way that miner had had his tongue
cut out.  I mean, it can't be right to take away a
man's prime means of communication with his fellows,
can it?  Fortunately, though, Straughan replied that
although this was easily possible  - and the local vet
was quite expert at slicing the vocal chords and often
did it for slaves used in the boudoir of local ladies
to prevent tittle-tattle about what they got up to, he
didn't recommend it as our value would be radically
decreased.   Brett thought for a moment, and responded
"Good thinking, Straughan - I'm supposed to be adding
value to these guys as part of the deal with my father
to have two, rather than one, so I'll have to rely on
their bits in normal usage:  I saw a fantastic double
one in a store at Atlanta Airport when we changed
planes to come home, and we'll try it out later."  How
easily these southerners, apparently used to owning
and controlling slaves, took these fundamental
decisions about the way they could treat our bodies.

The morning was far from over for us yet, though.
Straughan now asked Master Brett if he was indeed
going to exercise his owner's rights over us.  I saw
the kid look at us, and he ran his hands over Sam's
butt as if thinking hard, before muttering "No,
Straughan:  in 'Southern Slave Owner' they say that
whereas a gentleman has a right to use any slave he
chooses, 'good manners' suggest that those who are
trained as animals are unsuitable.  I mean, a
gentleman would not fuck a sheep, or a pig, would he?
So in polite society it's not considered good form to
use pony slaves for anything other than proper pony
work."

Straughan stuck his thumbs into the loops holding his
belt and sort of paced around: "I don't like to
dispute with you, Brett, and maybe these folks at
'Southern Slave Owner' know what they're talking
about, but I've got a lot of practical experience of
breaking and training slaves, and my experience is
that the sooner you get a slave broken in to sex
properly, the better.  It makes for a much more
harmonious working environment, when the slaves know
and understand each other - and what better way of
getting them started than to let them see how their
owner uses them?"

"I'm sorry, Straughan, but it would be death if it was
ever discovered I'd had relations with my pony - it's
a very small world, you know, and this sort of thing
gets out.  But I agree with you that these two need
sex:  fine strapping men like these need every part of
them exercised, and it's no good me having them as
ponies with magnificent sculpted bodies if their dicks
are all shrivelled up with lack of use."

I wanted to shout out that of course my dick wasn't
under used - what in Christ's name did he think most
single guys did with their hands most of the time?
But I kept silent, not wanting to risk another caning
.

"Well, Brett, if you're determined not to have your
privileges, are you interested in watching them for
their first time? I assume it is the first time for
each of them, as we've been keeping an eye on them and
neither of them wants to touch the other, it seems.
It can be a fine sport to watch them fumble around -
although I have ways of speeding it up - and a lot of
men don't like being watched at all, and so having
their owner present is a real problem for them."

"Actually, yes, Straughan, but we'd best make it fast,
as I have a tailor coming by to measure me for my new
blazer in my frat colours - it's so important to get
these things absolutely right, as after dad has spent
all that money on a pair of ponies for me, it would be
a shame to spoil it if I looked less than elegant when
driving them, don't you think?"

Straughan kind of nodded, as if he thought the whole
thing was stupid.  He shouted orders at the guards,
one of whom who pulled a "horse" over, and I'm sure
that poor Sam thought he was in for another caning
when he was strapped to it.  Straughan then came over
to me, put one hand on my shoulder as if to steady
himself, or perhaps it was to extend a gesture of
physical control over me, and, looking me straight in
the eyes, reached down and began to stroke my dick.

I realised then what was going to happen, and started
shouting at them that they couldn't make me do this,
that it was disgusting, that I was a straight guy, and
all that other stuff.  It didn't help, though, as my
body betrayed me - the action of Straughan's hand made
me go rock hard.

Straughan started to tug at my dick, using it as a
kind of handle to pull me over towards Sam, and when I
resisted, he told me I was risking another severe
caning.  I called him all the names I could think of,
but he just laughed quietly, and shifted his grip so
that he was now clutching my balls.  A little squeeze,
and my stream of invective morphed into a scream, and
Straughan now told me to behave, or worse would
happen.

You can't argue, or even put up any resistance, with
your hands cuffed behind you and a guy's hands
clutching your balls, and so slowly and inexorably I
was led and positioned between Sam's legs as he lay
there.  On a command from Straughan one of the guards
leaned over and pulled Sam's butt apart - I could see
Sam's asshole now, it's pale, puckered surface
contrasting with the deep chocolate of the rest of
him, and in spite of what Straughan might do to me, I
screamed "No, no!  Please don't....."

It was no good, though:  Straughan guided me
inexorably closer and closer until e changed tactic
again, and started to wipe my dick head up and down
Sam's exposed ass crack.  As he did so, shivers of
excitement went through me, and every time I  touched
Sam's pucker, I thought I might actually cum there and
then!.  I heard Straughan say to Brett "This one's
just like all the rest - they all say they don't want
to do it, but once they get started, the excitement
carries them on....". And, as he did so, he expertly
left me positioned with my dick head against Sam's
moist, warm pucker, then slashed at my butt with a
punishment cane.

Well, as you'd expect, I shot forward in surprise, and
my dick rammed into Sam so  quickly and powerfully
that I breached his sphincter.  He now screamed, a
deep, terrible scream of pain, anguish and outrage.  I
stood there, not knowing for a moment what to do, then
felt Straughan right behind me, his clothes rubbing
against my naked body, which in itself was somehow
exciting - a clothed man next to your naked skin is a
real turn on, I find.  He rested his hands on my hips
and began to push and pull at me, moving me in and out
of Sam.

I'd never done anything like that before, but it was
so fucking amazing to feel Sam's body gripping my
dick.  It was far, far better than fucking a woman,
and somehow being made to do it like this, and having
Sam writhing around underneath me trying to avoid it,
all added to the excitement.  I soon forgot that there
were other men there watching me, and the thing took
on a life of its own, as I found  that I wanted to
plunge deeper and deeper into Sam, I wanted to go
sometimes fast and sometimes slow... And, all too
soon, my body betrayed me again as that huge
excitement built up in me when you know you're going
to cum.  I arched my back as if  I wanted to get as
deep into Sam as possible, and gave one huge last
thrust before I was rendered weak and helpless as my
balls pumped what seemed like gallons of cum up into
him.  My whole body shook with that ecstasy you get
when the little "aftershocks" come along, and I
couldn't help crying out "Oh yes, Jesus, fuck....."

I felt pretty foolish then, standing there with my
dick buried in Sam, with that audience watching me,
especially as Straughan turned to Brett and said "A
natural, this one.  I bet if you'd met him in a bar
and asked him whether he'd like fucking ass, he'd have
taken a swipe at you and would have been outraged.
But mark my words, and I've seen a lot of slaves
introduced to sex like this, and there haven't been
many as enthusiastic as Steve here:  this boy will
really enjoy it, once he overcomes his stupid
prejudices."

I saw Brett nodding, and Straughan went on "Still,
you're in a hurry....  So on with the show."

I watched as Sam was unstrapped from the horse and
stood there shaking with fury, and glaring at me.  And
I think it came to both of us more or less
simultaneously, when Straughan ordered the guard to
tie me down onto the horse, what was to happen next.

In some part of my brain there's still tucked away the
memory of feeling the spine of the horse wet from
Sam's sweat,  and the way the cuffs were all hot and
clammy as they were fastened around my ankles and
wrists.    And I shouted and yelled as Sam's dick was
moved up and down over the sensitive skin deep in my
butt crack,  culminating with a primeval roar as Sam's
dick penetrated me.  I wanted it to stop as Straughan
made him fuck me, I wanted the pain to cease as his
dick forced my ass muscles to open in a way they'd
never done before, and I wanted more than anything
else for the humiliation to end.  But it was an odd
sort of pain - each stroke hurt me and made me cry
out, and yet at the same time it was like nothing I'd
ever experienced before, sort of "right" somehow, and
incredibly, utterly sensual.

Of course that was all a long time ago, but they say
you always remember the first time, don't they? Well,
I do,  and I think Sam does, too.  That night as we
lay in our stall, we were somehow embarrassed and
didn't want to talk about how we'd been made to rape
each other.  In fact we were silent, as if by not
speaking about it the memory of it might somehow be
erased.  Finally, Sam said in a quiet voice "I reckon
they'll make us do that again, Steve.  That Straughan
said we needed to be 'trained' in sex...."

I nodded.  "There's not much we can do about it, is
there?  I'm sorry, Sam.... If I hurt you like you hurt
me.... But they made me....."

We were silent for a minute or so, then Sam shuffled a
bit closer to me.  "You know, Steve, we ought to cheat
on them.  It's the only way we can resist them.  We
ought to deprive them of the pleasure of seeing two
straight guys like us being made to have sex
together."

I nodded.  "Yes.  It's bad enough being made to
exercise and everything, but being forced to fuck a
guy's ass is the ultimate in taking away his
freedom....  But what can we do about it?  Tomorrow,
when they strap us on the horse again and grab our
balls to make us go in, how are we going to stop them?
 Having Straughan squeeze my balls is even more
painful than having that giant black dick of yours up
my ass...."

"Same for me, Steve.  So I reckon we spoil their fun
by practising.... Let's get used to the feel of it,
get used to being inside each other... Kind of do it
willingly, to show them we're still in control of our
lives."

I wanted to tell Sam that he was talking complete and
utter rubbish.  I mean, at one level he was right,
we'd be taking charge of things for ourselves.  But at
another level we'd be having man-on-man sex, and we
were straight guys.  I went to say so, and then I
remembered that exquisite sensation in my dick as it
slid in and out of Sam, and  I thought of how the pain
as he fucked me transmuted into something else:
something so incredibly exotic, that I wanted to
experience it again.  So instead I muttered "I reckon
you're right, Sam.... Come here....."

End Of Part Two

Note to readers:  this started out as two parts, but
Steve and Sam's saga has got to me, and, like their
dicks, it's "kind of grown".  So expect more!  Pete