Date: Wed, 20 Oct 2004 13:11:03 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Four The Same, Part Three

FOUR THE SAME    by Pete Brown    petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part Three

The slave's body had given an involuntary shudder as
he mentioned the horror of his training in fucking,
and I suppose I should have simply told him to move
on.  But he was a nice boy, who had made this
extraordinary effort to please me by "opening up" his
life, and I decided to give him a chance to talk out
his unfortunate experiences.  It's always helpful, I
find, to let people recount their personal horrors, if
they can, as over time that person can gradually then
come to terms with what has happened to them.

So I lay there in his arms, occasionally stroking his
back and giving him a comforting cuddle, as he
recounted the training sessions with the big American
trainer and his monstrous cock.  Time prevents me from
transcribing the whole conversation, but I remember
him saying that they used one of the standard
"training frames" that slave owners use to restrain
slaves, and that when he was then held immobile, the
American had, as an initial introduction to anal
intercourse, taken him unprepared, and very hard.  It
was a real rape, and the justification was,
apparently, that every other man who fucked the slave
subsequently would be "easy" by comparison.  However,
I am digressing:  regardless of how the training was
done, it clearly was highly effective as I have seldom
had a man respond so well to me as I ploughed into
him, and who was, overall, such a totally satisfactory
piece of flesh to play with.

After the slave had recounted the horror of his
introduction to sex, however, he did begin to tell me
the-up side of his experiences.  The American trainer
insisted that the four slaves used each other for
further "exercises", and so he had quickly become used
to having three other men always totally available to
him to "play" in whatever way they wanted.  He never
lacked a companion to work out with, or to suck his
cock, or who could provide a convenient hole for more
intimate and satisfying sexual activity.  And it seems
that his life after that period of harsh training had
not been altogether unpleasant:  as a young guy with a
nice body he actually enjoyed being fit and in-shape,
and so the continuing physical training sessions that
they had, every day, were not unduly arduous.

He had also discovered that having the facility for
unlimited sex was something that was very, very
desirable indeed.  He'd gone from a situation in which
he had to mostly jerk himself off, with occasional
bouts of sex with his girl friend, sex which had to be
"earned" by endless conversations, dinners and
presents, to one in which sex was available whenever
he wanted it.  There was a small down-side, of course,
in that as one of the Sheikh's pleasure slaves he
sometimes had to have sex with men whose bodies he
found less than desirable, even repulsive on occasion;
 but, by and large, the men he went with enjoyed a
healthy attitude to sex, and his own three companions
were, like him, always in superb physical condition
and ready for mutually enjoyable experiences at all
times.   We lay there, and he whispered, a big grin
running across his wide, open face "You know, sir, I
used to make fun of guys who went with other men,
whilst at the same time I was hardly getting any sex
at all.  Now I understand what sex is really about -
two men, joining their bodies together in ways that
please them, and I can do it every day, many times,
with three guys I really like.  I guess most guys, if
they thought about it, would see that I've kind of
fallen on my feet."

The slave was, like all the Sheikh's slaves, branded.
He bore the Sheikh's house mark on his upper right
forearm, and on his left buttock.  It was interesting
to lie there and let the tips of my fingers
occasionally stray over those marks.  Feeling the pit
in a man's flesh where a brand has been seared into
him is, I find, strangely erotic, and if my cock
started to flag as we lay together and he recounted
his story, I found that I could recover my ardour by
thinking about this.  Branding is surely the supreme
act of one man demonstrating his complete mastery and
domination of another - the brand is irremovable and
will be with the slave for life, and to those that
know, it instantly makes the man recognisable as a
slave, an owned object, rather than as a normal human
being.   It was strange, though, that the slave did
not have his registration number and name tattooed
onto his flesh - the Sheikh was one of the more
merciful slave owners in his kingdom, it seems, and
did not require these details to be branded in to the
skin of his slaves, causing considerable suffering:
he considered a plain tattoo, generally on the upper
arm and on the left pec, to be perfectly adequate. But
this slave exhibited only beautifully clear skin in
these places.  So I asked the slave about this, and I
shall perhaps let his own words tell you the story.

THE SLAVE'S STORY

Well, once we'd been taught about sex and our battered
ass holes had recovered a bit, there seemed no point
in holding back, did there?  The American trainer had
insisted we "practice" on each other, so we'd lost all
our previous inhibitions about touching each others
bodies, playing with each others cocks, and now,
actually sucking and fucking each other.  I  mean,
when you're young and fit and strong and in perfect
health you need a lot of sex, don't you?  And it just
seemed silly to lie together in the tiny cell each
night "pretending" not to know that the other guys
were jerking themselves off.  Actually, I really like
having my cock sucked, and of course fucking a guy is
so much better than fucking a woman once you've tried
it:  men kind of "bond" together, don't they, and can
enjoy sex without all the emotional baggage that women
seem to carry along with them?   It's a bit
surprising, I sometimes think, that the human race
hasn't died out as sex with another guys is so much
better than sex with women, and once you've done it
for the first time, I can't imagine you reverting to
fucking women.  When I think how difficult it was to
get my girlfriends to give me a blow job, or even to
touch my cock, and how much effort I needed to put in
to get them into the mood for fucking, it was just
astonishing now to find that we could all enjoy really
great sex, with guys we liked, with no inhibitions and
no need to go through an elaborate process of "buying"
permission.  We basically just fucked and fucked and
fucked.

You know, sir, I'm surprised that the UN or someone
hasn't made it compulsory for guys to try fucking
other guys.  It would be rather like having to get a
driving licence or something - if you wanted to marry
a woman, you'd first have to demonstrate that you'd
been on a training course to try out other men.  I bet
that if they did that, the population growth would
fall dramatically, really dramatically.  I mean, as I
said, once you've done it....

Anyway, perhaps I'd better continue with my story,
sir.  As my body strengthened and I found out how
great  proper sex can be one  you lose all your silly
inhibitions, it was almost as if I started to enjoy my
experience as a slave.  After all, I was well fed, I
got all the exercise I needed, and now I had three
great buddies to fuck with.  Gone were all the cares
of the everyday world - would my bank account hold out
until the next pay day?  Why was my job so boring?
Why did my girl friend keep whining on about this and
that?    No, all I had to think about now was my body,
and sex, and I didn't really have a worry in the
world.  Being a slave didn't seem quite as bad as I'd
thought.

I suppose I should have known that everything couldn't
be that easy in the world of slavery, though.  My
circumcision scar had long since healed over, and, I
suppose, I'd got used to now being 'skinned.  In some
ways it was a lot more convenient - I didn't have to
stand there in the shower whilst the young lads rolled
it back and washed under it:  when they'd said that
being 'skinned made  for easier maintenance, I guess
they were right.  I did miss the feeling of  sliding
the 'skin on and off my cock head when I was jerking
off, but then, I wasn't jerking off much any more - in
fact, not at all.  But if I'd thought that the initial
pain of my 'skinning was almost worth it, I just had
no idea how I could be hurt again.

One morning, after our program of exercises, we were
taken back to the room where they'd done my 'skinning.
 The various restraint tables and devices were still
there, and I wondered what the hell they were going to
do to me now - after all, I'd lost all my hair, and
been 'skinned, so there was nothing else left to take
off me.  I suppose I had a momentary feeling of panic
when I thought that they might be going to castrate us
all, but then I'd never seen any other slaves around
the place without balls, and it didn't  seem very
sensible to have taken four big "studs" like us and
the cut their balls off - we wouldn't be nearly so
good to look at.  Similarly, they couldn't be thinking
of performing amputations or anything like that,
otherwise why would they bother to exercise us so hard
to give us such special body definition?

I couldn't voice any of these concerns to my
companions, of course, as it was forbidden for us to
speak as we were kind of "on duty", so I had just to
stand there, wondering what the hell was going on.
I'd already been here once, of course, but the two
guys who were already 'skinned must be really worried
when they looked at all the surgical instruments and
stuff.  My musing was cut short, however, when that
same doctor who had so brutally 'skinned me without
anaesthetic strode in and told the guards to take us
and restrain us in the "barrel" apparatus.

There were four of these in the room, looking like
large wooden barrels securely on top of sturdy wooden
legs.  In turn, each of us was led over to one of
these "barrels" and told to lie across it.  They
pulled my arms down and held them onto the front legs
with Velcro fastenings, and then my legs were spread
and I was secured there, too.  The "barrel" was  quite
a large diameter, and so my body was fairly stretched
over it once I was secured - there was a convenient
hole in it, though, through which my cock and balls
poked, so it wasn't all that uncomfortable.  I began
to wonder what was going to happen, though, when more
straps were run from one side of the top of the
barrel, across my waist, and cinched tight to the
other side of the barrel.  One of the guards has some
sort of long, sharp spike, and once the binding had
been tightened around me, he stabbed it into the big
muscle of my ass!  I just couldn't help shouting out
at the unexpected attack and the pain, but I was
totally unable to move.

"Good", the guard told his companion - this one's
tight."

Each of my companions was lashed down in the same way,
and tested with the spike, and then the doctor stood
in front of us.  By bending my neck upwards, I could
look at him as he spoke.

"Now, you slaves, have you observed anything different
about yourselves and the rest of your owner's property
that you see around the place?"

As we'd been taught, and mindful of how exposed our
asses were to punishment, we all chorused "No, sir."

Well, look around you - all the guards' uniforms, all
the furniture in this room, the smock I'm wearing...
everything.... has the Sheikh's personal house mark on
it so that it is readily identifiable as a piece of
his property, in case it should be lost or stolen.  In
addition, any item of property worth more than one
hundred dollars has an inventory number, so that we
can properly account for the value of the Sheikh's
property, and trace individual items.

What you should have noticed is that, uniquely amongst
the sheikh's property, you four are not marked with
his house mark.  And you're individually  all worth
more than one hundred dollars, and yet you don't have
an inventory number.  We're going to remedy this
morning ,as you're going to receive your house mark
and number.  The number we tattoo on, but that's
rather impermanent as the whole purpose of a house
mark is to be ineradicable, to prevent loss or theft -
it's difficult to do, but tattoos can be made much
less prominent by a skilled plastic surgeon, and so a
stolen or escaped slave can appear to be something
else.

"Now, look at this...."  He held up a thin metal rod
with a circular thing just under an inch in diameter
on one end, and on the other, arranged so that it
looked a bit like a pistol grip, was one of those
canisters of gas that you see on small picnic stoves,
and firing chafing dishes in swanky restaurants.

"This is the humane brander.  So much better than the
old way of doing it, with a brazier of charcoal and a
big, heavy branding iron.  The iron rarely got above
bright-red heat, and so it needed to be held into the
flesh for quite a long time to get a good, indelible
brand, and, in turn, this meant that the actual mark
left was fuzzy and indistinct.  But with this little
baby, I just press the igniter....."  There was a kind
of "click", then a faint roaring and hissing noise,
"... And the gas will start to heat the branding tip
up to white heat.  I really only have to press it
against your skin for a few seconds, and the job's
done."

"Now I'm not saying that it won't hurt - in fact, it
will hurt you more than anything you've ever known
before.  But at least it will be swift, and clean -
you'll have a most professional-looking brand seared
into your hide, with nice crisp edges so that everyone
can easily tell that your the Sheikh's property.
We've strapped you down most carefully, as there's a
real risk, if you moved, that you might injure
yourselves, and that would never do!  You're valuable
property of your owner, remember, and so we need to
take care of you.  I'm going to go along the row of
you doing your left ass cheek in turn, as soon as the
iron's at the right temperature, so let me give you a
small piece of advice:  scream!  It's good for you!
If you try and hold back your cries because you're
afraid that we'll think you're some sort of sissy who
can't take a little pain, forget it!  It's much better
for you to really let it out, as it simply doesn't do
you any good to bottle it all up, and, believe me, you
won't be able to anyway!  If you hold back the initial
scream of agony, you'll end up sobbing with the
residual pain anyway, and it will tend to go on for
longer.  My advice is to get it out of the way 'up
front' - a loud, unrestrained howl of total anguish
and desperation really will help you get over the
whole thing quicker!"

"Please, sir...."  It was Marc who spoke.  He's always
the daring one, always pushing things a bit, and he
gets more canings and stuff than the rest of us as a
result!

"Yes, slave?"

"Please, sir, could you give us a shot, or something,
so that it doesn't hurt?"

"Well of course I could - a shot of Novocain into that
delightful rump of yours would mean that you hardly
felt a thing.  But what would be the point of that?
It's the psychological effect that's important:  you
men were all proper free men a few short weeks ago,
and whilst you may appear to have adjusted to your
status as slaves superficially, deep down inside your
brain something is still saying that you're not really
slaves, and that one day you'll be free.  When you've
experienced the agony of your owner's mark being
seared into your flesh, you'll know, know in a way
that's burned as deep into your unconscious mind as
the mark is burned into your hide, that you truly are
now slaves.  That you truly are owned property, and
that's all you are.  You will carry your owner's mark
for the rest of your life, with no possibility of it
being eradicated.  Every time you brush it with your
hands, you will remember this day, the day that you
were finally turned form men into slaves.  It's only
the pain, the pain that will be so totally
overwhelming, that will flood your senses to the
exclusion of everything else, that can give you that
realisation.,  and without that realisation you will
never become proper, complete slaves of the Sheikh."

I don't know whether he would have gone on wit h his
explanation, but at that moment there was a "ping"
from the device, and he said "Right, up to operating
temperature!  But I don't always trust these
electronic sensors, and it would be terrible to have
to inflict this process on you twice if the iron were
too cool and the marks came out all indistinct...."

As we watched in fascinated horror, he opened a small
fridge and took out a piece of pork, raw pork, with
the rind on.  "Now, let's test it", he told us. "This
is a really close analogue of human skin and muscle,
so let's just see if the iron's hot enough...."

He held the iron by the handle, and pressed the tip
clearly and squarely into the pork in front of him.
We could actually hear the sizzling as he did this,
and the room filled with the pungent burning smell of
charring skin, underlain with that delicious smell of
cooking meat that you get at barbecues!  He seemed to
hold it there for some time - I guess that's just my
subjective view, and it wasn't all that long really -
before he took it away, then peered at the
still-smoking piece of meat.  He brushed at it lightly
with his fingers, cursing, and jerking back as it was
obviously hot, then looked at us and said "Perfect.
Now, remember what I said...."

I really was going o hold it in.  I'm a man, and a man
can take a bit of pain, can't he?  But I sensed his
presence behind me, and then I was no longer in
control.  It was just like a great wave of pain
crashing over me.  My body tried to jerk away, of
course, but it couldn't as I was held down so
securely.  It seemed to go on for ever and ever.  I
could smell my own skin charring, my own muscle
actually "cooking" with the heat.  A part of my brain
heard myself howling, a harsh, terribly loud, dreadful
wail of pure anguish.  I wasn't rational. I didn't
scream for him to stop.  I didn't shout out that it
was hurting. No, this was a deep, deep response from
somewhere down in the primeval part of me that knows
no reason, only knows that its body is being violated,
and that the outrage must stop, and gives a great cry
of anguish, rage and despair.

I carried on sobbing for several minutes, gasping for
air to replace that which had been expelled totally
from my lungs.  My throat hurt - funny, I remember
thinking that, in spite of the remorseless pain from
my butt.  And all my companions were in the same
state, too - I don't suppose the whole process, to do
all four of us, had taken more than a couple of
minutes, but in that time I know we all felt as if
we'd lived almost a lifetime.

The doctor was standing in front of us again ow, still
holding the vile tool, which was still hissing as the
gas burned steadily.  "You slaves ought to be grateful
that you have such a caring owner", he told us.  "I am
a qualified doctor, you know - he doesn't just get
some butcher to do it!  And if any of you had had a
real problem, I could have fixed it."

"What the fuck was a "real problem", I thought to
myself.  If I hadn't just experienced a "real
problem", then what was?

But he was carrying on speaking:  "Yes, it's not
unknown for a slave's heart to arrest with the
onslaught of the pain, and then, of course, I can do
what a doctor does and resuscitate him.  You guys
really ought to be grateful to your master for taking
such care of you!"

He didn't seem to find these words even slightly
ironic, and went on "I'd like to be able to tell you
that the  worst is over, but, sadly for you, it isn't.
 It's fine for you slaves who are mostly going to live
totally naked to be marked on the butt, but what about
slaves who area allowed to be clothed?  The rule is
therefore that you also get marked somewhere that's
visible when your butt is covered, and in the case of
your owner that means your upper arm, just below the
shoulder.  It's never clear to me which is the worst -
the brand in the butt, or the one in the arm.  Some
slaves I've spoken to afterwards say one, and some the
other.  But still ,you know what's coming now...."

He moved to stand in front of me, and with almost
maniacal strength brought on by my sheer terror, I
tried to move my arm, desperately flexing and
contracting all my muscles to get it out of the way of
the dreadful instrument.

"Steady, boy", he snapped.  "I have done this before,
you know...."

He moved closer and pressed his trousered knee into my
lower arm, pressing it hard against the sturdy wooden
leg of the "barrel".  Then his hand pushed into my arm
just above the elbow, and these actions, coupled with
the straps holding me, made my biceps totally
immobile.

I distinctly saw a kind of small smile of triumph play
across his face as he realised I absolutely could not
move, the then he pressed the hot, glowing brand home.

It was actually worse this time.  When he'd done my
butt there was an element of surprise, and I couldn't
really see what was happening.  But now there was this
slow, deliberate advance on my body, and it was right
up close to my head, where I couldn't help seeing.  I
felt the heat on my flesh, and then my nose was
assailed by the smoke and the sickening, charring
smell. Was it worse for me, or better than the brand
on my ass?  I honestly can't tell you.  I just
remember lying there across the barrel, utterly
shattered by the experience.  I felt chilled, as the
sweat that had broken out and covered my body started
to evaporate.  And there was another nauseous smell in
the air now, too - one of the guys had been unable to
contain himself, and there was a pile of  shit
underneath him.

When we'd all calmed down, the doctor came along and
rubbed some sort of soothing balm onto our wounds, and
I started to feel better.  It was evident that they
only wanted us to experience the pain at the time of
the branding itself, and once that was over, it was
fine to apply some sort of combined antiseptic and
analgesic to us.

They let us recover, still strapped in, for about ten
minutes, and the doctor went out and came back with a
mug of what smelled like coffee - my mouth started to
salivate almost uncontrollably, as since becoming a
slave we'd never been given anything like that - slave
s drank water, that's all.  It all seemed so normal,
somehow - a medical man going out to get coffee in the
middle of a procedure - but on the other hand it was
bizarrely surreal, as that "procedure" had amounted to
the most brutal inhuman marking of our bodies.

He finished his coffee with a little sigh, and by this
time a slave had come in to clean up the shit, so it
was all kind of "normal" again.

"Right, slaves, just two more procedures to go, and
neither hurts - well, not as much as the branding did!
 We've got to put your inventory number on you:  the
owner's mark branded into you will be sufficient to
get you returned to one of the Sheikh's properties,
should you stray, but then, if it was not 'home',
here, the inventory number could quickly determine
where you belonged.  You're lucky that your owner is a
merciful man, as I've said - some owners require
further branding to get a number like that burned into
your hide permanently.  But your master considers that
a simple tattoo will suffice.  Normally, that's on the
pec, just above the left nipple, as I told you, but in
your case he wants you to be absolutely the same to
look at, so different inventory numbers would rather
spoil the effect.  We'd probably have tattooed your
numbers onto the underside of your dicks, therefore,
where it wasn't usually visible, but as you're sex
slaves, some of your owner's guests who might want to
use you might find that aesthetically displeasing.  I
mean, suppose one of those men likes to suck dick,
then he might be faintly repulsed if he saw big black
numbers sliding in and out of his mouth."

"We've given it long and careful consideration", he
went on, "And there just aren't all that many places
on a totally naked body that you can hide a tattoo.
It was going to be the sole of your foot, but then
there's the problem of the thick, hard skin that
builds up there - constantly going around on our rough
roads and the sand, heated as it is by the sun, you
get that horny coating growing to protect the skin.
So the only place left is inside your ass cracks - not
far enough down so that a 'user', if I might call him
that, would see it when he was about to fuck you.  And
not high enough up that it creeps out of the top of
your crack and spoils the look from the rear.
Fortunately you've all got superbly muscled buttocks,
that stand well proud.  So your ass crack is nice and
deep, and so we can do it on the inner side of that
crack.  Normally, it will be completely invisible, but
any sensible inspection of your body, which would be
certain to look at your ass if it was suspected you
were a "misplaced" slave, would detect it.."

It wasn't the doctor who tattooed us.  They seemed to
have some "expert" who was brought in from outside to
do it, and his small portable tattoo gun was soon
buzzing away like an angry bee.  He evidently didn't
find it at all strange to see four naked guys
restrained as we were, so I suppose he was used to
tattoo all the Sheikh's slaves   If he'd tattooed me
when I was first enslaved I think I'd have died of
shame, but now I was used to having other men touch my
body.  And so when one of the guards pried my buttocks
apart so that he could gain access, it almost seemed
"normal" to me.  I mean, when you're kept totally
naked, have two young guys wash even the most intimate
parts of you, and have lots of sex with your
companions, then having another guy prying at your ass
isn't a big problem!

Actually the tattooing didn't hurt, well, not really.
Not compared with what I'd already experienced. I
suppose you'd describe it as "unpleasant" rather than
"painful", or perhaps that part of the body is just
not very receptive to pain.  I suppose that if your
cock was being done, or your nipples, it would be far,
far worse.

The final process he had mentioned was a bit painful,
though - well, more uncomfortable, again, I suppose.
He did put something on our skin this time, and there
was just a very unpleasant sensation, rather than any
actual pain.  He stood there and told us that we were
to be fitted with radio locators - a bit like some of
the circuitry in mobile phones.  If we ever did
escape, or, as he put it:  "euphemistically, let's say
you were 'lost'", they could quickly track you down.
And if you tried to go through the airport, for
example, to try to leave the country, that  would now
be impossible as the radio chip inside you would
trigger the alarms."

The chip itself was tiny - smaller than my little
finger nail  but the way it was fitted was fearsome!
It was inserted on the end of a long, shiny,
razor-sharp steel shaft, and this was then pushed
right inside us underneath our shoulder blade.

"Keep still, keep very still", the doctor told us each
in turn.  "I have to slide this along the bone of the
shoulder blade itself, then let it latch on to your
muscle, and get the insertion tool out.  If you move
or wriggle, it can easily plunge in to you and
puncture your lungs, and we wouldn't want that, would
we?

As I said, it wasn't painful, just very, very
uncomfortable to feel something like that sliding deep
inside you.  And then we were finished!  The guards
came and undid all the Velcro binding us to the
"barrels", and the four of us stood there, kind of
moving our shoulders as we believed we could feel the
chip in side us, and gingerly, very gingerly, touching
at our brands.

Marc came up to me and said "Bend over, Steve ."

"Why?"

"I want to see your number, mate.  I've never seen a
tattoo inside a bloke's ass before, and I want to see
what it's like.  Come on..... Bend over, don't be shy,
you know I've seen up there lots of times before...."

"Fuck off, Marc, maybe tonight, but not here, in
public...."  Funny, isn't it, how I seemed still to
have some inhibitions, however slight!

The doctor told us that we were free for the rest of
the day - no exercises, nothing.  He rubbed some more
of the healing and soothing ointment into our brands,
and told us to "take it easy"  He also said that we'd
experience some bleeding from our tattoos, and maybe
some drops would fall out of the puncture mark under
our shoulder blades, but that this was to be expected
and wasn't serious.

It was like heaven, almost - we'd not had any "free
time" since becoming slaves, and to be able just to
sit around and do nothing seemed like paradise.  You
probably don't realise it, but a slave is kept busy
all the time.  Even if you're not doing your "work",
then you can start exercising, or something.  Most
owners believe that if slaves have nothing to do they
start to think, and once they start thinking, they
become wilful and disobedient.  Keeping the slave in
constant activity therefore prevents this.

They let us lie outside in the sunshine (well, they
wouldn't want to miss that opportunity to add to our
tans, would they?) And as we lay there we realised
there was no prohibition on us talking to each other,
either!  It was wonderful to be able to talk freely
again, and we started discussing what we felt about
being branded, tattooed and micro-chipped.  I think it
brought home to all of us the utter hopelessness of
our situation - not only was escape now impossible -
they let us lie there out of doors, without even
chaining us down, after all.  But somehow we knew that
we were now irreversibly changed, now we were truly
slaves, property of our owner, and visibly so. We bore
his marks, we belonged to him.  We'd seen that our
bodies were no longer ours to control, and that if he
commanded it, the most terrible things could be done
to us.

The happy state of not being required to work only
lasted one afternoon, though.  Our exercise program
went on for two or three more weeks, and other than
the unrelenting physical effort that was required and
the kind of mind-dulling sense of utter futility that
it induced, nothing much happened to us.  Of course we
were caned and slapped and tawsed if we failed to
perform properly, but there were no more things as
awful as the branding, and we all avoided being sent
off to the whipping frame for harsher punishment -
although it was threatened often, and it was almost as
if Marc enjoyed going "right up to the wire" in this
area.
Still, he survived, and I'm glad:  Marc was my special
friend - oh, sure, I liked all the guys, liked them
all a lot, and I'd happily fuck any of them, or let
any of them fuck me, I suppose.  But Marc was special
- if there was a choice, I'd always have sex with Marc
rather than the others, and I suppose it was fortunate
that Dan and Ray seemed to feel the same way about
each other, too.  We were really like two couples, but
two couples who were completely uninhibited in each
others company, and who would readily "swap partners"
for a bit of added fun, if the mood took us.

We kept wondering what was going to happen to us, and
why we'd been enslaved, and then one day we found out:
 the boys who shaved us and washed us took three or
four times as long as usual to work on us one day, and
afterwards rubbed faintly scented oil into our skins.
We looked amazing, our skin then shining  in  the
light, exuding the scent overlaid with our own
maleness, and the chief guard had us lined up in front
of him.

"Right.  You boys are going to meet your owner, and
your owner's special guest, tonight.  Now, understand
this, and understand it well.  You are all brothers -
identical brothers.  You've always been brothers.  In
fact, you're quads.  If you so much as make the
tiniest mistake on this, we will flail you all and
castrate you, as the loss of face to your owner would
be considerable.  If you are asked questions by the
owners' guest, you must of course reply, properly and
respectfully.  But make no mistakes, not the tiniest
slip, not the tiniest thing that might arouse
suspicion about your real provenance.  Fail in this
and you will no longer be whole men, and will never be
able to stand upright again as your back will be bent
permanently when the flailed flesh tries to heal."

What the fuck was going on, we all wondered.  But the
chief guard had turned on his heels and snapped his
fingers for us to follow him.

End Of Part Three