Date: Sun, 23 Jul 2006 07:25:46 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Falsely Enslaved, Part Three

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part Three

Well Straughan seemed a bit surprised at the way we
quietly did as we were told the next morning on the
horse, even though our "experiments" the night before
had left us very sore down there.  I caught Sam's eye
a couple of times and he half winked at me in that
sexy way he has, and I knew he was telling me we'd
won, at least a bit, by schooling ourselves in the
fine art of taking a man's dick.

Brett, though, had spent most of the previous day with
his tailor, only reappearing in the late afternoon to
watch as Sam and I almost fell with exhaustion on the
exercise machines.  Today, though was to be the first
day of our proper pony training, and he proudly showed
Straughan the book he'd been reading, called "Train
your pony in ten easy stages", by one Herman Wright.
Frankly, I'd like to get my hands on Mr Wright - I
don't think he can really understand the misery he
smut have caused to so many guys by his ill-advised
and, on occasions, plainly wrong advice to owners.
But Master Brett was determined to do it "by the
book", and so that morning we were "introduced" to the
trap:  his e-mails to Straughan had had a fairly
standard one adapted so that there were now two sets
of shafts in front, and Sam and I felt for the first
time that feeling of powerlessness, almost as if we
were part of a machine, as the manacles were snapped
shut locking our wrists to them.

>From the outset we were to be trained to run with a
bit, not, as Brett unhelpfully explained, he intended
to use reins, as one of the advantages of using a man,
rather than a real pony, was that we could understand
his commands.  No, rather it was to "show" us off
properly, to emphasise his control over us, and to
"prevent you from speaking, even accidentally."  The
fucking double bit he'd bought in Atlanta was a long,
steel pole with two sets of tongue plates and head
fastenings on it - I expect you're mostly familiar
with the standard pony harness, where the bit goes
between the teeth and the tongue plate at right angles
depresses the tongue and makes speech unintelligible,
and then the "arms" at each end are pulled around
behind the head and locked closed, so that the slave
cannot expel the bit and tongue plate?   Well, this
was just the same principle, except that the tongue
plate and "arms" assemblies could be slid along a much
longer bit pole, and then locked in position when the
ponies heads were the right distance apart.

Brett ordered us to kneel in the shafts as he pushed
the things into our mouths and fiddled with the
adjustments to lock things at the right distance
apart, explaining to Straughan as he worked that the
only disadvantage was that you had to wait until we
were shackled in to the cart before fitting the bits
"else they might move their heads apart or something,
and the pressure from the long bit pole might break
their teeth."  Well he might think that was the only
disadvantage, but I can tell you there's a lot of
others (beside the obvious one, of not being able to
move your tongue or speak!):  Sam and I were locked
together rigidly, and it actually hurt if one or other
of us tried to move our heads quickly without the
other doing the same:  you try keeping your head
absolutely fixed in relation to another guy as you
both walk, or jog, or run!  Even if you're stationery,
you can't so even a simple thing like toss your head
to get rid of a fly that's landed to feed on your
sweat ( and remember, you can't swat it with your
hands, as they're shackled to the shafts!).

I don't think we ever really got used to it, even
though we wore it every day for such a long period of
time.  Brett never faltered in making us wear it,
though, as he said that although it was so unusual to
see a pair of ponies who were matched in every way
except their colour anyway, this dual bit added that
important additional interest.

Once we were between the shafts Brett started to
"teach" is the standard pony words:  "Whoa", and
"Giddy'up" for stopping and starting; "easy, boy" for
when we were going down hill and the pace became too
rapid; and "walk on", "trot", "canter" and the dreaded
"gallop" for speed control - we came to utterly loath
the last one of these, as with the trap behind us even
a short period at "gallop" left us totally exhausted.
The hateful Herman Wright encouraged owners to "beat
the meaning" into a pony, as he claimed that our
bodies' response to our master's voice needed to be
total and automatic, almost bypassing the conscious
control of our brains.  Brett seemed to take this
advice to heart, and he had two instruments, the
carriage whip and the goad, to make it happen.

It wasn't unnecessarily cruel, I suppose, as  a
carriage whip is not like a bull whip that tears your
flesh totally apart;  no, it's more that the very
thin, fine leather lash on the end of an extremely
long, flexible handle is capable of really making you
jump.  It doesn't matter how often it happens to you,
each time that stinging thing slashes at  your
shoulders, butt or thighs, you really know it.  The
pain isn't long lasting, but at the moment it strikes
it is so concentrated and so intense that it does
truly focus your mind.  Some of you may be unfamiliar
with the use of the goad as its use is somewhat out of
fashion, and I should perhaps explain that it's mostly
designed for slow speeds, or dressage work.  Basically
it's a thin steel pin on the end of a handle, and the
trap driver stabs at your butt with it to both gain
your attention and to punish you for minor infractions
of behaviour.  The pain is less intense than the
carriage whip, but when the pin punctures your flesh
there is  a sharp sensation, and you know that
prolonged use on a small part of you will inevitably
lead to bleeding and much discomfort later.  Some
drivers, of course, slide the goad between the butt
cheeks and prick at the most sensitive skin in your
body - fortunately Brett only seemed to find this
described in a later chapter of his "bible", when we
were mostly trained, and so it wasn't too bad for us.
Some of his buddies at college, though, read all
through the well-thumbed copy of Herman Wright and
enjoyed goading us if Brett loaned us to them for an
afternoon spin:  I remember one particular day when
some oaf pricked a whole line of sores right down
Sam's ass crack, enjoying seeing him stand there
helpless to do anything about it (and even prevented
from really bucking and throwing himself about by the
need to avoid damaging himself, and me, because of our
joined bit).

We soon mastered the art of pulling the carriage as we
were so fit and had done so much exercise on the
machines, but when Brett moved on to "dressage" work,
it was different.  It's just for show, really -
there's no practical point to it as you don't move
very far or very fast.  But Brett was remorseless in
making us do complex patterns of moving the carriage
using small steps, then long stride, then backwards
(surprisingly hard).  And, of course, there's the
goose step, and, worst of all, the so-called "prance".
 Here you have to raise your knees right up to your
chest for every step - quite apart from the sheer
exhaustion of it, it makes your dick and balls really
sore as they get so much knocked about with it.  Later
on, when really "at work", it amused Brett to make us
"prance" when passing along the main street, and the
sight of us two big men performing in such a ludicrous
way always caused passers-by to stare:  it pleased
Brett, though, as it emphasised to the world how he
was in total control of two such perfect specimens of
manhood.

The signs started though that something new was on the
horizon, as we heard Brett talking to Straughan about
shipping arrangements to get our trap and us to his
college.  Sam and I talked about it at night, and we
were quite looking forward to it as the college was
near Raleigh, and we thought it would be cooler in the
summer there.  Brett had also ordered new collars for
us, we heard, and that was fantastically good news -
in amongst everything else, carrying around the three
pounds of heavy iron around our necks was a real
strain.  We were actually excited when the farrier
arrived one morning to do us, and he seemed to know
what he was about:  fine padding was inserted between
our collars and our necks so that when the diamond
cutting wheel tore into the metal we were not injured
by the sparks.

We'd assumed, I suppose, that Brett would have us
fitted with the light, stainless steel collars that
some of the house slaves wore.  But instead he'd
decided to comply with the law that requires all
slaves to wear an ownership collar by instead cinching
our dicks and balls.  The farrier told us to sit with
our legs apart, and then put a sort of funnel thing
around our sex organs so that he could pull them as
far away from our bodies as he could.  When we were
fully stretched he used callipers to measure the
distance between our bodies and our balls, and the
circumference of our dicks and balls at that point,
and set to work.  It seemed to take a long time to
craft the fittings properly and as he worked putting
them on to us, Sam and I were terrified that he'd do
something careless and really hurt us - I mean, you're
really sensitive there, aren't you?    But he did
indeed know his job properly, and we ended up with a
collar of steel just under an inch wide holding our
dicks and balls away from our bodies, and this in turn
was prevented from slipping by a second collar, at
right angles to it, that went around the neck of our
ball sacs.  It was a precision sort of job, as the two
rings had to be joined together, and the seams had to
be absolutely smooth if there was to be no chafing and
soreness.

When he was finished, he was incredibly proud of his
handiwork and showed Brett how there was no
possibility of us moving the cinching as it was so
exactly sized to each of us.  And he went on "And
you'll appreciate the way they now show 'hard' much
more frequently, as the cinch has the effect of
preventing blood from the penis escaping quite so
freely:  if they get an erection, it will be very
difficult for them to lose it, and in my experience
quite a lot of ponies go around semi-erect all the
time, once properly cinched."  Brett then asked about
the ring around our balls, and the man sounded
surprised at such an obvious question.  "Well quite
apart from keeping the cinch band properly in place,
it  is just tight enough that blood flow to their
testicles is not affected, but on the other hand a
testicle cannot pass.  In the cold weather in
particular men's testicles can rise up into their body
cavities, and this stops that completely:  Your ponies
balls will now always be at the bottom of their sacs,
and, therefore always much more visible."

Brett had us jog up and down on the spot so he could
observe our action, and I could tell Sam hated it as
much as I did.  Quite apart form the fact that my
whole body now felt kind of out of balance (although
this feeling did pass), the weight at the root of my
dick and dragging my balls down felt totally
disproportionate.  And until my balls "learned" that
they were now always "down", it was incredibly
painful, too, as they tried to move as normal.

Brett hadn't finished yet, though, as the farrier was
instructed to ring our tits!  Look, I know a lot of
gay guys have rings in their nipples, and it's no big
deal for them.  But these were totally different from
the small gold things some fags flaunt:   big, thick
rings in heavy stainless steel.  Brett declined the
offered analgesic gel as he said we were tough enough
to do without it, so we had to sit there and watch as
the farrier got   large steel needle from his kit,
then play with our nips to get them erect, before
plunging the needle through.  The rings were so thick
there was no way they could go through a nipple, and
so they had much thinner ends which passed through
before the ring was squeezed closed by the farrier -
it looked OK, therefore, seeming to be "of a piece" as
this little subterfuge was hidden from the general
gaze.   Straughan came up as this was going on and
Brett started to tell him the theory behind these
rings from Wright's book (that bastard again!).  "You
see, Straughan, these rings are so heavy that the pony
is always aware of them.  And in particular, when he's
running, or even only walking , the motion of the
rings up and down tugs at his nipples and sends a
constant reminder to him that he's being used as a
draft animal."  Straughan shrugged, and muttered
something about "work rate being lower because of the
pain after prolonged use", and Brett reminded him that
there was always the carriage whip and the goad in the
unlikely event that we failed to work properly.  And,
he said, it was also a sign of what superb animals we
were, as only men with exceptionally well developed
pecs could wear such heavy rings - men in poor shape
would have their tits pulled down and look really
"droopy" .

The farrier had one more job to do on us after that,
and Brett ordered us to be tied down to a "horse" for
this as the farrier said that men could object
violently to it.  Curiously we were tied down on our
backs, and it was only when the farrier brought out an
instrument that looked a bit like a cross between a
pair of pliers and one of those things for stoning
olives that I began to realise what was going to
happen.  One of the farrier's hands held my chin
firmly - he was a strong guy - and the other pushed
this thing up my nose, one half up each nostril.  He
fiddled about a bit, and I could "taste" the metallic
smell of it, then there was a sickening crunch that
seemed to go right through me, coupled with a searing
pain and the vile salty taste of fresh blood as it
began to run down my throat.  I spluttered and choked
for a bit, but the farrier held my chin and said
calmly "Easy, boy, it was only the septum - it's
cartilage, not bone, and now I've punched a hole
through it I can ring you....."   The heavy steel ring
he pushed up was more of an oval shape, so that a
satisfactory length of it hung down below my nose,
resting on my upper lip.  I ran my tongue
experimentally over it, and got a twinge of pain from
the hole in my septum, but I supposed it would heal
eventually.

I looked at Sam when we were eventually allowed to
stand up, and saw that he'd been transformed even more
into an "object" rather than a man than he had been
before, and I knew I must look the same.  His body was
devoid of hair except for the strip from forehead to
neck a couple of inches wide, and everywhere he glowed
and shone from the slave oil that was massaged into us
each morning.  Now, though, his dick was even more
prominent and as I watched he became erect, exposing
the glint of metal around his sac, too.  His nose and
nipples seemed almost dragged down by their huge
ornaments, and he shrugged helpless at me as he saw me
looking at him.

Brett insisted on taking us for a spin then, and as
usual we had to kneel for the long bit to be fitted to
us, and then we were off.  I could indeed feel the
jogging of the rings on my nips, and on my nose, and,
as I said, I was curiously unbalanced by the cinch.
By the time we got back everywhere was aching, and
even Brett saw he'd probably made us do too much too
soon as he allowed us to be led back to be chained
into our stall.    We huddled close together, a
picture of misery as we lay there willing the ache to
go from us; but when Sam reached out and began to
gently stroke my semi-hard dick, one effect of what
had been done to us was very apparent - I don't think
I've ever had an erection before that was so firm and
strong!  My fingers reached for Sam, and he too was
harder than I'd ever known him to be before - and you
have to bear in mind we were both young, fit guys who
never had any problems with getting hard anyway.

Shortly after that it was time to go off to college,
and our trap and we were shipped by UPS.  It took them
three days to get us delivered to Raleigh, and it's
odd to think that it used to be possible to get stuff
delivered anywhere the next day, but I suppose that
was before the oil thing that caused most air travel
to become so very, very expensive and made parcels and
mail and stuff go back to the railroads - it was a
good thing there were all those slaves to lay new
tracks!  It was quite interesting, I suppose -  we
were picked up by the local UPS guy as he'd been
shipped before, and caged in one of the tiny
cubicle-like things.  We weren't in it long, though,
as we were unloaded at the local train station and
kept in a kind of communal waiting room for slaves - a
"waiting room" surrounded by bars, of course.  They'd
wanted to put a UPS routing tag on our collars as all
the other slaves had, and the UPS guy tut-tutted when
it was realised we were collarless - well, I think
they didn't like the idea of going down and attaching
their tag to our cinch rings!  Instead they put
temporary plastic collars on us with the routing tags,
and whenever a train came through, a UPS guy came past
with a little reader device and if it bleeped, the
slave was bundled out onto the train.

We had to wait about five hours before it was our
turn, and it was nice to be able to speak to some
other slaves as we normally only got to talk to the
other guys in the stables.  Most of them were decently
clad in slave smocks, or slave shorts and Ts, and at
first we had quite a problem to get anyone to want to
shoot the breeze with us - because we were totally
naked, it was assumed we were slaves who worked in a
pleasure palace or similar place, and were thus
generally considered to be not "nice to know".    Most
of the slaves travelling were of course specialists -
"professionals" who had fallen foul of the law and
enslaved, and then bought up by big companies to do
much of the same type of work as they did before,
minus the enormous salaries:  we met a lawyer, and a
few accountants going off to do a big audit, and even
some guy in "IT" who said he was a trouble shooter and
was going to sort out some idiots in the Memphis
office.  I suppose it wasn't worth while shipping
labourers and people like that around, as it was
costly and there was no shortage of their skills:  it
would be much easier to sell the ones you had, and buy
some more at the new location.

When our turn came the UPS guy led us out to the
special slave compartment in the rear carriage,
generally hassled some of the existing passengers to
make room for us on one of the hard benches, and then
shackled our ankles to the floor.    I'd travelled by
train many times, of course, to and from college by
myself, and on vacations with mom and dad and my
brother, but we always went  in the "standard class"
carriages with nice seats, air conditioning, a place
to plug in your laptop, and a buffet car.  The slave
coach was just bare wooden benches, though, and no
airconditioning to save the energy.  We couldn't go to
the buffet car of course, but at the end of each row
of benches there was a hose with a spigot on the end,
and this could be passed along so you could drink
water.  There were holes in the floor, too, so we
could piss if we needed to, and some of the
"professional" slaves were really complaining about
this - one guy told me he used to earn hundreds of
thousands of new dollars a year doing exactly the same
work as he now did as a slave, and it was disgusting
to treat a man like him like this.  I asked him if he
thought it was OK to treat men like me and Sam like
this, who never earned much at all in our lives, and
he stared at me as if I was some sort of madman.
"Different strokes for different folks", he told me.
"You went standard class on the trains before, did
you?  Well, you should try first class - your dinner
is specially prepared for you, and they have the
finest champagne as an aperitif...."

It all seemed to be very slickly run, though - we had
to change trains at one point, and a UPS man came
aboard, read the routing tags, and took some of us off
to a holding cage, where we waited for the next train
to come to take us further on.  Sam and I were really
hungry by now, and the UPS man in charge seemed like a
reasonable guy and when we asked, dished out
individual serving packs of slave chow, which we could
sit there and eat as we waited.  We got into the habit
of asking after that, and I have to say that most of
the UPS staff were helpful and considerate to us, even
though we were slaves.  One of them told us though
that they'd "Lost" a slave somewhere in the system a
few months before and when he was found in the corner
of a warehouse, chained in the wrong bay so that the
inventory system couldn't locate him, he'd starved to
death - there was a directive from head office
therefore saying that slaves were to be kept fed.

When we finally did arrive at the college we could
hear a lot of discussion gong on between the driver
and the security guard at the gates of the huge
compound it seemed to be in, and it was finally
determined we were not for the college, but for a frat
house which was just off campus.  It was quite late in
the evening when we arrived, and as we were unloaded,
we aroused some interest from the young men lounging
around on its broad veranda:  they were wondering
which two new men had brought ponies as only one was
expected, and when the head slave checked the
documentation and told them, very respectfully, that
we were a pair, there seemed to be general
astonishment:  evidently Brett's plan to "make a
splash" was working.

The stables, around the back of the house itself, were
actually pretty nice.  Instead of individual stalls as
we had at Walker Plantation, all of us ponies were
housed in one big area.  When you were put in at night
a chain that came from the centre of the ceiling was
manacled to your wrist, and that was that - you were
relatively free (except, of course, that as you and
the other ponies moved around you have to keep an eye
on the chains and weave either under or over, as
appropriate, to prevent getting hopelessly tangled
up).  It meant that you could move around and chat to
whoever you wanted, you could go through the opening
in the low wall that screened off the shower area and
shower whenever you wanted, and take a piss or crap as
it suited you:  to those of us used to the rigours of
life at Walker Plantation, this was like slave heaven!
 Mind you, there were some disadvantages:  you were
expected to go into the carriage room next door and
keep your own trap clean, as there were no "grooms"
here, and, as we were to discover, when you've been
running hard all day, the additional burden of washing
and polishing the trap was something you really didn't
want.   But we were advised never to leave it dirty
and wait until the next day, as our owner might wish
to go out late in the evening and then "there would be
trouble" if the trap wasn't clean and bright.

You would think that having the ability to move around
like that would be good for our sex lives, as we could
choose to go and fuck whoever we wanted, but there was
a downside to this: one of the ponies was a huge,
overly-muscled guy, more a "carthorse" than a pony,
I'd  say!  He belonged to a student who liked to go
around in a very heavy landau with deep leather
upholstery and a rain cover, and so needed the power
of a slave like that even though that meant that his
speed was restricted.  Over time he'd come to think of
himself as "top dog" in the stables, and would fuck
whoever he chose whenever he wanted to, even if the
other guy didn't want his huge sweaty body anywhere
near him.  He had the strength and the sheer bullying
physical presence to make all the others do as he
said.

On the first night this hulk came over and told me to
get on my hands and knees as he liked to take the new
boys that way, and when I told him to fuck off, he
threw a punch at me!  Well, I'm not used to fighting,
and although I'm very strong, as you know, I was so
surprised that I went down as the blow struck, and
this creature threw himself on top of me and started
to force me down so he could rape me.  Sam came to me
rescue, of course, and told the bully to leave me
alone.  When the hulk told Sam to keep his nose out of
it as he didn't take shit from niggas, Sam went for
him and a real fight ensued - it seems the owners
always let us ponies sort things out for ourselves, so
no one came to intervene even though all the others
were cheering and screaming as the fight went on.
Sam's marine training ensured we won, and he left the
hulk in quite a bad way, and we began to worry about
what would happen the following morning.  One of the
others told us that it wasn't all that unusual for a
pony to appear bruised and a bit battered, and most
owners considered it "normal" for stallions like us to
play a bit rough.

It was a really slim young guy who told us this, and
he actually huddled up to Sam and put his arms around
him.  He said he was only seventeen, and was a
"sprinter" used by his owner for short runs to and
from the campus only, and he was so grateful to Sam
for beating the bully that he'd gladly let Sam fuck
him any time he wanted to; he'd become almost the fuck
toy of the hulk for the past few months and hated it.
"Hear that, Steve?", Sam called out.  "You've got a
rival for my cock now, so you'd better behave properly
and do a few tricks to keep my interest!"   All the
other guys laughed, as they realised that Sam and I
must be "an item", but, unaccountably, I found myself
blushing:  I really liked having sex with Sam, but
somehow it was kind of private, and I didn't want the
world to know.

The semester hadn't officially started yet, and Brett
used the next two days to drive us around the campus
and the town to get to know the places he'd want to be
taken.  We were ordered to pay particular attention,
as in future he'd just expect to say "the tennis
courts" or "Dick's Dive" (a popular bar), or wherever,
as he didn't want to have to spend his time giving
stupid ponies every little direction.  He wore a
blazer on these voyages of exploration in a
particularly horrible pattern of salmon pink and lime
green stripes - we found out these were the frat
colours, and marked him out as one of the most
privileged of all the privileged students.  Later we
got to hate those colours with a vengeance, as once
he'd settled in, Brett gave us ribbons in them and
every morning we had to tie bows in our nipple rings,
tie another around our cinch rings, and a final one
around our necks:  we felt utterly ridiculous having
to go around the streets like this, and it just added
to our general sense of humiliation.

I was amazed, actually, at how hard we had to work:
Brett never seemed to go to any lectures, or the
library, or anything like that, but never the less Sam
and I were almost constantly in motion taking him to a
breakfast, a tennis lesson, a lunch, his tailor's for
a fitting, the florist to buy a posy for a friend, a
tea party, an outing to the local swimming lake,
cocktails, dinner, or a late-night poker game.  It was
all right for him, but it meant we were on our feet
from seven in the morning until nearly midnight, or
after, day after day:  it wasn't just the running, as
Brett often seemed to be late for all these things so
we had to at least trot, if not gallop sometimes:  no,
it was the constant standing around waiting, once we'd
got there.  Brett of course required us to stand with
our feet a little apart and our heads bowed, and when
once we had dared to move out of the sun and sit on a
bench (not easy anyway, when you're manacled to the
trap), he was incandescent with rage and thrashed us
repeatedly with a tawse on our shoulders, something he
rarely did.  After that we managed to "sleep on our
feet", dozing as best we could as we stood there
waiting patiently.

Talking to some of the other ponies I found that
Brett's behaviour was not at all unusual - all the
guys  in the frat were rich, their parents made huge
contributions to the college, and they were not
expected to do more work than they were interested in,
and there was an "understanding" that they would
nevertheless graduate well.  I remembered the hours of
sweat I'd expended in getting my degree, and it really
made me pissed off to see the system subverted in this
way.  I was going on and on about  it one night, and
Sam pulled me close to him and stroked my dick,
laughing as he did so.  "You are an idiot, Steve, not
to realise that's the way the rich folk do things", he
told me.  "I was a grunt marine, and I could never be
an officer as I didn't go to officer training school,
which you could only do if you applied, which you
could only do if your folks had enough money to get
you across the country to the selection board..... The
rich have always had it made, Steve, and the rest of
us have to go through the motions."

Brett left us at the frat house for Thanksgiving and
Christmas and the Fourth Of July and short holidays
like that as he said the expense of shipping us
backwards and forwards wasn't worth it.  That was the
case for most of the other ponies, too (although some
went with their owners, who lived in the surrounding
states where the expense was not so great).  We had a
great time then - the slaves who worked in the frat
house itself doing the cleaning and laundry and stuff
like that came over and we partied!  Some of them were
women, of course, as the frat boys liked to have them
around should they require casual sexual relief, and
the first time I saw  some of my fellow ponies falling
on them and fucking away as if no one else was there,
I was frankly shocked (Sam and me, and the other
ponies who fucked each other, tended to do it
discretely, moving off to corner, or waiting until it
was dark).  Sam wanted to fuck cunt, as he called it
in his rough marine way, and was one of those who
unashamedly went for it whenever the women were
around;  afterwards, when we were lying together and I
could smell them on him, I kind of remonstrated with
him, and he responded.  "You should get stuck in too,
Steve!  I thought you told me you were shacked up with
some girl before you were enslaved, and I believed
you.  I can't understand why you're not going to take
it, when there's cunt here laid on like running water!
 You are straight, aren't you?  I don't like to think
I'm fucking a gay guy....."

"Sam, of course I was living with my girlfriend, and I
like fucking women.... But it's not right, Sam, taking
advantage of these women - they're slaves, like
us...."

"Taking advantage?  They're offering!  And they like
it - I mean, who wouldn't rather have my dick fucking
her rather than one of those weak young college guys?"

"But Sam... We're kind of together.... You and me....
"

"Of course we are!  But when there's women on offer,
Steve.....  Come on....."  As he said this, he grabbed
one of the women, actually a really attractive nigga
with firm, high breasts who I'd rather fancied when
I'd seen her come in.  He pulled her down between us,
and kissed her and played with her, then I heard him
say "My friend Steve here really likes you, but he's
shy..... Can you do anything to help him?"

I went to say "no", and tried to push her away, but
when your best buddy's almost holding you down, and
there's a really feisty young woman intend on
squatting astride you so your dick goes in her,
there's not much you can do about it, is there?  And
afterwards Sam went straight in to her too, saying he
didn't normally like sloppy seconds, but as it was my
cum it was OK as he was used to it.  And then all
three of us rolled around and laughed a lot, and it
was fun, especially as, later in the night, she taught
me some things that my girlfriend had never even
thought of!

We went back to Walker Plantation for the long
vacation, though, and nothing much had changed:
Straughan was still there, and Brett told him to "put
us through it" as we were a bit out of condition and
needed a spell of really hard exercise.  It was tough,
but I suppose I was getting used to it, and it was
good to have my body really stretched again.

If you think about it, you really only know a little
bit about even your best buddy as however much time
you spend with him at the gym, or at a bar, or
wherever, it's only a tiny fraction of the time..  And
although I thought I knew my girlfriend well, I
realised I didn't, when she upped and left me after
two years - what had she really been thinking all that
time?  But Sam and I were more than just best buddies,
more than sex partners:  we were twenty four hours a
day together, either working, or sleeping.  The double
bit kept us close, closer than two men usually are to
each other, and we shared responsibility for
everything:  if one of us got out of step with the
other, we'd both be whipped or goaded by Brett.  We
were more than friends , more than work mates, more
than lovers:  always together, never apart, I thought
I knew Sam as well as I knew myself.  Lying next to
him a few nights later, utterly tired out but somehow
happy as I teased one of his nipple rings, causing him
to moan with pleasure, a moan half stifled by my
tongue that was half way down his throat, I suddenly
stopped.  Sam seemed surprised, and thought that I
wanted him to take over making the running,  and
pushed me gently down into the straw, flipped my nose
ring so he could get at my mouth, and went to kiss me.
 I stopped him, and now he was very surprised.
"What's the matter, Steve?  Tired of me, after only a
year?"

"Sam, it's not that.  I'll never get tired of you.
But it's not right, is it?  The way we're treated....
We've got to escape, or something...."

Sam sat up and put his arms around his knees a s he
does when he's thoughtful.  "Look, it's different for
you, obviously, but for me, this is a pretty good kind
of life.... I was in the marines, remember?  And I had
to take orders and shit all day long anyway.  And I
had to work my body into the ground with training and
everything.  And for what?  The few new bucks left
over at the end of the month when I'd paid for my
accommodation and keep, beers with the other guys, the
occasional whore.... Look at what I've got now: I know
slave chow isn't the most exciting stuff, but we're
well fed;  sure I have to work hard, but I did anyway,
and I don't have any new bucks at all, ever.  But on
the other hand I've got as much free sex as I want -
not just with you, Steve, but do you remember that
young nigga last Christmas.... and all the others.
What I don't have is all the worry - will an officer
ball me out and put me on a charge, will I get one of
my buddies injured if we're on an exercise, or if I
did the wrong thing when we cleared out some nest of
terrorists and got him killed.  No: I know that if I
do wrong I get caned or whipped, and that's that, its
over - nothing to hang over for the future.  Life is
just so simple, so easy - it's true what Straughan
told us:  just obey orders.  That's what we do, and
someone else has to do all the worrying and
everything...."

"But we're not free, Sam!"

"What's 'free', then?  Free to work my ass off and
never get promoted, free to have to be polite to
officer shit fresh out from training who know less
about things than I do, free to never have any money,
free to have to buy sex, free....?"

"It's not as bad as that!"

"And what were you going to do, Steve?  Why were you
biking around the country?"

"Well dad wanted me to work in an office, and I didn't
fancy it, I wanted something different...."

"So you were facing a life of endless work, stuck in
an office.... With that girlfriend, or one like her,
whining on about how you never made enough money, and
then you'd have a kid, and the money would be even
tighter and she'd go off sex, and....  You weren't
'free', any more than I was.  No, I reckon we have a
pretty good time, all things considered."

So how well did I really know Sam, after all.  I
wanted to argue with him, but we were tired, and there
didn't seem any point.  So we fucked then, which kind
of took my mind off things, but, all the same, were we
really so close, or were we really very different?

End Of Part Three