Date: Tue, 16 Mar 2004 13:44:37 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Scampi

SCAMPI, By Richard Davies

(Note from the poster, Pete Brown petebrownuk @
yahoo.com
Over a relatively short period Richard Davies
contributed many stories to Yahoo groups, and then
suddenly stopped.  Some of the work is incomplete, but
all the stories are set in a mythical near-future
where slavery is the norm.  They have a fascination
for many people, and are well written.  His work is
being consolidated onto a single Yahoo group, and some
of it is being cross-posted to reach a wider
audience).

SCAMPI Part One

The police picked me out of the gutter and drove me
home. They got my mother out of bed and handed me over
like I was some piece of garbage. It wouldn't have
surprised me if they'd given her a ticket for
littering.

After they had gone my mother went straight back to
bed. She had  shrugged off my attempt at an apology
and told me to sleep it off.

'When I think of what Scampi's made of his life, and
then look at you....'

The remark stung and I lay awake for the rest of the
night thinking about Scampi, and his great success,
and wondering whether I would ever amount to anything.
I fell asleep around dawn and woke mid-morning feeling
better than I deserved. After a shower and breakfast I
put on some decent clothes and took a car. Mother and
the slaves had gone to the races, so I left a message:
'Gone to see Scampi.'

My mother liked to tell people that Scampi had cried
non-stop for a  week when he first arrived. She had
found him in rags chained to the wheel of a caravan at
a country fair. It was raining and his teeth were
chattering. There was a sign hung round his neck that
said simply, 'for sale, $500 ono." My mother had
knocked on the caravan door, and offered three fifty
to the woman who poked her nose out. The woman nodded
and went to unchain the boy while my mother scribbled
a cheque. When the boy didn't stand up straight the
woman thrashed him across the backs of his legs with
the chain. My mother asked his name and age, but the
woman just shrugged.

'We call him Shrimp. Don't know how old, but his balls
are dropping.' She gave the boy a parting cuff on the
ear. 'Whip 'im well and he'll work well.'

Too wet and dirty to sit inside my mother's car, the
boy was put in the trunk for the drive home. My mother
could hear him moving about and crying, and she was
tempted to stop off in town and deliver him to the
police as lost property, but thought better of it.
After all, such a skinny boy wouldn't cost much to
keep, and there were always plenty of small jobs that
needed doing round the house.

If he did weep for a week, he must have rid himself of
all his tears, because I have no memory of Scampi
unhappy. He seemed to love his life as a family slave.
Even when he had been punished he would restrict
himself to a few sniffs and misty eyes, as if the
occasion demanded nothing less, and then would return
to being his usual cheerful self.
Although always ready to serve, he was always up for a
game with us kids, or any piece of light mischief.

To me he was like a perfect older brother. He taught
me to swim, and to climb trees, make knots, track
animals and catch fish. He never minded clearing up
after me, and would put his butt in line for a
spanking to save mine. He never argued or asked
favours, never made me feel a fool, and when we fought
he did so gently, and soon turned the contest into a
game. In front of my parents he always called me Young
Master or Master Lloyd, while in private I was Massel,
an affectionate shortening of Master L.

My father had renamed him Scampi when he noticed how
the young slave was putting on weight and height. 'No
longer a mere shrimp, more like a piece of scampi!' It
was a joke, and as such it stuck. And it was true that
Scampi was no longer anything like the snotty-nosed
waif my mother had brought home. He was not tall, but
he worked on his body to make himself as fit and
strong as any other slave in the neighbourhood. Like
many young men endowed with a long cock, big balls and
a bubble butt, he was a sexual fireball, capable of
coming six times a day. Even so he'd have enough
energy left to give me a goodnight suck, and then nip
over the fence to fuck one of the slave girls next
door. He had dark eyes and wavy black hair that fell
across his brow in clumps. My father was always
threatening to whip him if he didn't get himself a
proper slave's haircut, but for one reason or another
neither the whipping nor the haircut ever seemed to
materialise.

When I was thirteen my parents sent me away to school,
and Scampi became my father's body slave. This changed
Scampi. He became more serious and put away childish
things. He was still willing and eager, but he no
longer dragged me from my bed to go swimming on summer
mornings, nor did he take the outside backstairs six
steps at a time, rattling the whole house. He stopped
whistling popular songs, and could pass through the
kitchen without jumping to grab the crossbeam and test
his strength with pull-ups. The house was less noisy,
and my father's temper improved, but something was
lost.

My mother had grown used to scolding Scampi for
flirting with the slave girls down the street, and
forgetting to put a shirt on before running to the
shops. My sisters missed not finding chocolate buttons
under their pillows after he had changed their bed
linen, and I mourned the porn magazines I no longer
discovered under mine. Nor did he any longer serve
lunch on Sundays with the food on our plates arranged
in rude designs that made us giggle in front of the
vicar or neighbours.

It had always been a paradox that Scampi-the-slave was
the free spirit among us. In service to my father,
however, he adopted that air of
discretion and loyalty that was to become his adult
persona. Although my father was short tempered and
could be harsh with his household slaves, Scampi won
him over. 'That boy's the best slave I've had,' he
would say as Scampi went jogging off on some minor
errand. 'Willing, obedient... and a damn good brain.'

More than once I remember him looking at me with a
wistful expression after singing Scampi's praises.
It's hard for a teenage boy whose father ignores him
in favour of a slave, and I can't help thinking my
life would have better if I had stayed at home and
Scampi had been sent away. He had a talent for
inspiring love, something that I lacked. He never
showed me disrespect, but when he became my father's
personal slave he lost interest in me. There were no
more jokes, no more games and tricks; no midnight
visits for a bout of sketchy adolescent lovemaking, no
more laughter, and no more friendship.  Being
unpopular at home was as lonely as being unpopular at
school.

My father died when I was fifteen, and I began to go
downhill. Drink, drugs, bad company at school, my
mother's indulgence, all played their part. In his
will my father gave Scampi his freedom and a thousand
pounds. I got more than two hundred times as much, and
yet here we were seven years on, and I was skint while
Scampi was worth millions. It may have been fair and
just, and the way of the world, but it hurt.

We'd never lost touch with Scampi, and he was devoted
to my mother who had saved him, and who was the widow
of the man who had taught him the ways of the world
and given him his freedom. He still bowed to my mother
and showed her every respect. His financial advice had
made her secure. Even with me he was friendly and
willing to pass the time of day, but his easy
subservience to my will and whims was gone. Now he had
his own slaves to fetch and carry and sleep in his
bed.

Scampi lived in a modern house in the Surrey Hills
with four acres and long views. I did not need to
announce myself, and left my car on the gravel drive
for the slaves to park.

The front door was open and a young slave with a
gypsy's face came running to greet me. I'd once fucked
him when I'd stayed overnight because I was too drunk
to drive. I gave him a kiss and a pat on the bottom,
and told him to run and tell his master that I had
arrived.Scampi didn't keep me waiting long, and he
came downstairs at an easy jog to greet me. 'Massel!
What a nice surprise. Come through.'

He looked fit and relaxed in a blue shirt and chinos
and he led the way down a corridor and through a sunny
living room out onto a patio. The view stretched as
far as London. It was a blustery morning but we
decided to sit out. We slumped down into comfortable
chairs and gave our orders to a slim young male slave
wearing of white shorts and shirt. He had broad
shoulders and good legs, but the most striking thing
was his deep blue eyes and glossy black hair. He spoke
with a soft burr.

When I asked for a Bloody Mary, Scampi frowned and
asked for a coffee. To escape his disapproval I said,
'Did I hear an Irish accent?'

Scampi smiled as we watched the departing slave. 'No
bad is he? Top of the range. Cost a fortune, but I
like Irish slaves. There's something comforting about
them.' He turned to me and asked about my mother, and
then about me.

'I'm in a lot of trouble. I've debts... such as you
wouldn't believe.' The slave appeared with the drinks.
Scampi dismissed him as soon as the drinks were set
down.

'Why don't you make that your last Bloody Mary? I mean
it Lloyd, why not stop now, right here, change your
life?'

I had never heard him call me Lloyd before. It had
always been either Master Lloyd or Massel. The change
sent a shiver down my spine. 'I just need five
thousand. I'll pay it back.' I hadn't meant to get to
the point so quickly, or ask so bluntly.

'Never throw good money at a bum's debts. There's only
one way I'd consider it.' He picked up his glass and
took a sip. 'Be my slave. Like I was yours. If you
agreed to that, I'd settle all your debts.'

He leaned over and placed his hand on my arm. 'When I
was down and out, your mother saved me, and your
father gave me my freedom. Now you're down and out,
it's my turn to rescue you. When you're better, fit
and strong enough to stand on your own feet, I'd set
you free. I promise. And is there an alternative?'

My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. I no
longer wanted the Bloody Mary. It tasted foul. I felt
as if I was driving a car that had run out of control
and was about to crash. This is how it ends, I
thought; this is how it starts.

After that day I didn't set eyes on Scampi for six
months. His assistants saw me through the enslavement
procedure and afterwards I disappeared into that
half-world inhabited by company owned slaves. I felt
tricked. Instead of being a domestic slave as Scampi
had been, I was just a cog in a machine of
exploitation. No one would ever find me. Scampi had
played a cruel game of revenge for his own obscure
purposes and I had been fool enough to fall for it.
Bitterness and self-loathing consumed me, and would
have done for me had I not been kept hard at work. My
craving for alcohol dissolved in the face of the
whippings meted out to those caught drinking anything
other than water.

My first assignment was to join a maintenance team
servicing an office block. I worked on site four days
a week; otherwise I was held at the company's central
training camp. It was a rough time. The company that
had bought me, and taken on my debts, was a joint
venture between Scampi and some venture capitalists
eager to sweat their assets. I was classified as a
Grade C Ordinary Slave and lived in a dormitory with
eleven others of the same category. We each had a
wooden bed and a blanket, a uniform and a wooden
spoon. Everything else had to be earned. The system
was carefully designed to humiliate and degrade those
who couldn't keep up the pace, while rewarding those
who did.

It was soon clear who would be promoted to Grade B
where conditions were a whole lot better. No less
clear was the fact that many were trapped in a
downward cycle that would lead them to the auction
block. Our days were spent competing as individuals
and as a team. We were required to keep ourselves
shaved, but the razor-slaves never had enough time to
shave all twelve of us. Half went on parade with a
day's beard. Go three days without a shave and you'd
fail the morning inspection. The showers had warm
water for a couple of minutes and then ran cold. If
you smelt you were soon pulled out of inspection. That
meant no breakfast, as you had to wait in line to be
flogged. It was the same with uniform. There was never
enough washing liquid to go round, or enough
electricity in the iron for everyone to get their
overalls clean and crisp. Those who always looked good
were promoted. Those who turned out with crumpled and
dirty uniforms were taken for the Monday auction.
Replacements would duly appear.

As a team we competed against the others on the
training field as we struggled to achieve high
rankings in fitness and competence. Of the eight teams
only the top three would be rewarded with an enriched
diet that gave its members a further advantage.

My team just about held its own, and so did I, but
more than once I came within a hair's breadth of being
sent for auction and afterwards worked to death by
some mining company, or contract labour outfit.
Two days a week we did slave training. This meant
hours of exercises to
develop out bodies. The guards drove us until every
muscle ached, and we were fainting from thirst and
exhaustion. We were taught to obey without question,
to offer our cocks and butt-holes for the pleasure of
others. We had to suck each other's cocks, swallow
come, and sit on each other's faces. Our nipples were
toughened, and our lips used to pleasure pussy and
anus, tit and foot. We had to stand still while a
guard slapped and kicked us, and after each blow we
had to thank him with quiet conviction. Weights were
dropped on out stomachs to strengthen our muscles, and
we learned how to drop to our knees, kiss ass, and
present ourselves for sexual use. We were taught to
carry out an instruction while being distracted by
barking dogs and guards, and made to stand still while
they played with our belly buttons and balls, stuck
their fingers in our mouths and up our noses, and
scratched our nipples.

Once a month we were taken to the medical lab to be
weighed and have our vision and reflexes tested. We
were injected with vitamins and our urine was
analysed. Out teeth would be scoured, our skin
cleansed. We would be given laxatives and enemas, and
be made to masturbate for a sperm count.

It was a pitiless regime. When working in the office
block we had to wear overalls printed front and back
with a number to report complaints. Since my task was
to clean the men's executive toilets, complaints were
common. Successful men don't like slipping on a wet
floor, nor do they take kindly to finding their
trousers sopping wet after sitting down for a shit. I
came to loathe those toilets, with the smells, the
constant flushing, and endless swabbing, blocked
urinals and shit-stained toilet bowls. It was like
some all-white, over-lit, stench-ridden, mirrored
hell. The executives ignored me even when I was
working stripped to the waist and bleeding after a
whipping. Getting blood on my overalls was asking for
trouble. The guards would come round on inspection and
kick the daylight out of me if they found scum on the
washbasin or shit in a toilet bowl. One liked to shove
my head down the toilet, and another always fucked me
in a cubicle. One executive demanded a blow-job every
afternoon. I felt ashamed afterwards to have wet
patches on my knees where I'd been made to kneel on
the wet floor.

You never knew if there had been a complaint until the
end of the shift when we all gathered down in the
basement car park to sign off and wait for the bus to
pick us up. We would line up and hand in our duty
cards to the guards. If there had been a complaint you
were told to stand to one side. This meant you were to
be flogged. There was no other punishment. Never any
leniency. The flogging was bad enough, but it was not
all. Almost as bad was trying to find someone willing
to do the flogging in time for you to catch the bus.
If you missed it you had to travel by public transport
and that meant finding someone to give you the fare
and sign a permit-to-travel. All that took time, so
that by when you did get back to barracks you had
missed the evening meal. You went to bed flogged and
hungry.

Floggings were all the same, as were our diets,
exercise routines, workloads, and uniforms. Everything
was done to a set standard. Floggings were given
across the bare back with three-foot bull's hide
whips. The official number of lashes was a dozen, but
we were always given fourteen. Any guard could flog,
but it was up to you to find one willing to do it. If
there was a line of slaves waiting to be dealt with,
you joined it and hoped the guard wouldn't tire before
your turn. If he gave up you had to find another one
willing to use the whip. This could take a while, and
the delay could get you into further trouble. So
although a flogging officially took no more than five
minutes, it could use up an hour or more of precious
time. If you failed to get yourself flogged you had to
report to the punishment room in the barracks in the
evening. There you would not encounter any delays -
just a whipping of twenty-four lashes with a longer
whip. If you were caught evading a whipping you were
sent for auction.

Most of the guards were young working-class free men,
with a basic education, and only too willing to
exercise their right to flog. Most had the blunt
features and hard bodies of their kind, and swaggered
around in their close-fitting khaki uniforms. They
carried whips coiled on their belts among the prods
and sticks, cuffs and chloroform. Some were OK, and
would overlook minor infractions in exchange for a
blow-job or a quick fuck. Quite a few were brutes. By
the end of six months there was not a slave among us
who had not been whipped a dozen times. Our backs were
scarred and we had developed that reflex obedience
that seems so puzzling to free men. We had no ambition
except to obey and avoid the whip.

Then one morning I was told to step aside as we lined
up to go into breakfast. My heart sank as I stood and
watched the others go by. Some smirked at my
misfortune, a few risked expressions of sympathy. Most
looked through me as if I were a ghost.

I heard a young man in a sharp suit and wearing dark
glasses ask one of the guards whether the slave was
reliable or required shackles. The guard said he was
OK, but to use 'a bit of welly' at the first sign of
trouble. They were talking about me. It was time to
meet Scampi again.


SCAMPI ^Ö Part 2


The house in the Surrey Hills hadn't changed. Seen
from the drive it stood serene in the mid-morning
sunshine, and for a moment I imagined my ordeal might
be over. Could it be they'd drop me off outside the
front door so I could wander in and be greeted by a
smiling slave who would offer me refreshment and hurry
off to find Scampi? But I would have to learn not to
indulge in such fantasises.

Half way up the drive we forked left along a secondary
drive that took us down towards the slave quarters. We
entered a yard with garages along one side opposite
the windowless side-wall of the main house. Single
storey slave dwellings made up the third side, with a
fenced-off exercise yard and slave wash-house
completing the square. While in no way squalid, it was
a charmless utilitarian place.

I followed my young courier in through the rear
entrance, past storerooms and the kitchens, and up a
half flight of stairs to a wide landing. On one side
the stairs ran on up to a green baize door, while on
the other there was an office. I was led in and told
to stand to one side on some floor-markers. The
courier went over to the main desk and shook hands
with a tall man who rose to greet him. They chatted as
papers were signed and exchanged.

The room had a low ceiling and was dominated by the
large desk. Elsewhere it was split down the middle. On
my side the floors were bare and painted with markers
where slaves should stand. There was an examination
table, washbasin, a flogging stool, a glass-fronted
cabinet containing various punishment instruments,
some photographic equipment, and a metal bar and hooks
fixed to the ceiling and to the wall beside me. The
other half of the room was carpeted, and furnished
with a coffee table and leather armchairs, a cocktail
cabinet, and a TV and video.

His business concluded, my courier left, walking past
me without a glance. The man behind the desk beckoned
me. I moved up to the set of markers in front of the
desk, bowed my head and fixed my eyes on the edge of
the desk. I could see a phone, some family photos and
scattered papers, but my eye was on the riding crop
lying within easy reach of the man's right hand. He
said his name was Bevan, and that he was the Overseer
and should be addressed as Sir. 'There's only one
Master round here, and that's Mr Wells.'

I'd not often heard Scampi called by his real name,
and it must have made me smile a little, because Bevan
reached for his riding crop, stood up and came round.
He laid a couple of fierce cuts across my backside,
but made no comment. He didn't have to. I got the
message.

He told me I was lucky to be in the Master's house,
and that I should try and live up to the Master's
faith in me. The highest level of service, loyalty and
obedience was expected of domestic slaves. I could be
returned to industrial usage at any time. He said that
he ran a tight ship, but slaves in his charge had
nothing to fear so long as they worked hard and
remembered their place in the scheme of things. Uppity
slaves were dealt with harshly; good slaves were
rewarded with a decent quality of life.

While he was speaking a chubby middle-aged slave with
a large ring through his nose appeared, bowed to
Bevan, dumped a pile of clothes on the desk, and took
a position beside me. Bevan told me to strip and then
mildly asked the slave about some washing machine that
was malfunctioning. The slave answered in a strange
high-pitched whisper. As soon as I was out of my
overalls, the slave took them, bowed and was gone.

'That used to be the most valuable stud in the
county.' Bevan picked through the clothes on the desk.
'Had more women than Casanova. Hence the bull's ring.
He's a gelding now - his sperm went bad so we had him
cut to prevent any accidents.'

He tossed me a pair of white shorts and a plain white
shirt with epaulets and twin pockets. 'We'll start you
off in those. Don't put them on yet. The Master wants
to see you, so we'll have to get you cleaned up
first.'

Bevan came close and told me to turn round. I felt
fingers tracing the whip marks on my shoulders. 'I see
they trained you whip-smart.' He flicked the crop
across my butt. 'Nice shape; the Master likes that.'
He used his crop to turn me to face him again and told
me to look him in the eye. He placed the fingers of
his right hand on my lower lip. His thumb edged its
way into my mouth.

I was staring into a pair of round brown eyes. Bevan's
face was that of a sane intelligent man. He had dark
hair cut short and greying a little. His face was
narrow and long, dominated by a Roman nose and a
sensual mouth with moist red lips. Only his receding
jaw hinted at weakness. After the animal overseers who
had supervised my training, he seemed reassuringly
normal.

'Don't let you attention wander.' He slapped my left
cheek lightly. 'I like slaves fresh from training.
There's a special something... an extra alertness, a
reflex obedience, that's most appealing.'

He let his hand drop to grab my cock and balls. 'The
pity is... it never lasts.' He squeezed tight,
dividing the balls and pressing hard into the soft
flesh behind them. 'In six months you'll be as fat and
lazy as all the rest that pass for slaves in this
house.'

He turned round and bent forwards a little with his
hands resting on the desktop. He used his crop to tap
his backside. I knew what to do. Executives in the
washroom toilets had often taken the same position and
made the same gesture. Another slave had told me
college boys got into the habit with their frat house
slaves.

I dropped to my knees. Every slave knows that men like
to have their backsides licked. Kissing arse is a
formal business. First you stretch up and place you
lips against the middle of the seat of the pants just
below the belt. While doing this you remove anything
from the hip pockets. Then you go down to the left and
kiss the very middle of the left buttock, and then the
same with the right cheek. Only then do you press your
whole face into the middle of the arse-crack, forcing
your nose as far into the cleft as the tightness of
the material allows. This was not unpleasurable: the
pants were made of cotton that was warm and soft, and
the arse smells were agreeably faint and mixed.

I must have judged right because Bevan purred and
unbuckled his belt and tore open his flies. 'Lets see
what you can do in the raw.'

I edged his pants down. He was wearing light blue
cotton boxers and I couldn't resist rubbing my nose
against them even as I edged them down. I could feel
the resistance as the elastic waist was pulled over
the erect cock. But on my side they slipped down
easily to reveal a fine muscular butt well covered in
black hair. The skin was pale, but warm and hard to
the touch, and when I ran my tongue over the right
cheek both buttocks quivered and clenched. I took the
opportunity to press my face into the crack, using my
nose as the invader as the muscles relaxed. In no time
my nose told me I was at my target. I raised my nose
an inch, and used my tongue to lick and probe the
anus. It was warm, salty, and a little shitty. Six
months before I would have gagged, vomited, and fought
for my life to get out from there, but my training had
done its work. Those executives, all the whip wielding
guards, the other slaves restless in the night, had
taught me to serve. I was not only happy on my knees
with my face up Bevan's butt, I was taking pride in
making the man happy.

While I was working on the rim I heard someone come
into the office. A female voice asked if Bevan would
like coffee. He said he would and also asked for some
biscuits. There was some clatter and then whoever she
was left. I had not stopped my probing, sucking, and
puffing, and when Bevan used his hand to shove me
away, I was confident I had done well. First
impressions are all important, even for slaves.

In any slave household the Master sets the tone. It
may seem like he does nothing but sit around being
served, but it is his standards and
expectations that govern everything. Trusted slaves,
housekeepers, wives and grown up offspring may think
they carry weight, but in reality the slaves will
always follow and obey the Master. It is not something
that needs to be taught. It is in the nature of
slavery itself.

Pleasing Bevan had been easy: sucking his cock was no
less so. It was all a matter of acting on a hint and
seeing it through to its conclusion. The female slave
had returned with the biscuits while I was sucking
Bevan's cock, and he seemed to enjoy being served his
refreshments while I serviced him. However, I did not
kid myself that getting on the right side of Bevan
would be enough. Pleasing Scampi might prove a harder
task.

Having brought Bevan to a climax, and then sucked him
dry, I was sent off to take a shower. The eunuch
appeared and shaved me, clipped my hair, and dressed
me. He gave me a new pair of sandals and when I looked
at myself in the mirror, I had to admit I looked
smart. The eunuch told me to go to the kitchen to wait
to be called. I chatted to the female slaves who were
preparing food. The atmosphere was relaxed, and the
talk candid and I began to think that being a slave in
such a house might not be all bad. After enduring six
months of hell it was good to safe.

The atmosphere changed when Bevan came down to tell me
the Master was ready to see me. The slaves were
obviously frightened of him. Bevan said Scampi was in
his first floor study. I would know the way.

He hadn't changed, but I had. He was sitting with his
feet up on his desk while a very attractive young
slave stood by typing into a laptop. Scampi had on his
usual chinos and casual shirt, and his dark hair fell,
as it always used to, across his brow. When he saw me
he laughed out loud, said he couldn't believe it was
me and that I was transformed, and how great it was
going to be having me as part of the team.
He really couldn't have been nicer. He jumped up and
held out his arms and embraced me. He patted my butt
and tested my muscles. 'I knew you'd make it. And you
did.'

He turned to the young slave and explained that I was
the son of his old Master, and that I was going to
prove myself a chip off the old block. The slave
smiled sweetly, and Scampi kept feeling my muscles and
slapping my stomach and butt and congratulating me on
looking like a healthy slave rather than a free bum.

'We must go for a walk - just the two of us.' He went
over to the young slave and planted a kiss on the back
of his neck. 'You carry on here... be good.' The slave
smiled as if he had been promised a present, and then
turned back to his task.

We walked for about an hour. The afternoon was sunny
with a warm breeze, and we followed a path down
through some woods to an old mill built over a fast
stream. Scampi sat down, and told me to sit beside me.
At first I crouched on my haunches but he pushed me
back on my backside and told me it was OK to sit.

I knew this would be the only time we were together in
this way, and that from then on it would be Scampi the
Master and me the slave, but artificial as it was to
pretend to be friends again, it was very pleasant.
Most of our talk was about the old times, and we
laughed a good deal, but when it was time to walk back
Scampi became more serious. He asked me how my
training had been, and I began to tell him, but before
long he stopped me. 'We all go through hell... sooner
or later, in one way or another. I did before your
mother found me, and I vowed never to go through it
again. I expect you're feeling the same now.'

My reply was to pull my shirt over my head and show
him my torn back. I could not see his reaction, and
when I pulled the shirt down again he was already
walking ahead. He had his hands in his pockets, and
his head bowed, as if lost in thought. 'I believe in
slavery. That's why I've made my fortune from it. If
I'd grown up a free man I wouldn't have amounted to
anything. Serving your father made me the man I am.
Unless I'd been his slave I'd never have learned
anything. I owe all this to slavery.'

There was nothing I could say. I walked along beside
him, hands behind my back, listening attentively to my
master, as a good slave should. 'Remember how I used
to take breakfast up to you in bed. Your mother used
to forbid it, and I got walloped for doing it. But I
figured a slave has to get his bottom kicked if he's
to serve the family and keep the peace. So I never
said you'd told me to take it up. I took my licks and
learned that there's nothing wrong in taking licks. Or
giving them.' He stopped and looked at me. 'Do you
understand what I'm trying to say?'

'Yes Master.' What else could I have said?

He slapped me on the back (making me wince where the
whip marks lay) and then grabbed me by the scruff of
my neck. He slipped his fingers under my collar and
pulled, half choking me. 'You're going to make such a
good slave. No question. It's going to be great. I
want you to serve me at meals, and help me about the
place, and wake me in the morning and put me to bed
last thing. All the things I used to do for you.'

'Yes Master.'

I wasn't fooled. In my time I'd sweet-talked slaves,
offered them hope and encouragement, only to feel
compelled to betray and humiliate them. It's the way
it works between slaves and masters.

When we got back to the house Scampi kept me with him
as we went back to the study where the young slave was
still working away. Scampi called for a slave and told
him to fetch Bevan. Then he turned to me. 'We must get
you settled in.'

When Bevan appeared Scampi told him to take me off and
show me the ropes. Bevan nodded and motioned me to
leave the room. I waited outside, my eyes drawn to the
modern paintings on the wall, the shining wooden
floor, the rugs and antique furniture. Through the
deep windows I could see trees caught in the evening
sunshine and the green lawns stretching away. I could
hear Scampi giving Bevan his instructions. I was to be
kept busy. I would be Scampi's night duty slave two
nights a week. I would also act as chauffeur and
personal slave. I was to be given vitamin supplements
and put on an exercise regime. I should have a cabin
to myself. I could write to my mother. But first I was
to be flogged. Fifty lashes. Afterwards I was to be
cleaned up in time to serve at dinner.

Scampi called me back into the study. I stood with my
eyes downcast. Any illusions I had were gone. From
that moment I knew that I would be no different to any
other slave. 'Bevan here is going to teach you a
lesson. All new slaves here are taught it.' Scampi
glanced over at the young slave. 'Aren't they?'

The slave nodded and muttered, 'Yes Master.'

Scampi came close and told me to raise my eyes. 'Often
this whipping is the only one necessary. You'll be
grateful for it.... afterwards. Your
father whipped me when I first arrived at your house.
I kept crying, and in the end he lost patience and
whipped me half to death. He told me he'd do it again
every time I cried. So I never did. I smiled and
joked, and became a happy slave.'

'Yes Master.'

Scampi turned to Bevan. 'Get on with it then. Make it
hot and strong, and you'll need someone with medical
back-up.' He reached out and drew me to him. 'You'll
survive. Everything will be all right.'

As I turned to follow Bevan I caught the eye of the
young slave. He gave me the thumbs up.

Bevan flogged me as only an expert can. It was a
beautiful whipping. An oak punishment frame had been
put up in the exercise yard, and several outdoor
slaves were assigned to assit. They were gentle with
me. The air was fresh and the wind had dropped. The
sky above was blue and golden evening sunshine caught
the tops of the trees. When he raised the whip I
sensed something loving in the way he snapped it back.
It must have floated lazily high in the air, before
being brought down across my back. Other lashes landed
on my butt and the backs of my thighs. It was also a
terrible flogging, beyond my imagining. Until then I
had believed there was a limit to the pain the body
can generate, but there isn't. Pain is infinite.

As I stood shackled, trussed, gagged, and stripped and
the whip rained down, I understood why slaves always
have been, and always will be, whipped. It is simple.
Only the whip can cut through to the brain's quick
where we have our being. Once it reaches the core of
us, there is no hiding place. That is why there have
to be fifty lashes. We beg for mercy after the first
dozen, abandon hope after twenty, cry out to the gods
after thirty, and then surrender to the last twenty,
and in doing so we are sculptured forever into the
shapes of servitude and obedience.

When the slaves released me, and Bevan inspected my
cuts, I was no longer full of self-pity, anguish or
rage. I was born again as the most willing slave there
has ever been. Had Bevan told me I was in no condition
to serve Scampi at dinner, I would have wept and
begged on my knees to be allowed the privilege. All I
wanted was Scampi's protection from his whip. To
achieve that I would serve him on my knees, smile in
the face of his blows, and shiver at his displeasure.

I had been a free man and now I was a slave.

END