Date: Wed, 14 Feb 2007 20:59:58 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Slave Revolt, Part One

THE SLAVE REVOLT

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part One

If you've got to be a slave, I suppose I didn't have a
bad life.  But did I have to be a slave?  Well, that's
the way it is for some of us - I always had a hard
time keeping my dick to myself, and in the Marine
Corps they don't like grunts like me giving it to
officer's wives - especially when the officer
concerned is the base commander.  She was a good fuck
though, but it wasn't worth it: when he found out I
was arrested and summarily tried for "behaviour likely
to bring the Corps into disrepute" - well, I ask you!
I'd have thought that a tough marine using his dick
for what it's intended would have enhance the
reputation of the Corps.   Ten years in the stockade!
And after one year when the slavery laws came in, I
found myself no longer a marine - a jailed marine
admittedly - but a slave.  At twenty nine my life as a
free man was over.

I reckon I was lucky, though, that I got bought by my
owner.  He had his overseer with him at the sale and
the overseer advised against buying me, on three
counts:  I was white, and everyone knew that niggas
made more "biddable" slaves;  I was big and tough -
six foot three, muscled to match, and in fantastic
shape as even in the stockade they keep you at marine
training and their level of fitness;  and I was a
criminal.  He advised buying instead one of the niggas
who'd tried to be illegal immigrants and failed, and
who were now getting an opportunity to stay in the
country permanently as slaves - many of these had been
"professional" people in their former lives, and he
thought they would be much less trouble than a dumb
marine, and a criminal one at that.

My owner, though, could see that he was getting a
bargain as a lot of buyers clearly thought the same as
his overseer, and prices for fit, tough whiteys were
way down.  I know he liked what he saw of my body (all
of it, as I was of course displayed naked at the
viewing day of the Government auction) - I'm a
handsome guy, even though I say it myself, my body is
"in proportion" to my height and nicely muscled,
without being grotesque;  I've got a virile thatch of
hair on my chest and belly and my arms and legs are
nicely furred, but my back and butt and smooth; and I
am, as they say,  "well hung" - nice long dick on top
of low-hanging balls.  He actually stopped to talk to
me and described what he wanted, and asked me if I
thought I could do it - well, compared with what I
might otherwise be sold for, like the mines, it
sounded OK (although if not ideal of course), so I
said yes.  He looked at me in that stern way he has
with all his slaves and told me that if I fucked up it
would be the end of me - I only had one chance, and at
the slightest sign of disobedience, or failing to give
one hundred percent, I would be sold, and sold to a
place I wouldn't like!  He also told me that he didn't
discriminate at all.  "I'll order you to be whipped
just as I would any of my nigga slaves", he added.
"I'm absolutely for equality as a matter of
principle."

So what is this work he had in mind for me from the
moment he saw me?  Well, he has a big place, close on
a thousand acres, with around three hundred coffled
niggas who work it.  The ranch house is enormous with
its own staff of chefs, cleaners, waiters, and so on,
and there's every kind of leisure activity laid on for
my owner and his guests - pool, tennis courts, horses
in the stables, and of course a splendidly equipped
gym.  My owner likes to keep trim himself and when
he's in residence (he spends a lot of time in New York
but gets down here most weekends) he likes to start
every day with a workout, and a run:  so I'm a sort of
personal trainer, to keep him up to the mark.  You
can't believe how difficult that is, as he is of
course a very strong-willed individual:  so it's hard
for a trainer to guide and correct him anyway,
especially when that trainer is his slave and under
his total control!  But if I don't push him hard
enough, he punishes me.  And on the other hand, if he
thinks I've been disrespectful or dismissive, he also
punishes me.  I sweat at treading the line between
those two things almost a much as I sweat at my own
workouts.

I suppose I'm fortunate that my owner isn't into
man-on-man sex.  The first time we met after he'd
bought me he had me restrained on a "horse", and as is
customary swiftly and professionally took my cherry.
But I suspect he enjoyed the experience even less than
I did, which is saying something!  His consideration
for his slaves came through, though, as in addition to
having me properly cleaned out before he began (so
that when I had to clean his dick afterwards there was
no shit on it), he commanded the overseer who was
arranging it to properly lube and stretch me.
Although I hated the guy's fingers up my ass and the
way that he used three of them eventually to truly
open me up, it was worth it - my owner's dick barely
caused me to scream when he slid it in.  I did try to
control myself, as I am after all a tough guy - or so
I thought - but there's something special about the
pain you get when your ass is being violated, isn't
there? He didn't bother fucking me after that once,
though - it was really  the symbolism of it, to show
that he had total control over my body and I suppose
that's what all owners do.

In addition to being my owner's personal trainer I
also keep the gym clean and tidy, and assist any of
his guests who want to use it, and I'm of course
expected to keep supremely fit myself as my owner
likes his guests to see a prime piece of manflesh when
he's got them down here.  My fitness levels are way
above those needed as a trainer as I'm also
"entertainment" at my owner's dinners and receptions:
he likes to see the human body in action, and I am
expected to do gymnastics all evening:  the parallel
bars, the rings, the horse, and the floor mat - all
the disciplines you see in international gymnastics.
I'm not expected to be at championship level in all of
these of course, but he wants to see my hard body
really working at it.  And some of them are not so
easy for a guy my size - a lot of gymnasts are smaller
and not as big-muscled, so it's really hard work.  And
finally, as if all this isn't enough, I also get
drafted in to do work when the slaves assigned to it
are otherwise unavailable - cleaning the pool, for
example.  Or pulling the lawn mowers when the
gardeners are most stressed in the sprint and early
summer. Or even on the agricultural part of the
holding, at harvest time: one of the dray slaves went
lame recently, for example, and so it was easy for
them to get me, Steve, to take his place between the
traces as our owner was not there and didn't require
my services, and it was thought that pulling the dray
would keep me just as fit as working out in the gym.
Still, that wasn't so bad, as the other guys were
really nice to me, and it was good to be working in a
team with other men:  that's something I really miss
from the marines.

Mind you, that first day in the dray shafts was really
tough - although I thought of myself as fit, pulling
the heavy wagon up and down the hills on the place
used muscles I never realised I'd got.  The other guys
- all niggas of course - seemed used to it, but I
realised they were very resentful of me and when we
were allowed to take our brief lunchtime break, they
all lay together and totally ignored me.  And during
the afternoon, although they didn't speak much to each
other as they were so used to working as a team, such
remarks as they did make were never directed at me.

As the day wore on I got more and more tired, and, as
you'd expect, I suppose, the overseer used the tawse
on us to "encourage" that little extra effort from all
of us - I wasn't used to being struck at all, and the
first time it fell across my shoulders it was all I
could do to prevent myself from snatching the thing
from the guy's hands and beating him to a pulp.  But
that's how agricultural slaves are treated, of course:
 you can't make a personal trainer like me actually
work harder by physically punishing him (the boss
always threatened that to correct "attitude" problems
on my part, though), but slaves engaged in hard manual
labour always have something in reserve, some part of
their strength that is not being used to benefit their
owners.  The slaves don't even know this themselves -
it's deep in some recess of their brains that a
portion of the body's reserves need to be kept against
"emergencies".  But a good overseer knows this and
understands that suitable "encouragement" from the
tawse can make the brain give up this reserve as the
threatened "emergency" has arrived.

By the time we were led back to the stables I was
completely exhausted, and I didn't care when the
overseer said it would be simpler for me to sleep with
the other drays in the stables that night, rather than
going back to my cubicle in the basement of the main
house, as we had an early start the next morning:  I
wasn't sure I could actually drag my body from the
stables to the house, anyway..

It's odd, but they treat agricultural slaves really
differently from those of us who live in the main
house.  There I have my little cubicle - not much,
just a narrow bed and a small cabinet, but it's "mine"
and I can go there when I've finished work, and can go
to the slave common room during the evening, if I
want.  But in the stables it was quite different - all
of us drays shared the same space (well, not a bad
idea, I suppose, as it really encourages the guys to
bond together), but I was amazed to find that we were
physically restrained overnight:  as we went into the
stall assigned to us, the overseer came along and
manacled our ankles to tethering points embedded in
the concrete floor!  I suppose it's more of that
"tradition" thing that seems to govern so much of
slave owning.

There was no getting away from my fellow drays,
therefore, and when I lay down in the straw with them
(more tradition,  I suppose - they could have given us
mattresses), I was expecting that we'd spend the time
before sleeping  in doing the kind of things that guys
in the barracks used to do, like shooting the breeze
about the day's activities and the characteristics of
the overseers.  And, indeed, I was quite looking
forward to it, as it was a long time since I'd had
real buddies with whom I worked and lived.  But
instead they continued to totally ignore me - they
just lay there, close together, and talked quietly
amongst themselves, leaving me totally "out in the
cold".

After a few minutes of this I could stand it no
longer, and called out "Hey, guys... I'm a slave like
you, you know.  We're all in this together..."

"Fuck you!", one of them muttered.  "You're some sort
of 'fancy'.  You're not a slave like us at all..."

"Yes I am... I've got no freedom, I have to do as I'm
told...."

"Look, buddy, you're no fucking slave, not really.
And you make it harder for all of us...."

I was almost incredulous.  "Make it harder for you?
I've been drafted in here to help you out.  If I
wasn't here, the five of you would be pulling that
dray by yourselves - and it's hard enough with six of
us."

One of them raised himself up onto his elbows so that
he was kind of looking down on me.  "Listen, you white
fuck, you got us all more of the tawse today...."

"More?  Oh, come on, I got it as well....  And  I was
working as hard as you all...."

"Yes, but you had shorts on, so the overseer could
only tawse your shoulders.  All of us got it on the
butt and thighs as well, - you may have noticed that
they keep us totally naked, and the overseer can
strike us everywhere.

"Yeah..." one of the others cut in.  "They give you
special privileges as a whitey.  Look, you've even got
those shorts on now."

"Aw come on, guys - these are slave shorts, that's
all.  When I have to display in front of our owner's
guests, I'm as naked as you guys are - well, almost.
I just didn't think of it, that's all - when I'm
running, and working out, the owner lets me wear these
shorts to give me some support...."

"The fucking whitey's even bragging about his dick
now...", another one added.  "Fucking typical.  It's
what do you expect of a whitey?"

I realised my blunder.  "Hey, guys, I'm sorry... I
really didn't think....."  As I said this, I undid the
tie holding up my shorts, and slid them down and
pushed them to the far end of the manacle chain.
The niggas all looked at me as I lay there.  It wasn't
a problem, of course - I was used to having other guys
see me in the barracks room when I was in the marines,
and since I'd been used to entertain my owner's
guests, I'd become accustomed to having other guys
stare at my dick (well, my owner generally allowed me
to wear a g-string when  I was doing my gymnastics,
but it was so small, and made of such thin silk, that
the outline of my dick was always clearly visible to
all the audience).

In spite of all my efforts, though, they continued to
mostly ignore me that night, although at least I
seemed to have managed to take the edge off their
hostility.  The next morning when the overseer came
along to undo our manacles, he stood there expecting
me to pick up my shorts, but instead I handed them to
him and said "Sir, will you look after these, please?
All my buddies here work naked, and I reckon I ought
to, too."

He shrugged, looking at me as if I was a bit mad, but
I saw the drays giving small nods of approval.  Mind
you, later that day when we were all struggling to get
the cart, which was  a bit overloaded, up the hill
towards the barn, I began to regret my choice:  the
tawse is a lot more painful on the bare butt than it
is on your shoulders, and in turn a harsh stroke of it
caressing your thighs is even worse!  By the time we'd
got back to the stables that evening I was really glad
of the showers - the cool water did at least s help
take the sting out of the marks on my flesh.  And I
reckoned that I must have been making some impression
with the niggas as  they included me in their washing
ritual - well, you know how guys who live really close
together are in the showers, as they don't mind
soaping the other guys' backs, and so on.... Well, it
was just like that here:  the niggas all played
around, soaping each other, and then included me in
just as if  I was one of them.  Mind you, they went a
lot further than any of my marine buddies ever did -
no marine had ever dared to even think about soaping
my dick, as one of them did!

I think they began to appreciate having me around - I
am, after all, really strong and powerful and there's
no doubt that I certainly "pulled my weight".  And it
made a nice change for them, too, to have someone new
to talk to - one problem of having them live and work
so closely together and to be chained up at night was
that they had little opportunity to interact with  all
the other slaves on the place, so I think they enjoyed
listening to me tell them about life in the big house,
and some of the things that the other  slaves got up
to.

I knew I was really making an impression when on the
third night they rearranged themselves so I could
sleep interleaved between them - it's not all that
much fun sleeping on straw really (although better
than being  there and having to lie on the bare
concrete underneath, I suppose) - and they'd worked
out a way of making themselves as comfortable as
possible.  Basically we all slept on our backs, but
you rested your head on the belly of another guy to
make a kind of pillow.  Of course that meant that his
dick was a bit close, and  I was terribly worried
about springing a wood  with one of my buddies so
close.  But I soon realised that this was expected -
all the others did, and I lay there , my head slightly
y turned, seeing my "pillow's" big dick jutting up in
front of me.

It shouldn't surprise you to learn that about an hour
later, when I was really hard, almost achingly so, I
was wondering what I could do about jerking off.  I
was used to doing it in the barracks, but there you
did have a sheet to cover you in your bunk.  And
although all the other guys knew exactly what you were
doing, and were mostly doing the same thing
themselves, the presence of that sheet gave a modicum
of respectability to the whole thing.   I was
wondering what "protocol" these guys adopted so that
you could jerk off without it being totally "public",
and how you went about avoiding the first big spurts
of cum from spraying over them as we were all lying so
close, when the guy whose head was on my belly solved
the problem for me.

I almost cried out with the sheer unexpectedness of
it.  I felt the pressure of his head raise from my
belly, and the next moment warm, wet lips were
caressing my dick!  Look, I've had lots of blow jobs -
some of the whores around the bases I've been on were
so unattractive that there's no way I'd have fucked
them.  But when she's between your legs with her nose
right into your pubes, it doesn't much matter, does
it?  So I think I know something about it, and I can
tell you that this one was good, very good:  he didn't
just rub his lips up and down the shaft (not all that
much use, I find, as most of the sensation's in the
head, after all), but teased my piss slit with the tip
of his tongue, licked with little flirting touches of
his tongue all around the edge of my head, and finally
swallowed all of my not inconsiderable length - I
almost shot there and then as I felt my dick head
touch the warm, moist, fleshy back of his throat.  It
takes a real expert to swallow all of me, and I always
find the feeling that I'm right down the throat of the
sucker to be totally exhilarating.

He went on and on with such sensuality that I couldn't
stop myself - before I could warn him I shot, right in
his mouth.  I suppose he must have had some warning as
I would have been pumping pre-cum, but, even so, I was
expecting him to be angry - most of the whores always
warned me not to cum in their mouths, and when I did
sometimes, it was usually the signal for a whole lot
of screaming and foul language to break out.   I half
sat up and in the dim light saw he was grinning at me.
 "Good one, Steve", he whispered, a big smile on his
face and a trickle of my milky white cum falling from
the corner of his mouth and making a big contrast with
the inky blackness of his skin.

"Sorry....", I whispered.  "I couldn't warn you....
And I couldn't stop....."

"Warn me?  For what?  You're the best, Steve - a big
load like this...."  He smacked his lips together in
evident relish, and ran his tongue up and down over
them to further add to his enjoyment.  I supposed I
learned my first lesson about the differences between
real sex, between men, and the rest of it  that night
- a real man actually understands what turns another
one on, and, if you think about it, how on earth can a
whore really understand what makes your dick really
burst with excitement?  And sucking another guy dry of
his cum is a real service to him - what on earth is
wrong, or disgusting, about cum?  After all, we all
try our own wen we're growing up, don't we?  So what's
wrong with carrying on eating it later on?

I really enjoyed the rest of the week - well, the
nights, anyway, as the days were pretty tough and I
hated the tawse - and no, before you even ask, I
didn't get around to sucking dick myself.  The others
were too eager to get mine, and once the ice had been
broken that first time, they were almost forming a
queue to taste my dick and fondle my balls as they
sucked me off.  I did feel guilty, though, and so I
did join in a bit - well, you can't be seen to be
stand-offish, can you? So I jerked off a couple of the
guys, and that was different, too, from when I'd
experimented with a buddy at school, as now we used
cum to lubricate the dick, and it was somehow so much
more sensual.

Unfortunately their buddy was recovered enough to go
back to work by the weekend, and as my owner was
coming down and expecting to hold a dinner for a
number of local worthies, I was sent back up to the
big house.  My little cubicle in the basement seemed
lonely and bleak after all the enjoyment I'd had from
having the drays around me, and I began to wonder if I
shouldn't call in one of the chefs or waiters to suck
me off - they were always looking at me as I walked to
and from the showers, and I felt certain that a fair
number of them would like to wrap their lips around my
dick.

I have pretty exacting standards generally, and I knew
in advance that the display I'd be giving that night
wasn't going to be the best I'd ever given,  as I'd
not been on the practice floor, and on the apparatus,
all week.  And if you're going to give a top-flight
gymnastics display, it's practice, practice, practice,
that's absolutely essential.  But I didn't think that
anyone other than me would notice that everything was
just that five percent "off" that distinguishes a good
performance from a merely adequate one.  I suppose my
owner has got used to seeing this stuff, though, and
when I was waiting outside the door for him to come
out for his morning run, one of the overseers instead
came out and told me to get down to the owner's study
immediately.

I stood outside in the hallway, and the overseer
ordered me to "slave rest" so I put my hands behind my
back and lowered my head, and waited.  And waited.
And waited.  Still, I suppose that if you own a guy,
you don't care how long you keep him standing around,
do you?  Normal things like courtesy and consideration
for others just don't apply to slaves.  Eventually I
heard my owner's voice shout "Get in here, Steve!",
not in the way that he usually spoke to me, but with a
hard, angry edge.

My owner was sitting behind his desk, and I went and
stood respectfully in front of it.  To one side was a
young guy who I hadn't seen around before, but who
looked a bit like my owner and I wondered if this was
his son - some of the other slaves spoke about him,
but I'd never seen him before as he apparently lived
with my owner's estranged wife.

"That was crap last night, Steve!", my owner began in
the same angry tone.  "Total crap!  I'd invited a lot
of locals in to impress them, and you go and fuck it
up.  It was a complete disgrace.  You've shamed me."

"Sir, I'm sorry...."

"Sorry doesn't cut it, you fucking slave!"

"But sir, it wasn't that bad... I'm sure they wouldn't
have seen anything wrong... It was a bit off
sometimes, sure, but...."

"...A bit off?", he thundered.  "In the routines on
the floor you weren't properly in time to the music.
And don't think I didn't see you cut out the really
hard bit on the rings, the one I particularly like as
it really shows off your shoulders and pecs....."

"But sir, I didn't practice...."

"That was quite apparent."

The young guy then spoke.  "Hey, dad, is this that
slave you're always telling me about, the ex-marine
who's always so good and conscientious....  The one
you keep telling me you wish  I was a lot more like...
 Well ha, fucking, ha....."

"Rob, I've told you I will not tolerate language like
that!" my owner snapped.

He then turned his fury on me again, and went on "You
see, Steve?  You've even made me look foolish in front
of my own son.  Well I won't tolerate it...."

"Sir, please, I can explain...."

"How dare you interrupt me!  I've thought for  long
time that in trying to treat you humanely, trying to
use you as an exercise companion rather than as a mere
slave, I might have been making a mistake.  And you
choose to repay me by slacking and not practising, and
then by daring to interrupt me when I'm pointing out
your faults...."

"But sir...."

"There you go again!  This is absolutely intolerable!
Sometimes a slave needs to be taught a lesson, as
lesson he won't forget."

"Sir, it wasn't my fault...."

"There you go again!  No other slave in this house
would dare to interrupt me like that.  If you were a
nigga I'd say that you were a great deal too 'uppity'.
 I don't know if a whitey can be 'uppity', but you
damned well seem to qualify!  And there's one sure way
of taking the rebellious spirit out of a slave....
Drag that horse over, to give me more room....."

"Sir, please, I...."

"One more word, you fucking slave, and it won't just
be a  session on the horse!  I'll have you flogged
outside on the whipping post...."

I looked to where he was pointing and here was the
same "horse" on which I'd been restrained so that he
could take my cherry when I had first arrived.  He was
always threatening to beat me, as I've told you, but
never had before.  I thought for a moment about trying
to explain again - blurting out that I had had no
practice time because of working with the dray, but I
reckoned it would only make matters worse.  After all,
I'd been tawsed all week, how bad could a beating on
the horse be?  And all slaves get beaten eventually, I
suppose - I'd avoided it so far, and if it made my
owner feel better and cleared the air so we could get
back to being proper work-out buddies again, then
perhaps it would be worth it.  And, anyway, if I
carried on arguing it would only serve to anger my
owner even more, I thought.

The horse it self might have been a family heirloom, I
suppose - it wasn't one of the modern ones, all metal
bars and shiny cuffs.  No, this one was clearly hand
crafted from dark mahogany, a mahogany that had that
rich deep glow that spoke of age, and hours of
diligent polishing by generations of servants, or
slaves.  The top was  a deep red leather, only
sparsely padded as I suppose the comfort of the slave
was not of prime concern and it was more important
that it "looked right" as a piece of furniture in its
own right, and all the fittings and attachments were
in brass, again polished to a deep shine, with that
patina of age.

I dragged it - and it was heavy, reflecting its solid
nature (well  I suppose it has to be strong and solid,
given that slaves would tug and tear at it as they
tried to escape their fate) - in front of the desk,
and my owner snapped "Down on it, then!"

I lay down, feeling the leather at once cold and yet
clammy against my bare chest.  My owner was almost
sneering now as he said "I suppose I'd better fasten
you down - the last time you were on here you made
such a fuss that it was just as well you were secured,
or else I do believe you might have injured me".

Well, he was right, of course - although he took my
cherry in a way that I suppose you might describe as
"humane", there's no doubt that if I could have
stopped him, I'd have done anything in my power.  But
this was only going to be a beating, after all, so in
as neutral one as I could manage, trying to keep the
pride out of my voice, I muttered "Sir, I can take
it."

"That's typical of you, Steve!  That's pride, and
pride has no place in a slave's repertoire, unless
it's pride in doing his assigned tasks well, and in
serving his owner completely."

I didn't bother to answer, and instead gripped the
front legs of the horse, gaining some satisfaction as
I saw the muscles in my arms tighten and knowing that
there were very few men with my lean, stringy muscular
development.

I watched as my owner took a cane down from where it
was held in a sort of cradle above the fireplace, and
was a bit concerned, I must confess, as he took a
couple of practice strokes through the air - the
"Swish" noise it made as he did this spoke of a man
who could hit hard, and effectively.  But there was
nothing I could do about it, so I tightened my grip,
took my tongue down on to the floor of my mouth and
gritted my teeth hard, determined not to cry out.

"Hey, dad, you're not going to do it like that, are
you?"  The boy's voice was loud in the room - only the
crackling of the log fire and the hum of the
air-conditioning as it strove to keep a pleasant
temperature otherwise intruded (the owner liked "old
fashioned" values, and many of the principal rooms in
the house had log fires burning when he was in
residence, even with very high outside temperatures).

"What do you mean, Rob?"

"Well the guys at school all say that when their
slaves are punished it's always on their bare asses -
it not only hurts the slave more, they reckon, but
it's more humiliating for them."

"Oh I don't bother about that....."

"But dad, you said that when I was sixteen, which I
was last week, I could have a slave of my own.  And
I'd kind of had my eye on this one, as you told me
about him, and it would be good to take a proper look
at his ass...."

"Rob, you are not having this slave.  This is my
personal trainer.  He usually works well with me...."

"As usual, then.  You promise things...."

"I only promised you a slave, not a particular slave.
But if you like, we can strip him:  I haven't punished
him before, but he's been leading up to it for some
time, always pushing the envelope a bit.  So maybe if
it hurts more, and he finds it particularly
humiliating, he'll think twice next time and I won't
have to punish him again for a long time."

"Good thinking, dad.  Can I pull his shorts down?
I've never done that to a fully grown man before -
only to the other guys in the locker rooms...."

My owner must have nodded or something, as I felt the
kid's hands fumbling at the tie on the waist of my
shorts, and then he tugged them down and I felt the
soft fabric fall on my feet.  He snapped "Step out of
them, slave", and I felt the fabric whisked away as I
lay there now totally naked.  Then I flinched as he
kicked at my ankles, adding "And get those fucking
feet apart, as we want a good look at your balls
swinging around as my dad beats you."

End Of Part One