Date: Mon, 8 May 2006 00:10:08 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Slave Show, Part  Nineteen

THE SLAVE SHOW

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

Part  Nineteen

Once we had Joe back "home" life did indeed become a
bit easier - as there was now no question of showing
him, we no longer needed to make sure he was in
first-class "ready" condition, and could start to use
him properly as my back-up and general assistant.
He's a really nice bloke, actually, and if he hadn't
been a slave he's the kind of man I'd like to meet
regularly to go for a few drinks with in the pub, and
to watch the football on TV with.  Mind you, if he
hadn't been a slave, I'd probably never have got the
chance - he'd have been stuck in some awful suburb of
little boxes, with his missus and two point four kids!


Joe had that knack of getting on with everyone - Julie
really liked him, and after all she'd done to get him
sold to us at a knockdown price, he seemed to hero
worship her, and was always hanging around the house
offering to do chores that were not really his
responsibility, and look after the kids if she wanted
to go off for the afternoon, and that kind of thing.
Julie reciprocated by insisting that Dan and I treated
Joe "properly" and invited him to join us for supper
at least once a week, something that he looked forward
to immensely.  He'd sit there at the table with the
three of us, and he'd never say much - just tuck into
his meal, take seconds if he was offered them, then
tell Julie how much he'd enjoyed it.

Somehow, seeing how Julie treated him as if he was a
man inflamed me, and after one of these weekly meals
I'd usually fuck him particularly hard.  No, that's
not quite correct: I usually fucked Joe two or three
times a week, and it was usually hard - he had a big
muscled bum, after all, which needed ploughing
properly, and you expect a strong man like that to lie
there and take it without thrashing around and crying
and screaming.  No, after one of those suppers, it was
as if I had a special urgency to get my cock up him,
and when we'd both said goodnight to Julie and Dan,
I'd walk back across the yard to the stables with my
hand gripping his neck to remind him I was in charge,
and then I'd almost rip his clothes off him before
throwing him down on the bed so I could get started.
He was big and strong, as I've told you, and if he'd
not been a slave, or even if he'd been a free man and
resisted minimally, it would have been difficult.  But
Joe seemed to almost enjoy the experience of being
taken so forcibly, and I sometimes wondered if all the
stuff he'd occasionally tell me about missing women,
and wishing he'd been able to be married, was just
rubbish.  Or perhaps all men secretly want to be
dominated and controlled, as I now mastered him.  Who
knows.  And who cares, really - when you're really
having a hard fuck, who bothers about the motives of
the guy whose arse you're ploughing?

Joe was good with the other slaves, too.  We had a
fair turnover, as they were generally only there for a
couple of months, and Joe seemed to have this knack of
"taking them under his wing" and getting them broken
in to the tough training regime pretty quickly.  And
as he was so big and strong, I almost never had to
worry about disputes and rows in the barracks - Joe
was always in there, sorting it out with his fists if
necessary.  What was surprising, though, was how
tender he could be with some of the slaves, especially
the younger and weaker ones.  It was particularly
obvious with the cook - after I'd taken his cherry, he
seemed to go through a very "down" patch, but Joe
noticed this and began to take the cook into his bed
whenever I didn't need Joe.  After a couple of weeks
the cook seemed to recover his spirits, and after that
hung around Joe rather like a puppy does after his
master.  Still, Dan and I were glad - Joe and the cook
were, after all, quite substantial investments for us
even though on the global scale of thing they were not
all that expensive, and a happy slave is a much harder
worker!

Although the business was doing very well, and both
Dan and I generally enjoyed the work, like anything
you do need fresh things to keep you occupied.  My
visit to the slave auction to buy Joe had sparked off
a few thoughts, and one day Dan and I sat down to
seriously review the business.  We were very
profitable and were actually able to start putting
money aside, making real savings for our future, but
Dan was always concerned that the fashion might
change, or we might run into a string of bad luck and
our trained slaves would stop winning - I suppose he
always had concerns for Shane and Liam, and needed to
make plans that would ensure that they were
financially secure.  I didn't have quite those
concerns, but I certainly didn't want to lapse into
debt and be indentured again - once is enough!   We
decided that in addition to these slaves in training
where we picked up regular fees, there might be money
to made in buying slaves on our own account, training
them up to be prize winners, and then selling them on
at a profit.  Dan talked to our accountants, and this
was ever more attractive in terms of the tax treatment
as the regular training fees were "income", whereas
profits on slaves we bought and sold received more
favourable treatment as "capital gains", and we could
anyway offset more of our costs against the
theoretical profits.

Dan thought that I was a better judge of the male form
than he, and so it fell to me to scour the local
auction marts and dealers, looking for "bargains".
But it was tough - any reasonably good looking ,
young-ish slave with a well proportioned body and
"potential" tended to be snapped up by the foreign
dealers for export to places like Arabia, where
"whiteys" were much in demand as the rich there were
tired of an almost endless  supply of Arabs similar
themselves, and having had slavery for much longer
than us, they were simply bored with the Asiatics and
niggas who were so readily, and cheaply, available.

Having been a slave myself, it was at first rather odd
to be going around selecting blokes for training -
every now and then I got a strange feeling of how I
might react to having this big tough man examine me in
the most intimate detail, 'skinning me back, stroking
me to an erection, and even pushing his gloved finger
up my arse.  I have to say that, perhaps drawing on my
own experience, I tended to judge slaves who resisted
and protested  as potentially better buys, as their
initial hatred of the system could be "turned", so
that their natural desire to fight it would result in
them working extra hard on the course.  And, of
course, a man who hates being used sexually but who
has understood that he has to submit, is somehow much
more of an exciting prospect than one who submits
meekly, or even gladly.

The dealers gradually got to know me, and even to
value my opinion - if I "spotted" a slave with
potential but then failed to get a good deal and
therefore didn't buy, they could anyway take him out
of their general stock, do some small amount of
"preparation" themselves, and sell him for an enhanced
price.  So it was a not unpleasant way of spending a
couple of days every month, and if I fancied sex, the
dealers were always more than willing to let me do a
"trial run" on any of their stock.    I have to say I
wasn't bad at it, either, and at least half of the
slaves I bought and trained turned into champions,
netting us a very good profit.

I had an even better idea a few months later, and
teamed up with our local dealer to "filter" the slaves
for me.  He would be on the look out for those "with a
chance", and then I could go over and take a look at
them before they were offered to the general public -
he gave me a special "regular buyer discount", as he
called it, although in fact it was a way of paying
less as the owners sending their slaves in to be sold
got a lower price because the slaves were not exposed
to competitive bidding.  In turn I cut him in on a
small percentage of future winnings, and this worked
well for everyone (except the original owners, I
suppose).

One day Dave, this dealer, called me and said he had a
particularly interesting property, and now I had time
to pursue this as Joe could be left in charge of the
exercises out on the course.  I asked Dan if he wanted
to come, but he was busy with that year's returns to
the Department Of Trade And Industry and said he was
wrestling with what Industry Standard Classification
we were in:  were we "Other Establishments Giving
Training And Education", or more properly "Livestock
Management And Other Related Services"?

"Does it matter, Dan?  Come on, have an afternoon off
- let's go and look over this bloke Dave has lined up
for us - and we could stop somewhere on the way....?"

"Steve, it does matter.  There are fines for making
the return late, or wrong.  So I've got to call them,
and it always takes ages to get through.  And don't
you ever think of anything else except sex?  My arse
is still sore from last weekend."  (we'd been staying
away at a show up in Manchester, and I'd had a great
Saturday night!).

Once Dan has decided something like that there's no
shaking him - I've told you he's very punctilious
about numbers and stuff like that - so I set off by
myself.  I quite like Dave, actually, and in normal
circumstances, if we'd met in a bar or somewhere like
that, I'd certainly have agreed to fuck him.  I had
offered, about the second time we met, as his office
was perfectly comfortable and private, and Dave had
thanked me but said he preferred to keep business and
private matters strictly separate.  We joked about it,
actually:  "How could I screw a good price out of you,
Steve, when I'd just finished screwing the daylights
out of you?", he used to say.  Perhaps it was just as
well we didn't get together and he discovered who
really did the screwing when I was around!

The slave he'd singled out for my attention was indeed
a beauty:  he was a nigga, about six foot three, and
twenty four years old.  Beautifully in proportion all
over, he positively shone with health and the best
feature of him was that he wasn't grossly over
muscled, but had a certain lithe elegance and grace
that I could see would appeal to the judges.  What I
thought was the real differentiate, though, was his
colour:  so many of the niggas we see in English shows
are the usual types from the streets, and they're
mostly shades of brown, varying from very dark to pale
coffee, reflecting the degree of integration and
inter-breeding that has been such a desirable feature
of our country.  This one, though, was jet black, a
really dark, inky black, and this simply emphasised
his white teeth and sparkling black eyes.  I just knew
that in the show ring, that jet black skin shining
with a faint sheen of slave oil could be a real
winner.  Dave told me he was an illegal immigrant from
one of those African countries in the Francophone
sphere, where there just hadn't been  the amount of
mixed-race marriages that the British had indulged in.
 At one time we used to deport these illegals as soon
as they were identified, but now it was considered
more beneficial to make them useful members of our
society:  I remember vaguely the row that went on in
Parliament as this amendment to the Involuntary
Servitude legislation went through, with one party
claiming that it took away their human rights, and the
other countering that if they wanted to come to the UK
so much, they could.  In  a typically British way we
compromised, and the legislation went through, but the
Home Secretary agreed to pay for an advertising
campaign throughout North Africa warning illegals of
the new risks they faced.

You'd have thought that after living most of his life
in some piss poor very hot country the slave would
have been used to going around nearly naked, but like
a lot of niggas he seemed to have that exaggerated
sense of modesty they show.  I mean, most men don't
like being forced to strip and display themselves, but
whiteys seem to get used to it pretty quickly
(especially if they know they're well hung, or at
least above average:  they are proud of what they've
got, and want to show their superiority to the other
men, I think).  But in my experience niggas really
hate having to strip off completely, and they always
try to cover their cocks and balls with their hands
rather than being proud of them - and I reckon it is
mostly true what the old jokes say, and that most of
them are much better endowed than most whiteys.
Still, you rarely see niggas in porn movies and things
like that, do you?  I suppose that's another facet of
this shyness.

Dave had evidently had some problems with him already,
as the nigga just didn't want to do as he was ordered,
and Dave had to get hold of his cane and threaten him
with it before he very reluctantly undid the
drawstring of his display shorts and dropped them to
the ground.  He was superb -  a beautiful long cock in
the same jet black as the rest of him, which was
carried on top of really low hanging balls:  he had
one of those sacs with a very, very long neck, before
the balls themselves hung almost below the level of
the tip of the cock.  I could see only two things we'd
really need to do to turn this one into a winner:
he'd need to be 'skinned, as I'd never seen a nigga
win a class who was uncut;  and, like a lot of niggas,
such body hair as he had was, frankly, ugly.  It was
very short and very tightly curled, so that the small
patch of it on his pecs looked more like dappling of
the skin than any sort of real hair, and his pubes
were similarly very tightly curled and looked more
like an unpleasant fungal growth than pubic hair.
Those of you who regularly attend slave shows will of
course know that it's very much the fashion for niggas
to be shaved completely smooth, mostly because of the
texture of their hair not conforming to that which
patrons like to see, and there's no loss of marks for
this (a whitey, of course, would be marked down if he
didn't display the proper amount of hair for his breed
type, but that's a different matter).

I thought I ought to take a look at his cock head, and
his arsehole, just to make sure there was no
unpleasant surprise in waiting, and I told the nigga
to 'skin back.  He didn't do anything, and, thinking
that he'd not understood me, I reached out to squeeze
the end of his cock to pop the head out.  He grabbed
hold of my wrist and began to shriek and jabber away
in his own language, and this was too much for Dave:
he's quite a powerful man, and he grabbed the nigga
and pushed him across his desk, then called to me to
hold his neck and shoulders down whilst he
administered eight strokes of the cane.

The nigga shrieked and cried, and it was quite a
struggle to hold him there, actually - for a young
bloke with the kind of slender body I've told you he
had, he was surprisingly strong.  And, I suppose, Dave
was a bit excessive in giving him eight strokes of the
cane - personally, I'd have stopped at four:  just
enough to let him know how much he could be hurt if he
ever did anything like that again, without verging on
the unnecessarily cruel.  Mind you, there is something
satisfying about the swish of the cane through the air
and the "snap" sound as it hits the bum, isn't there?
And it pleased Dave, evidently, so why should I care?
If he was in a good mood, the price negotiation would
be easier!

The jet black skin seemed to conceal the cane marks
rather better than a stark white bum would have done,
and as the nigga lay there sobbing I ran my hands
lightly over his muscular globes to assure myself that
Dave really had been thrashing him and not just
pretending.  Sure enough, though, the flesh felt much
hotter than usual, always the sign of heavy
punishment, and my finger tips could feel the ridges
running across the muscle.  Whilst there, so to speak,
I took a look at his arsehole, as I had been
intending, but I was as careful as possible in forcing
his bum apart as I didn't want to make him suffer any
more than absolutely necessary after the caning.

I suppose that I just don't show enough niggas to be
able to tell anything about their arseholes just by
looking - for a whitey, I can get a fair assessment of
how his arse is from looking at the way it's puckered,
and whether there's any trace of excessive usage.  But
the colour of the nigga really took away all those
visual clues, and I had to ask Dave for a latex glove
so that I could make a proper inspection.  As he heard
the snap of the latex as I pulled it on, the nigga
began shouting something in his own language again,
and now it was Dave who had to hold him there as I
tested him properly - he was agreeably tight, and
judging from the way he continued to object to my
fingers, I suspected he was probably a virgin.

Dave and I had quite a long negotiation, actually.  He
knew that the nigga could be a real prize winner, and
therefore wanted me to pay quite highly, and increase
his percentage.  I countered by pointing out that
although training this one was superficially easy as
he was in very good condition, the lack of proper
English was a real concern as he needed to be able to
obey orders promptly and accurately.  "And, Dave", I
added, "You've got to remember the effect on my other
slaves in training - bringing a nigga like this in
might cause upsets of all kinds, as some of them can
be really prejudiced."

"Surely you can control them, Steve?  If you want to
have niggas to train, that's your prerogative as
you're the master!"

"Oh I don't care about the prejudice - that's no
concern of mine.  No, I'm more worried that a
beautiful piece of male flesh like that will inflame
them so much that they're all forming a line to fuck
him.  I mean, not only is he highly desirable, but
there' the novelty value for most of them in fucking a
black arse.  And when you've got one of the slaves so
much more in demand than the others, it causes
problems in the barracks, I've found.   Still, it's
worth the risk...."

We continued to negotiate, but we'd both been through
all the arguments so many times before and both had a
pretty shrewd idea of the other's business, that it
was almost like a game.  Just as we were about to
shake on a deal, though, one of Dave's assistants
rushed in and said that he was needed urgently as
"That fucking little Scot was at it again."

"So, Dave, is it you in fact who can't keep the slaves
under control?", I joked, as he'd been suggesting I
had those problems a moment or so before.

Dave reached for his cane and asked me if I wanted to
accompany him to "see the sport", adding "We've got
this lad in for the next auction, but he's been
nothing but trouble.  He's always quarrelling with the
others, and when some of the other slaves try to tell
him to shut up, he gets really pugnacious.  Then one
things leads to another, and before you know where you
are, he's scrapping!   He's only sixteen, and to look
at him you'd think he'd have more sense than to throw
a punch at a mature man, as he's so slight and it must
be obvious that he'd lose in a fight.  But it doesn't
seem to stop him."

"A sixteen year old?  What's his indenture term?"

"Life."

"At sixteen?  Did he kill someone, or something?"

"No, Steve.  But he was taken into care when he was
about ten, and lived in a succession of Council homes
and stuff, all the time getting more and more out of
control.  The Social Services people took him straight
to Court on his sixteenth birthday and they used some
new provision in the Indenture acts to say that he
needed to be indentured 'in the publici interest'
before he actually committed real crimes, and having
reviewed his record of disruption and violence in the
various homes he'd been in, the judge agreed.  And the
judge thought that it was sensible to make it a life
indenture, as there seemed to  be little likelihood of
him ever 'reforming'.  So he got here last week, a day
after his birthday, and I thought he'd be going in the
sale next Tuesday - but seeing all the trouble he's
been causing, that's looking unlikely:  I can hardly
sell a known troublemaker, can I?  I've got my
reputation to think of...."

"So what will happen to him?"

"I hate to say it, but he really is so pugnacious that
I think the only solution is to calm him.  So I guess
it's off to the vet's, and then I'll auction him in
three or four weeks when he's properly healed."

"Jesus, what a life!  In Council care since ten,
enslaved at sixteen, and castrated a week later."

"I know, Steve, and I feel bad about it.  But what
else can I do, in all honestly?"

"I suppose you're right, Dave.  Reputation counts for
a lot, and in your position I wouldn't want to put a
'vicious' slave into the market.  I've never had to
have a slave calmed myself, but they do say it can
work wonders - I've got a mate, Ray, who works in the
hospital and does work for me on the side:  'skinning,
and that sort of stuff.  If you're looking for someone
to geld the boy, you could try him - I understand a
lot of vets won't do it now."

"It's like all that tail docking controversy that went
on in the first part of the century, Steve.  Everyone
said that it might be cruel to dock dogs' tails, but
the breeders continued to do it.  Then the vets
changed their ethical policy at their annual
conference so a vet would no longer do it, and before
long there were no more docked tails.  And I think
it's a bit like that with calming - there's no actual
prohibition on a vet doing it - yet - but it is hard
to get one who will actually make the big snip, even
when there's a lot of business at stake, as there is
here.  So I'll have the phone number of your mate...
But we'd better get off to the pens, before there's
any serious damage...."

As we strode across the yard I could hear shouting
from the slave pens, but it was the kind of good
humoured shouting mixed with jeering and laughter that
men indulge in when there's something going on that
shouldn't be.  I know from experience, though, that
this can quickly turn ugly, and Dave was right to be
concerned.

Although he was only in business in a fairly modest
way, Dave nevertheless had a good range of stock and
kept them in pens holding up to about twenty slaves in
each.  As was usual, the women were kept separate from
the men as the females were examined when they first
arrived for pregnancy and then sold as "with child" or
without, and it was clearly undesirable for a female
slave who was sold "without" then to be found to be
pregnant, as the new owner would rightly feel cheated
as he couldn't work her so hard.    I'd talked about
this to Dave once, and he'd explained it all to me.
"It's more work to keep them separate and I have to
have a separate pen for them, and it's not usually
full as there are relatively few females.  So it would
be good just to be ale to put them in with the men,
but it causes so many problems!  Either all the men
find them so desirable that they fuck them until
they're battered and raw, or one or more of the men
gets kind of 'protective' and starts to treat one of
the women as 'his', and that's a real problem:  he'll
fight all the others to 'protect' her, probably
causing damage to himself and the others, and then,
when they're sold to different owners as is almost
invariably the case, the male and female sulk and are
moody and hysterical and so on.  And then there's all
the menstruation stuff - most of the males don't want
to be penned with females who are bleeding, and if one
starts, she has to be taken out.... And so it goes on,
and on.   The customers like it as much of course, as
when they're just taking a general look at the stock
they find it very arousing to see the males and
females naked together in the same pen, but honestly,
it's so much bother that I've given up this marketing
advantage and keep them separate."


Dave pulled open the door to the building holding the
slave pens, and we went in.  I was well used to it as
when I was passing I sometimes came in just to cast my
eye over the stock in case there was anything that
Dave had overlooked, and I found the arrangement of
having groups of slaves together in the barred pens
quite convenient - Dave and his men usually managed to
make a rough kind of grouping so that whiteys were in
one or more pens, and the other races in others, so
looking them over didn't take all that long.  There
was no privacy, of course, and Dave had a useful
innovation:  the rear wall of each pen was a huge
mirror, running from floor to ceiling, so as a slave
stood at the bars in front for you to get a good look
at him, you could also see his rear in the mirror.
Although I say I was well used to it, there's one
thing that you never really get over when you go into
a building like that, though:  the smell!  Although
Dave kept his stock scrupulously clean and the entire
place was hosed down and disinfected every single day,
so many slaves in such a confined space inevitably
gave rise to that special odour of sweat, overlaid
with hints of piss and crap from the latrine holes at
the rear of each pen.  Some potential buyers find it
intoxicating, and the scent taken with the sight of
the naked slaves causes them to forget their cautious
plans to spend only so much on a new slave and to open
their pockets wide, but I find it a little off
putting.  Don't get me wrong - I love the scent of a
male, especially when he's been working hard out on my
course, or even more so when he's sweating from a
tussle in bed. But somehow this cocktail of smells
from so many men always makes me feel just faintly
nauseous, and I'm always tempted to wrinkle my nose a
little as we go in.  Dan, who sometimes comes along
when an investment decision is to be made, laughs at
me and says it's because I can see the pen of women at
the end and I worry that their smell might corrupt me
and turn me back on to them.

Two big males were holding the arms of a very young
slave, but it wasn't preventing him from writhing and
kicking out at them in an effort to break free.
Another slave was standing in front of him trying to
calm him, saying things like "Come on, Scotty, calm
down.... It won't do you any good as the owner will be
here soon...."

The young slave's replies were so dreadful that I
don't wish to record them here!  I know that I use the
occasional "fuck" in conversation myself, and I
sometimes even do it with Julie and the boys in the
room;  but this young lad's knowledge of expletives
was clearly very deep as he strung them together and
spat them out in an unending stream.

"Silence!", Dave shouted at the top of his voice, and
then he ran his cane along the bars of the pen to
emphasise this, and gradually the whole place clamed
and fell more or less silent.

"What the fuck's going on?", he demanded.

The slaves half hung their heads, and generally looked
pretty sheepish.

"You two, you, holding the lad....", Dave snapped,
when it was apparent none of them was going to say
anything.  "You must know something, or else you
wouldn't be holding him like that.  Now, what's
happening?  Tell me, and tell me now, if you don't
want to feel this cane on your bums."

As you will probably remember the cook had not wanted
to "rat out" on his fellows in the incident I
described to you, and that's a fairly common problem
with a group of slaves - they just don't understand
where their rea loyalties lie and they're always
trying to keep things form their masters.  So too with
these men now - they felt some sort of loyalty to the
other slaves in their pen, and Dave had to threaten
them again before one stammered "Nothing, really, sir.
 The lad was just a little overexcited, and we wanted
to help calm him down."

"Overexcited?  About what?"

They all stood there, shuffling their feet slightly in
the straw that covered the floor of the pen in an
effort to make it a little more comfortable to sit or
lie on.  "Was he getting overexcited because you men
were getting together and planning to gang bang him?"

"No, sir!", several of them snapped instantly, adding
a touch of veracity to their assertion.

One of the men holding the lad added "I reckon he does
need a good fucking, sir, to calm him down.  But most
of us here prefer the women, sir, so there was nothing
like that...."

"So what's it all about?  I won't hesitate to thrash
you if you don't tell me now - even if that means I'll
have to hold you back for the auction after next, to
allow your bum time to heal...."

"It's stupid, sir, really.  The lad is so passionate
about football.  And some of us were sitting around
talking, to pass the time, about our favourite teams:
I'm a Chelsea fan myself, sir, but the lad kept on
about Rangers and Celtic and the other Scottish teams,
and we told him they might be OK to play each other,
but put them up against real teams, as they do in the
European league, and then where are they?"

"Yes, and when has Scotland ever won the World Cup?"
another slave shouted out, and there was a lot of
laughter from almost everyone, as a voice from the
back added "Well it must have been well before
1966.... Wasn't that when England last did it against
the Germans?"

"Anyway, sir, the lad got more and more agitated, and
you know how it is, sir, when someone's going on like
that.... Well, we did lead him on a bit.... And then
he lost it, and threw himself at us, fists
flailing.... We had to hold him, sir, as he's so
violent...."

Dave addressed the lad as he still almost hung there
between the two slaves.  He was only a strip of a
thing, almost no muscle at all, and I could see his
ribs quite clearly as he was so thin.  "Is that true?
You attacked these slaves because you don't share
their views on football?"

His accent was very strong, as he snapped back
"They've never seen Rangers or Celtic... Fucking
marvellous they are... Those Chelsea players are real
poofs, and foreign, most of them, bought in, they
don't play real hard football, not like...."

"Shut up!" Dave commanded.

"You're as fucking bad as they are....", the slave
shouted. "You know fuck all about anything...."

"I warned you, slave, last time you lost control of
that temper of yours.  I warned you that the next time
it occurred you'd be trashed.  I was lenient then, as
I felt sorry for you, being newly enslaved.  But since
then I've read your record, and you've been a trouble
maker for years.  Well, there's something open to me
to do that the bleeding hearts in the social Services
couldn't do - which is a pity, as if you'd been
properly disciplined when you were much younger, you
might not be a slave now!  But a slave you are, and no
owner can tolerate a  slave who's disruptive, and
disobedient, and downright insolent!  So you're going
to get the thrashing of your life, slave, and then
we'll see if that calms you down.  And if it doesn't,
then I'll take extreme measures."

Dave's tone changed as he snapped at the two slaves
holding the lad "Bring him to the door, but keep a
firm hold of him as I don't want him to injure
anyone."

If you think about it, a dealer like Dave has to have
stuff like a flogging horse, and even a whipping
frame, I suppose, about the place somewhere as sooner
or later there's going to be one or more slaves who
need them.  But it's not the sort of thing a dealer
wants lying around in full view of the potential
customers, is it?  I mean, you hardly want to remind a
buyer that the slave he's set his heart on might turn
out to be disobedient or rude, and might therefore
need such things!  So there was a delay whilst Dave
called to a couple of his own personal slaves who
worked around the place (rather as I had Joe) to fetch
the horse, and when they wheeled it in, I saw it was
definitely a "professional" model.  I'm no expert in
these things as I usually like to settle matters of
discipline with my fists or with a slave caned over my
knee, but you do see adverts on the TV and in the
newspapers for all sorts of stuff like this, as slave
ownership spreads wider and wider:  I've seen
"Hepplewhite" style horses, "Arts and Crafts" ones,
and even "Bauhaus" models, all intended to fit well
into the domestic scene, but  by comparison to what
now appeared they were all flimsy and clearly not
intended for hard, prolonged usage.

The sight of the sturdy steel frame with its
leather-padded platform on top silenced the lad for a
moment or two, but then his torrent of abuse and
blasphemy directed at Dave started again. Dave's two
worker slaves opened the pen and took the lad, and
they were actually laughing as they lifted him off his
feet and carried him bodily, squirming and shouting,
to the horse.  One held his body down almost
insolently - the lad wasn't all that strong, and
Dave's slaves were big giants - as the other pulled
his arms and attached them to the front legs with the
in-built cuffs.  He looked at Dave then "Sir, the knee
holders, or just the ankle cuffs?"

"Not the knee holders, you idiot!  I'm going to cane
him, not fuck him!  And actually you can leave the
ankle cuffs off, too - I want this one to jump around
a bit as I work on him."  Turning to me he went on "I
find that if you have all their limbs restrained it
makes it too easy for them as they start to think
what's happening to them is out of their control and
it's therefore 'not their fault'.  But with the legs
free they can move around and try to escape before the
next blow lands - useless, of course, with the arms
held down, but it makes the slave realise that in
spite of his best efforts, a master is still in
control of him.  Don't you agree?"

"Actually, Dave, I've never caned a slave like
this..."

"But you've got all those under training...."

"They're mostly pretty well behaved, though.  They
know they've got a pretty cushy number, being selected
for showing by their owners, and they don't want to
get busted back to ordinary workers.  So we don't
really have discipline problems - I use a cane of
course, but only when we're working them very hard,
just to 'encourage' them, and it's more of a quick
slash at them as they run by, rather than as a defined
punishment."

"Lucky sod!  I have to do this quite often, and I
reckon more and more frequently, actually.  In the
early days when we had the criminals and people like
that emptying out of the prisons they sort of accepted
their new status.  But now, with  all these free men
coming along who went straight from home that morning
to the Court, and then find themselves here in the
afternoon, it's much harder:  quite a lot of them have
to learn that life has changed irrevocably for them,
and a good caning helps - most men have never
experienced real physical hurt, after all, and so when
they recognise that this is the power their owner now
has over them, it's a salutary lesson for them."

As he was speaking, Dave had positioned himself by the
lad's bum, and all the time he'd been subject to the
lad's vile shouting.  And then the lad actually turned
his head and spat at Dave!

He was a brave little buggar, I'll say that for him -
as he saw the gob running down his leather jacket,
Dave raised his arm and brought the cane down very
hard, very hard indeed, on the lad's bum.  This was no
"taster", no "warning" about future conduct:  it was a
hard, almost brutal lesson to the slave in a master's
control.  I saw the lad's body jerk forward as the
blow landed, and his flow of invective was stifled for
a second or two.   Then he began again, and Dave
struck a second time, again with the lad's body almost
driven forward on the horse by the sheer ferocity of
the cane.

It took four strokes before the lad stopped swearing
and his cries turned into ones of anguish and terror,
great screams now splitting the air with every cane
stroke.  His body thrashed around on the horse as he
desperately tried to do anything at all to avoid the
cane, utterly hopelessly.  I watched in fascinated
horror as the big red stripes formed across the lad's
deathly white soft skin on his bum, and then the
flecks of blood starting to appear as the cane strokes
were so violent that the skin was ruptured.

By the time the lad had taken eight of the strokes,
and Dave was showing no signs of stopping (and,
indeed, seemed to be working himself into a frenzy as
his face was screwed up and drops of his sweat were
flying off him), I began to feel very sorry for the
lad.  I remembered how I'd been at sixteen - wild and
rebellious, and refusing to stay at school or work at
all.  It was only going into the army that had saved
me, and this lad hadn't had that chance.

I could take it no more.  I reached out and grabbed
Dave's wrist as his arm was about to descent again.
"Dave, no more...."

"Fuck off, Steve!  Mind your own fucking business -
this is my slave and he needs to be taught a
lesson..."

Dave was glaring at me as he said this, looking really
pissed off and very angry, and although I was stronger
than him and could have forced him to stop (well, at
least for the moment), that thing cut in that happens
when you know you're in the wrong, as indeed the lad
was Dave's responsibility. So I let go of his arm.

"Dave, please stop...."

"If you can't take the sight of a slave getting his
just desserts, go outside!  I never had you down for a
wimp."

My temper flared and I felt blood surge to my face.
My fists clenched and I went into a kind of "fight"
stance.  I reckon Dave was lucky that somehow I
managed to restrain myself and hold back, and I didn't
floor him!  "Listen... I want you to stop...."

"And I've told you that's my business...."

"But maybe it's mine, Dave - I want to buy the lad,
and I don't want him permanently disfigured."

What came over me I don't know.  I'd no intention of
buying a slave like this when I arrived, as he was
useless for our purposes as there's just no way that
you can get a slave to "show" status if he doesn't
have the right underlying bone structure and so on.
You can slim down obese slaves, put muscle on
underdeveloped slaves and all sorts of stuff like
that, and that's what we were good at, by there's no
way that a small, skinny slave can ever be turned into
a "best of show".    But something about his courage,
his frailty, his vulnerability, and Dave's story of
the bum deal he'd got from life so far, stirred me.
I'm not sentimental as a rule, especially as regards
animals and slaves, and I don't suppose I'll really
ever understand why I said what I had.  But, there it
was - and Dave at once lowered the cane.  Silence fell
in the pen building, broken only by the agonised
sobbing of the lad as he lay there, defeated, on the
horse.

End Of Part Nineteen