Date: Sun, 30 Jul 2006 23:26:44 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Falsely Enslaved, Part Seven

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  Seven


Sam and I fell about laughing at the excitement of
doing something "different", and it worked through
into our lovemaking, too, which was totally passionate
and utterly debauched.   We made so much noise as our
bodies thrashed around and we shouted and cried out to
each other that my valet scurried in, and Sam even
suggested that I should fuck the kid as he watched "to
improve my technique" - Sam was going to advise me.
Well, I was laughing so much that I ignored the
implied criticism of me as an owner and my sexual
prowess, and said that Sam should fuck him, and that
I'd fuck Sam at the same time:  I don't know if you've
ever tried this, but it's much more difficult than it
looks to get the guy in the middle of the sandwich -
Sam - to synchronise his fucking properly with getting
fucked.  Still, it was a lot of fun, and the valet
enjoyed it, too (you may remember that all my servants
seemed to prefer taking dick rather than giving it.
And it's not because I consciously avoided buying
Christians, who, I recall, seem to think that it's
better to give than to receive.)  Afterwards, we
dismissed the kid and Sam lay there sprawled out,
utterly happy and with a silly grin on his face, and
his gorgeous body covered in sweat.  I lay next to
him, but had work to do:  I had to all my lawyer, who
I used for all sorts of odd tasks, albeit at a price,
to ask him to investigate and to find out where young
Brett was to appear as a sale item.

To tell you the truth, I did rather feel sorry for
Brett when I went to view him at the auctioneer's the
day before he was due to be sold.  He was considered
rather "rare and unusual", and so had been put up for
auction rather than just being sold through a dealer,
as it was considered that for an educated whitey with
a good body and handsome features, there were so many
possibilities for his future that bidding for him
would be fierce and more profit would ensue.

I did my inspection of him rather surreptitiously, as
I didn't want him to see that I might even be a
potential purchaser - not that I think he'd have
noticed, even if I'd gone up to him and felt his
balls, as his eyes seemed to be constantly filled with
tears at his shame and humiliation.  He was of course
naked, and they had already fitted one of those heavy
iron collars to him whose weight seemed to be making
his head bowed - or perhaps he was trying to avoid the
direct gaze of the potential customers for him.  His
wrists were cuffed behind his neck, with the cuffs
clipped to his collar so he could not move them and
certainly could not put his hands down to even attempt
to hide his nakedness.  An unnecessarily robust chain
led from a cuff around his right ankle to a tethering
point in the floor - I'm sure these places do that
just for the effect, as there's no way a naked, cuffed
slave is going to be able to make a run for it through
the throngs of prospective purchasers, is there?

They hadn't branded him, as I imagine that they
thought his new owner would want to select the sight
of the big "S" for himself (or, of course, might well
wish to wield the branding iron personally).    My
inspection of his rear also showed me dimples at the
base of his spine - always exciting, I think - and his
backbone stood out prominently from his tight skin,
showing that Brett was not carrying excess flesh of
any kind.  I felt my cock beginning to stir as I
hadn't seen him naked, of course, and hadn't
appreciated just what an erotic sight his slim, almost
boyish, body could be.  Still, I expect that for most
of his life he'd had access to the best gyms and
pools, and almost certainly had had a personal slave
to exercise with and act as a trainer for him.  I
remembered, too, that he had a love of fine clothes,
and so was probably incented  to stay lean and slim to
show them to their best advantage.

They'd trimmed his unruly mop of long blond hair down
to a standard salve crop as was customary with most
slaves, and he'd had his pits and chest trimmed down
to almost the minimum.  His balls were of course
completely shaved, but his pubes had been left, but
reduced to a kind of "bar" about three inches long and
an inch high just above his dick - I supposed they
wanted to suggest that most owners might keep such a
smooth-skinned young man shaved totally.  On the other
hand, it was so relatively rare to have a pure-bred
whitey offered for sale,  especially one with such
startlingly blond hair. So they didn't want to take it
all out in case some potential owners lacked the
imagination  to think what their new slave boy might
look like with golden pubes, so this was perhaps  a
reasonable compromise.  It's also relatively more
difficult to bleach all a slave's pubes, and so
perhaps they were also subtly pointing to the fact
that Brett was indeed a "natural" blond.

He was displayed along with several other "specially
selected material" - a pair of what looked like twins
(although you can never be sure without a DNA test, as
the vets and farriers can do a lot to make men look
alike), a big, high breasted Australian bitch, a nigga
with one of the biggest dicks I'd ever seen who had a
discrete label on him saying that he might be used as
a punishment instrument for an owner with many other
slaves, and so on.  Each was special and stunning in
his own way.  I suppose Brett was attracting so much
attention not so much because of his "provenance" -
which, anyway, the auctioneer would probably want to
suppress as a slave who was into gambling and fast
living might be a liability rather than an asset - but
because even in this stunning crowd he still stood
out.  I've mentioned his smooth skin and blond hair,
but it was his fine features, his long legs, small but
interesting nipples, neatly turned belly button, and
long, slender thighs that, in combination, screamed
"sex" at you.  Perhaps the only feature that was, to
my mind at any rate, less than perfect was his dick
and balls:  I really do prefer loose, low-hanging
balls that swing in their sac and hang down beyond the
end of the dick.  But Brett typified the other
approach:  his sac was adequately large, but almost
spherical and held close to the body, and the dick
kind of "rode" on top of that, looking almost as if he
had been loosely cinched.  It was perhaps a little on
the short side, but I gave him the benefit of the
doubt and thought that, like most men, he might have
shrivelled up a little at  being so publicly exposed.
I did my best to peer at his toes as I went past,
trying not to attract his attention:  I  prefer a
man's toes to be long and perfectly formed, without
corns or callouses caused by ill-fitting shoes, and in
some ways I think you can read parts of the character
from them:  long toes, I've found, imply dynamite sex!

I thought of calling over one of the salesmen and
having him erected, or even masturbated, but someone
got in before me.  As a young nigga knelt between his
legs and began to suck him, then stroke him, Brett's
eyes misted over even more with tears at the
humiliation he was undergoing.  My heart went out to
him, actually, as I knew only too well how his life
had now changed, from my own experience; and the
trauma he must be going through to have a nigga doing
this to him - well in public, anyway, as I didn't
doubt that Brett had routinely used niggas for his
sexual relief previously.  I assume he had been too
worried by life in the processing centre to have
jerked off for a few days, as when the slave did bring
him to climax the initial spurt went several feet,
meriting polite applause from the potential buyers.

There was a buzz of excitement later in the afternoon
when the auctioneer moved on from selling off the
normal run-of-the-mill stock and began on the higher
quality slaves.  I'd had a reasonable lunch in the
restaurant that was part of the auction complex - it
was a big place, being a regional centre, covering
many acres with the display halls, the stock holding
pens, and the workshops for performing all the
necessary ancillary services such as collaring, and
the surgical procedures that some owners of new slaves
might find it more convenient to have done before
taking final delivery.  As you might expect, there
were the fast food joints and cafeterias for the poor,
but they had thoughtfully provided a "silver service"
restaurant for the more discerning patrons, with
prices very much elevated.  I did wonder as I ate my
meal whether the serving slave dedicated to me was
trying to get me drunk, as even though I had not
ordered a bottle of wine he came with a glass of fine
Bordeaux with the restaurant's compliments.  And when
I'd drunk it, and they clearly had an excellent
sommelier as it was pure nectar, he tried to ply me
with another:  presumably bidders with a lot of
alcohol inside them have their judgement clouded
somewhat, and their wallets loosened!

The big TV screens on the walls were the only jarring
note that suggested we were not in fact in a "proper"
restaurant, as one showed the current auction in
progress, another marked off the prices being bid I
different currencies for the convenience of foreign
buyers, and a third showed a projected timetable for
when numbered lots would be coming up, together with a
suggestion of how long it might take to get to the
auction hall itself.  There were in fact telephones on
the tables so I could, if I wish, place a bid to one
of the bank of slaves manning the phones in the hall
itself, but I decided I rather liked the atmosphere
and thought I would attend in person - well, it's a
great atmosphere as a buyer, of course;  as an object
being sold,  it was a lot less happy I imagine!

Having registered my interest in making a "premium
purchase" and showing credentials to indicate I could
certainly afford to do so (if my clothes and my
elegant very thin gold watch had not already revealed
that), a slave led me to a seat in one of the front
rows of the hall.  These sales do of course attract
many, many of the idly curious and those who
deliberately come to gawk at the fine bodies on
display, and the auctioneers had wisely decided that
real potential customers should have the best view.
It was mildly interesting for me to see the other
slaves coming up for sale as it gave me an indication
of how the room was "working" that day, and whether
there were many bids being placed on behalf of dealers
for subsequent resale of the slaves.  I soon realised
that the crowd was in a buoyant mood, and knew that if
I was determined to buy Brett, a very high price would
need to be paid.  On the other hand, I reasoned, what
else did I have to spend my money on?  I lived simply,
very simply, at the lake house with a very small
number of relatively inexpensive slaves and did not
have the astronomical expense of maintaining a huge
establishment with slaves for ever conceivable task -
I know it's often considered that slaves are a "cheap"
option compared to employing free men, and indeed they
are;  but after you've paid vet's bills, bought slave
chow, and paid the local and state taxes that were
levied on the keeping of slaves, let alone the loss of
interest on the capital tied up in them, it was still
quite costly.  I decided to relax, enjoy myself, and
acquire Brett whatever the cost - Sam and I needed a
new interest in our lives.

When Brett was eventually led out to the brightly-lit
stage in front of us, he was so reluctant to expose
himself to the large audience that the guard slapped
him hard on his butt to encourage him to move - the
sound of the man's bare hand striking Brett's ass
caused a ripple of amusement to go through the hall,
as the auctioneer's voice boomed out over the PA
system saying "Now, ladies and gentlemen, an
exceptional whitey here:  young and virginal looking,
and shy, as we can see!  Think of the fun you'll have
training a boy, or should I more correctly say young
man, like this.  Twenty three  years old, college
educated at one of our finest institutions, certified
to be in excellent health, and, as you can see, a
natural blond.  He's been put with bitches prior to
the auction and appears to know what do...."  -
another ripple of amusement went around the hall -
"...and he is believed to be an anal virgin as he
showed no interest in the male slaves he was put with,
although this is not certified and does not form part
of the formal particulars of sale."

I felt rather sorry for Brett, actually - he was
standing there trying to turn away from the audience
so as not to expose his dick, and every time he got
half turned, the auctioneer's assistant used a short
stick to prod at him and make him turn back.  His dick
seemed to have shrivelled right up to almost nothing
(large TV screens showed close-ups of interesting
features like this:  his dick, his face, his butt all
were in huge, glorious colour all over the hall).  The
auctioneer noticed Brett's lack of "virility" and went
on "Well, ladies and gentlemen, clearly an important
item - for your stud, or for your bedroom - or should
I say boudoir, as a young buck like this with such a
slim body will be sure to appeal to the ladies!
However I see that his shyness is resulting in the
property not being displayed to the best
advantage....."  As I watched the big screen nearest
to me, a black hand came out and began to stroke
Brett's dick - turning my attention to the stage, I
noticed a young nigga who had been crouching in the
wings was actively stimulating Brett, and was
presumably kept there for just such a purpose.

Once Brett's dick was at full erection and the nigga
lad had expertly teased his 'skin back to that Brett's
deliciously moist dick head was revealed to us all on
the screens, the auctioneer remarked "There, ladies
and gentlemen:  it's rare to see a  whitey buck like
this one with such an agreeable body... So I'll start
the bidding at two hundred thousand new dollars."

Auction crowds are much the same whether it's
furniture, fine wines, property, or slaves that are
being auctioned, I suppose.  No one would open the
bidding, and so the auctioneer tried again opening at
one hundred and fifty, and then the bidding spiralled
upwards with startling rapidity to three hundred and
fifty thousand.  I was at the point of giving up, as
even though I'd resolved to buy him, the price was
now, frankly, ludicrous:  I could have had a coffle of
field slaves,  for far less!  I could see my opponent
across the gangway from me - a swarthy Arab in
traditional costume, and I wondered what Brett's life
would be like if he was bought by that man and
exported to Arabia.  Still, if anyone else bought him,
especially if they were interested in his supposed
college education, Brett might not have been in for a
very good time anyway - I doubted that anyone would
want a slave educated in debauchery and the high life,
rather than in business studies, or economics.

I suspected that the Arab might be buying "on
commission", though, as he seemed to be speaking into
a mobile phone.  Evidently he did not succeed in
convincing his principal that it was worth paying a
much higher price, and he finally dropped out and I
had Brett for just a shade under four hundred thousand
- although the buyer's premium to the auction house,
and the state and city sales taxes, would push that
way, way up.

They'd given me a little paddle thing with  my buyer's
number on it when I'd registered, and I held it up and
the auctioneer said "Number eight six six", and the
same young nigga who had brought Brett to erection now
wrote that on his chest, and his butt, with a "magic
marker".  Brett was led off by the handler, and the
next slave was ushered in, and that was that - he was
mine!

I went down to the collections area later, but decided
to still keep my identity incognito. It was controlled
mayhem down there, with the sold slaves neatly penned
in small stand-up cages, and buyers lining up to pay
for their purchases.  The handsome assistant who dealt
with me (in the area marked "Premium Purchases ONLY")
seemed surprised that such a young man as me could
afford so much, and he spent a lot of time with me
after he'd contacted my bank and we'd made the
transfer, going through the optional facilities and
services a that the place offered.  We joked when he
began with gelding, as of course no one would lightly
destroy so much potential value by having such an
expensive slave's balls removed, but he did suggest a
vasectomy "in case, sir, you have a wife or a daughter
at potential risk?"  I did think about that, as I'd
heard that a vasectomised man gets bigger balls as
there's nowhere for the sperm to go, but decided
against it as I did in fact plan to stud Brett.
Likewise I turned down the option of circumcision,
even though the assistant remarked that it was very
unusual for a slave not to be 'skinned - I had my own
thoughts about that!  The range of rings, collars,
studs and other body accessories was interesting, but
I'd planned to emphasise Brett's innocent good looks
by keeping him mostly unadorned, and although I did
plan to have him branded and tattooed, I wanted more
time to think about these things (branding is of
course compulsory, but an owner has four weeks to get
it done and the slave's SIN registered if the slave is
new), so there was no particular hurry.  I felt a bit
sorry for the assistant, actually, as I suspected he
got a commission on these "extras".  By way of
compensation I asked him if he was interested in going
out to dinner that evening, and he blushed slightly
and said that with no disrespect to me, he was
straight.  This was the first time that anyone else
had ever taken such an innocent invitation from me as
a possible seduction move - perhaps it was the fact
that I had been showing an interest in his nicely
muscled arms as he worked the PC that alerted him to
my real purpose!

It was very tempting to go and view Brett immediately,
but still I decided to keep his new owner a secret
from him for a little while longer - let him suffer
the agony of suspense, as he worried whether he'd been
bought by some old hag, or an Arab for export, or even
by one of the South American mafia.  I looked down
from the balcony where I was standing, though, and
could see him gripping the bars of his cage and
eagerly scanning the faces of the buyers arriving,
perhaps in the hope of finding a friendly face -
perhaps he harboured a vague hope that one of his
father's ex-colleagues might, even now, have come to
his rescue.

Having arranged for him to be shipped by UPS - I
thought it would be good for him to see the conditions
I'd been transported in - I took a taxi to the station
and was fortunate enough to catch an earlier train
than I had intended.

It took them two days to deliver him to me.  I sent
Sam, "respectably" dressed in normal freeman's shorts
and a crisp white shirt, rather than his usual slave
shorts, or totally bare skin, down to deal with the
paperwork, considering, rightly as it happened, that
Brett would consider a nigga in free man's clothes
could not possibly have been his pony, Sam.  I watched
from the veranda as Brett stood there, blinking in the
strong sunlight.  I was vaguely amused to see that his
embarrassment at standing there in the open air
totally nude was made worse by the fact that on the
journey he'd clearly soiled himself, as I could see
streaks of shit down his legs.  He must have had a
most unpleasant time in the slave transporter.

Sam called to the gardener and my valet to come over
and clean Brett down and "make him at least half-way
presentable for the master".  I know, of course, how
unpleasant it is to be washed down  with a hose, as
even on the hottest day the flow of icy water soon
chills you.  Brett tried to resist my valet, who
didn't mind the shit on Brett (well, even guys who are
careful about these things sometimes have a bit
clinging in the deep recesses of our asses, don't we,
especially if we're very hairy, as I am? And my valet
was of course used to this when he assisted me with my
shower).  The big Russian gardener therefore joined
in, grabbing Brett by the arm, and then giving him a
couple of huge, hard slaps on his butt until Brett had
clamed down.  Valet and gardener then worked away
giving him an initial thorough wash, and finally the
gardener picked up Brett bodily, cradling him in his
arms, carried him over to the ornamental pool which
graces the terrace, and unceremoniously dropped him!
Everyone laughed to see Brett  there in the water,
spluttering and gasping form his unexpected "baptism"
- I suppose his heavy collar had dragged his head down
and held it under for longer than you would think.

They helped him out of the pool, gave him a quick
hosing down again to get the odd trace of pond weed
off him, and then the gardener stood by him, ready to
administer more slaps if Brett moved, as he dried off
in the hot sun.  I sipped my morning coffee leisurely
as I was in no hurry as I wanted him to be hot and a
little sweaty on our first meeting, and Sam joined me
- now comfortably naked, and we sat and chatted
excitedly.  I did envy Sam a bit for being able to
strip off like that - although I've nothing to be
ashamed of with my body which was still fit and hard,
I had to remain clothed in case of an unexpected visit
from a neighbour;  or perhaps it was because my own
slaves would have been scandalised to see a master
cavorting around naked outdoors - there is a certain
responsibility associated with being an owner, after
all.

After waiting for about thirty minutes, by which time
I was beginning to be concerned that the strip of pure
white around Brett's loins might be getting burned
(and he was a considerable investment for me, as you
know, and I didn't want to risk damage), I got up and
went down the steps towards him.  I felt supremely
confident in my well-cut khaki shorts and pale blue
sea-island cotton shirt, and as I emerged from the
shadow and Brett got his first sight of me, he ran
forward, flung his arms around me, and almost sobbed
"Oh Steve, am I glad to see you!  Thank Christ
something's happened to dad's case and he's sent you
to rescue me... The conditions I was brought here in
were revolting - they shouldn't treat men like that..
And I want you to have this brute punished", he said,
indicating the gardener, "As he dared to touch me and
even slapped me...."

"Don't speak to me like that, Brett..."

"You fucking slave, I'll speak to you as I like, and I
reckon it's time you had a good whipping, as you were
uppity as a pony.  And get those clothes off, and hand
them over...."

"Brett, you're a slave.  I bought you.  And do you
remember how a slave speaks to a free man?"

"Cut the crap, you fucker!  It's definitely a whipping
for you now...."

I looked at my big, burly gardener, who seemed faintly
horrified that a slave might be acting like this.  In
the tone I used forgiving him orders about digging the
vegetable plot, or scheduling a cut of the grass, I
said quietly "I think the sun has got to this slave!
Please pick him up and drop him in the pond again to
cool off.  Then get him out, take him over to the
bench over there, put him across your knee and spank
his butt for me - I want to see it really red:  at
least twelve blows, and more if you're enjoying it and
it isn't hurting your hand too much...."

Well, if I laughed the first time Brett's head came up
spluttering from the water, it was so much funnier a
second time - especially as when the gardener picked
him up this time, he wriggled and squirmed and beat
impotently at the Russian's broad back.  And,
surprisingly perhaps, as the Russian liked to be
submissive during sex, he did a remarkably good job of
tanning Brett's hide:  I did call it off, even though
he was clearly not tiring, when I'd counted twenty
strokes.  The Russian looked worried, and as he stood
there holding solidly to a sobbing Brett's arm: he
gestured for permission to speak, and then muttered
"Sir, I'm sorry... I'm not tired... My hand does hurt,
sir, but you are my master, and I will gladly carry on
beating this ungrateful slave, sir... You're such a
good master, I'd do anything to serve you..."

I wasn't sure about whether it was his desire to serve
me or whether he'd found it unexpectedly erotic, as
his dick was jutting out proud and hard (and I could
imagine the feeling of Brett's naked body wriggling
around on top of it as he sat there administering the
punishment).  I made a mental note to take a careful
look at the butts of my valet and chef later in the
week, to make sure the gardener hadn't developed an
unhealthy interest in spanking  other guys.  It's
things like that you tend to forget about owning
slaves - you do have to keep an eye on them, and it's
not all pleasure.

You may think me cruel to have treated Brett like
this, but you have to remember that it was mostly
humiliation for him, and a spanking, even a very hard
one as my gardener had administered, only hurts for a
day or so.  He was very lucky, knowing that he was a
slave and the kind of behaviour expected of slaves,
that I hadn't taken a very severe view indeed of his
behaviour.  Many owners do, after all, cane a slave
for failing to use "sir".  And to actually swear at an
owner - well, he could have been carted off to the SP
and then who knows what might have happened to him.  I
think I  was right to emphasise in this very physical
way to him that his status had irrevocably changed:
he must have understood it intellectually, but as we
know, sometimes the body has to learn these things,
too.

After this initial show of my power over him, I expect
you can imagine what I was thinking of doing to him
next - the ritual taking of his cherry.  Well, not
exactly next, as I decided I wanted Brett to feel a
little more "free" as a precursor to making his final
fall all the more severe.  So I told Sam and the
gardener to take him over  to the barn, where there
was a little workshop previously used for the
maintenance of farm machinery, and use a diamond blade
to saw off the hideous iron collar: Yes, I know it's
the law to have all slaves collared, but I intended
Brett to be fitted with a small, slim ankle cuff, as
Sam wore, so that to the untutored eye he'd look more
"naked".  I thought the risk of being found with an
uncollared slave for a day or so on my very remote
farm was an acceptable one, especially a it was only
the local police who would be likely to find out, and
their Chief in the town owed me several significant
favours.

Although I told them to be extremely careful and not
burn his neck with the sparks from the cutter, I was
very annoyed to see several marks on Brett's skin,
particularly the top of his shoulders, when they
brought him back.  I started to tear Sam off a strip,
until he pointed out that they were chafing marks:
what on earth was that auctioneer doing giving a prime
slave like this one such a roughly-finished collar
that it was actually doing damage?  I resolved to
write and complain, and demand compensation for
"damaged goods".

 had thought that we might immediately move forward to
the next step in the conversion of Brett into a proper
slave, but it was a warm day and fucking's strenuous
work (especially when done by me!), so I decided I'd
postpone his cherry ceremony until the cool of the
evening.  That would also give me another few hours
with my excitement at fever pitch contemplating the
violation of his ass for the first time:  every time
I'd thought about it in the last week or so I'd had an
unbelievable erection (and, indeed, I was now
"tenting" my shorts very visibly);  but now I'd
actually seen Brett's naked body, the anticipation was
even greater.

I told the gardener to take Brett over to the barn -
not the slave house, as I did not want him kept in too
much comfort - and to chain him securely to one of the
hitching posts as the guy was not yet properly
"broken" and might decide to do something stupid like
try to run away.  "I'll see you later, Brett", I told
him cheerfully.  "Of course a gentleman would not fuck
a pony, I remember you saying before you had some Sam
ravish me for the first time.  But things are
different here:  I'm not a  'southern gentleman' as
you are - I mean were - I'm a dammed Yankee.  And
you're not a pony, just n ordinary slave, so your ass
is available.  Or do I mean that you're not yet a
pony?  Any way, no matter - get some rest in the barn,
if you can, as we're in for a lovely long  night with
both Sam and me needing to take you."

"Sir, please, no....", he began to whine.

I was encouraged that he'd started to use "sir",
anyway. "Listen, slave, if you can give me one good
reason why not, then I won't take your cherry.
Otherwise....."

Brett stammered "Sir, it's wrong for a guy to fuck
another against his will.  It's rape, sir, and it's
wrong."

"Is that your only reason, slave?  The only one you
can come up with?"

He nodded, and I laughed.  "You're exactly right, of
course.  If I went and raped my neighbour Dave, or his
wife, of course it would be wrong and I'd probably be
enslaved, but legally this time.  However our
situation is different.... Can you spot how?"

"No, sir."

I laughed again.  "Well, Brett, the truth is, you see,
that you're a slave.  And what's more, you're my
slave.  You're my property.  I own you, totally.  I
own every part of you.  I can decide to do with you
whatever I wish (except kill you, and some of the
grosser forms of mutilation, where I need to apply to
the Courts first).  And I wish to fuck that cute ass
of yours, Brett.  And as I want to do it, and as I own
you, then I will."

"Sir, please, no... I'll give you  anything...."

"I asked you for a reason, slave, and your reply was
plain stupid.  And now you're promising to 'give me
anything...':  has it occurred to you, Brett, that you
haven't got anything to give me?  Except your total
and complete loyalty and obedience, that it is - and I
expect that as a right from any slave.  So you have
nothing.  No bargaining chips.  Nothing.  That's what
being a slave is, Brett - get used to it."

With that I signalled to the gardener to take him away
to the barn, and Brett started to struggle and shout.
"If the new slave causes you too much trouble, go via
the pond", I called to the gardener, and he gave a
great grin and went to scoop Brett up into his massive
arms again.  It was gratifying to see how Brett's
resistance failed then and he went quietly - this
slave training isn't nearly as complicated as folk
make out.

We had an early dinner.  I was so excited about what
was going to happen afterwards, and therefore only had
a single glass of a rather good Puligny Montrachet,
offering one to Sam, too, who declined (perhaps
fortunately:  this was so expensive, and Sam lacked
the refinement to enjoy it properly, preferring beer
with his meal).  I told the valet who was serving us
to tell the chef to be sure to use a wine preserver
and keep it safe, as I expected to drink it again
tomorrow, and that he'd be caned if he even as much
dared take a sip.  We ate on in silence, but there
seemed to be something wrong with Sam as he was mood
and almost petulant, answering my questions
monosyllabically.

"So what's up with you tonight, then?", I finally
asked, and when he said "Nothing", I snapped "Cut the
crap and tell me now, or else get over to the slave
house as I don't want to see your miserable face
spoiling my evening:  this is going to be fun, with
Brett..."

"It's all right for you, Steve, but I know what's
going to happen.  You'll take his ass first, and then
I'll be left with sloppy seconds...."

"So?  Someone has to go first.  And I am his owner,
after all."

"I thought you were going to say 'and you're only a
slave like him', or some such", Sam almost spat out.

"Hey, buddy.... That's true, of course.  You are a
slave, like him.  Well, not like him exactly, as you
and me have gone through a lot together.  And I never
treat you 'just like a slave', do I?  Just a few
minutes ago I offered you a glass of my superb wine
that costs the average weekly wage for a bottle.... Is
that treating you like a slave?"

"You make me pick up your clothes and put them in the
laundry basket...."

"...which is what any buddy would do!  I'd pick up
yours, if you actually wore any most of the time."

"...and you made me run naked through the town!"

"You're being childish now, Sam!  We've been through
all that before, and I explained why we had to do it.
And you've done it lots of times before, as have I,
when we were Brett's ponies - there's no shame in an
owner choosing to show off a magnificent slave like
you, and you ought to be pleased that I'm so proud of
you."

"...and then there's the fucking!  You're always up my
ass now...."

"Because you've lost the knack of winning, Sam!  Do
you remember all those nights, lots of them, when you
fucked me and fucked me, because you beat me at
wrestling?  Well, perhaps I got smarter, or perhaps
your age is beginning to tell - you are five years
older than me, and when we began, that was a real
advantage for you in terms of experience and
everything.  But perhaps time is starting to tell...."

"It's not fair, Steve.  We went through all Brett's
crap together, and now you're going to have first bite
of his cherry.  If there was any justice, we'd toss a
coin for it or something as you don't automatically
deserve to go first."

I felt like telling him the way of the world!  It is
not "fair" and there is no "justice".  Power goes to
the powerful, in this case me.  But I didn't want to
upset Sam on this special night, as I needed him to
help me enjoy myself with Brett.  "No, tossing a
coin's too much of a game of chance...."

"So let's have a real contest, Steve.  Let's wrestle,
and the winner gets to fuck Brett first.  We'll see
who's the best when the chips are down, and see
whether are and experience triumph..."

I stood up and we went from the dining room into the
living room where there's a big clear space in the
middle.  Two big guys like us need a lot of room to
wrestle, and the only problem in using the living room
like this is that it an be awfully difficult to clean
all the cum and stuff off the carpets afterwards.  I
stood there and stripped naked, as did Sam (who was
only wearing slave shorts anyway).  It was a good
fight, one of the best we'd ever had as we were both
so passionate about winning.  Several times I got a
finger in one of Sam's tit rings and could have
reduced him to a helpless jelly quite quickly, but I
deliberately didn't.  So it wasn't long before Sam had
me in one of those fiendish holds he knows from which
there's no escape, and as he stretched my body in all
the wrong directions, I finally had to shout that I
gave in.

Sam was leaking pre-cum as he helped me up and pushed
me over the arm of one of the couches, then, grunting
with excitement and pleasure, he fucked me so hard
that I could hear myself crying "fuck, no, fuck, no,
fuck, no, Jesus, please stop....." in time to his
thrusts.  He came so quickly, and then we lay next
together, enjoying the intimate contact of our sweaty
bodies and the feeling of our panting breaths.

Sam grinned at me.  "So, Steve, it's you who get the
sloppy seconds?"

I smiled back, and teased his left nip a bit, causing
him to moan as he's always extra sensitive after sex.
"Well, not necessarily, Sam.... You see I'm going to
have Brett brought over now form the barn, and I doubt
that after that epic fuck you'll be able to get it up
again immediately.... You know what they say, old
buddy - or perhaps they don't teach you this in the
marines  now - you won the battle, but you've lost the
war!"

He threw back his lovely head and laughed, and I took
the opportunity at biting into his exposed shoulder as
he did.  Then he looked at me, and smiled, and I knew
it would be all right. "Is this a trick that slave
training manual I've seen you reading taught you?"

"Oh, perhaps.  That, and a few other interesting
things to do with a slave in bed, that we might
try...."

We got up off the floor, then sat on one of the
couches kissing and cuddling and generally enjoying
each other, as I rang the bell and told them to fetch
Brett over to me.

End Of Part Seven