Date: Sun, 30 Apr 2006 23:47:08 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Slave Show, Part  Sixteen

THE SLAVE SHOW

By Pete Brown.   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part  Sixteen


Julie was really pleased for me, and said that she'd
be sorry to see me go!  She'd almost got used to not
being able to use the back garden because of the tent
that Joe and I shared, and "she liked to see two big
men with hearty appetites who really appreciated her
cooking" as "Dan was always so tired and never really
tucked in like we did."

I think it was only then that Dan realised I could
leave, and on our way to the station the next morning
he was really "down", and finally blurted out "How
long have we got, Steve?"

"I'm not leaving...."

"But you've got all that money now.... You could go
off, start a new life...."

"Without you, Dan?  No way.  And you'll never leave
Julie and the kids, even if I asked you to. I reckon
I'll be around here for ever, mate."  He almost ran up
the station steps then, looking much happier.  Or
perhaps it was just that our conversation had delayed
the very tight morning schedule we ran to in the
mornings, and we could hear the train screeching to a
halt.

It did get me thinking, though, and two Saturdays
later I loaded Dan, Julie and the two boys into the
car after I'd taken Joe off and got him started
working on a garden, and drove then about twenty miles
further out.  We stopped in front of a ramshackle
house, with all the windows broken, tiles falling off
the roof, rubbish piled all around.

Dan and Julie looked at it, as I said "This is it!
Our future."

When they looked dumbfounded, I went on "Look, Dan's
stuck there doing that junior job, waiting for someone
to die so he can be promoted, and all the time killing
himself with the commuting.  The boys are growing up
never seeing Dan.  And I can't get work except for
this gardening stuff - it's OK, and it keeps me fit,
but I want to do more.  And we've got the opportunity
now - I've got all that compensation, and if you sell
your house and take the profit once you've paid off
that ridiculous mortgage, I reckon we could just about
afford this...."

"It's a wreck...", Julie started.

"Yes, but a very interesting wreck!  The main house
has four big bedrooms, which is what you need for your
family.  And downstairs there's a big kitchen and a
huge living room, and another room that I reckon we
could use for business.  But out the back there's the
old stables block - it's in pretty bad shape, too, but
I reckon it's mostly superficial and it's a lot better
than it looks at first sight - there's no structural
problems.  Some really hard work and we could have
this place habitable in a few months.  And then
there's the land - it comes with ten acres, as it was
a smallholding or something, but they can't make that
pay any longer with all the huge farms running on
slave labour."

"So I sell the house", Dan started, "And we do this
up.  But then what?  I already spend half my life on
the train, and this is twenty miles even further out,
and there's a worse service here..."

"But you won't be commuting.  Look, I reckon there's
money to be made in training and showing slaves for
rich owners:  like we do for the Captain, with Joe.
We approach rich owners and get them to pay us to get
their slaves into tiptop condition, and then to show
them to their best advantage.  Think of it like race
horses:  owners never do anything to them - they pay a
trainer to house the horse and keep it fit, and a
jockey to ride it.  Well I reckon we could find some
people who'd like to show slaves, have all the fun of
collecting the trophies at Cruft's and stuff like
that, but who don't want the bother of training the
salves and keeping them up to the mark.  I'll get them
fit - and that's where the land comes in  - and Julie
will groom them, and you, Dan, will show them.  You
know that you 'handle' a slave well, and that makes a
huge difference to how well the judge sees them...."

"You're mad, Steve!  It's a wreck....  We don't have
any contacts.... It's too risky....."

"Dan, mate, think, will you?  Do you want to work for
someone else for ever, and maybe never get promoted?
Never spend time with Julie and the boys?  This way
we'll be our own bosses, with any reasonable luck
we'll make a lot of money, and you'll be working from
home, seeing the boys all the time, working with
Julie...."

"But the risk.... I can't...."

"Daniel!", Julie cut in.  "Stop that.  You always are
a worrier.  This is a fantastic chance that Steve has
come up with, and I think we should almost fall on our
knees to thank Steve for getting even this far!  I
worry too, Dan, but about you - you're wearing
yourself out with all that travel every day, and we
hardly ever see you.... I married you because I wanted
to be with you, Dan, not because I wanted to run
what's almost a hotel for a man who just comes in late
at night, and who is then too tired to do anything...
Dan, we've got to do it - for both of us, and for the
boys.... I want them to have a father who's involved
with them, for Christ sake!"

"Jules, it's too risky!  If it fails, we'll have no
home, nothing.  And I'll get indentured...."

"...and it's Steve who saved you from that already,
remember?  He got Joe from the Captain, and all the
gardening work.  You were going to be indentured
because of debt anyway.  So you're no worse off.  So
stop being such a wet blanket."  As she said this,
Julie put her arms around Dan and hugged him and
kissed him, and I felt, for a moment, an insane pang
of jealousy.

I made it sound easy, that we'd fix the place up, and
get slaves to train - but it wasn't!  It took months
to get the place in shape, and during that time Dan
and Julie and the boys had to live in an old caravan
on the site as their house had been sold.  Joe and I
stayed in the tent, now pitched inside the old stable
block.  And Dan was away even longer, as we couldn't
afford to let him give up his job immediately.  The
lads from the Sunday football were fantastic, though,
and came most Sunday afternoons to help with the
plumbing and rewiring and carpentry and stuff, and we
made it into a sort of "family" thing as they brought
their wives and girlfriends and kids, and Julie made a
big lasagne and stuff, and organised games on our
fields.

I'd decided that I ought not to sleep in the house,
even though there was a spare room as, frankly, it was
just too painful for me to hear Dan fucking Julie all
the time.  So when we re-did the stables block I
designed it so that at the end nearest the house there
was a big room for me with a small private bathroom,
and this opened into the main space where the slaves
would be kept, with a big communal shower at the far
end for them.  It took almost the last of our money to
minimally kit the place out with narrow beds suitable
for slaves, and by keeping them close together we
fitted in twenty (well they don't really need privacy,
do they?  And it encourages a proper feeling of
"community" if you can hear the bloke  in the next bed
to you wanking).    Joe slept in the bed just outside
my door - well, nominally he did, but most nights he
would end up in my bed.

Julie worked so hard, cleaning everything and choosing
the paint and stuff like that (although I made her
paint the slave quarters white, as slaves don't need
fancy conditions), and as soon as we could we cleared
out the ground floor room in the main house and fitted
it out with a table and some cupboards, and "Julie's
Slave Grooming" was open for business.

We'd taken Joe to a Show in Norwich, as both Dan and I
needed a break from the months of work we'd put in,
and because we needed another "success" to please the
Captain, and to launch our career: Jason had visited
us occasionally and had promised to "place" and
article about this new method of slave owning when we
were ready, but said he needed a "handle" for it.  He
thought that if we won at Clacton with Joe, he could
tell the world that this was a tried and tested
system, and that owners ought to be queuing up to use
our services.

There was the usual crown of owners and slaves we
knew, and as we all swapped information (and we handed
out our business cards, as we wanted word of our new
business to spread), we asked where Trent was - he'd
moved on from being a "pup" as he had been when we
first met him and was now a "youth" as he must have
been nineteen at this time.  It seemed that he and his
owner had dropped out from showing about six months
ago, though, and I filed this away in my brain,
wondering why - there was no time to ask more as we
needed to get Joe properly prepared.

Joe did us proud, of course, and I spoke to the
compere so that when they announced the winner he told
the audience "Joe, owned by Captain J Mainwaring, and
trained and handled by Dan from Essex Slave Services."
 We then spent quite a lot of time receiving the
congratulations of the crowd and letting them
photograph Joe as he stood there naked, using it as a
good opportunity to tell even more people about how
easy it could now be to own a prize slave.

"Fucking hell, Steve!", Joe complained to me that
night as we lay together in bed.  "You might have let
me put my show shorts on after the prize giving,
before all those bastards started to take photos.  The
shorts are revealing enough, but it's a bit much being
starkers...."

I gripped his cock companionably, and laughed.  "I
reckon you find it a turn on, Joe!  It's even turning
you on just thinking about showing this off to the
world.  Pity we didn't see Trent, though - he was with
us that first time I was showed, and I've kind of
followed his career."

"Oh, the other slaves said he'd gone 'wild' so he
can't be shown any longer."

"Gone wild?"

"See, you trainers don't know everything!  I was
talking to some of the other blokes in the rest area
when you and Dan were going around pressing palms, and
they said that he'd been getting more and more
difficult.  You know how it is when lads start to
mature - he was sixteen when you first met him, so
that must make him about nineteen now, and it's tough
controlling a man as he matures like that.  A lot of
lads have family rows, get drunk, that sort of thing.
Well it's worse for slaves in a way, as their bodies
are maturing but they have to learn to subjugate their
feelings of wanting to grow and mature mentally as
they have to stay as obedient slaves.  It takes a firm
owner to teach a young slave to continue to behave
properly whilst at the same time letting his body
mature properly.... And I guess that fat slob who
owned him couldn't do it - I mean, a man who can't
control his own eating so he stays in reasonable shape
isn't likely to be able to discipline a slave
properly, is he?  So I reckon Trent went 'wild', as we
call it - normal late teenager development for a free
lad - and started to disobey, and therefore he's no
good for the show ring."

When I'd taken Dan to the station the next morning I
rang up the British Society Of Show Slaves and did
some research - they had Trent's records of wins, and
were able to give me his owner's address.  I decided
on action, rather than more phone calls, and drove the
thirty or so miles to the house.

As I walked up the path  I could hear loud rock music
booming out, and when I pressed the bell there was no
let up in it - there was some shouting, and then
nothing, so I rang again.  Finally the door opened,
and there was Trent's owner, sweating and looking ill
at ease, and I could see there was a vacuum cleaner
standing there and surmised that he'd been using it.

"You're that freed slave Steve", he said, and I
nodded.

"Can I come in?"

He took me into a small morning room or study, whose
small size was made worse by the clutter of trophies,
papers, books, and assorted slave training
paraphernalia that covered every surface.  The rock
music continued to boom out, and I looked at him,
cocking my head to indicate that it would be good if
we could actually hear ourselves speak.

"I'm sorry... But that's Trent's favourite...", he
began.  "He's still in bed, and he likes to play his
music whilst he thinks about getting up."

I looked at my watch instinctively, as you do when
someone mentions time.  "Still in bed?  A slave?  It's
almost eleven - did you keep him up late last night?"


"He was out until about midnight, I think - some of
the young slaves from around here get together to play
their music and drink.  But fortunately it's not at
this house until next week...."

He saw me looking in astonishment, and went on,
uneasily  "It's so difficult, with these young
slaves....."

"I take it you're not happy with his behaviour then?"

"No.  But what can you do?  Short of whipping him,
there doesn't seem to be a solution. And if I have
Trent whipped, he'd be no use for showing again ever,
as however careful they are they always seem to leave
some permanent scarring."

"So you would like to show him again?"

"Oh yes!  I miss the shows.  It was my hobby.  But
Trent's so out of condition...."

"Can I see?"

He nodded, and gestured to the stairs.  I bounded up
them, and pushed open the door where the noise was
coming from.  There was a body lying curled up on the
bed, and I marched over and turned off the CD player.


"What the fuck....  I've told you to knock before
coming in here, and never to touch my things....."  As
he said this, Trent turned over and saw me standing
there.

"Who the fuck are you?  I told Fatty to bring me a mug
of tea.... Where is it?"

Frankly, I was incensed.  I almost snarled at him
"Slaves stand up when a free man comes into the
room...."

"Fuck off!  And tell Fatty to be quick with my
tea...."

I took one step towards him and pulled the covers off
the bed.  He was lying there in boxer shorts, although
they were tented at the front as I suspected that he'd
been wanking.  "On your feet, Trent."

"Hey, fuck off, will you?  I'm tired...."

I grabbed his arm, and pulled him across the bed and
kind of dumped him on the floor.  He sprang up then,
coming at me with fists flailing.

Well, I was stronger and fitter than he was, of
course.  And I was a skilled fighter from my army
days.  So he didn't have a chance.  Within seconds I
had him immobilised with my arm around his neck, and I
hissed "Stop struggling, or I'll choke you...."

"Stop it... You're hurting..."

My other hand reached into his boxers and grabbed his
balls, and gave them a squeeze.  He screamed, and I
hissed again "Now, stand still and stop struggling!
Or do you want  more?"

He went limp as I held him, and I said in a calm voice
"That's better.  Now, you're a slave, right?  And a
slave obeys a free man.  So I'm going to tell you now,
and tell you once only, that when I let you go you're
to stand up straight in front of me, then strip off
those boxers so I can get a good look at you."

I loosened my grip on him and he moved away from me,
then made a dash towards the door, shouting "Help!"

I'd been expecting something like that, of course, and
simply tripped him up so that he sprawled on the
carpet.  Looking around the room for something
suitable to use,  I saw one of those magazines that
covers new wave music, and reaching for it with one
hand, I grabbed hold of Trent with the other, sat down
on the edge of the bed, pulled him across my knees,
and ripped his boxers down.

"Now, slave, I told you what to do, and you disobeyed.
 This is what happens to disobedient slaves..."

At first the sheer unexpectedness of what I'd done
held him still, but he almost immediately tried to get
up from across my knees. So my fingers probed into the
back of his neck until he screamed, and I then kept my
grip so he had to lie there.  A  rolled up magazine
makes a most satisfactory instrument to beat a bare
bum with (we used to do it in the army to "haze" the
new recruits), and it has the advantage that it
doesn't hurt the palm of your hand as a bare-arsed
spanking does.  And after eight strokes Trent, like
almost all the young lads new to the army, was sobbing
away and begging me to stop.

I let go of his neck and pushed him off my lap onto
the floor, where he slowly turned over.  "Bastard...",
he muttered.

"Boy, if I hear one more word like that from you I'll
take you to the bathroom and clean your mouth out with
soap.  Now, I gave you an order a couple of minutes
ago - stand up, stand up straight, and get those
boxers off so I can take a good look at you..."

He slowly got to his feet, and reluctantly pushed his
boxers from where they were marooned around his knees,
to the floor.

"Inspection position, slave!  You've been to enough
shows to know that!", I snapped, and I was pleased to
see that he parted his legs, bowed his head, and put
his hands behind his head.

Trent's owner came into the room then, having kept out
of the way before, and I started to go over Trent's
body with him.  "He's potentially a very good show
slave", I muttered. "He was an excellent pup, as I
remember, and he ought to have matured well.  But look
at this...."

As I said it, I pinched a roll of skin between my
thumb and forefinger at Trent's waist. "Gone to fat!
How on earth did this happen?  A man of nineteen ought
to have a hard, flat belly, even if you don't want the
six-pack look.  A man's belly can be firm without
being over muscled, but this is disgraceful."

My fingers cupped his left tit and squeezed his nip,
causing Trent to flinch and making me snap "Steady!",
before I turned to the owner again and commented
"...and the same here, too.  Fat, just under the
surface.  A young man's peeks ought to be something
that feels good under your hand."

I skinned  Trent back, and it was good to feel him
coming hard under my hand.  "I remember him as having
a nice-sized cock.  But why hasn't he lost this yet?
It's the breed standard now, you know..."

"Well, Trent didn't want it...."

"I see.  And how is he to fuck - is he good?  Is it
worth me examining his arse?"

"He won't let me fuck him...."

I took the owner by the arm.  "Please go downstairs,
and I will be with you in a moment."

After he'd left, I saw Trent shaking slightly.  "You
ought to be afraid, boy!  I've never seen such a
disgraceful display!  In bed at this time of the
morning, loud music, calling your owner names,
expecting him to serve you rather than you serving
him.... And then this nonsense of not letting him fuck
you!   Now, bend over the bed, spread your legs, and
pull your bum open for me...."

"No, please..."

"I've thrashed you once, boy, for disobedience.  Do
you want more?"

Trent went and stood there, and lay down, his bum
overhanging the edge of the bed and his cock actually
looking quite interesting as it hung between is spread
thighs.  I unzipped my fly and let my jeans fall to
the floor,  but didn't bother to take my boxers off,
instead just letting my cock poke through the fly.
"Right, boy, this is just a trial!  I want to see how
eager your arse is, so I'm not going to fuck you
properly, just enter you.  I haven't got time to ease
you or anything, so if you want to scream, go ahead -
but bite on the sheets or something, as if you make
too much noise it will anger me!"

Frankly, although he had a nice arse I didn't
particularly want to fuck him as I like to make
fucking part of a proper experience in bed.  But as
those of you who own them know, there's nothing like
your slave feeling your cock entering him for
reminding him of what he is - your chattel, to be used
as you please. And so I did think that I needed to do
this now to get him readjusted to the idea that he was
slave.  And he did squeal a bit, even though I was in
fact very gentle as I forced my way into him, so I had
to use a bit of force to hold his head down into the
mattress.

Although I didn't fuck him, when I pulled out of him I
did make him kneel in front of me and suck my cock
clean of his ass juices, before allowing him to tuck
it back into my boxers.

"Shower and shave", I snapped at him.  Then wait in
the hall downstairs.

The owner was delighted with the proposition I had for
him:  a six month contract for us to get Trent back
into "show condition" - nicely toned and toned,
trimmed, etc.  He was to pay extra for the 'skinning,
and agreed that the slave could be used sexually and
punished in any way that we considered appropriate.
As with Joe, we were allowed to enter him into
competitions, provided we gave prominence to his
owner, with the prize money shared fifty-fifty.  I
shook hands on the deal, and said that I would take
the proper contracts around tomorrow.

"I think it might be better if I took the slave now",
I added at the end. "In his state, he might be tempted
to run, and that would be very bad indeed...."

"Oh quite... Now he knows I'm done with him..."

"Oh please don't think of him like that, my good sir!
Essex Slave Services will deliver him back to you in
six months, totally transformed:  you'll gasp at his
beauty, and marvel at his obedience.  And, with a bit
of luck, he'll have been re-established on the circuit
as a prize winner.  We'll enter him for shows until
the end of the year, too, so you'll be able to resume
your enjoyment of slave showing immediately."

I went into the hall then, and Trent was standing
there, half tearful, half angry.  He'd  pulled on some
sort of disgusting T that I would never let a slave
wear, with a big logo on it saying "Fuck the world!",
and his fashionably baggy jeans were slung low on his
hips.

"Please, sir, please don't let him take me....", he
started to whine at his owner.

"Shut the fuck up, Boy!", I snapped, raising my hand
as if to strike him.  "And I told you to shower and
shave.  Who told you to dress?  Get naked.  Get naked
NOW!"

Still looking pleadingly at his owner, but scared of
me as I was looming close to him, Trent pulled ofd the
T and let the baggy jeans fall to the floor.  He had
on small, expensive, designer briefs that actually did
emphasise nicely his cock, but the sight of his flabby
belly above the waistband, which would not have
enhanced a free man of his age,  was grossly
objectionable in a slave.

"Does naked mean something different here, boy?  You
won't be needing clothes for the next few weeks whilst
we lick you into proper shape!"

You wouldn't have thought he'd have been worried by
stripping in front of his owner and another man, given
his history of being shown, but he clearly hated it.
And he hated it even more as I led him down the drive
into the car.  When we got there he seemed still to be
in a truculent mood, and so I said calmly "Trent, are
you going to behave, in which case you can sit in the
front seat, or shall I put you in the boot?"

"Steve, you can do what you fucking well like....."

I slapped him, hard, on the face, and he staggered
with the blow before turning and hurling himself at
me.  It was stupid, of course - not only am I a better
fighter than he is as I was trained and poised whereas
he was untrained and angry - but I had clothes on,
including my heavy work boots, and he was naked.  As
the old saying goes, "Age and experience will always
defeat youth and enthusiasm", and so it was now:  I
simply parried his hurtling body and flailing fists
and pushed him, holding out my leg, so that his own
momentum caused him to go flying to the ground.  Then,
to show him that such behaviour wasn't acceptable, I
kicked him a couple of times - you learn in the army
how to do that to prisoners on the battlefield, so
that you kick hard enough to really hurt them and
incapacitate them, but not so hard that you break any
ribs or damage their internal organs.

As he lay there writhing and gasping, clutching his
chest and belly with his hands, I remained icily calm.
 "I'm sorry about that, boy, but you've got to learn
again how to behave as a slave.  I slapped your face
as I'm a free man, and unless a free man has given you
permission to do otherwise, he's always referred to as
'sir'.   But I've hurt you now deliberately, in the
hope that your body will remember that you never - I
repeat, never - retaliate physically when a master
punishes you!  This is your only and final warning,
Trent:  if you ever - I repeat, ever - raise your
fists to me again I will have you castrated."

"You can't do that....."

I kicked him again, causing him to cry out and writhe
around once more.  When it subsided and I thought I
had his attention again I went on "Castration is
sometimes the only remedy for a slave who is
physically belligerent, Trent, as once the hormones
stop raging through their systems they calm down.
And, yes, I can have it done:  the agreement I will
take to your owner tomorrow to authorise your
retraining and showing, specifically gives me as the
trainer all the rights than an owner possesses in you.
 That includes the right to punish you physically, and
to apply to the Courts for whatever harsher remedial
measures are deemed to be necessary - and it may
interest you to know that the courts rarely refuse a
castration request, especially when it's for a strong,
young slave who has a history of physical
interventions.  The courts take the view that a master
would be right to be concerned about what such a
strong young slave might go on to do, and will order
the castration in the greater interests of society as
a whole."

I reached down and grabbed his arm, and hauled him to
his feet.  We stood there then, face to face, me calm
and him grimacing with pain, sweating, and angry.  I
purposely gripped his arm very firmly, to exert my
control over him, and went on "You may hate me now,
Trent, and I don't like having to hurt slaves - but
you are dangerously close to being out of control.  I
saw how little respect you have for your owner, and
then you went on to attack me:  you need to be
retrained and reminded of the proper modes of slave
behaviour.  In a way you're lucky that I came along
today, although you may not see it like that just at
this moment - if you had gone unchecked for much
longer I fear that you might have become irredeemably
bad.  We used to see a lot of lads like you joining
the army - almost no-hopers, who'd thrown away their
chances of a good education by not working hard at
school, and who were idling their time away living on
the dole and falling into sloth and petty crime.  It
was amazing how some proper discipline and good hard
work could change them  into proper soldiers, proud of
themselves and confident in their role in life.  So
this is your chance, Trent - I will turn you into a
proper slave, happy and content:  you're going to have
to work at it, but I know you can do it, with some
'encouragement' from me!"

He was still glaring at me, but hadn't said anything.
I finished by saying "It can be frustrating for a
young bloke to have to buckle down and obey, but if
you ever feel like hitting out at me randomly again,
don't!  If you want to lash out at me, as I represent
the authority that you resent, tell me so and we'll
square up properly and fight - but I warn you that I'm
hard and tough, and there will be no holds barred and
I'm likely to hurt you, hurt you a lot.  But if you
have to do it, do it that way:  bruises heal, in time,
whereas there's no way of replacing lost testicles."

He still stood there silent, breathing heavily and
glaring at me.  "Is that all clear, Trent?"

"Yes".  The monosyllable was almost spat out.

I pushed him away from me slightly, still holding him
firmly by the arm, then slapped the other side of his
face hard, the "crack" ricocheting around the suburban
road.  I felt his body instantly tense, but my firm
control held and he stood there glowering at me.

"Trent, I told you to show proper respect.  Now, try
again.  Was that all clear?"

"Yes.  Sir."  The "sir" was a long time coming, but I
knew I'd won this round of what might be a long
battle.

"Good, Trent.  I think you might be getting a little
sense.  Now, if you're going to continue to be good, I
think I'll let you ride up front - the boot gets
pretty cramped, and hot and sweaty on a long journey."

Like a lot of blokes, Trent had a series of erections
as we drove along - it affects me that way, sitting in
cars or on coaches or trains, but mine were decently
covered by my jeans whereas Trent's were exposed - he
made some attempt to hide them with his hands as he
sat there, but he was well hung and didn't succeed.
And when I told him to 'skin back at one point so I
could get a better look at his cock head, he did so,
but glared at me.   He'd have to be 'skinned, of
course, as the new breed standard meant we had little
hope of winning prizes with his cock head concealed,
and I was pleased to see that it looked good - so many
blokes have a big, thick shaft but a slightly
undersized head, and I always think that looks a bit
odd.  Trent, though, had a head just that important
fraction larger in diameter than the shaft,  making
for a most pleasing sight.

Once we got home, I took Trent into the former stables
and pointed at the bed next to Joe's.  "Joe's out
working, but will be back later.  In the meantime you
can clean this place up - there's a bucket and mop in
the cupboard, and I want it gleaming by tonight with
the floor polished, all the blankets neatly folded on
the other beds, and the showers and lavatories
pristine and gleaming.  I'll inspect everything when
Joe gets back, and if there's any dirt anywhere,
you'll lick it up with your tongue!  And if everything
is not absolutely square and perfect, you'll be
spanked and go to bed without food - not that you're
going to get much anyway, as we need to get you back
to a proper weight for a young bloke:  that belly of
yours disgusts me!"

I turned and went to walk out, and he called after me.
 "Sir, please.... Where's the TV?  I like to listen to
the music videos...."

I just laughed. "You mean you used to like to listen
to music videos, Trent!  Now you don't need
distractions like that - you're here to work, and I
want you to focus your mind totally on that."

Julie was in the kitchen, and I told her we'd acquired
a new trainee and she at once began fussing about not
having enough food, and finding space for him at the
kitchen table, which is where we all usually ate.

"Don't worry too much about the food - he needs
slimming down, and for the first week at least I'm
going to give him only a small, measured portion of
slave chow.  And I think it's time we began how we
mean to continue:  it was OK to have Joe in here, but
as we take on more trainees  it will do them good to
remember that they are slaves, so we'll feed them out
in the stables.  When we come over to eat tonight I'll
send Joe back with his food and he and the new boy can
eat together."

"Joe will be hurt, Steve - he's almost like one of the
family..."

"Yes, Julie, but he's not!  He's a slave.  And I'm
going to make him a kind of 'head slave', to actually
supervise most of the training when Dan and I are busy
and away at shows.  So he'll need to be there, keeping
a close watch on the others, and, as I said, we may as
well start as we mean to continue."

I'd been in the army long enough to observe how the
sergeants and officers struck terror into the new
recruits by their "inspections" of kit and the
barracks, and I used those same tactics on Trent:  I
made him follow me as I ran my finger over the window
ledges and the tops of door frames, closely inspecting
it for signs of dust.  And in the showers and
lavatories I did the same thing to the gleaming
porcelain - fortunately I discovered that Trent had
not cleaned right under the lip of one of the
lavatories properly as I detected a faint smell of
piss on my finger.  I held it under his nose, and said
quietly "Do you remember what I said you'd need to do
if I found any traces of dirt, boy?"

"No, sir..."

"Don't lie to me, Trent!"

"Sir, you said I'd have to clean it off with my
tongue."

I smiled at him.  "I'm glad to see you're learning,
boy.  So get to it.  On your knees, and around the rim
of that lavatory with your tongue..."

"No, please, sir...."

I slapped his bum hard this time - and I am very
strong, you will remember."

"Are you defying me, boy?"

"Sir, no, sir...."

"So get to work."

I watched as he slowly got to his knees, then gripped
the edge of the bowl with his hands as he lowered his
head.  I could see his body making heaving movements,
and he was making a huge effort to stop himself from
retching.

The point of this is not to actually clean the errant
item, of course, but to humiliate the recruit to get
him to understand that he has to do it properly in
future, so I only kept Trent there a few seconds
before I told him he could get up.  Then I made him
follow me as I poked at some of the folded blankets on
the unused bunks, deliberately pulling some of them
open to check there were no creases, and slapping his
bum again when I found some supposed flaw in one of
them.

"That was tolerable for a first attempt, boy", I said
at the end.  "But tomorrow you will clean and polish
this place again, and this time I want to see it twice
as bright and shining."

He just stood there, looking miserable, and I knew he
would come through this - the recruits all went
through rebellion, then dejection, before learning
pride in their work.

Joe was, as Julie predicted, really unhappy though
when he was handed his dinner on a plate at the back
door and told to go and eat it in the stables with
Trent, and to take a very small bowl of slave chow
over for the boy.  And I wasn't all that surprised
when I snuck over a few minutes later to see that Joe
had cut off a portion of his roast beef and was
feeding it to Trent to supplement the chow.  I know
it's insubordination, and less experienced trainers
might at once wade in and punish both of them;  but
those of us with some experience of taking the
indisciplined young and turning them into properly
schooled and useful members of society know that
"bonding" and "esprit de corps" is important, too.  In
the terms that I understood, I could be a hated
officer, whereas Joe could be a sergeant, faithfully
obeying the officer but at the same time showing a
little compassion for the raw recruit.

I followed this strategy that night, too, when I
turned away Joe as he came into my room to bed.  "No,
Joe - sleep out there.  And if you want to fuck that
Trent, get stuck in!".

Please don't think that I was unduly harsh in my
dealings with Joe and Trent - it hurt me as well, you
know, to have to lie there an wank myself without the
comforting feeling of Joe in my bed.  But sometimes
you have to do what you have to do, if you're really
going to make thing happen in this life.

End Of Part Sixteen