Date: Thu, 24 May 2007 13:07:11 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Slave Revolt, Part Fifteen (MM NC BDSM FANT)

THE SLAVE REVOLT

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  Fifteen


They always say that a whipping changes a man, alters
him irrevocably.  And now I can attest to that
personally.

As the guards led me out of the luxurious drawing room
with the flowers, the antique furniture, and that
special smell of lavender-scented  polish that appears
natural in such elegant surroundings, I knew I was in
real trouble.  It all seemed so unreal - the calm,
quiet elegance of the room I had been in with the
father and son in their casually elegant clothes
standing there debating my future as if it was a
matter of little importance, and me totally naked,
sweat pouring off me as I futilely attempted to "have
my say" in this whole thing.  But perhaps that was the
problem - after all my time as a "free" man looking
after Rob on the road, I had got used to the idea of
speaking my mind, acting for myself, planning and
plotting to get food, to evade the rebels and to stay
alive;  and now those attitudes meant that I thought I
had a right to argue with my owner, to "put him
straight" on the facts.   I suppose I saw how futile
such an idea was  - he had all the power, and I had
nothing.  It was like some strange nightmare, when I
knew something dreadful was going to happen, and yet I
was rushing headlong into it, powerless to prevent it.

There was nothing I could do about it physically:  I
was cuffed and gagged and naked, and the guards had
their prods out and I knew that a mere touch of them
on my skin would be sufficient to knock me to the
floor.  So, with their hands gripping my biceps and
their fingers digging into my hard muscle, I had to
allow them to lead me out of the mansion and around to
the courtyard at the back.  Evidently the news of my
whipping had spread, as all the household slaves were
lined up to watch - they were subdued and made no
noise, but I suspected that they were all wanting to
see the spectacle of my back being shredded, were all
eager to see if big, tough Steve cried out as the
whipmaster did his terrible work.  Still, at least
there was no chance of me making a spectacle of myself
in one way, I thought:  with my bowels empty and my
mouth gagged, I might at least retain some shred of
human dignity.
I suppose I'd noticed the whipping frame as I went
about my normal duties - it was always there in the
courtyard as a reminder to us of our owner's ultimate
power, but it had never been used in all my time
there: generally our owner was fairly benevolent, and
the regular punishments of withholding food, or of
caning and tawsing, were generally considered
sufficient to keep all of us in line.  It was probably
different in the field coffles where the supervisors
were considered harsher, and it wasn't unusual to see
some of the niggas coming back from the fields with
blood streaming from them. But our owner generally
considered that this was undesirable for slaves who
were to clean the house, or serve his food, or, like
me, to act more as a "training partner".

Today's event  was serious, though, as evidenced by
the fact that they'd imported a whipmaster - at least
I assume they had, as I hadn't seen the guy around the
place before. And it was unlikely that unless he made
a lot of use of it, that anyone would bother to have a
costume like his:  a leather pouch covering his
genitals, and he was otherwise naked except for a
harness around his chest and belly, cinched tight to
emphasise the power of his musculature.  His thigh-
high boots added to the effect, stopping just short of
his muscular butt and they gleamed in the evening sun
- it's silly,  I know, but I couldn't help wondering
if he kept a personal slave just to keep them and the
uniform in tiptop condition.   I assumed that the whip
he was holding was his own, too, brought out for
occasions such as this.  It was no light, thin
"punishment" whip:  no, it was designed to do serious
damage to the flesh of the slave.  As he tapped the
thick, heavy leather-covered handle of it in one hand,
you could just tell that the whip was heavy and solid,
and from the end of the handle the braided leather
strand tapered away to a very thin tip, at least two
metres away!  I could imagine that the sheer weight of
the leather in the whip when it was moving at high
velocity (as presumably this guy could make it do)
would in itself hurt as it struck me, let alone the
damage that it would then do to my flesh.

The guards led me over to him and he stood there for a
moment, then put the whip down, and came over and
started to "appraise" me.  His big, beefy hands went
all over my pecs and my belly,  and then he cupped my
balls in his hand, felt them and separated them with
his thumb, and stroked my dick a little so that  I
erected.  I shook my head in vigorous protest as he
did this - I mean, after all he didn't need to, did
he?  He had no need to know what I looked like with an
erection when he was going to whip my back.  I suppose
he was just intent on further humiliating me in front
of the watching crowd.

Then he told the guards to undo my cuffs as he wanted
to examine my back properly. But as he did so he
looked directly into my eyes and said quietly "Boy,
behave, now - no more of that protesting!  Nothing can
save you from the whipping I'm going to give you, but
it can make a big difference to you in how I do it.
If I allow the tip of the whip to curl around your
belly and catch those pubes of yours, even though
they're neatly trimmed, it will tear them out by the
roots.  And if you think the pain that will be coming
from your back is terrible, you don't want the
additional problems.  So you stand still and
co-operate quietly now, and save yourself a whole lot
of further agony.  Or, of course, I can just have you
prodded senseless and then I can examine you.... It's
your choice, boy.  So, are you going to be good?"

I nodded.  I mean what was the point of resisting now?
 I stood there in the sunshine as he ran his big hands
down from my shoulders, this fingers probing at my
musculature as his calloused fingers explored my back.
 I heard him mutter "Nice, very nice, no fat at all"
as he almost caressed my hips, and then he went on
down to try to dig his fingers into the hard, tough
muscles of my butt.  He left me standing there then
and strode over to my owner, the tops of his boots
almost digging into his butt as he did so, and I heard
him ask "An excellent slave, if I may say so, sir.  It
seems almost a pity to destroy such perfection.  But
he's sound, and I can flay him easily and still keep
him alive.  Are you certain though that you only want
the back whipped?  A butt like that is crying out for
the kiss of the whip, and carrying on the pattern of
lash marks down his thighs....."

"Dad", I heard Rob cry "Only Steve's back!  I want his
butt left.  And he's got to be able to run, so don't
let him damage Steve's thighs."

Well, it was something, I suppose.  Rob had been
precious little use to me up until now!

The whipmaster strode back, put his hands on my
shoulders and pushed me forward into the whipping
frame.  He seemed to know what he was doing as he
expertly strapped my wrists and ankles into the
restraints, exerting just enough tension on them so I
was spread-eagled in a big "X", but not so much that I
was in any actual discomfort from it.  Then, to my
utter surprise, he fumbled with the gag that had
prevented me from speaking, and pulled it out of my
mouth.

"You need to be able to scream", he told me.  "I don't
allow owners to have slaves being whipped totally
silenced, as it's too cruel:  the slave needs to be
able to howl to the world, to have some outlet for his
terror, some small relief from his torture.  And, of
course, it's a valuable lesson to the other slaves:
few who hear your cries of anguish will lightly risk
the displeasure of their owner in future.

I stood there then, and a deathly silence fell on the
crowd.  I've never felt so totally alone in my entire
life.  I saw out of the corner of my eye the
whipmaster uncoiling his whip and giving several small
experimental "flicks" of on the ground.  And then it
began.

ROB WRITES......

Steve's narrative finishes at this point.  When I
found it, some years later,  I asked him why he
stopped there and all he could say was "You don't want
to be reminded of a whipping - ever", and refused to
discuss it with me further, even in those intimate
moments when we had just had sex and were lying
laughing quietly together, our bodies soaked in the
sweat of our mutual exertions.  Even though I was his
owner I knew by now that it was pointless arguing with
him on some point like this - I couldn't make him
speak, and it would only lessen my authority when
whatever punishments I meted out to him proved futile.

For the sake of the boys, though, I thought it
important to add my own account of those terrible
times immediately after the Revolt, when it was far
from certain that our society would survive:  the next
generations deserve to know more of the background of
the decisions that men like my father and I took then,
decisions that have shaped our society and given us
the unparalleled prosperity and harmony that we now
enjoy.

So I will take up Steve' tale, and even after all
these years, I can still conjure up in my mind's eye
that scene - the house, looking very much as it still
does, the domestic slaves all lined up, and now all
fallen strangely silent, and Steve's magnificent body
spread-eagled on the frame.  As my focus sharpens I
can see the droplets of sweat already forming on his
body and joining into small rivulets that began to
run, starting in his pits, but soon covering his back
and belly, too.

There was the hiss of the whip as the expert sent it
careering through the air and then the terrible,
howling shriek from Steve as he was unable to control
his body.  I almost threw up as I saw the red line
form across Steve's shoulders and the blood start to
flow, but dad gripped my arm and whispered "Hold firm,
Rob:  don't let the slaves see that you are weak".

On and on it went, and I'm sure I could see little
gobbets of Steve's flesh flying high into the air as
the whip tore them out from the bloody mass that his
back became:  initially it was quite artistic, I
suppose, with the lines of the whip forming neat
parallel rows down Steve's back.  But one they reached
the base of his spine at the start of his ass, the
whipmaster went back to the top and began to "fill in"
the cracks!

Finally, I could bear it no longer and said to dad
"Stop it now, please - Steve's learned his lesson, I'm
sure."

But dad shook his head, and allowed the carnage to
continue for what seemed like hours, but which was
probably only five more minutes.  Then he raised his
hand, and the whipmaster stopped, and all we could
hear was the terrible, continuous pining coming from
Steve as he hung there, blood trickling down his legs.

Dad wouldn't allow me to go to Steve immediately,
putting his arm protectively around my shoulders to
lead me back into the house.  Once in his study he
said calmly "I know you wanted to go to help Steve,
but we must remember the rest of the slaves:  this
wasn't just punishment for Steve, it was an object
lesson for them all, too, in what they can expect if
they incur my displeasure.  Had you gone up to comfort
him, it would have spoiled the effect.  As it is, the
slaves all know that Steve was especially favoured,
first by me who used him almost as if he was a free
man when he was my personal trainer, and then by you
who had a 'special relationship' with him after the
Revolt.  So the fact that we are prepared to have him
flayed like that will have a particular resonance for
them, and I do not want to spoil it."

"But dad....", I began.

"No, Rob.  No 'buts'!  We will leave Steve hanging
there until the morning so that all may observe him as
they go about their duties, and his pitiful wailing
will keep them awake tonight.  All the slaves need
reminding of the fate that awaits those who are not
totally obedient, and there will probably be another
benefit, too:  it will perhaps draw a line under the
atrocities that happened during the Revolt, signalling
that as an owner I am now totally in control in a way
that I was perhaps reluctant to be before.  They
should understand that the rules have changed:  from
now on, a slave, any slave, regardless of how favoured
he might think he is, is not exempt from the risk of
the most terrible punishments.  In fact, I think
tomorrow morning, to emphasise the point, we will have
Steve taken down and publicly gelded - that will give
all the males something to think about!."

Well, I really argued with dad then.  I mean, what use
would Steve be to me if he were to be gelded?  I
wanted him in bed with me, and it just wouldn't feel
right if I couldn't play with those lovely low-hangers
of his.  I managed to persuade dad to back off that,
but there was no way that I could get him to rescind
his orders that Steve was to be left there all night -
and I don't know about the slaves, but Steve's keening
certainly made it hard for me to get to sleep
(Although by about three in the morning he'd stopped).
 In the morning from my window I could see him still
strapped onto the whipping frame, and I wanted to rush
down and make sure he was all right, but as I went
along the corridor my father came out of his bedroom
and shook his head at me, to indicate that he knew
what I wanted to do, and that I was forbidden.

The whipmaster had recommended to dad that when Steve
was cut down in the morning his punishment should
continue "to bring home to him" that his owner still
had further power over him even after the whipping,
and so I was still not allowed to make contact with
Steve.  Instead, under the strict control of two
guards, four of the big labourer slaves were on hand
as Steve was released from the frame, to carry him
over to the cells - he was totally unable to walk.

They almost threw him into one of the tiny "kennels"
that are usually reserved for slaves who need a sharp
reminder of their position - you know, totally bare
concrete, only about four feet high so that the slave
can't stand and has to lie there on the hard, bare
floor.  I looked in at him later in the day and I
don't think it mattered - he was unable to stand
anyway because of the pain he was evidently in.  He
was kind of curled into the foetal position, his hands
cupping his cock and balls between his thighs, and he
looked the very picture of misery.

Dad insisted he stay in there for four days, totally
without food (although he was of course allowed
water), and when he was finally allowed out he was in
a wretched state:  his weals and scars were still
weeping, he could not stand properly, he was
dreadfully weak, and of course his humiliation was
completed as he stank of his own urine and faeces, as
the "kennels" have no provision for long periods of
incarceration.  He stood in front of dad and me,
totally humbled and broken, and it was only dad's arm
around my shoulders that prevented me from rushing
over to comfort him (Something dad had strictly
forbidden me to do, telling me that I must remain
totally silent and unresponsive).

"This is what all slaves who are not completely loyal
to their owners can in future expect", dad said aloud,
knowing that a lot of slaves going about their normal
business would hear, and relay it to everyone else.
"You were in a privileged position, Steve, and now
look at you - a miserable, snivelling wretch with a
flayed body, covered in your own excrement.  Let this
be a lesson to you - be disloyal to me in any respect
in future, and my punishment will be swift and
terrible."

Without giving Steve a chance to say anything, dad
snapped "Get this slave cleaned up.  Give him some
food, and put him in a normal cell for a few days
until his back heals and he can resume work:  he still
owes me the duty of his labour, and I will take it",
and with that, dad and I walked out.

Back in the house dad told me that he thought it best
for Steve to be coffled with the agricultural niggers
in one of the hard labour gangs who toiled around the
place, as seeing a "favoured" whitey reduced to the
status of a coffled nigga would be a further constant
reminder to everyone else that dad was totally in
control.  But I begged and pleaded with him, reminding
him that although Steve had been personally disloyal
to him on our return, he had nevertheless saved my
life, and that dad had anyway "given" Steve to me and
it was really time for dad to make good on that.

"Nonsense!", dad said in reply.  "You'll be going off
to Boston to college soon as you know I'm paying a
fortune for you to get the very best education, and
they don't allow personal slaves."

Well, however much I disliked it, I did have to tackle
dad now and make my own views felt.  I simply refused
to go to college, and at first dad was furious and
told me that I certainly would, or he'd cut me off
without a cent!  But I stood my ground, and over the
next two hours of furious shouting and argument, we
did come to an agreement and we worked out the basis
of the plans that made us even more wealthy that we
already were - indeed, as some of you may know, I now
command the largest personal fortune in the country.

Dad had been thinking about the future anyway, and
could see that the world resource crisis was not going
to get better, ever.  Over time the only reliable
source of power that was readily transportable,
flexible, and inexpensive, was likely to be slaves.
But after the Revolt, there was bound to be a reaction
in society to their use unless they were tightly
controlled and continually monitored.   Dad had
another plan, though, and when he saw that I was not
interested in going off to college, it was agreed that
he would continue to work mostly in New York,
continuing to work to finance our great project.  I
would remain on our demesne, and be in day to day
charge of the operations.

So that's how it all started:  because of dad's
financial acumen and his access to investment funds,
we were able to begin the construction of the breeding
sheds and nurseries to raise at first hundreds, and
latterly of course thousands, of slaves, and to stand
the cost of bringing the first "crops" to maturity:
not many people could afford to make this sixteen year
investment, but we could.

Those of you who own and employ our bred slaves
probably have little understanding of how scientific
it really is:   we have the brood mares who are
selected for their wide hips and general ability to
give birth without trouble, and for every five
hundred, a stud specially selected for his size and
strength.  On our farms the studs cover five mares a
day - theoretically, of course, they could do more,
but our long-term statistical controls suggest that
the rate of conception falls off and it is more
practical to stay with this ratio.  The mares are only
made available for studding when they are at the peak
of their reproductive cycle in the month, and are
covered several times to make sure conception is
achieved.  Regrettably we then often waste three
months before we can determine the sex of the pup and
abort the unwanted females,  after a further three
months our advanced testing detects and aborts those
with major inherited disorders (and we can track the
mares and studs to ensure it doesn't happen again!),
and nine months later we have strong, healthy male
pups.

We've found it better to keep the pups with the mares
for a year and breast feed them (whilst the mare is
studded again and bringing the next pup along), but
after that they are raised communally in the stock
sheds, generally being kept with two hundred or so of
their cohort group as they age.  From four years old
they start to do simple tasks such as sorting the
harvested fruit crops and looking for damaged
specimens, by eight they're out in the fields
planting, hoeing and picking, and at sixteen they join
the coffles they'll live in for the rest of their
lives, or go off to auction.

They are of course never taught to read or write.  And
they receive absolutely no information at all about
the society in which we live:  no newspapers, books,
radios, TVs, nothing like that:  their world is the
demesne on which they have been born and raised and
work, and they have no conception that this is but one
small part of a vast country, which is itself on our
planet.  They are thus incapable of ever taking part
in another Revolt as they absolutely lack the mental
referents to make such a thing possible:  they are
born as slaves, they know that slaves work and "men"
supervise them, and that's that.  It is usually
accepted that the Revolt  was caused by disaffected
slaves - generally, those enslaved for criminal
activities or debt or whatever - and this can now no
longer happen. Even if such a "created" slave mixes
with our bred stock, they simply do not understand the
concepts he might be trying to get over to them!

Those early years were hectic, though, getting all
this set up, and ensuring that we were at the
forefront of this revolution in slavedom - and, of
course, as the inventors of the system we had a huge
time advantage over our competitors who came late to
the scene:  our bred slaves came to the market at
least eight years before those of our nearest
competitor, and in those eight years we managed to
make so much money, and establish such a reputation,
that we were able to buy out all other comers.  I am
now the largest - no, say "only" - breeder of quality
bred slaves in the country, and will of course always
remain so as no one can now enter the market without
the sixteen year delay before new stock can be brought
forward for sale.  Some years ago we paid a fortune to
bribe senators to throw out a bill that would lower
the age at which a slave could first be sold to ten,
and this was some of the best money we ever spent as
it has helped us to retain our monopoly position - and
thus the ability to set the prices for our stock.

But all of this is fairly well known and my book "The
Breeding Of The New Society" tells more of our
Corporation and it s history.  Personally, of course,
there is another story to tell.

When Steve eventually stood in front of me he was
still a wreck - he had a tiny loin cloth just covering
his genitals and was otherwise naked as the guards led
him in.  I dismissed them as I knew I had nothing to
fear from Steve, and he stood in front of me, head
bowed, and somehow strangely silent.  Finally I went
and ran my hand over his back - there were still some
scabs clinging to the deeper wounds, and of course the
hard ridges of the scarring that were to remain with
him all his life could be felt.  He flinched as I
touched him, and I muttered "Still painful?"

"What the fuck do you think?", he snapped back.

Well,  I couldn't have that, could I?  Steve did need
to remember that he was a slave and I was his owner,
and so I said calmly and evenly "Look, Steve, you're
fucking lucky, you know that?  You may think you had
it bad, but at least it was only a flaying  from the
whipmaster...."

"Only?", he exploded.  "Only a flaying?...."

"...Yes, Steve.  My father was going to have you
gelded as well, as an object lesson to the other
slaves.  I saved you from that, so I reckon we're
about even, right?  You saved my life during the
Revolt, and I saved your balls so you're still a man."

"Fuck you, Rob....."

"Steve, let's be clear about one thing.  I'll always
be grateful to you.  But  I can't have you talking
like that to me, or of showing inappropriate
behaviour.  You're a slave - my slave - and dad and I
have ambitious plans for the future, and I can't have
those plans jeopardised by others seeing that I
tolerate behaviour that is not properly slave-like.
So you'd better learn to behave...."

"...or?", he almost snarled.

"Or, Steve, it will be me calling in the whipmaster
the next time!  Or maybe I should just have postponed
that gelding, rather than had it cancelled!"

Well, that shut him up, at least.  I don't know if I
ever could have done that, if he could ever have
provoked me enough to make me carry out those threats,
but I managed to make it sound convincing and he seems
to have believed me.  But to show him that nothing had
changed really, I then led him up my private staircase
to the bedroom, pushed him onto the bed (he flinched
as his back hit it), and then stood there and as he
watched, I stripped off my clothes.

I can still remember that epic bout of sex that marked
the start of our new life together - and, you know,
all the years after that we never really worked out
who was in control when we were having sex - sometimes
Steve fucked me, and sometimes I fucked Steve, but who
was making the running?  Certainly I could never have
physically overpowered Steve and made him take my dick
up his ass - he was always much bigger and fitter than
me (especially in the later years as he continued to
work out, whilst the pressures of the business kept me
tied to a desk, getting flabby!).  And when he chose
to fuck me I know I acquiesced, as there was always
the "panic button" to hand and in an instant guards
would have been dragging him away.  We were such
different men, from such different backgrounds, that
it was never clear who was really in control, and so I
suppose it doesn't matter.

All I do know is that, over the years, however
frustrated, tired, or upset I was as I struggled to
control our sprawling business empire (especially
after dad's death), the moment Steve and I were naked
in bed together it was easy to push aside the cares of
the world for a few hours as our bodies responded to
each other and the animal pleasures of two men who are
physically and emotionally close took over.

Thinking about it now I can see some of the milestones
of those early years:  the establishment of our
business, that I have outlined above, and then the
struggle with dad as he insisted that I marry as he
wanted me to have grandchildren and heirs!  I really
didn't want that at all, as the thought of breeding
with a woman repulsed me - how ever much I watched the
studs and mares in our breeding sheds, I could never
see myself in that position.  But at that time dad
still held all the purse strings and all the power,
and so I didn't have much choice, did I?

I made a plan, though.  I decided that if I was going
to have sons, they should grow up from the word go
with service, respect and love from a loyal and
trustworthy slave, as I was now experiencing from
Steve.  My sons deserved the best, and they should
have that from the first moment.  I was planning a
trip to Atlanta to begin negotiating for some
additional parcels of land to add to or demesne, and
told Steve to accompany me.  He liked these occasional
trips away, and I allowed him to dress casually for
them, as if he was more of a friend and companion
(which of course he was), than a slave:  typically,
tight jeans very low slung below the hips, and a
skinny T whose hem did not quite meet the belt line of
the jeans, so a delicious strip of his bronzed muscle
was revealed (and the hint of his trimmed pubes quite
often - the jeans were that low slung!).  I'm not sure
he really liked the attention that all this brought
him, but, as I kept explaining to him, what was the
point of me owning such a magnificent specimen as him
if I couldn't make other men jealous of my good
fortune?  I mean, in years gone by I'd have turned up
in some hugely expensive foreign sports car to display
my wealth, and Steve was only performing the
equivalent of this display of my good fortune.

Anyway, after I had finished one of my meetings (Steve
sat quietly in the corner during them - I found his
presence could distract some of the men with whom I
was negotiating, with highly beneficial outcomes for
me), we were strolling back to the hotel when we went
past Scabbard and Drass, possibly the most prestigious
dealers in the South.  I went in, and Steve followed,
looking very puzzled.

A salesman at once saw I was a potential purchaser -
my expensive clothes and commanding air clearly stated
that I was the sort of man who could afford to shop in
Scabbard and Drass - and came up and bowed
obsequiously.  "You are of course looking for a slave
for yourself, sir?", he began.

"No, not at all.  My slave here....", I gestured at
Steve, and before I could continue the salesman cut in

"Quite, sir.  A magnificent specimen, if  I may say
so.  It's so rare to see a mature whitey in such
excellent condition.  But our tastes can change, can't
they, sir?  And we will of course be delighted to take
him in part exchange against your purchases."
Without faltering, he turned to Steve and in a
different tone of voice entirely snapped "Boy, get
naked, so I can appraise you properly."

A look of pure terror shot across Steve's face, and
for a moment I thought it was quite amusing to let him
continue to think that I'd brought him there to sell
him.  So I stayed silent as the salesman rapped "Get
those fucking clothes off, boy, now!  Or do you want
me to call the guards to prod you?"

Slowly, and reluctantly, very reluctantly, as if he
couldn't believe it was happening to him, Steve
grabbed the hem of his T in his big hands and pulled
it up over his body and his head - as he did so of
course his muscles rippled for our pleasure, and I
couldn't help seeing that his nipples were erect as if
he was somehow stimulated by being forced to perform
this act for us.  He stood there then, looking at me
pleadingly as he began to fumble with the buckle on
his belt.  But before anything else could happen, the
salesman spoke again.  "I'm sorry, sir....", he said
to me in a low voice.  "But we couldn't possibly take
this slave in part exchange.... his back....."

"It's of no consequence....."

Again the salesman cut in "Of course it doesn't spoil
the look of him from the front, sir.  But scars like
that tell of such a severe whipping that it implies a
very disobedient or unruly slave.... Our more
discerning patrons, even those who enjoy a 'bit of
rough', simply will not buy a slave with such a
history...."

"I was going to say", I interrupted, "That it's of no
consequence as I have no intention of trading-in the
slave:  personally I find that now he understands the
consequences of annoying his owner, he is more than
adequately attentive to my every need, and if he ever
needs reminding of it, I only have to run my hands
over his back.  But before you interrupted me I was
about to tell you that  I am not here to sell, but to
buy:  I want a bitch, about seventeen years old, a
virgin."

"Ah, sir, when  I saw you with that stud I thought for
a moment you favoured taking your pleasure with men.
But we have a selection of nigga bitches who might
please a man of your evident fashion...."

"I don't want a pure-bred nigga.  I was thinking of a
whitey...."

"Oh sir, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there simply
aren't any seventeen year old virgin whitey bitches to
be had, irrespective of price.  We haven't even had
any young whitey bitches through here for many years.
If that truly is your requirement,  I can only suggest
you attend one of the federal auctions where young
delinquents are sold off after  their enslavement -
but then I suspect it will be hard, if not impossible,
to find a virgin.... Delinquents usually start early,
experimenting with sex...."

I could see that he was probably right, and so I said
"Very well.  But what do you have?  Show me some
octoroons, or even quadroons.  But I insist on a
virgin - the age does not matter all that much -
sixteen to twenty would do.  But she must be
large-framed, as she will be giving birth.  And I do
not like very pronounced nigga features."

The salesman nodded, and clearly understood that I had
very definite requirements and that it would be no use
even attempting to show me other stock.  He gestured
politely and said "If sir would like to come to one of
our viewing rooms and take a seat, a slave will bring
you refreshment and I will go to the stock pens and
select some specimens for your pleasure."

I went to follow him, and he continued "...and perhaps
you could ask your slave to wait in the street?"

"No.  He is my personal slave, and he accompanies me
everywhere!  And I will need his advice on the
purchase I propose to make."

"It's highly unusual, sir.  We usually ask owners to
keep their personal slaves outside as we find that the
slaves can be unsettled at the thought of others, just
like themselves, being offered openly for sale...."

"My slave is properly controlled and disciplined, as I
have explained.  There is nothing to be concerned
about.  Now, please take me and show me the available
stock, before I decide that my time could be better
spent with one of your competitors."

I was led into one of the private show rooms - the
salesman having correctly determined that for the kind
of stock I was looking for a considerable spend was
involved and that therefore it was worth paying some
attention to me -  and was seated in a comfortable
chair very close to a small viewing "stage" on which I
assumed the stock would be positioned.  There was no
seat for Steve, so he stood behind my chair, and
although I could not directly see him I could sense
the tension in his body, smell the intoxicating scent
of his sweat which had broken out in a glistening
sheen over his taut muscles, and could hear his
breathing, shallower and quicker than was normal for
him when he had not been labouring hard.  Evidently
the thought of being in a slave dealership had
affected him, as the salesman had suggested it might.

A young slave came in to offer me a drink, compliments
of the house, and evidently he had been selected t o
inflame the senses of potential clients and make them
more receptive to acquiring a new slave for
themselves: he can't have been more than sixteen, but
he was pleasingly well muscled and the skimpy tunic
revealed just enough of his body to suggest that there
were many delights concealed there - I didn't bother
to resist the temptation, and as he was speaking to me
I slid my hand up his firm thigh (pleasingly covered
in silky blond hair) to feel the tension in his
rounded butt.   He instinctively wanted to move away
from my grasp, but his training held as after a small
movement he stood there as I felt him, and barely made
any perceptible motion as I slid my hand between his
thighs to cup his balls and toy with his dick.  As I
was doing this I could almost palpably feel Steve's
disapproval, but examining the boy like this certainly
did put me in a better mood for purchasing.

The salesman only had four bitches for me to see, and
two of them were immediately less than satisfactory
and I ordered them to be taken off the stage (although
one was a quadroon and the other an octoroon, both had
features which too clearly spoke to their nigga
ancestry, and I prefer slaves around me in the
domestic setting who have more of a traditional
European look).

I'm no real judge of female slaves - they interest me
so little that I've never really understood their
finer points and what makes a "good" one and what
turns that into "highly desirable".  It seemed to me
that Steve was keenly interested, though, especially
when the salesman ordered the two remaining slaves to
first remove their tunics, so that their breasts were
visible to us, and then,  taking my seeming
indifference as some sort of encouragement, to remove
the small g-strings that were concealing their sex
from us.   Once again, the whole thing left me
uncertain - I really could not judge which was the
best.  It occurred to me that they should be commanded
to turn around, bend over, and pull their buttocks
apart so I could see their ass holes, as I would do
when buying a male, as it would perhaps be interesting
to consider this aspect of them in case I ever did
want to experiment with taking a woman for sex. But
then it struck me that one was older than the other -
in her mid twenties, perhaps, rather than in her late
teens.

It seemed to me that I'd get more years of  usage out
of the younger one, and having ascertained that they
were the same price, clearly the cost of ownership per
year for her would be lower.  So, other things
considered, this was to be the one.  But it was
sensible to check, so I said casually "Steve, you're
the expert when it comes to women.  I'm thinking of
buying the younger one - pop up there on the stage and
inspect her for me, will you?"

"Sir, this is most irregular...", the salesman began,
and I countered "I assume I can handle the goods
before purchase?  And I am merely exercising that
natural requirement through my slave instead of  doing
it personally."

Steve looked a bit embarrassed as he climbed onto the
tiny stage,  and then very, very hesitantly began to
run his hands over the young girl's body.  Mind you,
he seemed to be a natural at it, and I almost felt
jealous:  once he cupped one of his breasts in his big
hands it seemed to be so natural for him to caress and
fondle them, and allow her nipples to grow hard in his
palm.  Finally, he stood there, an almost inane grin
on his face and I could clearly see his dick was
violently erect, judging by the very prominent bulge
in his jeans.

"Is she OK, Steve?" I asked

He grinned.  "Yes, sir!"

"Well test her virginity, will you?  I asked them to
provide virgins, and I don't want to be sold used
goods."

He looked at me almost desperately, and muttered "Sir,
please, don't....."  It seemed stupid to me that he
found it OK, even stimulating, to fondle her body, and
yet was squeamish about toying with her sex.

"Come on, Steve!  You're always telling me how
experienced you are with women.  It's simple enough,
isn't it?  Get those fingers of yours in there...."

"Sir, please, no... It's not right, a young girl like
this..... And in public....."

"I'm not public, Steve!  I'm your owner, remember?
And she's a slave I'm thinking of buying.  Now, do as
I say."

Very reluctantly it seemed to me, Steve crouched down
so that his face was close to the girls belly.  He was
looking up at her, trying to give her reassuring looks
as he wrapped one of his arms around her well-rounded
ass to steady her, then slowly, shyly, almost, began
to insert a finger into her.  She whimpered slightly
and wriggled around a bit, but she seemed to find
Steve's hold on her, and his innate gentleness,
somewhat reassuring.  He continued to probe at her,
then took his fingers out, stood up in one smooth
gesture, and as a lot of men do, almost instinctively
sniffed at his fingers.

"Well?", I demanded.

"I reckon so, sir.  I don't think any man has used
her."

"Well, I suppose you'd know...."   I turned to the
salesman and began to negotiate on price.  I didn't
get very far, as he could see that I clearly wanted
the bitch. And of course he'd heard Steve give me the
reassurances I was seeking about her general condition
and her virginity, so I hadn't got much negotiation
space, had I?    Nevertheless we concluded a
satisfactory bargain, I handed over my credit card,
and the bitch was mine.

We took her back to the demesne in the car with us -
the dealership did offer a delivery service (at
additional charge), but I was keen to progress my plan
and it was not sensible to waste additional days.
When we stopped for refreshments on the way, Steve of
course could not join me in the free men's restaurant,
and so I gave him a few new dollars and told him to
get himself something, and to take good care of the
bitch, in the slave section.  Afterwards, I noted as
we drove off that they seemed to be a little more
relaxed together, and until I ordered her to be
silent, she was occasionally even trying to talk to
Steve as he chauffeured me.

End Of Part Fifteen