Date: Thu, 15 Mar 2007 04:26:55 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Slave Revolt, Part Nine

THE SLAVE REVOLT

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part Nine

In the blacksmith's shop they collared me: not a slim,
elegant steel one as Rob had fitted - they cut that
away with the blacksmith's metal shears. No, this we a
standard, heavy, cast iron "worker's" collar - one
whose very weight makes you keep your head slightly
bowed, and which is designed to shout your slave
status to the world as well as to serve as a constant
reminder to you of your role in life. It was riveted
in place, and to go with my other hurts I also had a
small, burned spot on my jaw where a shred of
near-molten iron shot off as the blacksmith was
hammering it home. I was to discover that there's
another problem with collars of this type which had
not been present in my special stainless steel one:
they never succeed in getting he edges totally smooth,
and so as the collar rests on your collar bone, the
edge chafes and scrapes away at your skin: you get
blistering and chafing, and then a running sore that
takes ages to heal - and soon the constant abrasion
means that you grow a ring of hard scar tissue
around your neck. I reckon it's deliberate - it would
be easy enough to make the collar smooth, I'd think,
but they do it this way to serve as a further constant
reminder to you that you are in fact collared.

As if having the heavy collar wasn't enough, thick
metal cuffs were then similarly riveted around my
wrists - again, they were not particularly smooth, and
I could tell that I was going to be very sore from
them before too long.

Once all this had been done, the guard told me to put
my hands behind my neck, which I did, feeling the
unfamiliar weight of the iron cuffs pulling at my arms
as I did so. He fiddled around for a moment, then I
realised he'd locked together the "D" rings on the
cuffs to the one on my collar, so I was now held in
that position. "OK, boy", he said "Now we can go off
and find the drays. I'm still not sure about you, but
now you're fastened like that I don't think you'll be
any real problem to me: a slave cuffed as you are now
is very stupid if hemakes trouble, as his whole body
is so totally vulnerable."

With that, he led me off and we walked across from the
house and general work areas and out on to the open
areas of the demesne, in search of the drays and their
wagon. As we moved through the fields I saw that the
same methods of "urging" the slaves on as had been
used
before were still in force, but much more vigorously
so: the naked slaves, men and women both, were secured
to their coffle chains by their collars, but now,
instead of an overseer using a tawse as a general
"encouragement" in the case of slacking, the new breed
of overseer did not hesitate to beat the slaves at
every opportunity. And beat them hard, too: I'd been
tawsed occasionally when I was working on the dray,
and although it stung your shoulders at first,
there was little permanent damage. The guards now
though used a variety of tawses, canes and whips to
drive the coffled slaves to ever greater efforts, and
many of them had quite distinct weals and even some
bleeding across their backs and butts. In the old
days, too, they'd never used female slaves out in the
fields except at harvest time, and only then in
separate coffles from the males. Now though it seemed
to make no difference at all about the sex of the
slave, as the coffles were randomly mixed, and the
females were expected to do all the same tasks as the
males. I really felt sorry for them - I mean, having
to work naked all day coffled together was bad enough
as it was - think of how much worse it would be if you
were coffled between two women!

We found the drays eventually toiling along with the
wagon about two thirds full of building materials. My
guard called to the "driver" - who was walking along
beside my three nigga buddies - and old him that our
owner had said that I was to be added to the dray
team.

"A good job, too!", the driver replied. "With only
three of them we've only ever managed to get them to
drag the cart about two thirds full, and only then
with a lot of beating. With a fourth, we'll go back to
full loads: that's then in line wit the new directives
about getting a whole lot more effort out of the
smaller number of available slaves. This dray used to
be pulled by six, but four, properly driven, can be
made to do it."

My guard just shrugged, and the two men proceeded to
undo my hand from my collar - something for which I
was heartily glad as walking for any length of time
like that really is pretty miserable. They put me into
the shafts to make a "balanced" four, and then to my
surprise my
wrist cuffs were fastened securely to the shafts. We
were off then, and my tortured, wounded body really
did find it hard to take the strain - even with the
cart only two thirds full. Once we'd dumped that load
and had the dray filled to capacity, it was simply
awful.

When I'd worked with the drays before it had almost
been as a "favour" to my owner, to help out at
harvest, and other peak times. The six drays had
enjoyed their work and had laughed and joked, and had
really liked having me help out. They were free, in
the sense that when we got to a loading or unloading
point they could put down the shafts and help. And as
we went along, if you needed to piss or anything, you
could drop out temporarily on an "easy" stretch and
then take up the load when you'd done. We'd had a
"driver" of course, but he was generally pretty good
to us and only used his tawse - and then lightly, I
suspect - to "help" us late in the afternoon to get
the dray up hill (as you may know, the body keeps back
a store of energy for emergencies, and however hard
you want to, you can't normally use this voluntarily.
The encouragement of the tawse was usually sufficient,
though, to get that "last ten percent" out of us, to
enable us to complete our tasks for the day).

Now, though, things were very different. The amount of
effort all four of us had to put in was much, much
greater, and there was no laughing and talking: any
attempt to speak to each other was met with a barrage
of blows from our driver. We were not "encouraged" by
the tawse at the end of the day, but beaten and
flogged almost continuously as we strove to pull the
fucking dray, which was really overloaded for four,
rather than six, guys. And when I needed to piss,
there we no stopping, not even for a moment: we were
never uncuffed during the day, and all of us had to
piss as we trudged along (and, as I was to discover a
day or two later, this applied if we'd mistimed our
crapping: you just had to drop a turn as you stood
there, too!). It made me feel exactly like an animal:
they'd taken away all my freedom of action, the last
scrap of free will I possessed.

I was hurting so much by the time we got back to the
stables that night - my wounds from my owner's savage
beating hurt like fury, and the terrible throbbing
from my hand reminded me constantly of the new brand.
To go with all of this I was utterly and totally
exhausted from the sheer harshness of the dray task
now. All four of us sank onto the straw in our stall,
and the driver dragged the shackles across from the
wall and secured our right ankles so there was no
possibility of escape - well, that bit at least was
usual: as I've explained - for drays, as part of the
"tradition thing, we were always shackled at night.
Except that these shackles were now of the
same heavy iron of our collars and cuffs, and were
attached to the wall by heavy chains, so that even a
small movement involved dragging a whole lot of stuff
behind you.

Still, it we good to be back with the guys again, and
I dragged myself over to where they were sprawled
together in some sort of companionable heap, as I
remembered them doing. But instead of greeting me as a
long-lost buddy, one of them snapped "Fuck off,
Steve."

"Hey...."

"Fuck off! Stay away from us - you've done enough
already!"

I crawled closer, hardly able to believe what I was
hearing, and the three of them set on me! Look, you
know I was in the marines and I was a trained fighter.
But in my weak state, with every movement hurting like
fuck anyway, there was no way I could resist the three
of them, who were big strong guys themselves. They
started to comprehensively beat me up, their massive
fists pounding into my belly and chest, before they
turned to hitting my face and aiming one or two blows
to my balls. It was all pretty brutal, but mercifully
it was over in two or three minutes, I suppose. I just
lay there, blood pouring from me, curled into a foetal
ball both in an effort to stop any more blows hitting
my most sensitive parts, and also to give my
battered self whatever comfort was available.
I just couldn't understand it - I mean, these three
guys had been my buddies. What the fuck was happening?

Or driver reappeared then, carrying a big bowl and
muttering that it was now rations for four, he
supposed, and put it down on the straw. He studiously
ignored me, as if he didn't want to become involved,
and left. The three drays fell on the food - hard, dry
slave chow, I noticed, not the tasty stews and
vegetables and fruit we used to get fed - and consumed
every bit, leaving absolutely nothing for me. In spite
of my pain I tried to ask them to keep some for me,
and one of them shouted "Scum like you don't get no
food - not from us!"

I was too tired, too exhausted - and, I suppose, too
powerless - to do anything and just lay there, moaning
feebly. I could hear the three of them muttering and
talking (although instead of normal English they
lapsed into the deep, slave patois that I found hard
to understand). It seemed that they blamed me for
everything: if I hadn't "persuaded" them to run from
the rebels, their two companions would not have been
shot, the third would not have been crucified, and
they would not have been gelded! It was all my fault -
if they'd joined the rebels, they might have escaped,
have been free men....

"It wasn't like that....", I managed to mutter. "You'd
all have been burned alive...... And if you had joined
the rebels, you'd all have been crucified by now...."

They weren't going to be dissuaded from their view of
events, though, and one of them got to is feet, came
over, and kicked at me and told me that I was like all
whiteys, always selling niggas down the river, and
always telling lies to trick niggas. And that I'd
better keep my filthy whitey mouth shut in future, or
they'd beat me again as they didn't want to hear any
more of my lies.

I couldn't believe it! But what could I do? I just lay
there, and I suppose I ought to be grateful for the
fact that I did eventually manage to sleep for an hour
or so. The next morning was fucking awful, though - in
addition to everything else, I could hardly see
because of all the swelling from my beaten and bruised
face. And when the driver came to give us our morning
feed, the three niggas pushed me away without my
share. Desperately hungry now, and almost unable to
make my body work, I was nevertheless herded out into
the yard with the threat of a prod, and manacled into
the dray.

It still seems incredible to me that I got through
that day - I suppose I have got a strong will as well
as a strong body, and they teach you not to give up in
the marines. And in some ways it got easier as the day
progressed - whether my wounds were healing, or I was
so used to the pain that I ceased to notice it! And
when we were shackled in our stall that night the
driver fed us as usual, but then tossed me a handful
of chow (which I had to pick out from the straw) as he
had perhaps seen what was going on.

If this was to be my life in future, then it was
simply hell on earth, that just had to be endured. In
the next weeks my battered body gradually recovered,
although when I ran my hands over my back and my
thighs, I could now feel the scars from the beatings;
and I knew I was no longer the same handsome guy I'd
always been, I suppose: catching sight of myself in a
piece of polished metal I saw the drays' beating of me
had broken my nose and it had re-set itself
asymmetrically. It was so lonely, too: the drays
refused to have anything at all to do with me, and
even though we were forbidden to speak during the day,
they made no attempt to do so at night, either, and
totally excluded me from any contact with them. The
driver soon gave up showing me any special
consideration as far as feeding we concerned, and I
had to start to fight the drays to get my share: they
soon discovered that it was better to toss me some,
rather than have me thrashing around at feeding time
and upsetting it all so we all had to scrabble for it
in the straw. I never got enough, though, and I was
constantly, desperately hungry and I knew that my body
was wasting away as it tried in vain to keep up with
the sheer physical demands of the work. Indeed I was
so hungry that on those rare occasions when we were
allowed free use of our hands for cleaning out the
dray between crops, I would scoop up any few remaining
grains of corn or rice, or half-mouldy vegetables, or
whatever was lurking in the corners, and cram them
into my mouth.

I don't know, but I reckon that if I could have, I
might have tried to kill myself. But constantly
chained and manacled, there was no opportunity. I was
so dreadfully unhappy though, and my body hurt almost
constantly from the work and the whippings. And it was
all so fucking unfair - I think that's what made it
worse! I ought not to be dragging the dray - my owner
ought to have been grateful to me. And even if I was
doing this work, the nigga drays ought not to be
treating me like this: I had saved their miserable
lives, after all. I know men aren't supposed to cry,
but some nights, curled into a ball there on the
straw, cut off from everything I used to be, I
sometimes found tears streaming down my face (although
I never made a sound, as I wasn't going to give those
bastards the drays any excuse to further humiliate
me).

Still, at least I had my balls - although that was
another source of anger for the drays, and problems
for me: about once a week some nigga bitch or other
from the estate would be dragged into the stables and
I was required to "cover" her, as it had been decided
that
lighter-skinned niggas would be worth more in the
future, and so a whitey should stud them. The niggas
hated seeing me fuck the bitches, not only because
they said that niggas ought to be kept pure and not
"defiled" by white cum, but of course because I could
do it, and it
reminded them very forcible of their gelding! There
was real trouble when a young sixteen year old nigga
was brought in one day - the driver stood there and
stripped off the simple shift that was all the bitches
got to wear if they were house slaves. She at once
tried to cover herself with her hands, evidently not
at all used to the idea of being stripped in front of
the driver, me, and the niggas.

"OK, Steve - get stuck in!", the river commanded me.
"I haven't got all night...."

She began to cry and whimper as she saw me approach
her (and I suppose I must have been a bit of a
fearsome sight, as I towered over her, my body was
black and blue with bruises, and there were several
open wounds from that day's caning on me). I tried
everything that I could
to calm her down, putting my arm around her and trying
to play with her small, apple-sized tits a bit in an
effort to relax her. I did get a bit turned on, of
course - well, this studding was about the only
"human" contact I ever got - and as my dick erected
she began to struggle and scream even more. The drays
were all shouting and swearing and straining at their
shackle chains in an effort to get to me, uselessly,
of course. I slid my fingers into her slit, thinking
that a bit of stimulation might help her out and get
her to see that this could be fun, and everything got
even worse.

"Fucking get on with it, boy!", the driver snapped. "I
haven't got all night. And neither have you, judging
by the amount of pre-cum you're leaking".

It was true, I suppose - I was excited. As I said, you
can't imagine how good it is to feel contact with
another human being when you've been denied it for so
long. So as gently as I could I scooped her off her
feet and lay her in the straw, then, comforting her as
much as I could, I entered her. Look, I know I'm a big
guy, with a big dick: but I can be gentle, very
gentle, when I try. So there was no need for her to
carry on screaming and crying as I began to slip into
her -
well, that's not quite true, as I met an unexpected
resistance, and had to really push for a moment to
break her virginity. But after that I really was
gentle, and if she'd even half way co-operated, she
might actually have enjoyed it.

Afterwards, when the driver had taken her out, still
crying and sobbing, I stood there with her cunt juices
on my bloodstained dick, and made the mistake of
moving a bit towards the drays, saying "Hey, guys,
look....."

They grabbed me! As a bit of a treat that night, the
guard had thrown some of the big, misshapen carrots
that we'd been carting around all day into our stall -
the ones that would never sell, as they were not up to
the specification that the food markets require: I had
been
wondering how I might persuade the drays to let me
have one of them to gnaw on, but they had their own
ideas.! After they'd stopped punching me (my nose was
streaming with blood again and my guts were really
aching), they threw me down onto my back, one of them
knelt on my chest, pinioning my arms to the ground
with his knees, and they grabbed my legs and pulled
them up so he could hold them under his arms. His dick
was hovering over my mouth, and I thought he was going
to piss on me for a moment - as it was, the sight of
the terrible
scarred area under his dick where his balls had been
was vile enough - but they had other ideas: the third
dray took the biggest carrot there was and proceeded
to ram it up my ass.

I screamed and begged him to stop, but one of them
shouted "This is what you did to that poor young
nigga, Steve! Now, how does it feel, to have something
forced into you like that?"

"But I can't help it! They make me stud - you know
that! I don't have any choice. If I hadn't fucked her,
they'd have beaten me, and she'd have been fucked
anyway as they'd have got some other stud to do it."

"She was a young nigga, Steve. A Virgin. And you
defiled her.... And we're going to make you
suffer...."

"Look, I told you - it's not my fault.... If I don't
stud, they'll geld me, probably...."

"Like we've been gelded, you mean? Sounds good to me.
In fact perhaps we'll rip your balls off: that will
teach you...."

I was in agony as the rough, dirty carrot was
systematically thrust in and out of my ass, and with
no stretching or lubing, I was worried that some of my
membranes might be ruptured - it certainly felt bad
enough. There was no way I could get free of the three
of them, and they carried on, seeming to enjoy my
screams and shouts, and laughing with each other about
what it would feel like if they were to bite off my
balls - one of them knelt right over me and took my
balls into his mouth, and I wasn't sure he wasn't
serious about doing it! As it was, he crushed them
nastily with his tongue against the roof of his mouth,
causing me to cry out even more vigorously.

It was fortunate that all this noise attracted the
driver back. He came in and began to beat at the drays
with his cane and even prodded one of them - I got
part of the shock from it, as the dray was on me at
the time.

"You're animals, all of you!", he screamed. "It's bad
enough you fuck with each other like this as beasts
would, but it's forbidden to make all this noise - the
master might hear, as we're near the house! I won't
tolerate these animal debaucheries, and you all
deserve a good whipping! And I'm particularly
surprised at you, Steve - you've just had a good fuck,
and there should be no need for you to indulge your
vile sexual practices. Still, what can we expect, from
animals like you? Still, no more of it, understand?"

I was going to tell him that he was wrong, that they
were all but raping me, but what was the point? I was
so used to being misunderstood and blamed for
everything by now that I went into a corner, at the
far limit of my shackle chain, where the drays could
not reach me, and tried to sleep - or, rather, I tried
to sleep after I'd teased the carrot out of my ass.
And I have to confess that as usual, I was near
starving: so I cleaned my crap off the carrot as best
I could, and lay there munching at it and savouring
the totally unexpected treat. This is how low my life
had fallen.

Still, I had to survive, somehow, I suppose. Whilst
there's life, there's hope as the old saying goes. And
so the next morning I had to fight the drays for some
part of the food as usual, and I knew I was going to
endure another day of totally unrelenting toil, and
punishment.

We were dragging the dray up one of the small hills
(no hill is actually "small" when you're already at
the limit of what you can do and it then appears in
front of you!) And of course our driver was lashing
and slashing at us to make sure we actually did manage
it. Suddenly there was a shout of "Stop!", and we all
stood there - although we had to start to dig our
heels in, to prevent the heavy dray from slipping
backwards.

There, on a huge stallion (a real one, as our owner
had a number of saddle horses as well as pony slaves
for his rickshaw), was a young guy. I looked at him,
barely recognising him at first, and saw that it was
Rob! I went to call out, and the driver's whip cut
across my shoulders, causing me to howl in pain. Rob
peered down at me from his horse and said "Is it
really you, Steve... You've changed...."

"Yes! It fucking well is me! And I've..." I got no
further ,as the whip came down on me again, and the
driver called out "You speak only when spoken to! And
then only to say yes or no, you fucking animal!"

My heart began to race as I thought that rescue had
come at last. Now Rob had seen me, I would soon be
unshackled, and I could almost feel the tingle of a
warm shower on my skin, the sensuous touch of cotton
sheets as I slid into a real bed.... But then my hopes
were dashed as
Rob turned to the driver and said casually "Carry on,
driver", and rode off.

For the rest of the day I felt, if that's possible to
conceive of, even worse than usual. To see freedom
almost in my grasp, and then to have it dashed away
like that. I was in despair by nightfall, and could
not even be bothered to fight for my share of food - I
just curled up in the corner of the stall, and wished
the world would go away. I was in total despair, and I
think I was nearer to killing myself then that I had
ever been before, or since: somehow dashed hopes are
much, much worse than having no hopes to begin with.
Why had Rob turned his back on me, ignored me like
that? Hadn't I saved his life, kept him alive all that
time we were on the run from the rebels? Hadn't I
looked after him as best I could, kept him warm at
night, treated him like a brother, almost? So why did
he ignore me like that? And why was I still here in
the stall, and not with him in the house?

As we were being taken out to the dray to be manacled
in the next morning, one of the guards came up to our
driver and told him to leave me behind. I stood there
in the yard, shivering slightly (it's chilly in the
early mornings, before the sun gets properly up, when
you're nude), watching the drays go off to work, and
wondering what was going to happen to me. The guard
did not say, but I was taken through to the end of the
stables and allowed to spend as much time as I wanted
under the shower - not all that long, actually, as of
course the water was not heated for slaves. Still, it
was good to get properly clean - usually we were just
driven through it quickly, to get the worst of the mud
and dirt off us, and we never really got clean. They
clipped my cuffs to my collar so that I was more or
less helpless, then told me to bend down over one of
the hitching rails used for the real horses. I
wondered why, but soon found out: the young slave lad
who did stuff like changing the straw in the stalls
came over, took a rag,
which he proceeded to soap liberally, and started to
clean my ass crack! He didn't stop at the crack,
though: the rag was stretched over his finger and be
began to poke it up my asshole, twisting and turning
it so that the rag really "cleaned" me. I couldn't
help moaning slightly - well, it is kind of sensual to
have a soapy finger up your ass, isn't it? Then he
rinsed the rag out in a bucket (it was pretty well
covered in my crap), and repeated the process, and
then did it again with clean water, rather than soapy.

"Just in case your owner wants to inspect you
properly", the guard said, laughing. "It wouldn't do
for the boss to get his finger covered in crap, would
it? It's OK for young Sambo here, but not for the
likes of the boss!"

I was led into the house, once so familiar, and up the
back stairs, to be told to wait with my nose and toes
pressed against the wall outside my owner's workroom,
just as I had the last time. Could this be my freedom,
I wondered? But after the way that Rob had ignored me
yesterday, I began to doubt it. My hopes would rise,
but then I beat them down, telling myself that that
way lay total disappointment and despair. And perhaps
it was just as well, as when I was finally allowed in
(all my body aching from having to stand so
unnaturally immobile, with my hands cuffed behind my
neck, for so long), there was only my owner there and
not a sign of Rob.

"You really are a stupid fucker, Steve!", he began. "I
thought a spell as a dray would punish you for daring
to join the rebellion. I was looking forward to having
you back as a house slave, especially once I had
enjoyed that ass of yours, but that is now impossible.
I have this pile of reports here from the guards and
the dray driver saying that you do not work properly
with the other drays, and that you spend your time in
fighting them, or when you're not fighting,
engaging in obscene sexual practices!"

"Sir, I don't...."

"Silence! If I had any doubts before, you have just
confirmed them. You're still the same old Steve,
always arguing. How dare you deny you have been
fighting! How dare you deny that you were being
sodomised by the three drays! I have the reports
here..... And the guards all say that it's always
worse immediately after a studding - I thought I was
being generous, in giving you an outlet for your
sexual energy by allowing you to stud, but I can see I
was wrong: it only drove you to new excesses of
demonstrating your superiority over those poor
unfortunate geldings."

"Sir, it wasn't like that, they...."

"Silence! I always thought of you as a man, Steve, a
real man, one who was not ashamed to admit his own
errors and wrong-doings. But now I see you're a
snivelling, whining cheat, trying to blame others...."

"No, I....."

"Silence! And, worse than that, you're one whose
insubordination and refusal to obey his owner has
reached new heights. Well, Steve, far from teaching
you a lesson in obedience and humility, I can see that
your time with the drays has actually made you even
more likely to
disobey me. I can't therefore take the risk of letting
you work back here properly. And it would be grossly
improper of me to sell you on to some poor
unsuspecting new owner who had not come to grips with
your disgraceful wiles and sneaky ways. So there's
only one thing for it, Steve: and it's entirely your
own fault - your true nature has shown itself, and
you've been proven to be incapable of acting as a
loyal obedient slave."

He looked at the guard, who had been standing there
with his prod at the ready in case I should cause
trouble, and snapped "Take him out and cage him. The
veterinarian is calling this afternoon, and I will
tell him to geld this slave - that will be the only
way of calming him
and making him no longer a risk to anyone else."

"NO!", I screamed. "Please, sir, not that! It's not
fair, sir..... I didn't....."

"Your very words betray you, Steve. No slave who was
truly obedient and respectful of his proper place
would dare to speak to his owner like that, to argue
with him.... "

"No, it's not like that! I....."

My owner nodded, and the next moment I was writhing on
the floor as the tip of the slave prod stabbed into my
bare belly. And if you've seen a slave who's been
prodded at even half power, you'll know I was in no
fit state to say anything else.

The guard summoned another, and with me still
suffering from the effect of the prod, they half
carried, half dragged me out of the house and back to
the stables. I was forced into a small cage - one of
those where I had to kneel on hands and knees and
crawl backwards to get in, and the door was shut and
locked in front of me. I couldn't move at all, as my
face we pressed against the bars at the front, my back
was touching the top, and my feet and butt were
against the bars at the rear. One of the two guards
pushed his hands through the bars at the side and
cupped my balls as they swung loose between my thighs.

"Nice!", he told his companion. "My old lady would
love a guy with balls like this - although mine are
pretty big, they don't swing low like his.... Fuck me,
can you imagine dangling these over the mouth of some
bitch and telling her to suck them in...."

"Perhaps you could have a transplant!", his friend
laughed. "This one's not going to need them after this
afternoon - he's being 'seen to' by the vet."

"Fuck me, the boss must have come into money! With
slave prices the way they are, a whitey like this who
could stud must be worth a fortune. He's losing
thousands of dollars by having him gelded...."

"I suppose he can afford it. They say the stock
market's recovered after the revolt - it fell right
away. Perhaps he bought at the bottom, and now he's
sitting on a fortune. Or suppose...."

"Oh shut up, will you? It doesn't matter much does
it?"

"Well not to me and you. That slave looks pretty sick
at the thought of no longer being a man, though!"

He was right! I felt physically sick, and terrified.
This really did look like the end of the line for my
life as a man - and whilst you may think that being
made to stud nigga bitches is pretty degrading, I can
tell you it's a whole lot better than being a gelding!
I could think of no way I was going to get out of
this. I'd been totally misunderstood by my owner,
abandoned by Rob, and there was clearly no escape from
this cage. I knelt there in utter despair, and even
the
pain from my cramped limbs couldn't distract me from
contemplating the awful future that awaited me.

End Of Part Nine