Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2007 11:59:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Slave Revolt, Part Twelve

THE SLAVE REVOLT

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  Twelve


It felt so strange to be following Rob as I was.  For
one thing, he never bothered to look back to see if I
was right behind, or to hold the door and let me go
through first, or anything like that:  he seemed to
have learned that assurance that slave owners have
that if they tell a slave to follow them, he does and
there's no need to keep checking.  You may also think
it's strange that I was feeling very, very
self-conscious about my appearance:  after all, I'd
been kept totally naked for months, and now I had at
least been given a slave tunic to wear.  But I'm a
big, tall guy as you know, and slave tunics are short
at the best of times:  this one barely reached down to
cover the tip of my dick and my low-hanging balls at
the best of times, and now, as I strode along after
Rob, I knew that flashes and glimpses of my dick and
balls were being seen all the time.  "So what?", you
may ask:  after all, many of the slaves we were
passing had seen me totally naked. But it's different,
I think - a naked slave, a big, powerful man like me,
is somehow majestic, and he can be proud (as much as
slaves can be proud) of his physique and the way
others admire it.  Walking along like this, though, I
was different - I was no longer a proud, naked slave,
but some sort of adjunct to Rob, trailing after him,
and being "made" to display myself to others as that's
what he had commanded.

He led me over to the farm complex and the blacksmith
shop, strode in through the big double doors, and at
once ordered the blacksmith to come and give him
attention. As I stood there as Rob talked to him, I
looked around and felt really sorry for the other guys
who were there - evidently a delivery of fresh new
slaves had recently been made, and the poor guys were
standing around looking utterly bewildered.  They were
all niggas, but not the usual sort of niggas we were
used to, but really jet black ones.  And in spite of
the guards watching them with their prods and whips at
the ready, they seemed relatively unafraid and were
chattering away in some odd sort of language.  They
were good-looking guys, though - tall and lithe and
quite well muscled, and their dicks mirrored their
general body shape, being long and thin, too.  I
couldn't help noticing, though, that they were, to a
man, uncut.  It was all most odd, until it occurred to
me that they were probably African imports that they
were bringing in to try to make up for the general
loss of ordinary niggas - I know it's astonishing, but
in spite of the very harsh penalty (slavery if you're
caught) many, many illegals, particularly from Mexico,
still attempted to come to the USA to work without
authorisation every year.

Just then, though, Rob finished talking to the
blacksmith who came over and snapped at me "Strip off
and put your neck down on that anvil over there."

One advantage of the slave tunic - especially a very
short, loose one as I had, is that it's easy to get
naked:  I just grabbed the neck at the back, and it
pulled over my head in one smooth unit.  I went over
and knelt on the ground in front of the anvil, feeling
the hard concrete on my knees and the momentary
coldness of the iron against my neck.  To my amazement
the blacksmith started to use a big hammer and a spike
to hammer out the rivet holding my collar closed.  The
noise was deafening, and, to tell you the truth, I was
terrified that he'd miss and do me a serious injury.
But soon the collar fell away, and for the first time
for many months I felt kind of "free" - as I raised my
head from where I was right down on the anvil it felt
ridiculously light:  I suppose you get used to the
collar's weight, and your muscles adjust, but I
remembered how when I had first had it put on me. I
had walked around with my head kind of stooped down
permanently, and I'd thought at the time that it
wasn't only the symbolism of the collar that reminded
me that I was a slave, but this unnatural submissive
posture that it encouraged me to take, too.  But now,
free of it, I began to understand what an imposition
it had been on me, and I began to get to my feet,
pleased that Rob had decided I didn't have to wear it,
and taking this as a sign that things would soon be
better for me.

"Kneel down, boy!", the blacksmith commanded, though.
"Who the fuck told you to move?"

I put my head back down on the anvil, and then, as
nothing much seemed to be happening, I had time to
look again at the bunch of niggas who were still
waiting.  They in turn were looking at me and
pointing, and I realised they'd been given a clear
sight of my ass as I knelt there,  and I reckon they
were talking about it.  Still, what could I do?
Nothing - so I simply waited.

It turned out that Rob had told the blacksmith to take
my collar off and work on it, smoothing out all the
rough hard edges of it that had caused all the
scraping and sores.   He was soon back with the
familiar, hated thing, fitted it around my neck again,
fetched a new red-hot rivet from the hearth and
pounded it in place again to hold my collar immovable.
 I got burned, as I had last time, as the sparks flew,
but it didn't take long, and then I was allowed to get
to my feet and pull my tunic back on.

Those brief moments of being collarless had reminded
me of how I ought to feel, and now my familiar collar
once more felt heavy and oppressive.  Still, Rob
looked pleased as he came over and said "That will be
better for you, Steve - I've made him rub away all
those rough edges so you won't get any more of those
sores all over you:  they spoil the look of you, I
think, and I don't want all that rough skin under my
fingers when I'm caressing you."

"Thank you for your generosity, sir", I said, making
my voice as sarcastic as possible. "Thank you.  I'm
sure it will be better.  Of course it would have been
nicer not to be collared at all, or to have one of
those thin, light ones, as I used to have...."

There was a flash of anger across Rob's face for an
instant, before he clearly controlled himself and
said, as evenly as he could, "Steve, I'm doing my best
for you.  But the law requires all slaves to be
prominently collared, so you've got to have one.  And
my father won't allow me to give you one of the light
steel ones - he says you deserve to be treated just
like an ordinary slave."

He indicated the niggas standing there and went on
"Look at that lot over there - it's sad, really - we
deliberately took away most of the border patrols, and
even let it be widely known in the international press
that we were doing so.  So a whole lot of young men
are tempted to try to come here illegally, and, of
course, the Slave Police are waiting:  dad thought
slave prices would be sky-high as so many were killed
in the revolt, but the influx of illegals, suckered
in, has kept things stable.  But the point is they're
all going to be collared now, so it's not a big deal."

"Have you told the blacksmith to smooth all their
collars, sir?"  I was sarcastic still.  "Or is it only
me you're being generous to?"

"Look, Steve, I heard what you said about that thing
being sore all the time and causing weals and stuff,
and I've told the blacksmith to smooth ALL the new
collars.  It makes sense, after all..."

"Yes, it's the humanitarian thing to do, if you're
going to make a man wear a collar..."

"Look, Steve, fuck the humanitarian stuff - that will
never make things better.  But  I can convince my
father that he needs to tell the blacksmith to always
do it as it makes sense economically - without all
those sores they'll work harder and will be more
immediately useful.  And that's a good thing - we're
going to have a hard enough time as it is with them as
they don't have English, and they'll feel the lash a
lot until they learn enough to obey the guards and
overseers."

"They don't look like the normal nigga slaves..."

"No, they're Africans, as I said.  Someone persuaded
thousands of them to come on a chartered ship and try
to sneak into the country:  it was very good for
prices, as I said.  But they'll be harder to train
immediately, although their hides, being so black,
means we won't have problems with the sun.  Mind you,
although they were not all that expensive we have
other costs:  once they've been collared, they're
going to be 'skinned, of course.  And my father heard
from a neighbour that as the vet started to cut the
first one, the rest of them started to riot!  It seems
they think they're no longer proper men without a
'skin.... So we're going to have to do them one at a
time, out of sight of the others!  And they do say
that the imports lack 'the will to work' - they're so
used to lying in the sun and living off fresh fruit
and stuff like that and they simply don't have the
work ethic.  Still, they'll learn, soon enough - the
tawse and the whip are good teachers."

I shrugged my shoulders.  "They'll still be proper men
- not like the drays...."

Rob looked kind of embarrassed.  "Oh, I expect they're
used to it by now."

"Rob!", I exploded.  "How the fuck do you think a guy
can get used to losing his balls?"

One of the guards rushed over, his prod at the ready.

"Problems with this slave, sir?  Shall I prod him...."

"Listen, boy", Rob snapped at me "Behave!  Just
because I'm being kind to you, don't take advantage."
He looked at the guard and said in a quiet voice
"Thanks, but I can manage him.  This slave and I go
back a long way, and sometimes he forgets just what
his position really is."

"I'd have him gelded if he were mine", the guard
replied.  "And all those new niggas - they're all big
powerful bucks, and if they ever got off the coffle
chain they'd be a real danger.  If you ask me all
slaves should be gelded, to stop the kind of trouble
we just went through.  I reckon a slave without balls
is...."

"Well no one is asking you...", Rob cut in, and
snapped at me "Follow me, boy", and turned and strode
out.

I desperately wanted to talk to Rob, to ask him what
the fuck was going on, and why I was being treated so
badly, but for the rest of the afternoon, whenever I
broached the subject, Rob cut me off abruptly, changed
the subject, or simply ignored me.  I ought to have
grabbed him by the shoulders and given him a good
shaking to make him deal with me properly, but I
didn't really have the chance - once we were back in
the house he changed into running shorts and a vest,
handing me a pair of shorts at the same time, and told
me that I was now to do the same job as I did for his
father and make sure he got into good shape before he
went off to college.  I looked at the shorts almost in
disbelief, as they were so small - and I suppose it
was the same feeling that I had about my tunic:  being
proudly naked is one thing, having your body
'displayed' in garments deliberately designed to
accentuate the fact that you're a muscular slave under
someone else's control, is another.  Still, these
shorts seemed odd, and Rob saw me looking at them.

"They're mine, Steve - the ones I wore yesterday.
Stop looking at them like that - it's only a few sweat
stains inside them...."

"They're too small.  And it looks like piss stains to
me!"

"Nonsense., they'll be fine - a bit tight, perhaps,
but you don't want to run with your dick and balls
flopping around, do you?  This is real running, not
walking along as a dray does, and I don't want you
complaining about sore balls."

That was typical of Rob - only kind of half answering
me.

"And the piss...?"

"Oh stop being so fastidious - if there's any at all,
it's only a little dribble where I may have stopped
for a pee and didn't express the last drops out of my
dick properly.  It's no big deal...."

"So why don't you wear them, and let me have the clean
ones?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Steve!  I'm a master - I have to
look fresh and clean.  I owe it to the neighbours, who
we might meet as we're running, to uphold the proper
traditions.   I can hardly run in creased shorts, can
I?  If we're going to keep this place together, we
need to show we're upholding the standards of the
South, where gentlemen are always well groomed."

"I still don't like the idea of this piss stain....."

"Steve, get real!  It's only a small one.  And you and
I have shared towels, and beds and everything.  A lot
more of my piss has been on you than that, which, as
you say, is dry anyway."

"Yes, about that - sharing, as we were escaping,
why.....?"

"Come on, Steve!  I want a long, long run.  Pull those
shorts on, and let's be off....."  Once more Rob had
failed to answer  me, and I suppose I ought to have
insisted.  But with his usual alacrity he was out of
the door before I could say anything else.

Actually, it was good to be able to run again - but
really hard work.  Even though I'd been "exercising"
continuously in the dray shafts, it's totally
different - there it was relatively slow, but you
really needed to put all your power and strength into
making the thing move, and, of course, any hill was
absolutely disastrous.  Now I was actually running,
interspersed with periods of sprinting, and it was
totally different - a whole lot of other muscles were
involved.  In order to keep up with Rob, let alone
"test" him by challenging him to keep up with me, I
had to work really, really hard and under the hot sun
the sweat was soon pouring off me.  And you need to
remember that I had the heavy collar and cuffs, too -
those extra pounds really make a difference when
you're running. Of course I could have asked him if we
could take a brief break every now and then, but
that's not me:  I wasn't going to let Rob see that I
wasn't as fit as he was, so I simply gritted my teeth
and pressed on.

By the time we were back in Rob's suite I was really
too tired and exhausted to tackle him again about why
I was being treated so badly, and all I really wanted
to do was collapse under a long, hot shower.  Rob and
I showered together, of course, as we had done
occasionally when water was available when we were "on
the road", and we had absolutely no inhibitions about
helping each other to get really clean - it's one of
the few things where I think slaves have it better
than free men:  slaves are almost required to wash
each other (and I do mean wash thoroughly, all over,
including the ass crack and so on), whereas free men
don't touch each other in the showers:  when I was in
the marines if I'd even accidentally touched a buddy
accidentally as we were all standing there recovering
from the assault course or something, then for the
rest of the day my buddies would all jeer at me and
call me a fag!

Although there were big piles of freshly laundered
fluffy white towels around, Rob looked slightly
shocked when I picked up one to begin to dry myself.
"Steve", he told me, in a tone that spoke of
exasperation rather than anger, "Just think for a
moment, will you?  What's wrong with my towel?"

"Well, it's all damp, and I've seen you drying your
ass with it....."

"Sure it's damp, but good enough to get the water off
you.  And, so... it's been up my ass - can I point out
that we're freshly out of the shower, so my ass is
perfectly clean!  No, you need to think, Steve, about
the planet - every time you use a fresh towel it needs
more energy to wash it, energy we can scarcely
afford.... You ought to be concerned about the
environment, Steve."

"So tomorrow I'll have the fresh towel, and when I've
finished towelling off my dick and balls and ass, as
they're clean, you can use it...."

"Steve, be rea!  You and me might one day go somewhere
where there are other guys changing with their slaves
in attendance - I don't know yet whether dad will let
me take you with me to college, for example - and how
would it look if you got the clean towel?  People
would think I wasn't treating you properly as a
slave...."

"You're not!  You...."

"Steve, shut it, will you?  It's dinner time, and dad
gets cross if I'm late.  Now put your tunic on, as
you're coming into the dining room with me."

As ever, he bustled around, effectively stopping
further conversation, so I pulled on a clean, fresh
tunic - if  I was going to be in the dining room,
eating with Rob and his father, things must be getting
better, I thought.  Rob hissed at me to walk one pace
behind him as we went along the wide corridor and down
the staircase - I'd gone to walk beside him, to talk
as we used to.  But he insisted "Behave like a slave,
Steve - it's not good for the discipline of the other
slaves! Walk behind me, and shut the fuck up."

My hopes were dashed when we went into the dining
room, though:  I noticed there were only two covers
set at the huge dining table.  I stood there wondering
what to do, and my owner (I suppose he was still that,
even though, nominally, I had been 'given' to Rob)
said, rather sharply, "Rob, I'm not happy with having
this slave around the house, as you know.  If you
insist on bringing him into the dining room, please
ensure he knows how to behave -  you know as well as I
do that other than the serving slaves, any others must
stand neatly against the wall."

"Get over there, Steve",  Rob said quietly to me, his
voice almost pleading.  I didn't understand what was
really going on between him and his father, so I did
as he said and went and stood by the side of the
fireplace, and clasped my hands neatly behind my back
as I hoped that this would please both of them.  "See,
dad", Rob went on, "Steve's really obedient.  And
he'll be so good for me - the run this afternoon was
better than anything I've done recently with Steve
there to encourage me:  you know you want me on the
College swim team, and if I get really fit and buff,
it will surely help."

"That's all very well, Rob, but he was like that
before, superficially.  I enjoyed having him as my
work-out buddy and I never treated him like a slave.
And then....."

"Anyway, dad", Rob cut in, as if he didn't want that
conversation to go any further. ".... The crops looked
good today.  And I saw the new batch of niggas - I
reckon they'll make good workers as they're tall and
quite muscular."

"Maybe, Rob.  Maybe.  But they're not like native
niggas who are used to the idea that they are slaves -
these are 'wild' - a week ago they were running around
in their villages, with wives to do all the work,
surrounded with their kids they bred irresponsibly.
I'm not sure they're going to adapt all that easily to
using those muscles in the way a nigga should, to
serve his owner."

I don't know how the conversation would have gone on
as at that moment the doors opened and the serving
slaves brought in their first course - my mouth began
to salivate as the strong, savoury smell of the
assorted Mexican tapas they were having came to me,
and I guessed, correctly, that I wasn't going to get
fed at all, standing there as I was.

As the meal went on Rob and his dad hardly spoke to
each other, so I learned little more.  But there was
one difference between what was going on in the dining
room that night compared with when I'd been invited by
my owner to share his supper or lunch after we'd
exercised:  his treatment of the serving slaves.   My
owner followed the generally accepted custom in the
South at that time by taking young slaves, as soon as
they reached "official working age" of sixteen and
selecting those most pleasing to the eye to use as
servants around the house before they joined a field
coffle a year or so later.  His preference was for
fairly tall, nicely set-up young niggas without very
pronounced facial features, and, again as was the
custom, their bodies were totally and completely
shaved except for the closely-cropped hair on their
heads.  They wore the standard short tunic, and I
remember him explaining to me that the lads had to
have all their body hair removed (as did the cooks and
chefs)  so as to obviate any possible risk of pubic
hairs falling into the food.

In "my day", the servants just got on with their jobs,
serving us quietly and unobtrusively.  But now it was
as if my owner was determined to use them for a
different purpose, too:  as they stood their, the hem
of their tunics barely long enough to conceal their
genitals, he would wrap an arm around them and allow
his hand to slide up, feeling their thighs and testing
their balls, before fingering their dicks.  Or he
might caress their butts as they tried to serve him
from the large silver platters.  It was clearly
exciting for some of them, as by the time Rob and his
dad were eating their dessert, most of the servants
were showing hard with their dicks pushing up the
bottoms of their tunics.

Rob looked faintly embarrassed, and then, when the
servants had left to go and fetch the coffee, he
leaned across the wide table and whispered "Dad, can't
you leave the waiters alone... You never used to be
like that...."

"Oh Rob, don't be such a prude!  They're slaves,
remember?  Slaves I've paid for, and selected because
they're desirably good looking.  Why shouldn't a man
enjoy all aspects of his property?"

"You never used to...."

"That's because you were young then, Rob.  Now you're
a man, old enough to want to own a slave of your own,
you need to learn the rights that go with that.  When
they bring the coffee in, why don't you enjoy one of
them?"

"Dad, they're my own age!  I...."

"Oh for goodness sake, Rob!  Perhaps I have let you
down by not ensuring you always had a number of slave
'playmates' once you reached puberty - most of my
colleagues ensure their sons grow up surrounded by
slaves from a young age.  But perhaps we're different
- I like younger men, and evidently you prefer older
ones.... Feel free to get Steve over and enjoy him, if
you wish."

I felt a flush of anger - or was it shame - sweep over
me.  Surely Rob wasn't going to play with my balls and
dick in front of his dad, was he?  Still, if he did,
it would give me the opportunity of telling my owner
what had really gone on.  But then I heard him say
"No, dad - it's not the kind of thing I do..."

"What do you mean, Rob?  I've given Steve to you, and
he's effectively yours - the paper work's going
through.  You can do whatever you like to his body,
and there's absolutely no problem with enjoying him
here in the privacy of our dining room.  I wouldn't
advise it if we have a big dinner party - well, not
until the ladies have retired, anyway, and only then
if you're prepared to share him with some of the other
guests - but when it's only you and me, there's no
problem."

"You never did, dad...."

"Ah well, as I said, I prefer younger men.  And,
anyway, I had a strange relationship with Steve:  he
was my personal trainer, and it's hard to balance the
requirements of taking a strong line to ensure such
slaves obey you as they should, and the need to have
them a little independent so they can perform properly
as trainers.  I blame myself sometimes - evidently I
had the balance wrong, as he was too independent and
went off and joined the rebels...."

Rob at once changed the subject, again!  "Dad, I need
to go and study... Is it OK to leave?"

"Sure, son.", my owner said, and Rob got up - one of
the servants instantly pulling his chair away from the
table to assist him - and he called out "Come on,
Steve.... Up to my suite...."

So I was again deprived of the chance to put my owner
right, as by the time I'd made up my mind to stay and
have it out with him, he'd already taken one of the
young servants onto his lap - the lad had pulled his
tunic off so he was completely nude, and he seemed to
be enjoying my owner's attentions to his body!

Upstairs I tried to remonstrate with Rob about not
telling his father, but he looked sort of furtive and
embarrassed.  "Don't worry, Steve - I'll make sure
everything is right", he told me. "But give me time,
OK?"

"Why - why do you need time?  It seems really easy to
me, just tell your dad about how I saved you, and...."

"I will, Steve.  But not yet.  Now, I don't want to
hear any more of this.  Get and piss, if you need to,
as I've got to chain you...."

"Chain me?  For fuck's sake, Rob.....", I almost
exploded in anger.

"It's the new laws, Steve.  All slaves much be chained
up at night.  Look, we've had these shackling points
installed going into the floor joists, and I'll
manacle your ankle to one of them....  I've got a
blanket for you and everything, so you'll be perfectly
comfortable here.  And it's a lot better here on the
carpet that on that straw in the barn...."

"Rob, for fuck's sake...."

"Look, Steve, suppose my father calls in to say
goodnight, and you're not shackled?  He's a stickler
for obeying the law, you know....  He's sensitive to
the fact that he's from the North and spends a lot of
time up there working, and he doesn't want to give any
of our neighbours any cause for saying that he's
causing them problems by not being a 'proper'
Southerner and by not obeying the slave laws
completely."

"So I've got to be chained up, so he looks good...?"

"I guess that's right, Steve!  You're learning!"  He
saw my look of anger as he said this, changed his tone
from one of half jocularity, and went on more
seriously "Look, I've got problems at them moment,
right?  And I don't want to....  Can't....   can't
explain to you right at the moment.  But things will
get better, believe me....."

"So you want me to trust you...?"

"Yes, Steve, please...."

"Why should I?  I ought just to go down and march in
and tell your father about how  I saved you,
about...."

"Steve, please!  It won't help!  As I said, I've got
problems.  And he won't listen anyway - if you go
charging in there, he'll call the guards, and you'll
be taken out and flogged - or worse... He'd probably
see it as another example of how you're rebellious,
and you know he's threatened to have you gelded....
And he probably wouldn't believe you, anyway...."

"Yes, he would.  He always trusted me.  He liked
having me as his trainer, and we used to talk a
lot...."

"Times have changed, Steve.  You can't believe how
people's attitudes have altered since the Revolt.  A
lot of Southerners were always secretly scared of the
vast number of slaves anyway, and now they've had
proof that there can be problems....   Just be
patient, OK?  I'll make it right for you...."

 I went to argue with him, but he pleaded "Steve,
trust me, OK?  And go and piss - I want to get to
bed...."

I came out of the bathroom and Rob handed me a couple
of blankets, and showed me the place at the foot of
his bed where I could lie.  I didn't like being
shackled - although I  suppose I ought to have been
used to it as in the stables all us drays were, as
I've told you: somehow it was totally different and
utterly demeaning to be chained to the foot of a bed
in a luxurious bedroom suite.  But there was a long
length of chain so I suppose it wasn't all that bad -
it's not as if I couldn't move at all, with only one
ankle fixed by the chain.

In the middle of the night I woke up, wondering what
was happening - usually I sleep deeply because I'm so
utterly exhausted from work, and today had been no
different as that run had really tired me and I'd
fallen asleep as soon as I wrapped myself in the
blankets and Rob turned out the lights.  The noise was
incredible - Rob was shouting "No... No.... Please...
No.... Stop, don't, not there....  Please.... NO....
Don't......", and his whole body was thrashing around
in the bed, which was shaking and moving.  Then he
began to sob, a terrible, piteous sob, although he
stopped moving so much.

I got up, now very worried - if anyone had heard the
noise they might have thought I was attacking Rob -
but then I remembered my owner telling me at some
point as we exercised together that when he bought the
place, as part of the extensive renovations of the
ante-bellum mansion he'd not only had to install
aircon and stuff, but have the walls specially
soundproofed "so that my guests can enjoy their time
with their slaves without bothering about other guests
being disturbed".

Rob seemed to be fast asleep, but he was still crying
and making the occasional "No", and his limbs were
twitching occasionally.  I stood there, worried as
hell,  but now focussed on Rob and what he was going
trough.  I remembered the terrified boy that I'd found
that first day of the revolt, and how when we had
eventually been able to hide and snatch some
much-needed sleep, I'd comforted him by holding him
close to me.  I moved to the side of the bed, and
something stirred in me - some need to help him and
protect him again, even though he'd been a real
asshole since I was returned to the place.  It was, I
suppose, the same kind of emotion that had gone
through me when I'd saved him from the rebels - he was
a free man and I was a slave, but the marines had
taught me to care for the innocent and to do my best
to look after them.  I was strong, and he was weak, in
all the ways that mattered here and now:  in law he
was master and I slave, but in human terms I was the
powerful one and he needed help.

I pulled as much spare chain as I could to give me
maximum freedom of movement, lifted he covers ,and
slid in beside.  I nestled my body against his and
wrapped an arm around him as I used to when we were
desperate to keep warm.  His skin was hot and kind of
clammy, from the sweat that was pouring off him as he
was going through some terrible ordeal.  I raised my
head so my lips were near his head, and whispered
"Shhhhh.... You're safe, Rob... It's OK..... I'm
here.... Nothing's going to happen to you....."

To my delight I felt him begin to relax, and as I
hugged him to me, I gently stroked his body to
reassure him, and carried on saying those calming
things. I felt his body, previously taut as a spring,
start to relax further.  He stopped twitching, then he
went silent, and soon I cold tell from the rhythmic
rise and fall of his chest that he'd fallen asleep.

It was comforting to have him there next to me again -
I'd kind of got used to it on the road - and so I
decided to stay for the rest of the night:  it seemed
to be the right thing to do, given how disturbed he'd
been.  And of course as I had an erection, as I always
do if I wake up in the middle of the night, I let my
dick slide gently between his thighs so he was sort of
astride it, as we'd used to lie together.  Not up his
ass  - no, as I told you before, it was just to make
it possible for me to hold him really close to me
without my dick pressing up his butt!

I lay awake for what seemed like hours - but probably
I was drifting in and out of sleep, as I was vaguely
aware of our bodies accommodating themselves to each
other.  Then, as so often happens, I fell into a deep
sleep just before dawn.   I woke with a start, and it
took me a couple of seconds to recognise where we were
- for a moment, I thought we were back in hiding.
Then  as my senses started working properly I realised
what had woken me - Rob was playfully tweaking my left
tit, as he had sometimes used to.  I came fully awake
and found that he had turned around so that he was
facing me, our bodies pressed close together.  He was
still astride my dick, which was still erect (almost
painfully so!), and his dick was rock solid and
pointing upwards, "trapped" between his belly and
mine.  He was moving himself slightly, so his soft
thighs were almost jerking me off.

"Good morning, big boy!", he whispered.  "What brings
you here?  I thought you didn't like sex with men...."

"Rob, cut that out!"  As I said this, I grabbed his
butt, to make him hold still and stop moving on my
dick.  "Look, last night...."

"....last night you thought I was incredibly sexy, and
couldn't keep out of my bed", he muttered brightly.
"It's a good job that chain's long enough.... You
know, it's quite exciting being in bed with a guy
who's chained up..."

I slapped his butt playfully, enough to get his
attention and stop his chatter.  "Listen, Rob, this is
serious!  You were crying, shouting, thrashing
about...."

His mood changed instantly, and he turned his head
away from me and went silent.  I could feel his hard
dick detumesce and his shrinking dick trailed across
my belly.

"Rob, what is it, what's the matter...."

"Nothing, Steve."

"This is serious, Rob - tell me!"  He remained silent,
and I pulled him even closer to me, if that was
possible.  "Rob... Come on.... We were together all
that time.... In terrible danger....  We've got no
secrets.... You can tell me...... We've got nothing to
hide from each other..."

And then it came out, at first haltingly and
stutteringly, Rob hesitantly holding the words back,
until they broke through in a torrent of anger, fear,
and shame.  I can't repeat them here - it's too
personal.  But Rob told me what happened to him as we
was dragged away by the Northern soldiers that last
day we were together, and how he'd been brutally raped
by six of them.

"Hey, it's OK...", I muttered after he'd finally
fallen silent.  "Look, Rob, they hurt you.  They made
you do things you didn't want to do.  But it's over...
There was no permanent damage, was there?  You didn't
need sewing up, or anything?"

"No - I wasn't permanently damaged.  But it isn't
over, Steve... I can't sleep... It will never be over.
 And they didn't just force me to do things and hurt
me - they raped me, Steve...."

"Rob, get real, will you?  A lot of men take dick up
the ass.  Some of them against their will - me, for
example.  And I didn't want to do it.  And it hurt.
But once it's over, that's it.  Move on....."

"I can't, Steve...."

"Yes you can, Rob.  I've been raped - on the horse,
right here in this house.  You don't see me worrying
about it now, do you?"

"But they made me do things,  Steve, against my
will...."

"For fuck's sake, stop whining, will you?  Think of
what happens to me, all the time! You're a free man -
it's only occasionally people make you do things
against your will.  And they only occasionally hurt
you.  I'm  a slave - and I have to do things against
my will all the time.  And when I don't, they hurt me,
hurt me a lot.... So quit whining, remember how lucky
you are, and move on!"

"But they raped me, Steve, used me for sex....."

"Grow up, Rob!  You had a few guys' dicks up your ass.
 It's no big deal:  sure it hurts.  And you feel
violated.  But once it's over, it's over.  It's time
to move on, Rob - get on with your life, and stop
dwelling in the past.  What's done is done.  It's
over.  Move on."

End Of Part Twelve