Date: Mon, 12 Apr 2004 00:18:42 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Human Collateral (MM NC)

HUMAN COLLATERAL, By Richard Davies

(Richard Davies sadly stopped posting stories just
over a year ago, and nothing is known about why.  A
number of enthusiasts have collected all his work
together and filed it at the Yahoo group
homagetorichard.  If you enjoy this story, go to
  groups.yahoo.com/group/homagetorichard
to read all his known work.)

Human Collateral, Part One

My father broke the news a few days before my
eighteenth birthday. He had decided I should be
enslaved, but kept in the family rather than sold.
Times were hard, and there were debts to be paid as
well as interest on a second mortgage. Everyone had to
make sacrifices. Dad was working all hours, my older
brother was dropping out of medical school to take a
job, and my Uncle Tom was going to move in and
contribute rent. Even Dad's best friend, Bob Riddle,
who had recently left the army, had agreed to be a
lodger.

With income assured, all that was required was some
more collateral for the bank, and that's where I came
in. A slave, especially a young male, is a tradable
commodity, and therefore acceptable as security for a
loan. My father was at pains to reassure me it was all
a technicality. Nothing would change. The bank wasn't
demanding I be auctioned off. All they wanted was a
family slave made over as security. Although I would
have to leave school early, I would remain at home.
After three years there would be enough money to pay
off the bank, and then I could be set free.
I had some misgivings about it all, but didn't take
too much persuading. There was a crisis, and the
family had taken so many hard knocks I felt I had to
do my bit. And I trusted my father to do his best for
us. I didn't want the family to end up on the streets.


The bank proved more than willing to accept me as
collateral, and everything was rushed through so I
could be taken before the Slave Court the day before
my eighteenth birthday. A father has the right to
enslave his son up to that age provided there are no
objections. The family lawyer turned up at the house
and asked me to sign away my right to challenge my
father's application. He told me that I would have to
be taken into custody before being presented to the
judge. After the hearing I would become the property
of a court appointed agent and made ready for sale. My
father would waive his right to benefit from any sale,
while the bank would apply for a lien over his
property, including me. The agent would then hand me
back to Dad as his legal slave. It all sounded very
formal and frightening, but Dad told me not to worry.
Everything would go according to plan.

The Slave Court was part of a drab nondescript complex
near the big slave depot out beyond the railway
station. The entry hall had the shabby look common to
municipal buildings. The side walls were covered in
posters offering rewards for the capture of runaways,
lists naming those recently enslaved, and various
notices about amendments to the Slave Act, and a rise
in the charge for registering change of slave
ownership. The back wall was dominated by a large
mural depicting happy slaves at work in various
locations under the paternal eye of kindly free folk.
There wasn't a whip to be seen.

The reception desk was beneath this work of art. My
father told the lady on duty that he was surrendering
me to the Court, with an application for enslavement.
He produced various documents. The lady gave them a
quick glance, and called over a uniformed guard and
told him take me into custody. The guard asked to see
my birth certificate, studied it, consulted the date
on his wristwatch, nodded and handed it back to my
father.

He had spoken with an Australian accent and was
sturdily built, with blue eyes that matched the colour
of his uniform shirt, and a full moustache that was as
trim as the snug fit of his uniform pants. His manner,
however, was pleasant and friendly as he took me aside
and told me that I would remain a free man until the
judge issued an enslavement order. Furthermore I could
appeal the order, although I would be placed in
custody in the meantime 'for administrative reasons.'
He then asked me to turn round and put my hands
together behind my back. I felt cold steel encircle
one wrist and then the other.

The guard told me to keep my hands up against my spine
and not let them hang down over my buttocks. 'You'll
get a whack if they do.'


To make his point he positioned my wrists high under
my shoulder blades and then patted my butt as he
turned me round to face him. 'Just do as you're told,
when you're told, and you'll have no worries.'


The receptionist wrote out receipts for the guard and
my father. There followed an embarrassing moment when
my father held out his hand to me, and then quickly
withdrew it when he realised I couldn't shake it. He
said something about seeing me later, but by then the
guard had put his receipt in his shirt pocket, and had
one hand on my wrists and the other gripping the back
of my neck. He led me gently but firmly towards a door
marked 'Slave Area - Authorized Personnel Only.' He
raised his forearm to prevent me glancing at Dad over
my shoulder.

'Best not to look back,' he said pleasantly as he
guided me through the door into a short bare corridor.


Straight ahead there was another door with a sign
saying 'Slave Holding Area - Report before Entering'
with an arrow pointing to a window in the wall. A
glass partition slid back and an arm encased in a blue
uniform shirtsleeve reached out and took the receipt.
We waited a moment and then a voice said 'seventy
six.'

My guard acknowledged the information with a grunt,
took a yellow marker pen from his pants' pocket and
pulled my head towards him. He used his teeth to
remove the marker's cap and frowned as he carefully
painted the number in numerals on my forehead. 'That's
you sorted,' he said as the door's lock fired and he
pushed me forwards.

I found myself in a wide, brightly lit hall, with a
concrete floor and bare walls. It was divided in two
by a triple tier of metal-framed cells. On the near
side a guard sat behind a desk reading a newspaper,
and I could see through the cages to a much larger
area where naked slaves were standing in line. A few
of the cages were occupied by slaves, some of whom
were fully clothed, while most were semi-naked or
stripped. My guard led me forwards to the desk and
gave my number. He walked round and stood beside the
duty guard who was entering my number in a ledger. The
two of them exchanged a few words and shared a laugh.
When my guard came back to me he was still smiling.

'You'll not have long to wait, so we'll strip you now
and send you through. I reckon you'll be seeing the
judge in about an hour.'

He took a mobile from his belt and spoke into it while
signalling that I should turn round. I felt the cuffs
come off, and massaged my wrists and hands and I
turned and thanked him. He replaced his mobile on his
belt and ordered me to strip. 'Fold everything neatly
and leave it in a pile. Empty out your pockets. Get on
with it.'

He took a short stick from his belt and twisted it
round between his fingers. 'You're in a slave area
now, so look sharp.' His tone was a lot less friendly.


Everything I took from my pockets was familiar - dark
glasses, mobile phone, bus tickets, comb, wallet, ID,
coins, keys, diary, handkerchief, pen - it was like
emptying myself. My leather jacket was my favourite
and my shirt was new - I'd only worn it a couple of
times and it suited me. A cold depression settled over
me as I removed my undershirt and felt the air against
my chest and back. When I stood on one leg to remove
my shoe and sock I started to wobble, and this seemed
to annoy the guard who snapped that he would not
tolerate me fooling about. His change from being
friendly to strict disciplinarian somehow deflated
what was left of my courage. My eyes filled with tears
and when I stood on my other leg I began to wobble
immediately.

Before I had time even to grab my shoe the guard had
walked round behind me and swatted me hard across my
butt. This made me yell and jump, and he landed
another. What shook me was not so much the pain as the
speed and ease with which he delivered the blows. It
seemed so unfair - he in smart uniform, me half
undressed on one leg. A sudden surge of anger made me
say, 'For Christ sake man, back off will you? I'm not
some fucking slave yet.'

I knew it was a stupid thing to say even before I'd
said it, but it slipped out involuntarily. The guard
came closer. Our eyes met for only a second before I
dropped mine, but long enough for the chilly disdain
to register. 'I gave you an order shit-fuck. Strip.'

His voice was no more than a whisper. My outburst had
attracted the attention of the guard sitting at the
desk. He rose and walked over and stood beside his
colleague. They both watched me, hands on hips, as I
got my shoe off, removed my sock, unzipped my fly,
dropped my pants, removed and folded them, and then
slid my boxers down over my genitals and butt towards
my knees and then kicked them up in the air, caught
them, folded them and dropped them on top of the pile.
I guess I hoped this little comic performance would
melt the guards' hard expressions. It didn't. The
second guard kicked out at the pile of clothes,
scattering them and my possessions. 'Pick 'em up...and
this time....' (To my horror I saw my guard draw a
whip from his hip pocket. Although not large - it was
what was known among free men as a 'boy's whip' - the
sight of it filled me with terror. I'd seen plenty of
whips before, but never before as a slave sees them.
This one was made from strips of smoothly tanned
leather braided together to form a snaking lash. The
contrast between its sleek coil and my delicate skin
made me tremble. There was no doubt he meant to use
it.) '....keep your mouth shut.'

He raised it, swung it back, gathered it with his left
hand, and repeated the motion. This time he let it fly
free to curl round my upper arm, across my
shoulder-blades, my other arm, and then round to lick
my chest as its knotted end came to rest on my left
nipple. It made a creaking sound as its grip tightened
as the guard pulled it back. The pain was too much. I
let out an anguished cry that silenced the hall. My
guard gathered the whip and glanced sideways at his
colleague, who nodded with a smile on his lips. He
drew the whip back again. I let out another terrible
sound, half hoping to arouse the guard's sense of
mercy, but more just to express my sense of terror,
abandonment and outrage. This was not what my father
had in mind. But the sound was cut short as the
braided leather cut into my back and chest a second
time.

HUMAN COLLATERAL, Part Two

The whip is a quick teacher. My thoughts may have been
full of defiance, but my body and my tongue were
immediately obedient. The Australian guard put his
whip back in his hip pocket and his colleague wandered
back to his desk. I stood shifting from one foot to
the other, shaking with fear and shock, my lower lip
trembling and my vision blurred with hot tears. My
torso felt as if strips of skin had been ripped away.
My guard looked me up and down and nodded. 'Let that
be a lesson.'

He must have been pleased with the effect of his whip
because he smiled and sounded friendly again as told
me to pick up my belongings and follow him. We went
under the cages into the larger holding area. The
floor was marked out in numbered yellow boxes and I
was placed in 76. The guard put a hand on the back of
my neck and squeezed. 'Cheer up, we'll soon have you
in front of a judge.'

I attempted a smile, but only released another batch
of tears. I muttered something, adding a 'sir.' He
nodded and walked off. I couldn't help but notice how
attractive he was seen from behind. Good wide
shoulders, a narrow waist, broad hips on which the
buttocks stuck out like two halves of an apple. The
equipment on his belt swayed with his swaggering gait,
and his whip's handle stuck out of his hip pocket at a
jaunty angle. I felt my cock stir. I found myself
thinking how good it would be to be his friend and do
things with him and to please him.

After about five minutes a furtive grinning slave
appeared who gathered all my belongings in a plastic
bag, marked it with my number and took it away. When I
asked him what he was doing he waved a finger in front
of his mouth.

On my right there was a line of about twenty naked
slaves standing chained close together at the neck,
wrists and ankles. They had barrel chests, thick arms
and muscular and legs, and their backs and buttocks
were disfigured by whip marks. Their heads were shaved
and their faces were a patchwork of in tattoos and
brands. Teams of working slaves were a common sight
along the highways or digging up the city streets, but
free men seldom give them a second look because they
are always kept apart and securely chained. Seen close
to they made a strange sight. One was masturbating
vigorously while others were muttering to themselves,
or twitching. Most wore expressions of blank,
wide-eyed surprise on their faces, as if eager for
something... anything... to happen.

To my left three glum youths stood side by side. They
were chained together at their wrists and ankles and
all showed signs of recent rough treatment, with cut
lips and black eyes, bruised chests and butts covered
in deep welts. Whatever they had been up to, the Slave
Police had awarded them to their traditional welcome.
There was no way they would be leaving the building
without collars.

After about half an hour my guard reappeared and told
me we were due in front of the judge in three minutes.
He led the way towards the swing doors marked 'To the
Courts' and told me to say nothing, to bow to the
judge, call him and everyone else sir and do exactly
as instructed.

We went up a flight of creaking wooden stairs to a
corridor lined on both sides with courtrooms. A
slave-usher in a fancy scarlet uniform directed us to
Court Ten. As we walked to it, side by side, he in
full uniform, me totally naked, I felt no sense of the
incongruous or the absurd. My guard said I would be
made to kneel to have my collar fitted, but should
otherwise stand on the yellow marker. There was, he
said as he opened the door to the courtroom, nothing
to be gained from trying to listen to the legal
arguments. 'Keep you mind clear to obey orders.'

He directed me to the mark before the judge's bench.
'Keep you head down, hands behind your back, feet
eighteen inches apart, stomach in, chest out.'

I did my best to comply. 'Good boy.' He patted my
butt.

The room was, as far as I could see out of the corner
of my eye, an entirely ordinary court, with oak
furniture and a skylight. It was empty except for some
guards and what looked like a group of schoolgirls in
the public area. My spirits had been rising since
leaving the holding area. The hearing would be a
formality after which I'd hurry home and get on with
life as before. I would feel better when my father
arrived. My optimism was dented, however, when a
whip-master came in and sat at the back of the room.
Why had he been called in? He glowered round and
shifted his butt as if bored. Like all whip-masters on
official duty he wore the Whippers' Guild uniform of
black leather breeches, boots, belt and shoulder
strap, with whip pouch, over a dark grey shirt
emblazoned with stripes of rank and medals of
achievement. His black cap had a shiny peak that fell
almost vertically over his eyes, and his gloves were
stowed under his left epaulet. The effect was no doubt
as impressively reassuring to free men as it was
terrifying to slaves, and at that moment I felt myself
very much among the second category.

Fortunately, before my thoughts could turn morbid, my
father, brother Steve and the family lawyer appeared,
along with several other men in business suits, and
two guards. As they made their way to their seats my
father smiled and waved. I had to blink away tears. We
had not always been close during the years following
my mother's death, but he had troubles of his own, and
I had been a snotty teenager. The surge of love I felt
for him seemed to promise a new start. After all I was
making a big sacrifice. He had to be grateful. He was
looking very smart, in grey slacks and a tweed jacket,
with a check shirt, club tie and paisley handkerchief.
His hair had recently turned grey and was cut trim,
and if he had put on weight over the past year, he had
not lost his vulpine sharp good looks. He may not have
been a success in life, but he was my dad and I loved
him.

Steve aroused more ambiguous feelings. Three years
older than me, we had once been good friends, but in
his late teens he had spread his wings as a college
athlete and stud, and since then had little time for
his kid brother. He struck me as pompous and smug, and
I had not disguised my lack of respect. Even so I felt
a tremor of affection for him, if only for old times'
sake. His hair was black and hung down over his collar
in glossy locks. To play football he gathered it in a
ponytail, but he managed to avoid any hint of the
foppish with dark intense eyes, a square jaw and thick
neck. He too was smartly turned out in a blue blazer,
open-necked shirt with cravat, chinos and polished
brown loafers.

Before I could return my father's wave a clerk called
everyone to rise and the judge entered. He was called
Judge Hendricks, and was tall, slim, bent and greying
with a long broken nose, close set eyes, and a hoarse
speaking voice. When the judge called my name, my
guard pushed me forwards to stand on red markers. The
judge told me to look at him. He half smiled as I met
his eye, and that made me feel better. He asked me to
confirm that I had waived my right to appeal my
father's application to enslave me. I said that I had.
The judge asked whether coercion had been used. I said
it had not. He told me that although my father had no
plans to sell me, there was nothing to stop him doing
so in the future. Did I realise I was surrendering my
liberty? I nodded, and was told to speak up. I did my
best to sound convinced, but my voice cracked. I
apologised and repeated my answer. The judge sighed,
picked up his pen and signed two documents.

He nodded to the guard beside me who told me to drop
on my knees. 'You will now be collared and consigned
to your father's keeping as his property. As of now I
strip you of all your rights as a free citizen.' He
brought his gavel down. 'Place the collar on him, and
register him as a common slave.'

The court official came towards me carrying a
briefcase. He took out a tape measure and placed it
tight round my neck below my Adam's Apple. Having
taken the measurement he rummaged in his case until he
found a collar of the correct size. He tore off the
plastic wrapper and held up a black metal chain collar
set on a two-inch thick leather strap. It was hardly
discreet. The official put on a pair of spectacles and
read off the number on the ID tag. The judge took it
down and asked my father if it was an acceptable
design. I had to stifle an urge to protest, but my
father did not hesitate to say that it was fine, and
before I had time to swallow the clerk had run it
round my neck, and fastened it with a loud snap. The
leather was soft against my skin, and the whole thing
was a bit heavier than expected, but it seemed a snug
fit.

The judge ordered me to stand, told me to be a good
and loyal slave, to serve my Master well and truly,
and to offer him service, obedience, and devotion. I
bowed in submission, and the judge brought down his
gavel again. He rose and left the room. If I had
expected to become the centre of attention I was
mistaken. My guard beside me placed a hand on my
shoulder and growled that I should not move. My father
meanwhile was shaking hands with his lawyer and
advisers, and looking well pleased.

My brother didn't so much as glance my way, but went
over to the whip-master who rose as he approached.
Steve had never shown much interest in the technical
side of slavery, so I couldn't understand what he was
doing, but my attention was distracted by my guard
telling me we were going down to the slave handling
area. I would be registered and handed over to my
owner.

As my father was still deep in conversation, there was
no alternative but to obey. As I was led from the
court, as naked as I had entered it, but now collared,
I came face to face with Steve who was shaking hands
with the whip-master. This time he didn't avoid my
eye. 'That went OK, didn't it? See you downstairs.'

He spoke in his usual breezy tone. I felt reassured.
Maybe he had been at school with the whip-master, or
knew him socially.

My registration didn't take long. I was third in line
and soon had my ID swiped. The duty slave explained
that I would be given a second tag to wear on my
collar that would give my slave name, owner's name and
registered address. I was then locked up in a metal
barred holding cell. I hoped my father would not be
long in coming for me. Although relieved it was all
over and had gone smoothly, I found my surroundings
depressing.

The majority of slaves being dealt with by the courts
were receiving whipping orders, and there was a
constant flow of freshly flogged slaves being brought
down from the punishment hall. Their backs were a
terrible sight, torn and bloody, and the anguish on
their faces, and their broken hopeless cries, chilled
my heart. Like most young free men I had no time for
uppity slaves, and had always favoured the
unrestricted right of owners to whip their property.
Nor had I ever imagined such punishments to be trivial
affairs, but I'd never seen the effects close to. It
was as if the courts were not only punishing errant
slaves, but also intent on reducing them to shattered
wretches, devoid of all dignity.

In the end my brother appeared, looking cheerful. He
waved to me, and then got into conversation with my
Australian guard who took out a notebook and began
scribbling. It was a couple of minutes before Steve
came over to my cell.

'Can we please get out of here?' I saw no reason to
hide my impatience.

'What's the hurry....' Steve shook his black locks in
disapproval. 'There's stuff still to be done.' He took
out his mobile and put it to his ear.

'Like what, for God's sake?'

Steve whispered into the mobile and then put it away.
He studied me carefully with a quizzical look that I
both knew and distrusted. 'Your hair needs cutting for
starters, and then there's your kit, food, all the
stuff you need. We're not finished here by a long
chalk.'

I'd had enough. I told Steve to find my clothes and to
forget about a haircut. I didn't need one in any case,
and if I did I'd get one in town. But he seemed not to
be listening. Typical fucking brother! To get his
attention I swore, adding a personal reference to his
deafness in one ear. I knew he hated being taunted
about it, and had suffered at his hands before for
merely mentioning it, but I was determined to get his
attention. After all who was making the big sacrifice?
I was due some respect.

Steve flared his nostril and fixed me with a steady
glare. 'I promise you'll regret saying that.'

I shrugged and told him to get me out. I felt a bit
ashamed of myself, and a little apprehensive. Steve
did not make promises lightly. A duty slave came
running, bowed and whispered something to Steve who
beckoned to my guard. I was getting thoroughly pissed
off. What was Steve up to? Why didn't we just leave?
There was nothing more to be done. Hadn't I been
humiliated enough? The guard came over and unlocked my
cell gate. To do so he pushed his cap back on his
head. By the determined set of his mouth I could tell
he had a job to do, and did not expect it to be easy.
As soon as the door was open he took me roughly by my
collar and told me to turn my back and kneel.

'What the fuck is this?'

The guard slapped me hard and said that I would be
wise to kneel before he called for back up. I knelt.
My wrists were cuffed and my ankles shackled. Blinkers
were placed over my eyes. In desperation I resorted to
meekness. 'Please sir, why are you doing this?'

The only answer I got was a muzzle placed under my jaw
and over my nose and a leather bit shoved between my
teeth. I heard Steve thank the guard.

'We're in Room 4. They're waiting for us.'

My guard told me to stand. 'Face your brother.'

He stood back. In the narrow field of vision the
blinkers allowed I could see Steve standing hands on
hips. As always when he was excited or annoyed his
head was tilted back with nostrils flared, and his
cheeks were flushed. 'You need to be taught a lesson,
brother...no time like the present.'

I couldn't speak but managed a growl of protest.

Steve laughed in derision. 'Too late for that. You'll
be getting no favours from me. I intend to treat you
exactly as I would any other slave - and that means
firm discipline.' He nodded to the guard. 'Take him
up.'

The guard snapped a chain on my collar and dragged me
out of the cell. My shackles dug into my ankles and I
felt sick. As to what was going on, my mind had gone
blank. It all seemed so absurd. Why wasn't I being
taken home? Was Steve playing some elaborate joke? If
so it wasn't funny anymore.

Not until duty-slaves were securing me to the whipping
frame, while Steve and the Whipmaster stood to one
side discussing the choice of whip, did I accept the
fact that I was to be flogged like a common slave. The
punishment room had whitewashed walls, an uneven bare
concrete floor, and the usual bright lights, wash
basins, and cabinets full of medical equipment and
punishment tools.

I couldn't see sideways because of the blinkers but
heard Steve's voice close beside me. 'You'll be
getting twenty-five lashes.... cat 'o nine tails.' I
felt a hand on my shoulder. 'I'm taking a video so be
brave. Dad will want to see it. Don't let him down.'

An encouraging squeeze on my biceps, and then Steve
moved forwards and came into my vision. He pointed to
a hook on the wall and a duty slave appeared with a
mirror. Steve made sure it hung at the correct angle
for me to see the Whipmaster behind me, who was
warming up by rolling his shoulder blades and jogging
on the spot. 'Best you see what's going on.' Steve
tapped me on my forehead. 'Makes more impact inside
your head.'

He was gone from my vision, but a second later he
appeared reflected in the mirror. He was holding up
one of those fancy digital recorders. 'If you please
Mr Whipmaster, commence punishment!'

The Whipmaster let the cat hang loose at his side, and
shook its tails free. He raised the cat to take aim,
frowned in concentration, used the back of his free
hand to wipe his nose, and then took a sudden two-step
run, bent forwards at the waist, and brought his right
arm round in a fast swing. The cat landed fair and
square across my shoulders.

As any slave will tell you, there's nothing like a
flogging. It is both an experience that most slaves
share, and their best kept secret. Free men order
their slaves to be whipped as a just punishment, or on
a whim, or as an encouragement, as a reminder of who
is the master and who the slave, or in the sincere
hope of helping a slave to improve his attitude, but
they have no idea what they are doing. They know the
whip cuts deep because they can see the bloody marks.
They know it hurts because they hear the cries. They
know it's effective because a flogged slave will
always be willing and obedient.

What they don't know is the divide it opens between
them and the slave. By the time I was taken off that
whipping frame and made to kneel before my brother to
thank him for my punishment, I was something other the
young man who had entered that room. The cat's lash
had worked its alchemy and both my mind and body were
changed forever.

Steve had no doubt hoped the whip would do its work
well, and must have felt justified as he looked down
at his younger brother grovelling at his feet. All he
saw, however, was my desperate desire to placate, and
not to be whipped again; nothing of the transformation
within. Steve helped me to my feet and congratulated
me as he ordered the duty-slaves to clean my back with
salt and water and prepare me for the ride home. There
was a certain solemnity in his manner, at once both
patronising and respectful, as if in taming me he had
uncovered a hitherto unsuspected stoicism.

There was no denying I had taken my punishment with
dignity. I hadn't cried out after the first half dozen
lashes, nor had I allowed myself to faint. I had felt
the impact of each lash that cut into my nerve ends
and made my back a bloody mess. Pain can be an ally to
a slave just as it is an enemy to a free man. I
greeted my initiation to its secrets full in the face,
without blinking, and let it do its work unimpeded.
When Steve said it was time to get me home there were
tears in his eyes, but my vision was clear.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Three

The whipping was barely mentioned after we arrived
home. Like some minor social embarrassment deemed best
forgotten, it was alluded to only in passing as a
general reminder of what might happen if I didn't pull
my weight. My back healed as quickly as I adapted to
my new life, but that brief episode of savagery
nevertheless served as the true introduction to my
life as a slave.

There is no need to talk about unpleasant punishments
when there are tables to be laid, laundry to be
sorted, letters posted, animals fed, and errands run.
If the flogging cast its shadow over everything, it
did so subtly, like a thin covering of high cloud that
sheds a hazy glare across a landscape. My father
established a tolerable regime. I served as the
household slave, but without unnecessary humiliations.
Since everyone else was working hard I did not object
to my daily routine of chores and service. When Uncle
Tom moved in, I gave up my room willingly since he
would be paying good rent, and I was fond of him.

I would have moved into the spare room had that not
been reserved for my father's friend Bob Riddle who
was also becoming a lodger in the New Year. So I put
up a simple camp bed at night in a corner of the
utility room and folded it away again each morning. It
seemed simpler too to use the toilet and shower in the
garage, and keep my clothes in the small closet there.


I was not the first young man to discover the
attractions of a simple disciplined life. Slave-mush
may not look appetising in its plastic cartons, but it
tasted OK and ensured regular shitting, while the
distinctive taste of vitamin-water proved addictive.
While I learned to cook for the free men of the house,
my own yearning for fancy food faded. Only a sneaking
hunger for ice cream remained. In the same way I soon
abandoned my old clothes and bought a slave outfit
from M & S. It didn't take me long to get used to
going into town wearing a woollen jacket with the
symbol of a working slave emblazoned on the back. I
felt comfortable in blue work shirts with ample
pockets, pants with a yellow strip (yellow being the
colour of slaves), a forage cap with 'slave on duty'
printed on the peak, and plain slave sandals. The
uniform came cheap, was washable and rugged, could be
easily replaced and did not draw attention. In it
there was no doubt who and what I was. Underwear was
banned because my father insisted it was inappropriate
for slaves. This took a while to get used to. Nor did
I take to the fancy waiter's outfit that the free men
in the house I should wear while serving their evening
meal. Its bum-freezer jacket, tight-fitting pants,
frilly shirt and ice blue bow tie tucked under my
collar, made me feel an idiot, but I quickly realised
guests expect to be served by slaves in silly
uniforms.

At Christmas they had me wear a Father Christmas cap,
and bright red tunic and pants. It was while wearing
these cringe-making outfit that I received my first
spanking, administered on Christmas morning as a joke
by Uncle Tom. Although given and taken in good heart,
I later realised this merry incident had served to
break the ice surrounding discipline spankings.

Outside the home I got used to doing things the way
slaves should. Walking in the gutter isn't difficult,
and jogging keeps you warm. Using slave entrances and
waiting to be noticed at slave counters becomes
natural when you're collared and wearing a slave's
kit. I got to enjoy the quiet camaraderie among slaves
as we waited in line, or stood on the bus. I learned
how to carry parcels in both hands, and to balance a
burden on my back. I knew to drop to my knees when
stopped by the SP so that they could swipe my slave ID
tag through the machine on their belts. I accepted the
odd swat or kick up my butt as part of everyday life.
Light bruises are not worth worrying about.

Sometimes I'd have a double take when seeing myself in
a mirror. In just a couple of months I'd come to look
like any other young domestic slave. My hair was cut
short with two shaved strips running back off my
forehead. My leather and metal collar rode high on my
neck, and my regime of daily exercise and diet not
only kept me fit, it had given my body the hard
contours I had always craved but never had the will to
achieve. I was especially proud of my broad shoulders,
my six-pack, muscular legs and butt - all emphasised
by the slave uniform.

Nor did I become entirely cut off from my old friends.
My best mate Gary made a point of sitting on a park
bench every Saturday morning in case I happened by. So
long as I crouched on my haunches beside him we could
chat away like we used to. Gary was fascinated by my
new life and asked questions about every detail. My
other good mate Buster was more doubtful about being
seen with a slave, but he would sometimes drop by the
house, or stop and chat in the street. He would stand
hands in pockets on the pavement, while I stood in the
gutter. So long as I remembered to call him 'sir' he
was happy to tell me the latest news and gossip.

At home Steve could be tiresome in his demands, but he
was working hard and was decent to me most of the
time. My father was as distant as ever, but would
sometimes ask me how I was and say how pleased
everyone was with the way I'd settled down.

Uncle Tom liked to be pampered, and was fussy about
his food. He was getting on in years and had recently
retired and had too much time on his hands. A plump
man with thick glasses and a high nervous laugh, he
had never married. He took to inspecting my uniform
before dinner and would make me change my shirt or
pants. I had to watch my tongue or end up bending over
to receive a light spanking with a table tennis paddle
or a wooden spoon. Childish stuff, but irritating. I
had always been fond of my uncle and had hoped he
would treat my slavery as a mere charade, but that
seemed as impossible to him as it did to everyone
else. But Uncle Tom was not a dominant figure in my
life; Bob Riddle took that role.

>From the moment I had set eyes on him, and felt a
ripple of disquiet in my gut, I'd known he was going
to cause me grief. He moved in one cold Saturday
afternoon. He had rented a slave for the day, and this
poor blundering creature was already at his wits' end.
Bob stood in the middle of the spare room, whip in
hand, spewing a flood of clipped commands that the
poor trembling slave did his best to carry out.

Being a son of the house, as well as its slave, I felt
myself above this intense and needlessly cruel regime
and went about my duties displaying a quiet dignity
that the rented slave sadly lacked. The whip, however,
disturbed my equilibrium. Not only did it remind me of
my traumatic enslavement; it seemed out of place.
Uncle Tom might spank, and Dad had slapped my face the
previous week for spilling whiskey, but whips, even
those with short tails, were unknown in the house. But
Bob laid it repeatedly and with a will across the
slave's butt and shoulders, and was not shy about
flicking it across the back of my legs. Although I was
wearing long trousers, the leather end hurt enough to
keep me on my toes.

When my father looked in to see how things were going,
Bob complained of having to make do with 'poorly
trained slaves.' My father looked thoroughly bemused,
but felt obliged to tell me I should work harder and
not stand around doing nothing.

'He needs to feel this across his lazy hide.' As Bob
spoke he took aim at the rented slave's backside,
landing a cut that added to the lines of blood oozing
through his white uniform shorts.

'Quite right,' said my father as he turned to go.

Without a pause Bob had me by my balls. He dragged me
over to the window and told me to place my hands
against the glass panes. Then he stepped back and
aimed a couple of well-aimed lashes at my butt. As
they landed I was sure they had cut my skin. My body
had not forgotten the lessons whipped into it down at
the Slave Courts. I cried out, hoping my father would
hear and return.

'That's all the noise you'll be making...there's a
yellow streak in you boy...drop your jaw.'

He took the large silk handkerchief that had been
drooping from his jacket top pocket and stuffed it
into my mouth.

'You'll be getting another half dozen, so stick out
your butt and thank your lucky stars you're not an
army-slave. I'd have the skin off your back if you
were.'

He snapped the whip and landed a cut low on my
shoulder blades. 'Some things may have to change round
here.'

Another knife-blade slash landed low on my butt. But
that was all. He turned his attention back to the
other slave, threatened to recommend him to his owners
for a flogging, and told me to hand-wash the
handkerchief and return it within twelve hours. So
saying he tossed down the whip and went downstairs.

The slave looked at me and shrugged. He was an ugly
fellow, and I had to feel sorry for him, but when I
said something about Bob being a bastard, he shrugged
and went back to work. I went into the bathroom to
take a look at my cuts, and was disappointed to see
that I had been wrong. There were no cuts, just red
marks such as any slave might expect to pick up during
an afternoon's service. When I went back into the
bedroom and saw the slave's bleeding backside I
realised how clever Bob had been. In truth the whip
had not landed hard, and although it had hurt, my
scars would not impress my father, let alone Steve. If
anything they might decide a few more cuts would not
come amiss.

Sure enough as the rented slave was leaving he passed
Steve who was returning from a session in the local
gym. Steve stopped him in the street and made him
remove his shirt and lower his shorts. I was watching
from the bedroom window and heard Steve's low whistle
of approval before he sent the slave on his way. When
Steve came in he shouted for Bob and told him he had
made a good job of disciplining the slave.

I was still in the bedroom sorting shirts and collars,
and heard Bob say the rented slave wasn't the only one
to have felt the whip. The next thing was Steve
shouting for me. I could see the trap Bob was setting,
but could not disobey, so I ran downstairs and into
the living room trying to look cheerful and obedient.

'Hey there,' Steve came towards me, frowning as he
looked me up and down. 'So how's the family slave
doing?'

He looked good in his clean T-shirt and jeans and
smelt of fresh soap. He took hold of my arm and turned
me round. 'Can't see any evidence of severity.'

'I dealt with him as I saw fit. If I've gone too far
say so.' Bob sounded concerned.

Steve told me to raise my shirt. I felt his cold
fingers tracing my marks. Then he patted my butt and
told me to drop my shorts.

As I obeyed Dad appeared in the doorway. 'What's going
on?'

Bob was on his feet. 'I think I may have gone too far
with the family slave.'

Steve gave me a hard smack and told me to pull up my
pants. 'There's barely a scratch on him.'

'Perhaps there should be.' My father walked past me
without a giving me a glance. 'I heard him making an
awful fuss about something just now.'

Steve told me to get out and back to work. 'You're too
soft with him father. He needs discipline or he'll
walk all over us. You know what he's like.'

As I left the room I heard my father say, 'Perhaps you
can help here Bob, you being an army man.'

'I'd be happy to try. He seems a good lad. No reason
why he shouldn't turn out a decent slave.'

'Well, we'll be most grateful if you can improve him.'


>From his tone of voice I knew my father was about to
change the subject, and sure enough he began talking
about the price of shoes. As I pushed open the kitchen
door I swore under my breath, but I knew Bob had got
what he wanted, and had got it the day he moved in.

After I'd served dinner that night Bob called me into
the living room and told me I should go to the garage
and prepare it for a flogging. Half an hour later I
got a dozen lashes with the whip from Bob. My father,
Uncle Tom, and Steve all came out into the cold to
watch. At Bob's suggestion the garage door was left
open. It was dark outside, but brightly lit within,
and being a Saturday night there were kids out on
dates and adults taking a stroll. The sight and sounds
of the whipping brought quite a crowd, and put a stop
to neighbourhood gossip that my enslavement had been a
sham. And as for me, I wanted more than ever to curry
favour with Bob. After all he was my master.

Bob had spent twenty years serving in the Army and
knew all there is to know about handling and leading
men. Any uncertain novice slave of eighteen would have
been putty in his hands, but I both hated him and was
besotted with him. I craved his respect and affection,
and all I received was his cool sneer of command, and
his polished brown brogue up my backside. If he had
been a simple thug, who knew what he wanted, my days
would have been easier. But Bob was complex mix of
warring elements, and that made him cruel, and worse,
made him unpredictable. He would have made any slave
suffer, but for me he dug deep to uncover a thirst for
humiliation and pain that he inflicted with
unflinching skill.

He was not the most handsome of men. There was
something foxy and mean about him that mingled with a
streak of sensuality to fuel his cruelty. In his late
thirties, only a little above average height, with
dark complexion and tufty brown hair cut short and
kept tidy with oil of Mahonia, his face was dominated
by close-set brown eyes, a prominent nose and
chiselled lips. He spoke with an upper class drawl
inflected with a nasal twang. His jutting jaw was
narrow and it gave him a severe expression along with
the habit of holding his head back and looking down at
the world from a haughty angle. His hands were lean
and elegant, and his shoulders were not broad, but his
neck gave him away. It was as thick and muscular as
any field slave's, and it sat on a torso as wiry as a
gypsy boy's, without an ounce of surplus fat. His
waist was narrow and his pageboy buttocks were hard
and muscular and stuck out invitingly above thin legs
that led to small feet. Part dancing master, and part
executioner, it was as easy to underestimate him as it
was unwise.

Most mornings he would spread himself out on the sofa
in the living room to read his newspaper. When I came
to remove his coffee tray he would look up over the
small reading glasses perched on his nose, and watch
to make sure my bow was deep and my manner respectful.
His moods were as variable as any flouncing tart's,
and he would as often wish me a brisk good morning,
and ask my opinion of some item in the news, or
compliment me on the taste of the coffee, or my smart
appearance, as he would issue a scathing rebuke. This
would be followed by threats of punishment that might,
or might not, be carried out in the privacy of the
utility room, or upstairs in his bedroom.

Despite everything I could not bring myself to admit
to any criticism of Bob. The whipping had set the seal
on my obsession. I was too much under his influence,
too fearful of his punishment, too infatuated, too
eager to earn his respect, and too willing to submit
to his manhood. And it wasn't only his whip and cane
that he used to assert his authority. If I haven't yet
mentioned his cock, it's not for reasons of ignorance
or prudery, but rather an abiding sense of awe, both
for the thing itself and for the manner in which it
was used

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Four

Having subdued me with his whip, Bob lost no time in
mastering me with his cock. Although not as fearsome
in size and effect as a whip, it did its work just as
well. Of no more than average length, cut, and
elegantly thin, the first time I saw it I felt a sense
of relief tinged with disappointment. There was surely
no need to be in awe of a man with such a modest cock.


Even slaves have their pride, and Bob's cock was not
the stuff of legend. In this I betrayed my ignorance
of manhood. Among boys the length of a cock may be the
test of manliness, but among grown men a cock will be
judged by its track record rather the mere sum of its
dimensions. Bob's had seen hard usage, having done its
stuff on army recruits, prisoners of war, the slaves
of several nations, along with the usual tally of
whores, friends and lovers. What it lacked in
magnitude was made up for in diligence and
reliability.

Bob hurt me when he fucked me, and I liked that. Just
as the searing pain inflicted by the whip contains
hidden at its core the lessons a slave must learn if
he is to survive, so a master's cock educates best
when entering a slave's anus without benefit of
lubricant. As slaves are traded naked, they are best
fucked in the raw. Slaves have much to gain from
unadorned truth, and nothing from the sweet illusions
preferred by the free.

Like most men who have fucked their way across several
continents, Bob had firm ideas as to how it should be
done. Not for him the comforts and intimacies of a
bed, or even the useful contours of household
furniture. The first time Bob fucked me he set the
template for all subsequent encounters with his cock.
He took me by the ear and led me to the garage where
he had me strip and bend over the hood of his saloon
car. He used a cane to thrash my hide and then opened
his fly and spread my legs and forced himself into me.
The pain was exceptional, and I don't suppose the ride
gave him much pleasure, but it had the unambiguous
brutality required of a first fuck if one man is to
set his seal of ownership on another. Bob may have
cursed me as he pumped, and rained blows on my back as
he came, and then withdrawn with undisguised contempt,
but he left his marker in me as surely as his whip had
dug indelible lines across my back.

Within a couple of weeks my hole was itching for that
undistinguished looking cock with all the urgency of a
bitch on heat. My anus became a second mouth, and
whether hungry or sated, aching or yearning, it made
its voice heard. None of this went unnoticed by my
father and brother, but nothing was said. Like my
uncle, they became cooler in their manner towards me,
and then cold. Those moments when they had used to
indicate with a smile or wink, or some passing remark,
that I remained to them the person I had used to be,
became rare, and then ceased. My infatuation and
abasement soon doused any flickering part of me that
hoped to retain anything of their affection and
respect.

I could not keep my eyes off Bob, and responded to his
voice of command with a reflex whose urgency mocked my
lazy obedience to the others. When he punished me in
front of them, they would look away, bewildered my
greedy acceptance of every blow and insult. Everything
to do with Bob took on a magical quality. His voice
penetrated my brain as directly as his cock my anus,
and I'd press my face into his discarded clothes each
morning, breathing in his smell until it suffocated
me. In my hands his plain shirts felt as soft as silk,
and I washed and ironed his underwear with devotion
and a hard cock in my pants. If his shoes gleamed it
was because a fellow slave gave me the secret of spit
and polish, and I rubbed the toecaps with rags until
my elbow ached. All this Bob enjoyed as if by right of
his manhood, and he spared me no pain or punishment,
no humiliation or petty discomfort.

At the time I revelled in it as a young man will in
any sudden discovery of the self, but I knew I was
treading in fast flowing water, and that sooner or
later the dream would fade and I would have to save
myself. If I did retain contact with reality, it was
through my dealings with other slaves and my old
mates, and in particular Buster. He had overcome
misgivings about being familiar with a slave because
he had received a young male for his eighteenth
birthday and was finding masterhood hard going. He
therefore turned to me for advice, and in return
offered me the same with characteristic blunt candour.


An early riser, Buster would drop by when returning
from his dawn run. He would come lumbering into the
kitchen, sweating and breathless, demanding drink and
towels. He had always been a big, loose-limbed boy,
more comfortable on the football field than in the
classroom, but he was no fool, and had none of the
fake clownish manner favoured by many athletes. He had
small blue eyes, dirty-blond hair, puffy cheeks and
wore a goatee beard to disguise a weak chin, but his
torso was broad and heavy and his legs and butt were
as muscular as a boxer's. He would sit at the kitchen
table with a cup of sweet black coffee and tell me
about his recalcitrant slave and ask about my
servitude.

For my part I would bow and scrape and call him 'sir,'
while he liked to swat my butt for not putting sugar
in his coffee, but these were mere courtesies to our
roles because we had always understood one another
with unusual clarity. Our urgent dilemmas set our
arguments in a high relief of logic and mutual
sympathy that would have surprised those who knew
Buster only as an amiable jock, and me as a willing
family slave. My advice to Buster was simple - that he
should master his slave without delay. I did not go so
far as to suggest he use a whip and his cock, but my
message was clear.

So when he turned up one sunny morning with a big grin
on his face to tell me he had fucked his slave, and
had since noticed an improvement in obedience, I knew
the whip would be in use before long. Buster's advice
to me was no less straightforward. Sooner or later Bob
would tire of me, and go and live elsewhere, or my
infatuation would wither, leaving me as the mistreated
bum-boy of an unremarkable thirty-something sadist.
Wasn't it about time, he suggested as he put his feet
up on the kitchen table, that I took a long hard look
at myself?

'But how can I...as a slave?' My words sounded bleak
even to me.

Buster picked up the cat and stroked it. 'You should
have thought of that before you signed on the dotted
line.' He held the cat over his head in both hands and
made a face at it. 'Why not try to be a good slave to
everyone...and not just Bob.'

'Do you think Steve wants to fuck me? Or Dad? Uncle
Tom?'

Buster placed the cat carefully back on the table.
'You're fucked, aren't you?' He laughed at his joke,
but his unblinking eyes saw through my pretences. 'I
reckon your dad should send you away to have the shit
flogged out of you.' He let out a long low sigh, as if
to say, 'and that's the truth mate.' and then got up
to go.

'Well maybe you should flog your slave, instead of
whinging about him. Seems like you're more looking for
love than a slave.'

Buster stopped in the doorway. He was too honest to
pretend he hadn't heard the truth, and too proud not
to hate me for telling it. Without turning round he
said evenly, 'You're lucky I don't have you flogged.'

He raised a hand in farewell and began to run down the
drive. Watching him as he crossed the street, I knew
there would be no more candid talks. Another
connection with the world of the free had been
severed.

A few weeks later two men came to the door. Even as I
let them in I knew they were in the slave business.
There's a flamboyance about the dress of those who
trade in human beings, that fails to mask their
venality. For all that slavery is an accepted
institution, its piratical past and the violence at
its foundations, taints those who make a living from
it. Nevertheless my father seemed glad to see them and
took them into his study. He told me to serve
refreshments and then return to work in the shed where
I was chopping logs.

The more senior of the pair must have been in his
forties, and was brawny and overweight, with wavy
oiled brown hair brushed back off a red face. He wore
a suit with an exceptionally wide chalk stripe, a red
shirt and blue tie. Several cigars stuck out of his
top pocket. His colleague was in his mid-twenties,
tall and slim, with dark features on a thin face. He
wore a leather jacket, white shirt and chinos and
boots, and carried a battered brief case. The only
hint of the unconventional was a small earring in his
right lobe.

I served them coffee and biscuits, and then went out
back to the woodshed to chop some more logs. Of all my
chores this was my favourite, and as I picked up the
axe I hoped there would be no more interruptions. It
was a sunny morning with a cool breeze and I felt
quite at ease and put from my mind all questions as to
what business the two men might have with my father.
When you are powerless, you learn not to fret over the
things you cannot control. If I had given a moment's
rational thought to the possible reasons why a couple
of dealers had turned up on a Tuesday morning, I would
certainly have concluded that my future might be at
stake. But I didn't. Instead I concentrated on getting
my swing and aim right, and took pleasure in the way
the logs split.

I must have been chopping away for a quarter of an
hour when I realised I was not alone. The younger of
the two visitors was watching me. The woodshed was
open on the garden side and he stood on the path,
holding his brief case in front of him. I put down the
axe, wiped my brow on the back of my gloves and went
to see what he wanted.

Any man who has been using his muscles and is sweating
freely has about him a certain authority, and although
I bowed before asking if I could be of service, I did
so with a minimum of fuss and used my gloved hand to
check my running nose. If the man was a slave dealer
he would surely be impressed by the sight of me in my
blue work shirt covered in sweat patches and loose
grubby white shorts. Wasn't I the very picture of a
hard working slave?

The man smiled but said nothing. I was about to tell
him I would carry on working if he had no need of me,
when he asked if there was a light in the woodshed. I
told him there was, and went to switch it on.

'That's good,' he said as he looked round at the
brightly illuminated interior. He placed his briefcase
on the workbench and opened it. 'I'm just going to
give you a quick inspection.'

He took out a small recorded and whispered into it.
'Step close. I expect you know the drill.'

I said that I did, although in fact I was quite at a
loss. He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a tape
measure. 'Stand still and do exactly as you're told.
Couldn't be simpler could it?'

He placed the tape measure round my neck. He recorded
the result on the machine and told me to remove my
shirt. He took out a small bottle of disinfectant,
dabbed some cotton wool against it and rubbed my
nipples. Without warning he produced a small pin and
drove it through my left teat. I cried out and he told
me to be silent unless I wanted to be gagged. The pain
was wracking me, and my voice was hoarse as I begged
him to remove the pin, but he immediately drove
another pin through my right teat. My head span, and
he busied himself using a small scalpel to scrape and
excavate my navel. After whispering some more into his
machine he fondled my stomach, testing the
musculature, but also causing my cock to stir.

The firestorm in my nipples was subsiding into a
deliciously sexual glow of pure sensation. My lips
quivered and the inside of my mouth rippled with
feeling. It was as if every nerve in my body had been
switched on. He pulled on surgical gloves and told me
to drop my shorts and step out of them. He smacked my
thigh to part my legs and grabbed my balls and gave
them a hard squeeze. I groaned loudly. 'You're not
trained are you?'

If I had a reply it was lost in another groan as he
plunged his thumb into my scrotum to separate my balls
and feel each one. A finger was pressed up under my
cock, causing another extreme sensation: not pain
exactly, but too fierce for pleasure. My cock was as
hard as granite.

He knelt before me, put his recorder under his chin
and used the tape to take my leg measurements. He
threatened to thrash me if I moved so much as an inch.
When he got back to his feet he took hold of my cock
to steady himself.

He yanked my jaw down and inserted his hand into my
mouth as casually as if it were his glove. His
fingertips probed the back of my throat and made me
gag. The invasion did nothing to stop the ripples of
feeling running over the roof of my mouth. He withdrew
his hand and immediately inserted two fingers up my
nostrils. I could feel the blood spurt as his
fingernails dug into the tender tissue. That done he
tore off the gloves and used bare hands to examine
under my lower and upper eyelids. He stepped back to
speak into his recorded while I tried to deal with my
nosebleed. He told me to use my shirt to wipe my face
and as I did so he removed the pins from my nipples,
leaving behind a hot itchy burn.

At this moment my father appeared. 'Ah, here they are
Lennox.' He called over his shoulder as the other
visitor came into view. 'They seem to be making
progress.'

'I've done the front...back and rectum still to come.'


My father put his hands in his pockets and looked at
me with a smile of paternal pride. 'What do you think
so far? No bad eh?'

The man inspecting me said nothing, but the one called
Lennox muttered something about me looking fit and
strong. He stood close to me, mouthing slightly as his
eyes ran over my naked body. My father was beside him,
still smiling at nothing in particular, and looking as
shabby as ever in his shapeless tweed jacket,
flannels, club-tie and rather too prominently
displayed paisley silk handkerchief.

If Lennox was venality personified, my father looked
an unworldly innocent. Lennox stood back. 'The bank
has a lien on him?'

My father nodded. 'Unfortunately.'

I felt a hand on my butt. 'Bend forwards, legs apart,
and spread your cheeks.'

Lennox came round behind me to get a better look. I
hesitated until my father confirmed the order with a
nod, but the delay earned me a brisk smack on my butt.
Lennox snorted. 'Is there an obedience issue here? Has
he been trained?'

'Not formally, but....' My father shrugged.

'A pity. Do you beat him?'

My father looked embarrassed. 'Major Bob... the lodger
here, he sees to the discipline, and my other son of
course...when he's here.' His voice faded away.

Even after three months of slavery it felt strange
being told to bend over for a rectal examination in
front of my father. Even so I put my legs apart, bend
forwards and used my hands to part my buttocks. I felt
the cool air on my anus. I had to sniff to stop my
nose dribbling. There was the snap of plastic and then
a finger probing my arse-cheeks. It found my hole and
slipped inside me. I clenched a little, enough to
confirm acceptance, and then relaxed a little, so as
to provide comfort as well as firm grip. All this Bob
had taught me, but I surprised myself in front of my
father. My cock reared and stiffened.

Despite everything happening in front of his eyes, my
father's mind was still on the matter of my training.
'Major Bob had been very good with him....'

The fingers were withdrawn. 'Do you fuck him?'

The interruption was deliberate. Lennox's affront to
my father made me wince even though I was bending
over.

It was my father's turn to wince. 'Fuck him? Oh dear
me. I hardly think that would be proper. I'm his
father.'

Lennox snorted. 'I'd forgotten.'

At that moment my anus was breached again, this time
as three fingers were shoved up my rectum. My muscles
clenched in reaction, and then relaxed. The fingers
were spreading, opening up my hole. The agony was
intense, but the man knew exactly what he was doing.
He tickled my prostrate, causing intense pure feeling
to flow through my insides, and then probed deep until
I felt a tightening in my chest and my heart began to
race.

When he pulled out he expressed satisfaction.
'Someone's been up there, and often.'

'That would be Major Riddle again.' My father sounded
rather sad.

'He's done a good job.'

The man who had been up me patted my butt and told
time to stand upright. 'I'd say this slave is sexually
trained.'

Lennox looked pleased. 'That's something to be
thankful for.'

He told me to face him and grabbed hold of my cock. He
placed his thumbnail over the slit and pressed down.
Blood spurted. 'Good.' He took out a handkerchief and
wiped his bloodied fingers. 'From what I've seen, we
may be able to do business. What do you think Grant?'

The man who's inspected me came round to face me. He
placed a hand over my face and squeezed my nose. 'I'd
say this is a well prepared and well presented slave
from the sexual point of view.' He tore off his gloves
and smiled as the blood started to drip from my nose.

Lennox turned to face my father. 'He's fits the bill.
How much do you want for him?'

My father glanced at me. 'Perhaps we could talk in
private.'

Lennox laughed. 'We are in private.'

My father stared down at the ground. 'The bank has
first refusal...'

'Yes, I know about banks. We'll square any deal with
them' Lennox put his hands in his pockets and gave his
colleague a sharp look.

There was a silence, broken by Grant. 'Have you
considered an outright sale?'

'No, no... you don't understand.' My father's voice
rose. 'He was enslaved voluntarily...to help see us
through.'

'You mean he can't be sold?' Grant snorted with
derision. 'What's the point of a slave you can't
sell?'

'Well I could... legally, but it's out of the
question. I have an agreement with my sons...'

Lennox broke in. 'And if you don't meet the payments
to the bank?

My father shrugged. 'They'll repossess this house.' He
looked like a cornered wild animal.

Grant put a hand on the back of my neck. 'Not the
slave?'

'As I say... he's my son. I'd rather they took the
house?'

Grant tugged on my slave collar, forcing my head back.
'You'd offer the bank your home rather than this
common slave?'

'I've told you, he's my son.' My father sounded
exasperated.

Lennox held out his hand to my father. 'Then we can't
help you. Many thanks for letting us examine the
property. If you change your mind do get in touch.'

Grant ran a hand down my back and pinched my waist. 'A
pity. We could have made something of this. There's
always demand for quality slaves.'

With a light pat on my butt he went over to the
workbench and closed his briefcase. 'Banks don't pay
much heed to family sentiment. To them a slave is a
slave.'

He shook hands with my father and hurried after
Lennox. I was left alone with my father, who gave me a
long look, then shrugged and walked slowly back to the
house with his head bowed. My nose was still bleeding.
My nipples were burning. My anus felt as if a dozen
bees had stung it. And yet I felt sorry for my Dad.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Five

Bob Riddle lay face down on his bed. The covers had
been removed and the morning sunshine warmed his naked
body. His chin rested on a pillow and he had closed
his eyes to concentrate on planning a meeting at the
bank later than day. But serious thought was difficult
so long as the household slave had his face buried
between his arse-cheeks.

His morning rimming had become something of a ritual.
When you've trained a slave to perform an act well, it
is foolish not to take full advantage of the skill
implanted. Furthermore Bob preferred to have his
adoring slave pay his respects to his anus than have
him sitting at his feet gazing up as if he were
looking at the living god.

The truth was Bob had grown tired of the slave. It
was, he thought as the ripples of pleasure spread out
from his anus, always the same story. First you train
them to take a fucking, and their mouths to suck cock,
and in the process they come to worship that cock as
their true master. Pretty soon you can't bear the
sight of them, and so keep them occupied and out of
sight by having them eat your anus. When you tire of
that, you discard them and move on to something
fresher.

Bob had trained slaves ever since joining the army.
During his basic training his drill sergeant had lined
up his recruits and told them to take out their cocks.
The grizzled old soldier had gone down the line
commenting on each young soldier's equipment,
combining humiliation with jokes and backhanded
compliments. When he stopped in front of Bob, and had
seen the modest scale of the tool, the sergeant had
merely remarked that Bob's cock would be ideal for
training slaves in the art of giving a man a decent
ride. 'Too thick busts the ring, too long gives
pleasure: for instruction, use a short one.'

It was advice taken to heart, and Bob had soon become
the regiment's number one arse-tamer. The officers in
his unit would often be given slaves by grateful
potentates whose tottering throne had been shored up
by 'peace-keeping' exercises. These would be handed
over to Bob for sex training. It only took a few
sessions, and he was always careful not to spoil the
quality of freshness that is so large a part of a
young slave's charm. Usually he would suggest that the
slave's owner take the cherry on the principle that a
gentleman opens his own mail, and then hands it to
others for response or action.

No one knew better how to deal with a slave than Bob.
Like a cook mixing flavours in a stew, Bob would
instil fear as his basic ingredient, thickened with
the whip. He would toss in bright shafts of pure
pleasure (usually in the anal region), stir with
gentle approval, and then season the whole with solid
fucking. He got used to having chubby young faces
smiling up at him in gratitude for being taught how to
suck a cock, or take it up their rectums, and it no
longer amused him that he could generate such devotion
as the by-product of their training. He would send
them back to their masters with no more regret than
one would feel when returning a pet rabbit to its
cage.

Now that he was out of the army, he was toying with
the idea of setting up in the slave business. But for
that he needed access to capital, or stock in hand.
And his experience as lodger in the Gibson household
had provided the clue as to how he might acquire both.
The slave who at that moment was so expertly chewing
the rim of his anus, was Gibson's younger son Harry,
who had been so naïve as to allow himself to be
enslaved to provide collateral for a bank loan.
Gibson, being almost as big a fool as his younger boy,
had not been able to meet the interest payments, and
it seemed inevitable the bank would seize Harry and
sell him at auction. That would of course free up
plenty of cash, and not only pay off the loan, but
keep Gibson and his foppish older son Steve in comfort
for a few years.

The bank had already sent in a team to make an
assessment and report on Harry's likely worth at
auction. It was that report that Bob was hoping to set
eyes on that afternoon. Of course it was unethical
that he should be given first sight, but it had been
his experience that bankers prefer sound business
practice to airy-fairy ideals. If he played his cards
right, he'd be well on his way towards his first big
break in the slave trade by the day's end.

Coming out of his thoughts Bob realised his anus had
been chewed for too long. Harry had been indulging
himself. Without a second thought he told Harry to get
his face out of his arse, to go wash his face, and
then fetch a thick and flexible bamboo cane. The slave
obeyed, but with a slight hesitation, and when he
brought the cane he did so with a glum expression. No
properly trained slave would dare show such personal
feelings in carrying out an order. Harry was sexually
trained, but not professionally trained. The slave,
Bob decided, as he laid a dozen hard strokes across
the well formed bare buttocks, not really a slave at
all. He was more like a common male whore.

The meeting with the bank was not at some local high
street branch, but at the Chattels Department in the
city's financial district. Bob had made sure he was
looking his best, but even so found himself feeling a
trifle shabby compared to the immaculately dressed men
going in and out of the imposing head offices of the
financial, trading and legal institutions. The massive
sombre buildings rose over the traffic-clogged streets
whose sidewalks reserved for free men, while slaves
hurried along with their burdens in the special
'gutters.'

Bob could only marvel at the mass of slaves. The
spread of slavery into every small suburban home and
business had been a great success story, but one had
to visit the city to grasp the sheer scale of the
slave system. The city's streets were full of slaves
dressed in every style and colour of uniform and
fashion. They had been bought in from every corner of
the planet, so that willowy Nubian adolescents loped
alongside pint-sized gypsy-boy scamps, and locally
bred stock had to find a path round chained teams of
slaves so ravaged and savaged by hard use as to be of
indeterminate origin.

To keep order among this moving mass of the
subjugated, the Slave Police manned special circular
observation posts erected at the main intersections.
Although no more than ten feet off the ground, the
officers on duty had no difficulty in directing the
flow of slaves below with the help of rhino whips,
whistles and barked commands. The city fathers were
tough-minded men who enforced a rigorous code of
conduct among slaves that left no room for the
enlightened ideas promoted by such pressure groups as
the Society for the Welfare and Protection of Slaves.
That nonsense was best left to suburban intellectuals
who could afford to feed their slaves steaks and have
them sleep on soft mattresses.

As a reminder of the discipline that awaited the lazy
or insolent, half a dozen permanent whipping frames,
made of stainless steel, stood in the open space in
front of the law courts. Not that a court's permission
was required to flog a slave there. It was a public
whipping post, open to all. Bob noticed several slaves
mopping up blood and scrubbing the paving stones where
slaves had been flogged during the lunch break. Two
such wretches were still in place, suspended by their
feet from the top bar of the frame, and swinging
slightly in the afternoon breeze with their naked
buttocks and backs a fretwork of bloodied cuts and
stripes. No passing slave could fail to shudder at the
sight.

Bob felt refreshed and energised as he entered the
vast marble clad banking hall. He had been too long in
the quiet suburbs and was glad to be back in the city,
a free man among free men who saw no reason to fetter
their manhood and did not shrink from using
old-fashioned methods to keep their slaves in place.
He had to smile as he approached the inquiry desk and
saw a notice stating, "We will whip any slave showing
disrespect. Third party corroboration not required.
Please ask for a complaints form."

A blue-eyed slave-boy page took Bob up to the Chattels
Department. The skinny lad wore the livery of the
bank, and looked charming in tight-fitting royal blue
knickerbockers, white stockings, and slippers with
gold buckles. His burgundy velvet jerkin had tails
that hung down on either side of his bottom, and his
white cotton shirt was tucked in below the neck to
show off a slave collar made of silver links embossed
with the bank's logo. A royal blue fez with a gold
tassel was perched on a full head of glossy golden
locks. It was not common practise to shave the heads
of pre-pubescent slaves.

This decorative boy led the way into an office
furnished in the modernist style, and bowed deeply as
he introduced Bob to a Mr Freddie Patel. Two adult
male slaves were on hand to make Bob comfortable and
serve refreshments while Bob and Patel exchanged
pleasantries. The slaves wore a more modern version of
the bank's livery, still with royal blue pants and
burgundy jerkins, but fashioned more simply from
harder wearing fabrics. Their heads were shaved, and
left bare. As with every other slave Bob had seen
since entering the building, these two were thin and
gaunt-faced.

When Bob mentioned this, Patel confirmed that it was
the bank's policy to underfeed its slaves. 'All our
slaves are trained and serviced by Anderton
International, and they tell us to keep them lean and
hungry. Seems to work.'

Patel sat behind a large pine desk. It was bare except
for a family photo, a phone and some files. On one
side a glass wall gave a view out over the city as far
as the distant hills, while on the other the two duty
slaves stood formally 'at ease' with their legs apart,
hands behind their backs, and their eyes lowered.

Bob believed himself to be a good judge of men, and he
liked the look of Patel. The plain black suit and tie,
white shirt, and heavy silver cufflinks spoke of
decorum and taste while the gelled black hair and
excellent grooming spoke of a proper vanity. He was
about thirty, darkly handsome, with an athletic build
and an innate elegance that showed in his every move.
Nor was he a man to beat about the bush.

'You're interested in this Gibson slave?'

He leaned back in his chair with the air of one who
has made the first move and hopes the response will
not be a waste of time. Bob met the challenge with
candour.

'In my view Gibson can't meet the interest payments
and you'll have to repossess the slave. My proposal
offers you a way to prevent that while doubling your
profits.' Bob took a folder out of his briefcase. 'The
details are all here. I believe you have a report on
the slave.'

Patel did not move. His fingers were pressed together
under his chin. 'The bank's position is secure.'

'But not, as thing stand, particularly profitable.'

Patel sat forwards. 'I'll take a look.'

'First, I'd like to see the report your valuation boys
did on the slave.'

'You are not the owner?'

'No, but Gibson is dithering. Deep down he's resigned
to losing his son.'

Patel frowned and waved a hand in disdain. 'Please...
this is a slave we're talking about. Whose son he may
be is neither here nor there.'

'I think it is.'

Patel slumped back and looked out of the window. 'The
slave is your bed companion, is it not? If you're
hoping to save him for yourself, you've come to the
wrong place.'

Bob laughed. 'One slave's backside is much like any
other's... I've trained this slave, but only for the
bedroom. Let me have him for professional training and
I'll double his value. I don't need to own him. Leave
him in place and pile on the interest and penalty
charges until you've made enough from Gibson to make
everything worthwhile. Then repossess the slave. Hand
him over to me for training, and then send him for
auction and share the profit.'

Patel smiled. 'But we could get our people to train
and add value. Why should we trust you?'

Despite his words, Patel glanced at one of the slaves
who stepped forwards. Patel pointed to the file and
the slave picked it up and carried it round the desk
and put it before Bob. He was back in his place within
five seconds.

Patel shrugged. 'It's a straight valuation. It makes
no recommendations. And I might tell you it confirms
the slave's status as suitable only for sexual
service. He's not worth much more than we're already
owed.'

Bob said nothing but opened the file. He read quickly.
'Here it is.' He glanced up to make sure Patel was
listening. '"There is a second offspring in the Gibson
household - male, twenty one and with free status, but
of high potential value if enslaved." There we have
it, Mr Patel.'

'How do you propose to enslave this young man?'

Bob sensed Patel's interest. 'Best you don't know, but
I'll need some capital. If I prove my worth with the
slave Stephen, you'll know you're on to a good thing.'


Patel rose. 'The bank cannot lend money to entrap a
free man into slavery.'

'Of course not. But you do invest in business
start-ups in the slave trade.'

'We'd be foolish not to.'

Bob rose and held out his hand. 'I shall be in touch.'


There was a slave beside him, ready to help him on
with his coat.

A week later Bob was again in discussion about the
Gibson boys. This time he was sitting in the darkened
back room of a pub in the eastern section of the city.
The slave fights put on for the lunchtime crowds were
over, and the place was empty except for a couple of
women sadists in leather suits who were lazily
torturing a young female slave on a rack over by the
silent juke-box. A bent old house-slave was sweeping
the floor. Apart from the odd scream there was nothing
to hear other than the muffled roar of traffic passing
outside.

Bob sat in a battered red upholstered booth opposite a
young man smartly dressed all in black. He had an
ex-soldier's stance and build and an expression of
intense disgust on his face. Bob took a sip from a
glass of beer and smiled. The man swore under his
breath and then repeated himself more loudly. And then
he relaxed, rolled his eyes and grinned round to see
if anyone was watching. After one last grimace he
apologised for his language and lit a cigarette.
Although a free man he called Bob 'sir.'

As he did so a young female slave emerged from under
the table. She swallowed hard and smiled up at the man
and cupped her hands. He felt in his trouser pocket
for change.

Bob shook his head. 'You don't have to. She's on the
house.'

The man tossed some coins. 'Try her yourself sir,
she's very neat and tidy. Even tucked my cock in.'

Bob tried to mask his distaste with a smile as he
suggested they talk seriously. The man placed a finger
on the kneeling girl's lower lips and told her to
scram before he spanked her little butt. She giggled
and was gone. There was a blood-curdling cry from the
tortured slave.

The man chuckled. 'Those bitches mean business.' He
brushed between his legs with the back of his hand.
'Right sir.. you want some college boy framed?'

Bob shook his head and leaned towards the man. 'No. I
want him to volunteer to be a slave.'

The man raised his eyebrows. 'Just like that? "Please
sir, can I be a slave sir?"' He spoke in a falsetto
that made the slave sweeping nearby laugh out loud.
The man pointed at the slave. 'Even that piece of shit
can see it's a dumb idea.' He sighed and drew on his
cigarette. 'Go on then sir, tell me about it.' He
exhaled and stubbed it out. 'I'll see if I can help.'

Bob looked round to make sure no one was listening.
Places like this were full of ears, free and non-free,
hoping to catch some item juicy enough to earn a
reward from the Slave Police.

'I know this kid. I've been watching him closely for
six months, and I've seen the way his mind works.
Believe me, we can get him. I just need some help.'

'What type?'

'Help that doesn't mind getting its hands dirty.'

'I reckon I can help my old CO.' The man stared across
the room to where one of the leather-clad women was
turning the rack's wheel. 'I think it's time to take a
closer look.'

Bob didn't even look up, but drained his glass. 'Bring
two mates, and yourself. Here, same time. In a week.'

There was another scream, louder and more despairing.
As he crossed the empty room Bob heard one of the
women laugh.


HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Six

Standing in line is a part of any slave's life. I
seemed to spend half my mornings waiting to reach the
front of the slave's line in the pharmacy, or the
butchers, at the library or greengrocer. If you were
the only slave waiting you were ignored. If there was
a long line it took forever because of free people
going ahead. Many slaves used the time to do their
exercises, and sometimes we formed ourselves into a
group and worked out together, much to the amusement
of free men passing by. But all too often there was
nothing to be done but stand in line with that blank
expression common to slaves.

It was while standing outside the public library slave
entrance, sheltering from the rain under a piece of
plastic sheeting I kept for the purpose, that I got
talking to Rudic. I'd first noticed him because of his
Slavic features - high cheekbones, pale blue eyes,
brown hair, and good build. He spoke English with a
heavy accent, but was easy to talk to, and that was
more than can be said of most slaves. That morning he
was shivering with cold and had on nothing more than
running shorts and a pullover top. The tip of his cock
was sticking out under his shorts, but he seemed not
to mind it being seen any more than he did the cold.
His owner was a local car dealer with a reputation for
being tough on his slaves, but Rudic seemed happy
enough. He was one of those slaves who made the best
of life and enjoyed not having to worry about where
the next meal is coming from, or job security. He took
the blows that came his way in good heart, and was a
regular in the various slave dives that spring up in
every town on the wrong side of the tracks.

He had seen me get my face slapped in the dry cleaners
for not responding quickly to a request for payment.
Slaps and kicks were a matter of routine, part of the
everyday texture of a slave's life. I had handed over
the money and hadn't given the incident another
thought. But Rudic was intrigued. He asked why I'd
hesitated, and when I said I didn't think I had, he
laughed.

'But you did! It was so obvious. When I saw, I
thought, I'd slap that slave if he was mine.' He
jogged on the spot and refused my offer to share the
plastic cover.

'I did my best.'

'Have you been trained?'

Rudic looked at me with suspicion. Did he think I was
a SP plant? He frowned as the rainwater trickled out
of his hair.

'Not really. I serve at home, and they teach me how to
do things.'

Rudic looked at his feet and shook his head as if
hearing something very sad. 'That is so bad. Very
cruel, not to train a slave. It means you will always
be beaten.'

'Were you trained?'

Rudic looked at me as if affronted and puffed out his
chest. 'Of course. I was sent to professional training
camp in Germany. Near Augsburg. Very nice place.'

'You enjoyed it?'

I could hardly believe my ears. Runic laughed and
punched me on my arm. 'Enjoy? Are you crazy man? What
do you think? Every morning the whip. Every afternoon
the boot up the arse. Every night the whip and the
boot, plus the fucking and sucking. For six weeks.
Those bastards made us tough, and they made sure we
know to be obedient. Real obedient, not like you.' He
winked as he gave my arm another punch.

'You think I need that?'

Rudic fixed me with his big blue eyes. 'Sure man. You
must be trained. Stands to reason, slaves have to be
trained...to be real slaves.'

To make his point he did a small dance, chanting 'do
this' and slapping his backside, and then 'do that'
and slapping his thigh, and then repeating the mantra
on his stomach and chest. It was an odd sight. When he
had finished he scolded me for not joining in.

'We were taught that in the training camp. Obedience.
You've got to have it man.'

It was my turn to go into the tiny office where slaves
handed on their owners' library book. I managed not to
get my face slapped, but I did notice the librarian
lady seemed a little exasperated when I hadn't got the
library cards to hand. As I jogged home I wondered if
it mightn't be a good idea to do a training course. As
things stood I seemed to be getting the worst of both
worlds.

Later than day my brother Steve called me up to his
room:- correction, he yelled my name at the top of his
voice. Sensing trouble I ran upstairs and found him
half-dressed and standing hands on hips in the middle
of his bedroom. A number of shirts were scattered
round his feet. He told me none of them had been
properly ironed. As I moved forwards to take at look
at the crumpled heap he slapped me across the face. I
reeled a little under the force, but said nothing and
bent down to pick up the shirts. I could see at once
that Steve had a point. The ironing was pretty
rudimentary. I apologised and said I was iron them
again, straight away.

'What the fuck do you do all day?' Steve was
indignant, but also, I sensed, curious. 'Ironing a
fucking shirt isn't rocket science. Why can't you get
the simplest things right?'

'Maybe I need training.'

I didn't call Steve 'sir' because we were brothers. In
fact we'd never worked out what I should call him, so
I didn't call him anything. It was symbolic of my
uncertain status.

'Training? Are you serious? You want to be sent away
to be trained? Have you any idea what that means?'

I shrugged. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea after
all. But Rudic had struck a chord. 'I don't know, but
I'm expected to do all the things a trained slave does
without the training. It's not fair.'

Steve gave me a look I could not interpret and told me
to go and iron his shirts. A few minutes later, as I
stood over the ironing board in the utility room, I
was overcome by a fit of shaking. It was as if my body
was succumbing to some internal upheaval. My teeth
chattered, my hands and knees shook, and my chest
tightened. I found myself saying over and over, 'This
can't go on.' The spasm lasted only a few minutes and
left me feeling calmer and clearer in my thinking.

I did a good job on the shirts and took them back up
to Steve, who was sitting in front of his computer.
When I tried to show him the shirts, he waved them
away without so much as a glance. 'Go and see Bob.
He's in his room.'

I went along to Bob's room and entered. Slaves don't
knock because it was taken for granted that no matter
what private activity a free man might be engaged in,
a slave's presence would make no difference. He was
lying naked on his bed, watching the television news
while playing with his cock. He used his forefinger to
beckon me to kneel and put my mouth over the cock. He
groaned with pleasure and told me to take care not to
let him come. I slid a hand under his butt and used my
forefinger to probe his anus.

My infatuation with Bob may have dwindled, but
everything about him and his room remained erotically
charged. His smell, the texture of his skin, the lean
warm flesh and his cock's silky feel against my lips,
all made me hard and a little breathless. Even the dim
lighting, the creaking bed, the vague scent of
cologne, helped me into a mood to serve Bob willingly.
After a while he pushed me off his cock and raised
himself off my finger. He told me to lay out some
clothes. He was going out later with some army buddies
and they would be visiting a brothel. That meant
boxers rather than y-fronts, slip-on shoes rather than
lace-ups, a condom in his wallet in case the tarts
weren't hygienic, and plenty of cash in his
money-fold. As he was choosing a tie from a selection,
he said casually that I had better put from my mind
any idiotic ideas about being sent away for
professional training. I bowed as he pointed to a raw
silk and turned to add it to his clothes for that
evening.

'Did you hear what I said?'

I bowed again and said that I had. My tone was, I
admit, a little on the sulky side. It wasn't often I
was the subject of conversation, and I wanted to make
the most of it.

'You could no more take a full training than be fucked
by a horse. You haven't the capacity... do you
hear?... you're not up to it.'

He got off the bed and took me by the scruff of my
neck. 'So forget it. If I hear you whining about it
I'll whip the skin off your back.'

He let go with a shove that sent me flying against his
bookcase. 'I've half a mind to flog you here and now,
just to get some sense into your head.' As I steadied
myself, he shrugged derisively and told me to dress
him. 'And concentrate on what you're doing or you'll
never eat my arse again.'

'Training would make me a real slave. Not the
half-arsed thing I am.'

I don't know what made me say it, and I shuddered as I
heard my own words, but too late. He reached for the
riding crop he kept in a tall vase by his bookcase. I
felt quite calm and wondered whether I'd be getting
stripes across my back, or butt, chest, thighs, or
even the soles of my feet. Bob decided it was my
butt's turn, and he positioned me carefully for the
punishment. I was entirely co-operative, and icily
calm. Just before the first stroke landed I found
myself wondering whether I was experiencing despair.
Or maybe coming down with a fever. And then the crop
landed and all thought ceased.

Steve's fall from grace came a few days later. The
local police called late in the evening to say they
were holding Steve on a charge of dangerous driving
under the influence of drink and endangering the life
of a free citizen. My father went pale as he listened
and slumped down in his chair. He told me everything
in a flat voice, treating me as if I were his son
again and no longer his slave.

Two days later, after a brief court appearance, a date
was fixed for a trial. My father's lawyers suggested
they should go for a deal with the county prosecutors,
and after a week's wait my father learned that the
court would accept a plea of guilty on a lesser
charge. Steve would be enslaved for four years.

I did my best to comfort my father. His grief for
Steve was a contrast to his cheerful acceptance of my
enslavement for life, and I could not help feeling a
little gratified that my cocky older brother would now
feel the humiliation of enslavement, and perhaps the
kiss of the whip. But my smug reaction was short
lived. The same week the court enslaved Steve, my
father received a letter from the bank. They were
calling in their loans. As I was the collateral they
would be taking possession of me. Bailiffs had been
appointed. The asked that my father have me ready for
surrender the following day between the hours of two
and five in the afternoon.

I suppose my repossession was considered a low risk
assignment because the bailiffs who came were two very
relaxed young men in jeans and leather jackets armed
only with cuffs and domestic whips. They couldn't have
been long out of their teens and drove a rather
battered pick-up. My father demanded to see the
paperwork, but everything was in order. The two young
scruffs kicked me up my backside as they loaded me on
the open back and made me sit with my hand cuffed
behind my back and my right ankle chained to the
floor.

It had been snowing and the route to the slave dealers
appointed by the bank went past the town's main high
school. The guy driving slowed down to chat to some of
the kids and that left me as a target to be pelted
with snowballs. I did my best to duck and weave until
a SP patrol car passed by and one of the officers
inside used his PA system to tell me to keep my head
bowed and my eyes down or they would take me in to be
whipped. Strange how a slave, as soon as he is up for
sale, or changing owners, becomes the target for abuse
and the attentions of zealous SP officers.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Seven

Bob Riddle smiled as he turned into the Almond Grove
Slave Training and Correction Centre. Everything was
falling into place nicely. He knew from his days in
the army that in any operation small things will go
wrong, and that it is the task of the commanding
officer not to be distracted, but to stay focused and
see things through to their proper conclusion.

It had been easy to frame Steve. The young man was a
fool, and not only had he fallen into the trap set for
him, he had been drinking. An enslavement order had
followed as surely as a slave will shit after eating
mush. And Patel had proved himself no slouch when it
came to issuing a repossession order for young Harry.
Things were going according to plan, and the financial
backing was in place to make a killing when the two
slaves were auctioned.

The downside was Steve being enslaved for a mere four
years. Any owner worth his salt could trump up some
charge and get an extension for life, but that would
not be wholly reflected in the price. If only there
was a reason to submit an extension application before
the auction. But apart from that everything was coming
up trumps.

Almond Grove was typical of the slave training
facilities that had sprung up in every affluent suburb
to meet the needs of the ever-expanding class of slave
owner. Owned by a US entertainment conglomerate,
within its walls a slave could be bought or sold,
traded, disciplined, trained, clothed, tortured,
rewarded, impregnated, branded or cremated. There were
medical facilities, with a slave hospital and special
departments offering dentistry, castration, shaving,
circumcision, anal loosening and limb removal or
prosthesis. Slaves could be stretched on a rack,
flogged, and fitted with every restraint on the
market. The whip store boasted of having in stock over
a hundred makes of whip, dozens of canes, and a full
range of traditional and contemporary paddles. Special
classes in slave control and management, whipping,
physical and sexual domination were on offer, along
with a full-service slave rental operation.

After Bob had handed his car keys to the young black
slave standing at the head of the line of parking
valets, he looked round with amazement at the sheer
scale of this temple to modern slavery. An institution
that had once been the preserve of government, large
corporations and the rich, could now be a part of life
for anyone on an average income. The number of slaves
had increased tenfold in as many years, and was
forecast to triple in the near future.

He sometimes wondered at the docility of the slave
population, and was glad to see a SP van parked
nearby, ready to nip any trouble in the bud Bob walked
into the foyer past the crèche and took the moving
stairs down to the discipline and slave-trading
centre. Dark blue walls, gold furnishings, discreet
lighting and background music helped create an
atmosphere both mysterious and sensual.

Bob stopped at the enquiry desk to ask directions. In
the background a whip was cracking. The slave
designated to show him to the dungeon was a short
female, wearing a heavy collar, thick iron wristbands
and a pair of pink satin panties. She had rings
through both nipples and five whip marks cut
vertically into her back. She moved with disciplined
grace, always taking care to stand aside as free
people passed while not delaying Bob's progress. They
passed by the Discipline Centre with its punishment
diagnostic and administration areas, special torture
chambers, and the Bambi Spanking Centre for young
slaves.

Steven was being held in the Dungeon Arena that was
approached down a circular descending walkway lined
with slave cages in which slaves 'on special offer'
were displayed for quick sale. Slaves of all ages,
races, colours, sizes, stood gazing longingly at
potential buyers. If they failed to sell within a week
they would be bought by wholesalers and shipped off en
masse to wherever there was a demand for poor quality
slaves who could be worked to death.

When they reached the main dungeon area, Bob's
slave-guide showed him into a reception room. The
walls were covered in deep red wallpaper and easy
chairs were arranged to provide a view of an
examination table and a display block. Mr Patel was
already there, sitting on a small gilt chair sipping a
cup of tea. Away from the office Patel favoured a more
informal style of dress and had on a black leather
jacket, with jeans and a blue shirt.

As they shook hands, Bob congratulated Patel on his
efficiency in executing their joint plan. Patel
shrugged and handed his cup and saucer to the
slave-girl. He mind was on personal matters. 'I've
been here for a couple of hours taking a look round.
My wife is nagging me to buy a second slave so I went
up to the young females department and checked out the
stock. Ideally we'd like an Indian girl, but they
fetch top dollar, so we'll probably have to make do
with one of these new purpose bred girls - they're
available in all racial types.'

Bob took a seat and waved away the offer of
refreshment. 'I don't go for purpose bred myself. I
prefer my slaves tamed.'

'My wife wants hard work and unquestioning obedience.
I expect she'll want one that's been sexually modified
so there won't be any fun for me.'

A guard appeared who asked how the gentlemen wanted
the slaves presented for inspection. He was short and
brawny, with a high voice and a Scottish accent. He
offered to muffle the slave's ears with earplugs and
repetitive sounds, while blindfolding them with
plastic caps over the eyes that would allow them only
a narrow downward vision. Bob said a muzzle would be
fine.

'It'll be amusing to see their faces when they see
mine.' He added, 'they'll be securely cuffed?'

The guard said he would fasten the slaves' wrists
behind their back and attach the cuffs to a chain
running from the back of their collar. Bob nodded.
'The comfort of the slave is not an issue.'

The guard smiled and said he would prepare and present
the property in question.

'Which one is on first?'

Patel tipped himself back on his small chair and
shoved his hands in his pockets. Male slaves held
little fascination for him. Now if young females were
to be brought in....

The guard consulted a clipboard. 'The newly enslaved
older brother. Was known as Steve.'

Patel yawned. 'I hope I'll be impressed.'

The guard went swaggering out. He had a rather fat
butt and his belt was cluttered with various devices
that bumped against his arse-cheeks. Bob had to smile,
but knew it was unlikely the slaves under his care saw
him as a comic figure. A minute later the door opened
and Steve was led in.

Bob was used to most sights of the modern world, but
the change in Steve was enough to make his catch his
breath. As Bob had hoped, the slave bore obvious signs
of the SP treatment. Although he was wearing a pair of
grey shorts and a sleeveless vest, there was no
disguising the effects of rough handling. There was a
deep red mark on the side of his neck and another
bruise on his upper right arm. His slave registration
number had been written on his forehead, and the front
of his thighs was criss-crossed with cane marks. He
hadn't yet been shaved, but his collar was permanent.
A small plastic muzzle was fixed on his mouth with a
white linen gag beneath.

When Steve saw Bob his mask of misery turned to one of
hope and utter delight, and despite the ugly muzzle he
managed a smile. Bob was almost touched. After all
they had been friends and Steve was a charming young
man. But he managed to maintain his cold stare and was
gratified to watch the way the hope and colour drained
from Steve's face as the truth dawned. Bob had to use
a hand to adjust his cock as it expanded in his pants.


'He's been in trouble.' Patel sounded bored, as if
disappointed to see such a bruised piece of property.

Bob had to suppress his delight. No one would ever pay
good money for a slave in such a condition. He would
be able to buy him for a song. How fortunate it was
that the SP never gave a thought for the damage they
caused or the effect their treatment might have on a
slave's price at auction.

He went over to Steve and laced his fingers inside the
elastic holding up the shorts. He paused for a moment,
fascinated to find himself face to face with a friend
who was now a slave. He had no fear because the guard
was standing close and had taken the precaution of
pulling his short rhino whip from his pocket. Bob
stared deep into Steve's face as if to carve the
betrayal onto his retina. What had Steve been through
in the past three days?

As he looked into the unseeing face he noticed the
nostril twitching. Was this a sign of contempt? He
nodded to the guard who immediately unfurled his whip,
motioned bob to step back, and laid a couple of lashes
across Steve's chest, tearing the vest and cutting the
skin. Blood oozed lazily from the wounds. Bob thanked
the guard who replaced his whip with the satisfied
expression of one who knows he's done a good job.

Bob disregarded the muffled cries and tear stained
face and yanked Steve's shorts down past the knees,
and let them fall around the ankles. Standing back he
could get a proper look, and was reassured. He pulled
the vest up above the nipples. Apart from recent
damage, things weren't too bad. The balls were swollen
from a punch, as were the nipples from torture, but
while the body was nothing like as trim as that of a
trained slave, the basics were there - good muscles,
strong arms, legs and back. A well made butt, good
neck, fleshy big nipples and a flat stomach. And he
was a handsome devil, the type wealthy ladies like to
have carry their shopping bags and serve their friends
tea. Bob was relieved to note that the back hadn't
been marked and the butt had nothing worse than the
usual dozen cane stripes.

'What do you think?' Bob looked back over his shoulder
at Patel who was still showing no signs of enthusiasm.


'Pretty ordinary, if I may say so?' Patel looked at
his watch. 'We'd be willing to lend the money to buy
him, but only on condition of a full training and
resale within six months. I'm sorry, but I just don't
see him fetching a good price. There's too much of
this type of stock on the market.'

Bob had to smile at the expression of horror on
Steve's face and he couldn't resist running his hand
through the slave's hair. How nice it would be when he
owned him and could fuck him. If his anus was half as
good as his brother's he would be well worth all the
trouble.

He turned to Patel. 'He goes on the block tomorrow.
I'll need credit in place.'

Patel nodded. 'No problem. What about the other
slave?'

'Rubbish I'm afraid. Spoiled and fucked stupid, but if
trained hard he might fetch a respectable price.'

Bob told the guard to remove Steve and bring in Harry.
'Same muzzle please.'

When Harry was brought in Patel sat up. And Bob was
surprised too. The contrast with the older brother was
remarkable. This slave moved like a slave, quickly and
with precision. And he was naked, and his body had
been hardened by use. He was no more a trained slave
than his brother, but he was very much a slave with
his shaved head, collar rather too tight below his
Adam's Apple, and developed musculature. And he bore
the scars common to all slaves - old whip marks across
the shoulder blades, and a set of fading cane stripes
on his butt. He breathed through his nose easily,
flaring his nostrils as slaves always did. And there
was a stillness about him; a sense of being under
discipline that marked him as a slave.

'So this is what we've been using as collateral.'
Patel stood up and came close. He used his thumb and
forefinger to close Harry's nostrils. The mouth opened
but the slave neither winced for changed expression.
'I prefer this one, frankly.'

Bob shrugged. 'He needs training.'

He felt a little put out that Harry should make such a
favourable contrast with Steve. He had an urge to kick
Harry up his nice tight butt. Memories of long nights
spent buggering him stirred his cock.

'Send this one for auction. Keep the other back.'
Patel spoke with finality.

Bob was taken by surprise. He hadn't expected this,
not had he expected Patel to sound so confident.

'It's chucking money away. He's not trained for
anything but to suck and fuck. Let me train him and
he'll be worth double.'

Patel was examining the slave closely, still using his
thumb and forefinger to pinch a nipple or testicle,
gather the flesh on the stomach, or probe the butt.
The slave's face registered sensation and discomfort,
but not in a way that could be taken as a complaint.
Patel was clearly impressed.

'I disagree. I think this slave will do very well at
auction. And with the money from this one in your
account you won't need credit for more than a few
days.'

Bob was exasperated. Why was Patel being so difficult?


'The deal was that the bank lends the money so I can
train both slaves to peak condition.'

'Maybe, but that was before I saw this one.' Patel was
in no mood to retract. 'Too much can be made of the
value added that comes from training. This is a real
slave, and a handsome beast as well. If you like we'll
underwrite his price. You can make your money off the
older softer one. He will benefit from training.'

Bob was about to protest but knew it was pointless.
Patel was already holding out his hand to shake on the
new deal. Bob had no alternative but to take it. They
shook and Patel turned and left the room without
another word.

The guard coughed discreetly. 'Do you want the slave
put back in custody?'

Bob turned and looked at Harry. Their eyes met. It was
a difficult moment. Bob had fucked this slave rigid
for weeks on end, had been rimmed by him daily, and
sucked by him more often than that; it was as if Patel
were insisting he sell his own slave, and for no very
good reason. He did not drop his eyes, and something
in them must have told Harry not to drop his either.
For a few moments the free man and the slave stood
staring at one another, and then Bob seemed to come to
a decision.

'Remove the muzzle.'

The guard did not move. 'But sir, when they are
excited and distressed like this...'

'I said remove it.'

With a perplexed expression the guard stepped forward
and began to loosen the plastic muzzle and its metal
bit, and then pulled out the linen gag. Harry breathed
deeply, shuddered and hung his head.

'You are to be auctioned tomorrow morning.'

Harry did not lift his head. 'Yes master.'

'It is not my wish, as you heard.' Bob was pleased his
voice betrayed none of the emotion he felt.

'Yes master.' Harry slowly raised his head until their
eyes met.

'Be a good slave.'

Harry's eyes bore into Bob like needles. Only then did
Bob understand why he had been acting as he had those
past months. He loved Harry as Harry had loved him,
and that had made him afraid. His heart had been
stifled by the sullen fear of free men who find they
love their slaves. A wave of self-loathing washed
through his system.

'I have tried to be good and loyal, master.' Harry's
voice was soft and hoarse with emotion.

'You have been.'

Bob could take it no longer. He turned to go, and as
he did so the guard smiled knowingly and placed his
hand on the back of Harry's neck and led him back to
the cells.

When Bob reached the exit and asked for his car the
black slave told him there had been a problem and he
would have to wait a few minutes. The young slave was
shaking with fear, but for once Bob felt able to shrug
off the delay, and instead of swearing and sending the
slave to be punished, he stood in the light snow under
the garish lights and chatted to the young slave about
the progress of the local slave-football team.

When his car did arrive and the driver jumped out with
an expression of terror on his face, Bob tipped them
both and went to get into the driver's seat, but
before he could both slaves had dropped to their knees
and kissed his feet in gratitude.

'No need for that. I'm sure you did your best.'

The young black slave, and his young white colleague
both rose. There were tears in their eyes and they
bade him good night and a safe journey home.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Eight

>From the moment the bailiffs had arrived to repossess
me, I'd known that I was lost. The commercial machine
that the slave system had become would devour and
digest me. By the time it shat me out of its anus I
would be a different creature, in another world, laden
with other hopes and fears.

My brief inspection by Bob and his Asian accomplice
had been of small interest. Even the sight of Bob
wilting under my gaze had given no pleasure. The
comfort I had once found in having Bob's cock inside
me had been burnt away by the fierce reality of life
in the holding cells at Almond Grove.

Our guards were the usual scum - overweight young men
of limited intelligence in bulging uniforms, glorying
in their power over cringing slaves who were for the
most part no less dim-witted and gauche. They stuck
their cocks in our moths and cracked their whips as
they assured us we had entered the hell zone and would
henceforth lead lives of misery and pain.

Fortunately Almond Grove was run for profit, and
keeping its costs down and earnings up meant a quick
turnover of the slave stock. I was put on the block on
my third day there.

The auction room served wholesalers and had none of
the trappings found in the fancier galleries at Almond
Grove. We were lined up, cuffed and shackled, naked
except for collars and signs hung round our necks
providing technical information. As I looked into the
gloomy room, devoid of daylight or fresh air, I could
see that there were as many dealers still over at the
bar as there were interested in me. They were the
usual bunch of fat overdressed slobs hoping for a
bargain. The block was nothing more than a brightly
lit wooden platform.

Before the bidding began my details were read out on a
PA system and I was told to jump, stand on one leg and
then the other, raise my arms, put my legs apart and
show my anus. I had to twist my head back and forth,
hold up my cock to provide a view of my scrotum, and
drop and give fifty push-ups. By the time the bidding
started I was sweating freely. I was afraid this might
deter the more upmarket bidders, but such was the
speed of the bids I had no idea what was going on. I
heard the gavel and a guard told me to get my butt off
the block. I stumbled down into the gloom and was led
back to the holding cells.

The atmosphere was tense. Those who had been auctioned
ahead of me were weeping and complaining, much to the
irritation of the guards who threatened to use their
whips. As each slave came in from the auction room, he
would give way to his emotions. It was, I suppose, an
understandable reaction. They were freshly enslaved,
and the speed of the sale, the lack of decorum, and
their ignorance of what lay in store, made them
hysterical. Although the guards cracked their whips as
they cursed us, they did not use them. I took this to
mean our buyers didn't want to receive their goods
covered in fresh marks.

I had to endure an hour's worth of bedlam before a
very smart young man in a blazer and chinos came to
claim me. A fit-looking slave with neatly cropped
black hair was at his side, equally well turned out in
crisp blue shorts and a white collarless shirt. He had
a mobile on his belt and a briefcase in his hand. The
words 'Forum Slave Training: Obedience Above All' were
printed on his shirt pocket. The guard who opened my
cell and removed my cuffs whispered that I was a lucky
boy. Perhaps because I had not broken down after my
auction, this guard handed me over with a friendly
smack on my butt and told the man in the blazer that I
was 'as good as gold' and would give no trouble.

'We never take trouble from slaves,' replied the young
man dryly.

My eyes met those of the slave; just for a second, but
long enough to glean all the information I needed. The
slave's even stare told me that he was a proper slave
with proper duties, and that everything was under
control. From that it followed that any attempt,
deliberate or not, to disrupt that good order would be
punished. The glance offered hope of a well-structured
life even as it cut off any lingering dreams of
liberty. Above all it told me to stay cool and take
what comes with the stoicism of a proper slave.

For the first time since my father had enslaved me I
felt I had an identity. I was a real slave at last,
and it hadn't been any master's whip, or judge's
gavel, not even the grip of my collar, or the lottery
of the auction block, that had confirmed my status,
but another slave's even, knowing stare that had
welcomed me to the fold.

I had always imagined a slave training centre would
have all the squalor and terror of a prison compound,
with the charm of an army boot camp, with whips to add
flavour.

How wrong one can be? The Forum Slave Training Centre
was housed in a converted Victorian manor house deep
in the countryside. It had once been a hotel and
retained much of the aura of an earlier era of leisure
and pleasure. Although surrounded by an electric
fence, security was light. My arrival was low-key and
informal. No orders to strip, no confusion, no barked
commands, no slaps or drawn whips, no sights seen from
the corner of the eye to make one shudder.

My cuffs and shackles had been removed in the transit
van, and I'd been given a smock and warm water. When I
arrived there was no formal induction; instead a
'trusty' slave took me to the kitchen where I was
given some mush and a special vitamin fuelled drink.
Afterwards the slave led me to the shit-house and
shower room where he left me with directions to the
clothing stores and laundry room where I'd be fitted
with a uniform. By the time I reported to the office I
was feeling fresher and more relaxed than I had for
days. My bright yellow uniform - sandals, shorts,
shirt, over-shirt, and forage cap - fitted snugly and
the hot shower and food had worked their magic on my
mood.

The office was a rather shabby room off the entrance
hall. The walls were covered in flow charts and
notices, and faded Turkish rugs were scattered on the
floor amid piles of files and the clutter of a busy,
but not overly efficient, office. A middle-aged black
female slave took my details, told me I could keep the
name Harry until resold, gave me a bunk number and
directions to my dormitory. She told me in a motherly
way to stop sniffing and make sure I always stood with
my feet apart and my hands behind my back. Trusty
slaves were addressed as 'chief', instructors as
'boss' and all other free staff as 'miss' or 'sir.'
The words 'master' and 'mistress' were forbidden. My
training would last five weeks and would begin in two
days time. Until then I should get to know my way
around, introduce myself to other slaves, rest and
relax. The day began at 4am, and ended at 8pm. Sexual
activity of any sort was forbidden. Total obedience
was required. Discipline was strict, but designed to
help the slave under training to achieve the very
best. There was nothing to fear for those with the
right attitude.

I spent the afternoon with the only other new arrival,
a boy from Manila with a sweet-nature who had been
sent for training by a local hospital where he served
in Accident and Emergency. He was eager to be fucked,
but I told him sex was forbidden and we shouldn't get
off on the wrong foot. He gave me a nasty look and
said he could see that I was 'a career slave.' But his
hostility did not last for long and we spent the few
hours of recreation telling our sad stories and
laughing at the madness of it all. At five o'clock we
filed into the dining room for dinner. We lined up
with trays and were each given an enormous dollop of
mush plus a special drink that tasted of iron rust.

The dining room had once been a ballroom, and it still
had a chandelier, classical mouldings on the ceilings
and some faded portraits on the walls. There must have
been about fifty slaves, sitting on low benches at
five long tables, while about a dozen instructors sat
at a high table and were served free men's food by
duty slaves. In their casual slacks and denims, and
with their rolled up shirtsleeves, and eating with
their elbows on the table, they could have been a
group of graduates anywhere except for the whips slung
over the back of their chairs. After the high security
in force at the courts and the Almond Centre, or even
on the streets patrolled by the SP, the atmosphere was
eerily relaxed. I found myself among a group of young
men who had been enslaved for a large-scale financial
scam while working abroad. Intelligent, lively and
educated, they were being trained with an eye to being
sold back to their old employers. Although tired after
a hard day's training, they were in good spirits and
looking forward to their auctions in a couple of
weeks.

Their training that day had consisted of a run
followed by sparring in the boxing ring in preparation
for a tournament to be staged at the weekend. That had
been followed by several hours of obedience training.
They had enjoyed the former, but not the latter. When
I asked how obedience could be taught, I was told
firmly that I would find out.

A slim young man with curly brown hair and a
gap-toothed grin sat on my right. He was friendly and
told me to keep cheerful. 'There's not much to worry
about.' He made a face as he used his fingers to stuff
some mush into the corners of his mouth. 'The
instructors are mostly pretty decent guys...all
graduates in slave management, so their heads are full
of shit theories, but they don't make life too
unbearable.' He wiped his hands on his yellow shorts.
'It's this mush that's going to kill me.'

A friend of his sitting opposite - big boned, shaved
head, rugby player's shoulders - finished licking his
plate with his tongue and farted loudly. 'I'll have to
shit within five minutes, so listen... it's OK here,
but take it like a man, right. No sissy stuff. The
instructors are decent lads but they enjoy a bit of
hazing now and then.' He let out another fart,
provoking protests. He held up his hands. 'OK guys,
I'm out of here.'

I asked the man next to me if there was ever any
trouble. For a moment all conversation stopped,
several pairs of eyes were on me and glances were
exchanged. Somebody said quietly, 'We keep things
cool.'

'Sure,' I said quickly, 'that's great.'

As if cued by my enquiry there was a sudden drop in
the noise level. A man had entered and made his way to
the instructors' table. I looked at him as he took his
place, and can remember thinking he must be somebody
important. The slave next to me whispered, 'That's
Baxter...the big man round here.'

I had finished my mush. Slaves were getting up and
heading for the shit-house, and my own bowels were
stirring, but I remained seated for a few moments with
my eyes on the man called Baxter. I knew slaves were
meant to keep their eyes to themselves, and any
instructor might see me staring, but I couldn't help
myself. Baxter was a big man, who I guessed to be in
his late twenties. What set him apart from the
instructors was not so much age as maturity. His
moustache and black hair were both neatly trimmed. His
face was craggy and he wore a white business shirt and
a subdued tie held in place with an old-fashioned
silver pin. As he'd sat down I'd noticed his narrow
waist and the neatly scaled hips that showed off a
butt that would catch the eye of any slave dealer.
Overall his appearance was that of a fit and energetic
man in command of himself and his job.

'Don't stare, man,' said the slave next to me as he
rose. 'You want the whip?'

'Who is he?' I got up, forcing myself to take my eyes
off the man.

'Baxter. He runs this place. Quite a guy, but keep
your eyes off him.'

The pressure in my bowel was becoming intolerable. I
had to hurry to the shit-house.

The training was tough but tolerable. We rose at four,
stumbling and cursing in the dark as the bell rang
until someone turned on the lights. We had an hour's
worth of exercises before breakfast and then two spent
cleaning and polishing the place for inspection by our
sleepy yawning instructors. Then it was obedience
training until lunch as the instructors beat into us
the right way to perform every last duty that might be
demanded of a slave. It wasn't just that we learned
what to do, and the way to do it; we had to be made to
obey without hesitation or anticipation, to receive
punishment, to offer our bodies for whatever use or
purpose might be required.

To help us the instructors had a variety of
instruments - boots, paddles, canes and whips, butt
plugs and expanders, tit clamps, prods - but mostly
they just shouted and called us everything under the
sun, instilling in us the desire to get things right
as well as the fear of punishment.

We ate huge plates of mush and drank gallons of
specially concocted drinks. We were weighed and
measured, had our blood analysed, our reactions timed,
and our semen tested for fertility. We lifted weights
and ran for miles in the rain only to be intercepted
by instructors who would roll us in the mud and send
us back the way we had come.

They said it would make us tough and resilient. We
were made to play games that could only be won by
betraying one another. Any sign of honour among slaves
was stamped on with a brutality otherwise absent from
the regime. A slave who covered for another who was
late returning from the shit-house found himself
flogged. A friend of his who showed shock was knocked
to the ground and kicked unconscious. The rest of us
watched and learned the lesson. In the evening we were
made to box each other, denounce each other, gang up
on each other and punish one another.

Loyalty to the instructors was rewarded, while any
hint of it among ourselves got us extra duty cleaning
the shit-house. We reserved our smiles for the
instructors and blamed each other for our failings.

In the third week we were taught how to fuck our
owners, and how to be fucked. We learned to eat pussy
and tease a clitoris, how to lick the stem of a cock
or take one halfway down our throats. We had cock
rings fitted and learned to smile as the tears flowed
from our eyes as we took rectum-expanders up our
anuses. One night our dormitory was invaded by local
men who raped us under the approving eyes of our
instructors, and on another slave girls were brought
in and we were made to fuck them under orders from
whip-wielding matrons from the female slave
department.

Slowly, but inevitably, we began to lose any sense of
ourselves as individuals. We were taught how to
please, and were eager to show off our skills. If that
meant betraying a slave who had once helped save us
from a kicking, so be it. We were slaves and expected
to act like them. We were too tired to think much
about what was happening, and instead came to rely on
our instructors to keep us informed on our progress.
It was from them that we learned whether we had
mastered the right smile, bowed deeply enough or
dropped to our knees fast enough. They decided when we
were sufficiently servile to be allowed to masturbate,
and whose rectum was too loose or too tight.

It would be nice to think we resisted our
indoctrination, but we didn't. We were pleased to
avoid the whip, and instead have our butts patted in
praise at some task mastered. Above all it was good to
feel the strength in our arms and legs, the constant
grinding power of sex in our balls. We became as vain
as courtesans, staring at ourselves in every mirror,
delighting in our shining skin, clear eyes,
lengthening jaw bones, flat stomachs, steep erections,
firm butts and pecs. Each morning we had to shave off
the fresh pubic hair that had sprouted in the night.
And then one afternoon, as we were being taught how to
administer mouth to mouth resuscitation, a duty slave
came for me. Mr Baxter wanted me.

It is in the nature of slaves to be optimistic. I
thought Baxter might want to congratulate me, or show
me off to admiring visitors. It crossed my mind I
might be in for a flogging, but dismissed the idea.
What had I done to deserve the whip?

Baxter's office was reached up a wooden staircase in
the converted stable block. It was a spacious,
open-plan room, with skylights, sloping roofs and bare
floors. When I entered I saw Baxter sitting at his
desk giving instructions to a young female slave. When
you've been pumped full of testosterone for five weeks
you can't help noticing the shape of a slave-girl's
rump, or the way her tits poke up under a low cut top.
She had a pretty face, but her head was shaved and her
left shoulder blade was branded with the logo of a
large oil company, and when she turned I noticed at
the base of her neck a sign of a baby with a red line
through it - indicating infertility. As she left she
passed right by me and we exchanged a brief smile.

'Come here.'

Baxter beckoned me with a finger without looking up
from some papers he was reading. He pushed his chair
back from the desk. He was wearing blue jeans and a
check shirt with brown boots. His desk was clear
except for a silver-framed photo of a woman holding a
baby, a laptop and phone. To one side there was a
coffee table and some easy chairs. A short leather
whip lay on the table's glass top.

'Harry isn't it?'

I bowed deeply and then took the position of a slave
ready to serve. 'Not a slave name. Strip.'

He finished reading the papers while I got out of my
clothes in a matter of seconds. He looked me over.

'You look like a slave.'

Taking this a compliment, I did not move a muscle.
Baxter stood up and opened a drawer in his desk. He
took out a plastic glove and slid it on his right
hand. Just the sight of this simple action stirred my
cock. It rose quickly. The instructors had done their
work well. All those sessions probing and testing our
anuses had trained my reflexes. Sexually I was an open
book, with no hiding place left for my secrets. I was
told to bend and spread my cheeks. The finger went
straight up my rectum, making the muscle contract a
little, but not too much. The finger was withdrawn and
I was told to stand and face Baxter. He tore off the
glove and tossed it in a bin and then took hold of my
stiff cock. He peeled the foreskin right back and ran
a finger over the slick surface. He held the finger to
his nose and sniffed as if judging a wine from its
cork.

'Not bad... not bad at all.'

He sat down in one of the easy chairs and told me to
come close. He leaned forwards, as if eager to see
something, and took my balls in his hand. He fondled
them with gentleness, and then twisted them. Moisture
was starting to dribble from my cock's tip.

'I think we've done a reasonable job.'

He sat back and motioned me to move away. Although I
felt only slightly turned on, my cock was stiff and
straining as if it knew something I didn't. The floor
creaked somewhere behind me.

Baxter smiled. 'He's all yours.'

A hand on my shoulder made me jump. I may have let out
a small yelp.

'I've no quibbles with the rear.'

The voice was male and cultivated with a hint of
merriment. Fingers pinched my right buttock.

'The texture...firm...and warm...I hate cold bottoms.'


Not daring to move my eyes, let along my head, I had
to wait until the man came into view. He wore a dark
suit and tie, but was young and a few inches shorter
than me. With a flick of the eye I took in wavy black
hair, deep blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a narrow mouth and
a prominent nose. I lowered my eyes.

'Quite a classy piece of goods.'

He put his hands on his hips. When inspected by a
dealer there are certain things a slave knows to
expect. The mouth will be checked for tooth decay or a
messy tongue. Nipples will be played with until erect.
The cock will be stimulated and the balls squeezed.
Nine times out of time the anal muscles will be
checked. This young man did none of that. Instead he
placed the palm of his right hand lightly against my
left hip. It felt warm, and stirred my cock. He used
the fingers of his left hand to delve into my navel.
And that made me stiff. He seemed pleased.

'Absolute peak condition.'

He moved his right hand slowly down and tested the
skin above the base of my cock-stem, checking for any
pubic stubble.

'Shaven or creamed?' To inform me he wanted me to
answer, he added a brief 'Hmm?'

'Razor shaved sir. This morning.'

He nodded, plunged his hands into his pants' pockets
and said I had a nice voice. 'I always think we
traders underestimate the voice.'

He took his right hand from his pocket and punched me
in the solar plexus. I bent double and let out a low
yawning groan. I hadn't seen it coming, and cursed
myself. Both men were laughing. Glancing up I saw the
traders slip a steel knuckle-duster off his right
hand.

'You know, Baxter, that never works with slaves
trained at Windsor Castle. Their reactions are
unbelievably fast.'

He slapped me casually across my left cheek and then
held on to my chin. 'You'd not hack it as your
master's bodyguard. So what are you good for, eh?'

He frowned up at me as if genuinely puzzled.

Baxter stood up. 'We train 'em here for domestic use.
We don't claim to teach them to stop bullets with
their teeth.' He sounded a little put out.

The trader stood back with an appraising air. 'So how
much are you asking?'

'Forty two and a half. That's double what we paid.'

The trader nodded. 'Is he free of all restrictions?'

'There was a lien on him, but it was lifted. He's
freehold and registered for life as a common slave.'
Baxter picked up a file and tapped its cover. 'Health
record, sperm count...obedience and endurance...all
well above average.'

'And if I don't want him?'

'We'll send him for auction at Almond Grove.'

The trader sneered. 'He deserves better than that.' He
cocked his head. 'I like him. He's got that nice
English look. Always sells well.'

He put his right hand on the front of my slave collar
and pressed it hard against my Adam's Apple. 'On the
other hand, there is something quite ordinary about
him. Very much the boy next door. He's not got what it
takes for the top of the market.'

Baxter shrugged and came close, standing beside the
trader who was still blocking my air passage. 'That's
why we're only asking forty two and a half.' He
scratched the back of his neck. 'Mind you, I reckon
we'd get fifty five at auction.'

The trader let go of my throat and I exhaled deeply
through my nose and then opened my mouth to gulp air.

'Good boy,' said the trader with a smile. 'He knows
how to breathe.'

He walked round behind me. 'How did he come by these
whip marks?'

'Ordered by his brother on the day of his enslavement.
I guess there must have been a melee.'

A warm hand was placed on my right butt-cheek. 'Is
that right? Did you resist?'

'No sir. My brother said I showed disrespect.' My
voice was cracking with shame. I hated to be reminded
of that day.

The traders gave me a light smack. 'Well, that's
understandable. If my brother enslaved me I might get
disrespectful.' He chuckled and then cleared his
throat. 'OK then, decision time.'

He walked round to face me and grimaced. 'What do you
say to forty?' There was a moment's silence while
Baxter also stared at me intently. Then, slowly, with
mock hesitation, he extended his hand. 'Done.'

They shook. The trader reached up and placed his right
hand on my shoulder. 'You're mine, you lucky thing.'

Both men turned away and went back to the desk. As
Baxter slumped down in his chair he took his fountain
pen from his shirt pocket and asked, 'Want him
gift-wrapped? Whipped? Castrated?'

'All of those,' said the trader as he took a chair.

He looked round at me, smiled and gave me a wink. To
show I understood the joke, I grinned and bowed
deeply. My instructors had taught me it is impossible
to over-flatter one's owner.

HUMAN COLLATERAL Part Nine

I had been sold cheap. A month after Baxter agreed to
let me go for forty thousand I was resold at just
under a hundred thousand and became the property of
Tenderfoot Logistics, an outfit specialising in the
warehousing and leasing of slave teams. Not that I was
anything as lowly as a slave for hire; Mr Underhill,
the company boss, was eager to ensure I earned his
money back within five years. That was the company's
time limit on the ownership of any slave.

I was put to work sorting incoming stock, and choosing
replacement slaves for teams who had suffered losses.
It was hard work on the sharp end of the slave
business at its most raw, and I took to it like a duck
to water. Working alongside the guards and
slave-drivers, conducting tests to select slaves for
special duties, or to fill vacancies in the many chain
gangs we operated for clients, was a responsible job,
requiring the ability to judge human stock at a
glance. It was a tough environment, and the company's
slaves got no special treatment just because they held
positions of responsibility. The boot up the butt, the
lash and the rack were in everyday use, and any slave
found slacking on duty would soon be made to regret
the day he'd been born. But my training proved the
making of me.

My reflexes were fast, my obedience not in doubt, my
focus unwavering, and my loyalty absolute. My diet and
exercise regime had added two inches to my height,
given me wide shoulders, a firm jaw, thick neck, ample
pecs, a hard lean stomach, a long cock and a tight
scrotum. My butt was all muscle but sufficiently well
curved to be thought worth tarring with a red cross
indicating it was not for use by the guards. Only
company directors had access to my rectum. With my
shaved head, slave name and registration number
stamped in thick blue lettering on my forehead and
left shoulder blade, and with heavy rings though my
nose and left nipple, I was not likely to be mistaken
for anything but a slave. Nor did I wish to be. I
liked the leather ring that held my cock and balls in
prominent display, and was proud of the deep scar on
my right hip, a consequence of an encounter with a
maddened slave. A metal wristband and anklet ensured I
could be shackled at a moment's notice.

My uniform was no less generic. In summer I wore
shabby old white shorts left open at the fly and no
less frayed singlets and shirts, a forage cap pushed
back off my forehead, and simple sandals. In cold
weather I had various garments discarded by free men.
Over everything, in all weathers, I wore a plastic
yellow jerkin giving the company name, the number to
call with complaints, and my slave name (Rudman52 - I
was known as Rude) and registration number.

I slept on a hard bed with no pillow and coarse
blankets in a tiny cell on the top floor of the slave
block. I was fed mush and vitamins twice a day. Each
morning I showered and shaved before dawn, and once a
week was issued special pills to keep my eyes clear
and my skin lustrous, and my breath sweet in case I
was required for fucking. I worked six days a week
from six in the morning until seven at night, with a
half day on Sunday and one day off a month when I
could receive visits.

Being a fully registered slave meant any free citizen
could look me up on the central computer and see who
owned me and check my free days. Visiting enslaved old
friends and relatives had become a favourite pastime
among the free. My father came to see me, as did old
Buster and his wife, and a group of schoolgirls who
had developed a crush on me while I was supervising a
slave team working in their school. My father praised
me for my stoicism, and said how pleased he was to see
me looking so well, but we soon ran out of things to
say and he left early. Buster was shocked into silence
by my savage appearance, but his wife wasn't the least
bit embarrassed and asked all sorts of questions about
my life as a slave.

I had become, I suppose, free society's idea of the
perfect slave: strong, contented, hard working, loyal,
and (above all) safe. My slave collar was tight,
despite being extended twice, and its plastic coating
was fashionably ripped and faded. My ID tags were
smooth from use in swipe machines, and my left ear
stuck out at a peculiar angle because of the mobile
receiver attached to it all day every day. Not
permitted to wear a belt (company rules) I had to hang
all the paraphernalia required for my work round my
neck, or stick it in my pockets. As the months passed
this gave me an increasingly bedraggled air that stood
in contrast to my obvious strength, health and well
being. Free people seemed to find this combination
irresistible. A week seldom passed without some
elderly lady telling me what a fine figure of a slave
I was, and how refreshing it was to see a hardworking
contented slave serving his owner well.

Although I was careful never to show disrespect to the
guards, there was no doubt who was in charge. I
deferred to them, while making sure they did my
bidding. Being a slave I carried no whip, and could
not strike a slave, or even kick one, but I made sure
there was always a guard at my side, and a glance or a
nod from me was enough to have him draw his whip or
slip on his knuckle-duster. My job demanded my full
attention, from seven in the morning when the
overnight stock deliveries would be unloaded and
paraded, through to the final selections made from
slaves who had been washed, fed, rested and shaved. I
attended all arrival parades, standing behind the duty
officer and the guards on the inspection platform.

I may have looked like a meek duty-slave, but I was
the sole judge of who should be saved for special
requirements, who would fill gaps in the chain gangs,
and who could be sent straight on for auction.
Officially I was always a mere adviser, but each day
it was left to me to fill a hundred places from a
total of perhaps three hundred slaves. It required a
sharp eye and the confidence to make snap decisions.

As the seasons passed, and I became more and more the
lean, battered slave, my power and importance
increased. Some of the free employees began to show me
deference, and more than once I was called to board
meetings to offer advice. The instructors who had
trained me had warned of the dangers that face
influential slaves, and I was determined remain true
to my status. There were always rumours of the sudden
downfall of over-mighty slaves, and I enjoyed my life
too much to risk offending even the lowest free man. I
bowed to everyone whose neck was unencumbered by a
collar.

It did not trouble me that the regime I supported was
brutal. It's all very well for sentimental free men to
imagine slaves as being gentle, downtrodden creatures,
the victims of circumstance and corruption. Those who
oversee them know better. The average slave was an
idle, larcenous, mendacious, ignorant villain. Given
half a chance he'd turn into a merciless sexual
predator. The whip, buggery, Spartan conditions, and
firm no-nonsense supervision were essential.

The expansion of the slave population had led to an
increase in the number of delinquent acts committed by
slaves, and even the exemplary punishments meted out
were not sufficient to quell rumours and plots. Each
year Underhill would complain about rising insurance
costs, and the constant interference by the SP who
would drop by without warning to check out the
security and discipline regime.

Like most men who have managed to make something of
themselves despite the odds, I became a firm supporter
of the status quo. The whip-masters cursed me for
keeping them with sweat on their brows, and the guards
knew there was no point cutting corners while I was
around. They didn't even bother to beat me, but let me
be, treating me like a piece of inconvenient office
machinery that they both relied on and resented. But
whatever we become remains a mystery to us until
something happens that makes us face up to ourselves.
In my case it took nearly four years.

The years of Spartan living, spent eating nothing but
mush and vitamins, of exercising two and a half hours
a day, torturing the body until it could do no more,
had made me a formidable slave. Underhill would tell
me of the offers he'd received, expressing amazement
that many came from respectable families who seemed to
yearn for a rugged slave to add flavour to their
genteel households. My neck had thickened still
further, and furrow had appeared on my forehead, and
my chest had deepened and my legs developed into
sturdy trunks. A new slave collar had been fitted - a
simple inch thick band of steel - and as my butt
broadened I was made to wear a more conventional
uniform of company shorts and shirt and cap along with
sandals. I was even allowed a shoulder strap and belt,
but I refused to carry a whip, even in self-defence.
Nor did I plead to have my nose and nipple rings
removed. My name and number remained imprinted on my
forehead and shoulder.

When I refused offers to sit in meetings with the
directors, they laughed at my conservatism and called
me an old fuddy-duddy, but I was always aware of the
dangers lurking in the offices of the powerful. Slaves
often fall foul of free people's ambitions and
conspiracies.

One hot summer's afternoon the PA system announced the
arrival of two trucks of slaves. I was working in my
office, the after lunch silence broken by the sound of
a slave being whipped in the female quarters. There
had been discipline problems among some young female
slaves and the whip-masters were working overtime. I
put my mobile on my ear and set off for the parade
ground. As I went down past the guardroom a couple of
recent recruits fell in behind me. Without thinking I
stood aside to let them go first. One remarked on how
obedient I was. The other said nothing but quickened
his pace as we reached the ground floor.

The yard where inbound stock was paraded was a small
compound, maybe twenty metres square, surrounded by a
high wire-mesh fence, with a whipping frame and
special observation platform. Apart from the two
guards and myself, there were several trusty slaves on
duty ready to unshackle any slave who required
punishment. The slaves were led in. They had been
travelling overnight and they moved with the stooped,
defeated air of slaves who have had the fight beaten
out of them. They were shackled to each other at the
ankles and linked by chains attached to their collars.
>From where I stood at the back of the observation
platform I could see at once that the slaves were
ex-prison stock. The give-aways were their sallow
faces, crude haircuts, and shapeless jeans. They had
none of the dignity of free men and none of the
fitness of slaves. I ran my eye over them - there were
about sixty in all - to see if there was anything I
could use. I'd be taking a closer look later, but from
initial appearances there was not one worth keeping.
The whole lot looked destined to be auctioned off in a
job lot.

The young guards, however, were in no hurry to dismiss
the exhausted wretches. Cute in their tight-fitting
crisply ironed olive green uniform pants and shirts,
with their wide-brimmed hats, shoulder straps,
polished boots, gloves stowed under epaulets, and with
whip handles poking out of their hip pockets, they
decided an inspection was necessary. That would mean a
delay while they made sport of the slaves. As soon as
the guards stepped down from the platform, I did the
same, but rather than follow them forwards to the rows
of slaves, I stood to one side and whispered into my
mobile that we might be requiring back-up.

The two young guards were well known to me, despite
our never having exchanged more than a few words. For
all their sadism, I approved of them. They were smart,
clean-cut, self-assured, eager for promotion, and
above all, looked the part. They strode along with a
broad rolling gait, their hats at the approved jaunty
angle, and they showed off butts tight and muscular
and curved enough to be flattered by tight uniform
pants. They did not hesitate to be brutal, enjoyed
beating, and paid no heed to the time-keeping
practicalities of slave handling. If they delayed
everything by half an hour to kick some butts and
order up a few floggings, so be it, and in my slavish
way I rather admired them for it.

You know where you stand with brutes. It's Mr Nice Guy
one can't be sure of. And had they not decided to
indulge in a little hazing that hot afternoon, Bob
Riddle would have slipped through my fingers.  A free
man may have his life's story written on his features,
but slaves' faces tend to be all the same. So I seldom
checked eyes and mouths when sorting slaves. More
important are the genitals, the chest and neck, the
muscles in the thighs and calf, the instep, and the
state of the back.

The guards were soon causing mayhem among the
arrivals. They got one wretch out of his chains and
kicked him hard and often enough to have him lying
unconscious by the time they moved on. I took no
notice. The drill was to leave punished slaves where
they fell until the parade was dismissed and then send
for the orderlies to remove them. One was punished
while standing in his chains for no better reason than
he had snot dribbling from his nose. The fastidious
sadists gave him a good punching for his
unsightliness, aiming at his testicles with sufficient
force to ensure castration the following day. A third
must have displeased them because they both drew their
whips and dealt with him in an instant. Another was
ordered to be freed from his chains and flogged. The
whip-master was leaning against the fence reading the
sports page of a tabloid, and he stirred himself with
a sigh, pulled his whip from his belt and went over to
the whipping frame.

I glanced at my watch (worn by special permission). We
were already ten minutes behind schedule. How many
lashes would the guards insist the slave receive? The
wretch was given twenty-five. As I watched I felt a
slither of irritation at the time the whip-master was
taking. He was new enough to the job still to gather
the whip after each lash, rather than keep up a
perpetual motion. My highly developed sense of
self-preservation went on alert. It was not for slaves
to object when free men caused delays, or whip masters
dallied over their duty. I told myself to relax. What
did the distress of other slaves matter to me? I
served the company, and my master was Mr Underhill.

The tedium of slow whipping began to bore the guards
as well, and they lost patience and came over and told
me to dismiss the parade, clear up the punished slaves
lying in the dirt, and make sure the flogged slave
wasn't forgotten. I bowed and complimented them of
their discipline. They both gave me the same sneering
smile. They thought I was a crawling slave, currying
their favour, and they may have been tempted to kick
my butt, but they knew my value, and being ambitious
boys, merely walked away.

The whip-master finished his task and came over to me
while the trusty slaves went to work on the slave's
back and butt with brine and swabs. He was cleaning
his lash on a piece of blood stained cloth and looked
annoyed. He asked why the parade had been dismissed,
clearly suspecting me as a well-known fanatic for
strict time-keeping. I gave a respectful reply that no
more than implied it was the guards who had grown
bored, so the whip-master, being a junior in his own
ranks, decided not to press the matter. He walked off,
his boots stirring the dust as he passed a slave lying
on the ground. His leather trousers and whipper's
black jerkin reflected the low evening sun and made
him resemble some hero in a boy's comic. No wonder
whip-masters had replaced train drivers and astronauts
as the role models of the young.

The flogged slave had been lowered from the frame and
was being tested to see if he could walk. He wobbled
and his knees bent a couple of times, but he did not
fall. His back and butt was lined with streaks of
blood, but to my weathered eye the flogging had not
been severe. He would survive.

The slave turned towards me. I was about to give
instructions to the trusty slaves when our eyes met.
For a moment I felt nothing, but some part of me, some
deep alert corner of my memory, went on alert and it
wasn't until I had looked away and given the orders,
and then given the whipped slave another look, that I
realised who he was. Bob Riddle had been whipped.
Without thinking I let out a loud laugh. The trust
slaves looked at me in amazement - I was not known for
laughter - until I told them to scram.

'It is you.' My voice was hoarse, as if I had to rip
its sound from my throat.

The slave nodded. We stared at one another and then he
whispered, 'Save me.'

HUMAN COLLATERAL ^Ö Conclusion

Bob knew he had deserved the flogging. No slave can
hope to escape punishment if he ignores an overseer's
command. And Bob hadn't only ignored the young guard
who told him to open his mouth for inspection; he had
stared ahead, frowning and mouthing as if preoccupied
with more important matters.

The whipping had been an education, and its ferocity
had stunned Bob. As a free man he had always enjoyed
watching a good flogging, and had idly speculated how
it might feel to be on the receiving end. He had used
to talk admiringly about the 'kiss of the whip,' an
expression that had proved to be somewhat wide of the
mark when the first lash fell across his shoulders. It
was as if he were being pelted with bricks. In his
misery he tried to think of the slave he had seen
standing behind the guards.

This figure, so familiar and yet so different to his
memory, was now his only hope. Nothing else stood
between him the certainly of being worked to death. He
had recognised Harry at once. The changes wrought by
four years of servitude had only made him more
recognisable. When Harry had been his fuckable
house-slave fretting about his uncertain status, there
had always been something out of focus about him that
had made him hard to pin down. Bob remembered fucking
him - the tight anus, the warm butt, the lean silky
smooth back, the soft mouth, the sensitive balls and
the young uncut cock - but little else. But nothing
remained of that ambiguous and unformed youth.

The slave who had stood on the platform behind the two
strutting uniformed thugs was wary and wily, alert and
powerful, and clearly in control as he whispered into
the mobile attached to his ear. During his brief,
ill-fated career as a slave dealer, Bob had come
across such formidable slaves, and had learned not to
underestimate them. Many of the best-run businesses
depended upon them.

After the duty slaves had helped Bob to his feet, it
was all he could do to remain upright. It wasn't just
the pain and shock of the flogging that sapped his
strength and willpower. The sight of a familiar face
was like a miracle in the midst of despair. He would
have dropped to his knees had he the energy. As it
was, he could only confront his former bugger boy, and
beg for mercy.

Whatever mixture of emotions Harry experienced when he
recognised his old master, he showed little. The whip
and the boot, his training and experience, ensured
Harry quickly regained his composure. Rather than
answer Bob's plea, he told duty slaves to make sure
Bob was hosed down, watered and fed. He noted the
slave registration number and then walked away.

Danger lurks in those moments when a slave feels free
to act on his own behalf, and when chance may trick
him into revealing his true inner self. Rather than
make his own plans, Harry went straight to Mr
Underhill. His position of trust permitted him to do
this, but the currency of a slave's credit is easily
debased by trivial pleas, so when he entered his
boss's office he took care to cover himself by first
reporting on the discipline problems among the female
slaves.

Underhill was eager to get home. It was his daughter's
birthday and he was already late. Sensing danger Harry
cut short his report, and asked if he might interview
a slave in private. Among slave dealers Underhill was
known as a straightforward family man who had done
well with a business that he had bought from a large
corporation. A dark thickset golf enthusiast in his
early forties he enjoyed a rather different reputation
among his slaves. He had a connoisseur's eye for human
flesh, both male and female, and he took full
advantage of his position to enjoy what he called
'erotic atmospheres.' Fear ensured compliance with his
every sexual whim, and it had sometimes been Harry's
duty to supervise the cleaning up process after his
master had taken his explorations even further than
usual. He was also a strict disciplinarian with no
time for whinging slaves. So he sighed as he put on
his coat and nodded to his body slave to take his
briefcase.

'Leave it 'till tomorrow.'

Underhill came round from behind his desk, and placed
a hand on Harry's shoulder. This gesture both offered
Harry hope and served as a warning, for his master was
inclined to treat gently those he had selected to
serve as his amusement.

'He'll be shipped out first thing in the morning,
Master.'

Harry had never pushed his luck with Underhill before.
His stomach was tightening and his mouth was dry.
Underhill turned at the door. Harry knew his master's
changeable moods too well not to quake under his gaze.
Underhill shrugged.

'Interview him if you must.'

Harry stood rigid. He hardly dared breath, and he was
suddenly covered in sweat. A terrible rage burnt
inside him as he realised what a risk he had just
taken. And for what? To save the man who had demeaned
him, and plotted his sale as a common slave. Tears
sprang to his eyes as he turned to leave the room. The
female slaves working in the office outside wished him
a cheerful good evening, but Harry walked past without
a word. His cheeks were wet and his eyes red. The
slaves looked at each other and giggled. Had he been
reprimanded by the Master? Was his long reign as
favoured slave coming to an end? By nightfall the
slave blocks would be alive with rumours.

When Harry went to the guardroom to request access to
an interrogation cell and for a certain slave to be
delivered there, the overseers did not question his
authority. Four of them sat slumped in easy chairs in
the dreary room just inside the main gates. A
television was showing a porno movie, and a pretty
blond female slave was perched on the edge of a desk,
naked from the waist down with her legs spread wide.
Her pubic hair was dyed blue and there was a dildo
stuck in her vagina. A guard was gagging her mouth
with her pink regulation panties.

The most senior guard said, 'You'd better have one of
us present, just in case.'

'My instructions, sir, are to interrogate the slave in
private, sir.'

The guard widened his eyes. 'So slaves are
interrogating slaves now. What's the world coming to?'
He shifted his butt on his chair. 'But if the boss
says so...you'd better be issued with a whip and
cuffs.'

A junior guard went over to the racks of guns, prods,
whips, canes and restraints and took down a short
rhino whip. The senior guard said, 'If you need
assistance ring for us...only use the whip if you have
to. Don't try to torture him yourself. Send for a
pro.'

Harry thanked him, taking care to sound respectful,
but when the junior guard handed him the whip and
cuffs he was at a loss to know where to put them. He
fumbled with his pockets and for a moment he felt
close to panic.

The senior guard looked at Harry closely. 'You do have
permission, don't you?'

There was a clatter. The dildo had fallen from the
female slave's vagina. The guard standing over her
said, 'Clumsy girl,' and slapped her hard across the
face before stooping to pick it up. He rammed it back
up the vagina, screwing it deeper and then stood back,
sniffed his fingers and smiled down at her.

The brief interruption gave Harry time to gather his
wits. 'Yes sir, I've the Master's permission sir.'

He managed to sound confident, but his hands were
shaking. The guard glanced around at his colleagues,
who all turned to look at Harry. He nodded to his
colleagues to check their agreement.

'OK. Hand over the whip before you leave the
interrogation centre.'

Harry bowed. Sweat was drenching the back of his
shirt. 'Yes sir. Thank you, sir.'

Bob lay face down on a bed in the slave block's
recovery unit. His right wrist and left ankle were
cuffed to the bedstead. He was not alone. Two females
had been brought in after flogging and lay whimpering,
while a handsome young purpose-bred male with sores on
his face was recovering from a medical experiment. The
room opened on one side into a corridor where a
slave-nurse sat at a table dosing as she listened to
the slave-radio station.

Bob had not rested his head on a clean surface for
months, and the fresh linen and mattress, felt like
the luxury of a first class hotel. He had trouble
staying awake, but knew he must. Somehow he had to see
Harry. Somehow he had to persuade him to take pity,
and save him. But his body was too exhausted, and
before long he was asleep.

He woke to the sensation of cold steel wrapping his
wrist. An uniformed guard was bending over him
changing the cuffs. Despite being startled from sleep,
Bob's spirits rose. He had been a slave long enough to
know that nothing is certain until it happens, but
felt sure Harry had sent for him. That could only be
good. Even if his former slave wanted revenge and was
planning to put him on the rack and flog him, that was
better than being abandoned to a journey from which
there was no return. He jumped off the bed eagerly and
let himself be led, still naked, out into the
corridor. Something of his old military training gave
him the strength to ignore the ripples of pain running
down his spine, and he marched along with a semblance
of dignity.

The interrogation cells were under the main stores,
and were approached down a steep flight of metal steps
and through a barred door. There was just one
corridor, with fully equipped torture chambers on one
side and interrogation cells on the other. Nothing was
done to make this part of the compound pleasant or
hygienic. The walls were covered in peeling black
paint, decorated here and there with splashes of dried
blood. Most of the furniture was broken, the lights
dim, and the floors were littered with debris dropped
by the interrogators. The still damp air was scented
by vomit, urine and shit. It was a filthy place where
filthy things were done as casually as a man places
his hands in his pockets.

Bob's guard paused just inside the entrance to chat
with a young freelance torturer who was taking a
break. He had cropped dyed blond hair, and said with a
twinkle in his eye that he had been hired to deal with
the disturbance among the female slaves. His work was
proving fatiguing, and he was moping his neck with a
red bandanna. As was the tradition with men in the
torture trade, he upper arms and chest were covered in
lurid tattoos depicting his skills and duties, and he
wore only a faded and tattered pair of denims, thick
gloves, and had a mass of small instruments hanging
round his neck. In reply to the guard's joke about
females being harder nuts to crack than males, he
laughed as he put his bandanna half back into his hip
pocket.

'The girls do like to keep us waiting...but I'm
getting the hang of this one...together... we're
getting there.' He gave a mock salute and wandered off
back along the corridor.

In the gloom just one ray of light fell across the
floor from an open cell. The torturer went in and
slammed the door. The guard cupped a hand behind his
ear. 'Listen now... there's he goes.'  He laughed as a
muffled scream disturbed the silence.

The cell Bob was led into was completely bare. The
light shed by two small wattage bulbs let into the low
vaulted ceiling scarcely reached the corners. It was
cold and the air fetid. There was no sign of
ventilation. The end wall was splattered with half
dried yellow vomit, and two hooks in the ceiling were
smeared with blood. There was a coil of rope in a
corner and some discarded bandages with a pile of
fingernails neatly arranged on top. A more disgusting
place could not be imagined.

Bob was left alone, shivering uncontrollably, for half
an hour before the door opened and Harry strode in. He
tossed Bob a blanket and told him to sit on the floor.
Bob felt a surge of optimism as he wrapped the blanket
round his shoulders. He tried to find a place to sit,
but the floor was too soiled. He said he preferred to
stand. Harry no more than half turned before kicking
Bob on the shin. Bob doubled over, and as he did so
Harry used the side of his hand to punch him on the
back of his neck. He fell face down in a shallow pool
of blood.

'I'm going to sit,' said Harry cheerfully. 'Why not,
we're both slaves.'

With a weary sigh he sat down under one of the lights
and crossed his legs neatly in front of him. He
checked to make sure his whip was still safely in his
shorts' side pocket, and then watched as Bob slowly
raised himself from the pool of stale blood and
attempted to find a way to sit comfortably.

'Harry, help me...for godsake...only you can.' Bob's
voice was little more than a low whisper.

'I'm Rude... that's my slave name.' Harry sniffed. 'I
like it, but you can call me Harry... for old times
sake. What are you called now?'

'Was Spike, but that was my owner before last.'

'Poor old Captain Riddle. You're not making much of a
go of things are you? Can't even hack it as a slave.'
Harry sniffed again, frowned in irritation, placed a
finger over one nostril and shot some snot from the
other. It landed close beside Bob's left hand.

'Jesus man!' Bob looked up in disgust.

Harry smiled. 'Slave manners...you should be used to
them by now.'

'I've lost the ability to get used to things.' Bob
looked down at the floor. He lifted a hand as if to
wipe his eyes, but saw how filthy it was and let it
drop. 'I'm done for.'

Harry yawned and shifted his butt. 'Damn cold in here.
You enslaved for life?'

Bob nodded but didn't look up.

'How come?'

'Your brother. He was framed by some low-lifes. The SP
got wind of it and came to see me. The rest... as they
say... is history.'

Harry laughed. 'No more than you deserved.'

He looked past Bob for a few moments and then laughed
again. 'Where's my brother now?'

There was no answer, so Harry said, 'But you think I
should help you?'

'Remember how we used to be...together?'

Harry shivered. There was something about Bob's
grovelling manner that annoyed him.

'Slaves should be cheerful, we should make the best of
things.' He stood up and went close to Bob. 'Let me
see your back.'

He raised an eyebrow as the blanket slid down to
reveal the livid marks. 'Not bad. That whip-master
knows his business. I'll steer clear of him.'

Bob stared up at Harry. 'Don't pretend. You're the
master round here. You run the place.'

Harry lifted his foot as if to kick Bob in the chest
or face, but stopped himself. 'Never speak like that.
You fool...I'm a slave. What do you think this place
is but a stop on the road to hell...between the
auction rooms and slow death under the lash.'

Bob leaned forwards and kissed Harry's raised foot. It
was a slavish gesture as simple and spontaneous as it
was desperate, and as such it moved Harry.

'All right, I'll see what I can do.'

He went to the door and rang for the guard. 'No
promises. I'm just a slave...never forget that.'

When the door opened Harry bowed and thanked the guard
for his trouble. He handed over the whip and cuffs and
pointed to Bob. 'He's fit to sleep in the slave block
tonight.'

'That didn't take long.' The guard was clearly
curious.

'Turns out, sir, we didn't have much to say.' Harry
bowed again and wished the guard a good evening.

The guard said nothing but went into the cell. The
figure crouching on the floor took his time getting to
his feet, so it seemed no more than common duty to
help him along with a swift boot up the backside
followed by an encouraging punch in the balls. It did
the trick. Bob gave his guard no trouble at all.

The daughter's birthday party had gone well and
Underhill was feeling pleased with life. He had
received the draft accounts for the last quarter;
earnings were up and costs were well down. The early
summer sunshine filled his office and the young female
slave who had bought him his coffee had a delightful
bottom that he hadn't noticed before. He made a note
to spank her. If that proved enjoyable, he had other
plans...

When Harry came in Underhill wished him a good
morning, but the slave, while as polite as always,
seemed under the weather. Underhill was pretty sure he
knew why. A frank talk was long overdue.

Harry bowed and waited to be given permission to make
his report on the day's slave deals. When Underhill
nodded and told him to get on with it, Harry started
straight in about the slave he had interviewed the
previous evening.

Underhill had bigger things on his mind than some
confusion about a worthless slave. 'Must I hear all
this? Does it matter what happens to this slave?
There's something I must talk to you about. Sit down.'


Harry seemed befuddled. 'But sir...Master...this slave
can't...'

'I said...SIT.'

The leather upholstery felt strange. Harry was not
sure he liked it. Everything seemed so out of joint.
If only he'd never set eyes on Bob...

'Are you sick?' Underhill leaned forwards and clasped
his hands on the table in front of him.

'No sir... you see sir... it's just that this slave...
he's...'

'Do with him as you will. What's wrong with you?'

Harry was bemused, but managed to nod. Why was his
lower lip trembling and his vision fuzzy? Was he
losing his mind?

Underhill opened a file. 'As you're aware, it's
company policy to sell all slaves after five years.
You've been with us for four years and nine months.'
He sat back in his chair and looked at Harry. 'I've
been wondering what to do with you.'

A wave of cold terror passed through Harry. Sweat
broke on his forehead and his bowels turned to water.

'I had you valued last week...you probably didn't
notice...a dreary young man... Anyhow it seems you're
not worth as much as we hoped.'

Harry could hardly listen. A vision of the chain gangs
loomed in his mind's eye. He had sent so many doomed
slaves to them; perhaps it was only justice that he
should join them.

'Frankly we were hoping to get a small fortune for
you, but it seems you're too much the whip-hardened
working slave, and not enough the pretty young thing.
So we've been in touch with the tax people and they've
agreed that we can lend you your worth to buy your
freedom. There is also a payment in lieu of tax. We'd
keep you as an indentured worker for as long it takes
to pay off your debt to us. To be candid that's not
likely to be anytime soon. But you'll be free. We'll
pay you a fair wage. And of course no collar.'

He turned a page in the file and read for a few
moments. 'It's our understanding that there's no one
who has first refusal on any sale, so there's no
impediment to your being freed. Usually a slave's
family is entitled to match any offer, but in your
case that doesn't apply. It seems that your father
enslaved you...with your consent. Can you confirm
that?'

'Yes Master.'

'Well, it certainly makes everything a lot easier...
and cheaper.'

He smiled and sat back in his chair. 'So how does that
strike you?'

He frowned as he saw Harry put his hands over his
face. His shoulders were shaking. Underhill looked at
his watch. 'You're a loyal slave, and deserve your
freedom... but don't push your luck. Get out before I
change my mind.'

Harry rose. He wiped the tears off his cheeks. 'But
Master, about that slave...what should I do?'
Underhill slapped the palm on his right hand on his
desk. 'I'll not say this again without ordering you
flogged. Do as you think fit.'

****************************************************************************
******

 I had Bob pulled from the lines of slaves waiting to
be loaded onto the trucks that would take the surplus
stock to the company's discount warehouse. From there
they would be sold in lots to be worked or used for
experiments. Life expectancy was short. The chances of
escape zero. For the slaves it was the end of the
line. For us it was routine stuff.

I watched from my usual position, standing on the
platform at a discreet distance behind the two guards
in charge of the operation. Bob had no time to look up
at me, or to call out. He was dragged unceremoniously
to one side and chained to the fence as the whips
cracked and the other slaves filed out of the compound
and climbed onto the waiting trucks. Other than the
snap of leather, there was no sound.

One of the guards standing in front of me - a rugged
youth with no front teeth and a Welsh accent - turned
and asked what was to be done with Bob.

News of my impending liberation had spread fast and
the guard called me 'mate.' I told him to put Bob in
with the slaves in the metal crushing gang. I took
care to add a 'sir' to my instruction. I was taking no
chances. Slaves can still be flogged on the eve of
their liberation.

'The Metal-crushers? You sure mate?'

'Quite sure sir.'

'He won't survive for long in with them...you know
what they're like.'

'We all have to take our chances in this world sir.'

The guard looked at me with a puzzled expression. Then
he smiled and tapped a finger against the side of his
nose. 'I get it mate. Clever. No wonder they're
setting you free.'

END