Date: Sat, 7 Jan 2006 23:57:51 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Someone has to do it, Part Six

Someone Has To Do It

By Pete Brown        petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


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

Part  6

In spite of everything I seemed to have slept well,
although in the morning when I woke up my bum was
still throbbing with the pain of the red welts from
Rob's caning of me.  And when I gingerly felt down
between my legs, my arsehole felt all puffy and sore
from the brutal going over it had received with that
dildo.  Still, at least I would be out of the training
centre, I thought, assuming they did do as they
intended and sent me off for auction today.

I was allowed to shower myself and take a long time
over it, and was given a razor to shave my face with,
and then a set of clothes were produced - grey cotton
shorts as I'd sometimes used for exercising, and a
matching T shirt.  I felt almost human!

There were four other guys being sent with me to the
auction rooms, and we were loaded into a normal
minibus, the only difference being that once we were
seated manacles went around our ankles attaching us to
the floor of the thing.  The driver was a cheery sort
of bloke who told us he was indentured, as you'd
expect for someone doing an unskilled job like that,
but that he only had a year to go before he was free
again.  The training centre was out in Uxbridge and we
set off for central London along Western Avenue, and I
always like the look of the old Hoover building, that
1930s masterpiece, although, as expected, the traffic
was all snarled up around the Hanger Lane gyratory,
and then the Westway was almost stationary.  It took
us quite a long time to get into the centre,
therefore, and our minibus crawled down Gower Street.
The driver looked really stressed, poor guy, as he
said he had a strict timetable to adhere to and the
bosses just didn't understand the problems of the
traffic in London, especially as we had to get to
Dover Street, just off Piccadilly, where the dealer's
showrooms were.

I was surprised that the dealer was in such a plush
place, but once we did eventually arrive I began to
understand why:  this was definitely a place for "top
of the range" auctions, and buyers coming there would
expect to pay premium prices, and therefore liked the
comfort and luxury of a dealer in the better part of
the city.  A couple of guards from the dealer stood on
the pavement as we were unshackled from the minibus,
and then we were led in:  it was all glass and
chromium, and prospective purchasers (well, I took
them to be that) were sitting around on suede sofas
thumbing through the Financial Times and Tatler, as
they sipped coffee or champagne which was being served
by handsome young waiters.  We were hurried through,
of course, and out the back it was the kind of
arrangement you'd expect:  barred cages or cells to
hold us, showers, and preparation rooms.

Even though I was freshly showered and shaved, the
dealer's staff wasted no time in ordering me to strip,
and then I was cleaned again - only this time by
indentured servants who positively scrubbed at my skin
to make sure it was absolutely clean.  And it hadn't
occurred to me before when I'd been to auctions myself
(well, not at places like this, of course - they'd
never have let me in through the door) that the
merchandise on display was cleaned inside, too!  So I
had to endure the sheer humiliation of having an enema
nozzle up my poor sore arsehole, and then the pain as
my belly filled with the cleaning fluid, and the
humiliation of shitting it out as the servants watched
me.   They shaved me again so my chin was satin
smooth, snipped away at my hair so that it was crisply
cut at the sides and back, and shaved my balls and
trimmed my pubes once more so that my cock really was
displayed fully.  I hated it all - hated their hands
on my body, hated the lack of control - I ought to
have been allowed to do these things myself.

It seemed that I was going to be on display all that
afternoon and evening, and then auctioned at eight
that night - apparently it was considered
"fashionable" to sell high quality indentures at this
time as it allowed buyers to finish work, have a
drink, and then come along - and it was expected that
most purchasers of stock like us would indeed be
working, to be able to afford us!

I was dressed in what they called "display shorts" -
cut very low on the hip so that my hard muscled belly
was fully displayed (and my trimmed pubes almost
peaked up from the waistband), and with an open fly so
that a prospective purchaser could slip his hand in
and feel my cock if he wanted to.  The legs were cut
very high too, to emphasise the muscularity of my
thighs, and they were wide, to allow a further means
of feeling my cock, or even of slipping a hand up to
stroke my bum.  I should have been used to the idea of
a collar used to restrain my wrists behind my head
after yesterday, but I still hated it as they were
buckled on, making me effectively powerless - the
indentured guy who did this said that it made the
buyers feel more secure, knowing I couldn't hit out at
them if they caused me any pain or discomfort when I
was being inspected.  But the final indignity was the
ball gag that was forced into my mouth and fastened
with straps running around my head, as they said the
purchasers didn't like to hear servants groaning or
complaining, either!

After that I was just taken into the main showroom -
and elegant place where the lighting was a soft
pink-tinged colour to make my skin look better and
glossily healthy. There was the sound of Bach playing
through concealed loudspeakers, and the pile of the
carpet was so thick that it just shrieked wealth and
richness.    They led me to an obviously pre-assigned
spot where a small panel was opened in the carpet and
a shackle came out, so that I could be held there by
my left ankle.  As I watched, about twelve other
servants were brought in and similarly shackled - men
and women - and directly opposite me was a woman of
about my age who in addition to the shorts that the
men wore had a loose halter that served to make a
feature of her beasts, rather than conceal them.  I
couldn't help starting to have an erection at the
sight, and then, of course, I had to try and stop it
or else my proud cock would poke through the open fly
of my shorts!

I'd been to an indentured auction before, with Rob,
actually, as we'd wanted to know what they were like.
But the one we went to out in Ealing hadn't been
anything like this - the servants had mostly been
"modestly" dressed and although you were allowed to
touch them, generally it was just to feel the
development of the muscles in their arms, and stuff
like that.  The public was free to wander around much
as it chose, and Rob and I spent an interesting hour
or so looking at the men and women there.  Here in
Dover Street, though, all the prospective purchasers
were accompanied by salesmen who were keen to recite
the benefits of the "stock", as they referred to us.
The first time this happened and I heard the man say
"A good solid buck here - thirty three, so a lot of
life left in him.  Very well muscled, as I'm sure
you'll agree and guaranteed to be in superb physical
condition:  we have a 'no quibble' guarantee and if he
falls ill in any way in the first six months of your
ownership, we'll gladly refund your purchase price."

The prospective purchasers could of course "inspect"
me - running their hands over my pecs or shoulders to
feel the power there, or squeezing my biceps as they
were held by the cuffs. And about half of them
absolutely couldn't resist plunging a hand in though
the open fly of my shorts to grope around rather
inexpertly at my tackle!  One old bloke - he must have
been at least seventy, who I heard tell the salesman
that he was looking for a "valet who can render all
the personal services a gentleman needs" insisted on
seeing me totally naked ,and the salesman at once
pushed my shorts down to the ground.  I saw the woman
opposite me staring at my cock, and I began to blush
with shame.  My mind was in an absolute turmoil from
this, and I was absolutely terrified that this old
bloke would buy me - it was bad enough to think that I
might be used sexually, but the thought of having to
perform "services" for some shrivelled up wizened old
body like that was just too awful.  Fortunately,
though, as soon as he saw the stripes on my bum the
old bloke curtly told the salesman that under no
circumstances could he consider a "wild young thing"
like me, who was clearly "totally undisciplined"!

After that the salesmen were much more reluctant to
strip me totally naked, and I had several more
"Inspections" of my upper torso before I next had my
shorts whisked off.  The two men who had asked for
this were in their forties, and were clearly
"together".  It was, paradoxically, Rob's harsh use of
the dildo the previous day that saved me now:  having
ordered me to bend over and spread my cheeks, one
remarked to the other that I'd clearly been fucked
senseless, judging from the puffy state of my ass, and
that he knew they wanted a virgin!

The poor woman across form me seemed to fare worse,
though, as every young man that came through the place
seemed to want to see her totally naked, and her
breasts and cunt were fingered and teased by almost
everyone.   The first few times it happened my own
cock did indeed jut out from my open fly, but after a
time it became sort of "normal" and I tried not to
notice.  Mind you, it was the women who were almost
worse than the men when it came to examining me:
almost every single one would reach into my shorts to
feel my cock, although, curiously, few chose to ask to
see it.

In a way I was glad when it was time for the auction,
and the guards came to unshackle us and line us up.
We seemed to be "backstage" as there were steps
leading up to a door which opened and bright light
streamed out, and you could hear a ripple of
appreciation and applause before it was slammed shut.
They pushed us really close together, though, and I
was jammed right up against the guy in front of me -
it was lucky we had shorts on, or else my cock would
have been wedged in his arse crack!  But when the
woman who had been opposite me was pushed forward and
I felt her breasts push into my back, I couldn't help
it - well, I mean, you'd have an erection, too,
wouldn't you, feeling tits pushed into the warmth of
your own sweaty back?  The bloke in front of me seemed
to be really pissed off when he felt me poking at him,
but there was nothing I could do about it.

When my turn came to go up the steps and through the
door I was heartily glad that at least in front of
this audience I wouldn't have to be naked.  But the
moment I stepped onto the brightly lit stage a guard
stepped up and simply pulled my shorts down, and that
was what caused the ripple of applause I'd been
hearing.  Then it was complete humiliation as the
auctioneer read out my vital statistics - age, height,
weight, waist, length of cock (!), and said that I'd
been indentured for vagrancy, but that the auction
house offered no warranty, either expressed or
implied, for my conduct as I'd been known to be
difficult.  As he said this he made me turn around,
and there were knowing mutters from the men and women
sitting out there beyond the lights as they evidently
saw the stripes across my bum.  I had to turn around
to face the audience again then, and the auctioneer
lifted my cock up with the end of a short cane - and,
in spite of myself, in spite of thinking every
non-sexy thought I could, I went hard, and there was
another polite round of applause from the audience.
The bidding started then, and rapidly soared to big
numbers - I stood there, naked and erect, and heard
myself being sold just as if I was some prize steer at
a cattle auction.

Like all auctions it was pretty quick, as I think they
want to build excitement so folk bid without really
thinking, and it can't have been more than a couple of
minutes before  I was ushered off the stage through a
door opposite to the one I'd entered, and a guard
simply led me off, still naked, into the "despatch"
area.  I felt almost desperate - I'd been put on
display like some mere animal, and had just been sold
as if I was a mere object, not a man, a living,
thinking human being.

Gradually the two cells there - one for women, the
other for men - filled up as the auction continued,
and then gradually started to empty again as one by
one the guards took us out to be taken to our new
owners.  After about an hour I was the only one left,
and a guard came up and said to the holding area guard
that I was to be kept overnight, as my owner wanted
mods made.  I was ordered to come to the bars and they
uncuffed my wrists from my neck, and then I was thrown
a blanked to keep me warm and told to bed down on the
leather bench in the holding cell.

"Please, sir, what's happening?"  I asked the guard,
and he just shrugged.

"You heard.  Your owner wants mods done to you, and
that always causes delay as they have to wait for the
courts to approve it.  But they normally get you away,
down to the hospital, the next day.  I know it's not
very comfortable in here, but it's only for one night
generally.... So don't worry."

I froze.  "Mods?  Hospital?  Court?...  Please, sir,
what's going on?"

"Oh, you're probably a new 'lifer' aren't you?  Well,
it's obvious, isn't it - your owner wants a few
changes made to your body, but he doesn't own it,
after all, only your indenture.  Only a court can
approve physical changes to you, having regard to all
the circumstances.  So don't worry, son -  the court
will look after your interests."

"Sir, what changes?  Please....?"

He consulted a list on his clipboard, and shrugged.
"I told you there's no need to worry.... Your owner
just has you down for a circumcision, and a vasectomy.
 It's all minor stuff, so the court will almost
certainly approve, and you'll be out of here
tomorrow."

"How can the court approve something like that?  When
do I get to tell them I like my 'skin, and want to
keep it?"

He laughed.  "You don't, of course!   The courts are
for free men.  How on earth could a 'lifer' have
anything to say to a court?    No, they'll look at
your owner's request, and if it's reasonable, they'll
give approval - it's a humane system, designed to stop
owners ordering there servants to lose a leg, or
something like that.   But a circumcision - well,
that's minor stuff, and a whole lot of men are done
anyway so the court certainly won't object if your
owner says he prefers seeing his servants with a
generally 'sleeker' look.  And as for the vasectomy -
well, I expect your owner has some maids around the
place, and doesn't want the mess and expense of having
them aborted all the time when a young stud like you
mounts them.  Or, of course, you might have been
bought by a mistress anyway, and then it's obvious why
she wouldn't want you shooting live swimmers into
her...."

"No, please... I want to stay as I am..."

"Look, son, it's not up to you any longer.  You should
have thought about that before you got picked up for
vagrancy!  Now you're a 'lifer', these things aren't
your concern any more.  But don't worry - the courts
are on your side, and if your owner wanted something
really serious done to you, they'd really be diligent
in understanding it."

Well, if being on my side meant that I was going to
lose my virility, and my 'skin, then what the fuck
would it be like if they were against me?  But the
guard wandered off, and I just sat there on the bench
in the cell with the blanket around my shoulders,
feeling the picture of misery.
They gave me a good breakfast the next morning,
though, and let me shower so I felt a bit better.  I
sat there again dressed in the loose grey shorts and
T, until at about eleven o'clock the guard came and
said that the court had just approved my mods!

As I was to be done at St Thomas's Hospital, they
fitted me with a collar and "dead man's" lead  - I'd
seen them around before, but like a lot of things I'd
never really thought about them, I suppose.  Now, as
the metal of the collar was snapped shut around my
throat and the short length of chain with its special
handle attached, it was as if I'd reached a new low
point - they were going to send a "trusty", a
short-term indentured servant, with me to the
hospital, and this apparatus was to make sure I didn't
escape.  The trusty had to grip the handle on the
chain tightly, as if he let go, or if I broke away and
pulled free, the collar which worked on the same
principle as a prod would send a charge through me and
knock me insensible.

We set out, him leading me just as if I was a dog, and
we dodged the crowds thronging Piccadilly and went
into Green Park Station.  At the barrier the trusty
told me to stay really close to him as he only had one
Oyster card to operate it, and, like dogs, servants on
leads were allowed to travel free provided they went
through the barrier with their handlers.  I felt
myself blushing with embarrassment again as some
American tourists openly stared at seeing me being led
like this, and I heard the mother say to one of the
kids that I must have been very bad indeed to get a
life sentence!  Those fucking American were so naive
as usual, but at least they hadn't allowed this
dreadful indenture thing to take old there, so I
suppose there's something to be said for good
old-fashioned simplicity!

A Jubilee Line train pulled I just as we got to the
bottom of the escalators, and I went to leap in before
the doors closed but my handler jerked me back on the
end of a chain.  "You idiot!", he told me.  "You might
have got us both punished!  That was a normal
carriage, and servants travelling unaccompanied by
their owners are required to go into only the first
and last ones.  Don't you know anything?"   Well, I
suppose I didn't.  I just hadn't noticed this blatant
discrimination before.

When the next train came in the rear carriage was very
crowded, but we were all servants together and when
they saw my leash they all did their best to make
space for both of us, as they all seemed to know what
it meant.  Mind you, one bitch said something in a
voice that I'm sure I was meant to hear about
"ruffians" like me giving them all a bad name, as it
made free people think that servants couldn't be
trusted!    It had just never occurred to me before
that there  were so many distinctions in practice
between free men and indentured servants, and now, it
seemed, even between servants themselves.

My handler chose to go on to Waterloo rather than just
go the one stop and walk across the river from
Westminster, and we went out via that  really
depressing rear entrance from the station, along the
side of the taxi road, down to Westminster Bridge
Road.  I hated being led along, but the "trusty"
seemed a nice enough bloke and made it as easy as he
could for me by keeping an even pace, and when he saw
the look of misery on my face as we got closer to the
hospital said "Hey, don't worry!   I bring a lot of
blokes like you here, and you all seem to think it's
the end of the world - but they all tell me it didn't
hurt a bit really, and I don't think the hospital's
ever killed anyone yet!  So cheer up, will you?
What's going to happen to you is inevitable and you
can't alter it, so you may as well relax and think
about your new life - after all, an owner who's
prepared to make you look 'fancier' is going to take
good care of you, isn't he?  You're much better off
than if you'd been knocked down to work as a dray, or
something like that - I've seen them delivering beer
and stuff in Soho and those poor guys are treated just
like dirt, as the drivers seem to take a delight in
whipping them at every opportunity.  Life's not so bad
provided you obey your owner and work hard, you know -
look at me, out here enjoying London, and not cooped
up in an office or factory...."

We  crossed Lambeth Palace Road and went up the
pedestrian ramp into the hospital forecourt, and there
were the usual crop of direction signs in that
standard lettering they always use - emergencies, out
patients, mother and baby clinic, day surgery wing
(free men), and, at the bottom, day surgery
(indentured servants).  My handler saw me looking at
it and laughed.  "Don't worry - it's not that they
treat you differently, just that they have specialists
there who know more about the kind of things owners
want done.  They do say that if you want a
circumcision, it's better to have it done by the
doctors in the indentured servants' part, as they have
so much more experience!"

I think he must have been joking, or mistaken!  Inside
the indentured servants' day surgery unit it was very
depressing - kind of scruffy, and not particularly
clean looking.  A guard had some special device for
neutralising the leash thing and undid the collar on
me, then told my handler to cut off back to work,
giving him a light slap on his bum as he turned to go.
 Then, in a way that I was getting used to by now, he
put a restraint collar on me and told me to put my
hands behind my neck so he cold fasten them there.  I
could see his prod at the ready, so there was no point
in arguing, was there?  An orderly came over then once
I was "safe" and asked me if I was Steve who had just
been auctioned yesterday, and when I nodded, he
consulted a PC and came back with a label on a string,
which he simply tied to my collar.  "There you are -
all ready for the doctor!", he said, and casually
pulled off my shorts so I was standing there in just
my T shirt.  Look, I don't know how it is for you, but
somehow I feel really foolish like that - I mean, if
you're totally naked then it may be demeaning, but at
least you're "natural".  With your bum and your cock
hanging down under the hem of a T, I think you just
look stupid.  But what could I do?    The orderly
pointed to a row of plastic chairs, and told me to go
and sit down, and they were so uncomfortable on my
bare bum - especially as I was kept waiting for at
least a couple of hours: evidently, time wasn't
considered to be important here.

They called me in to a treatment room, and there was a
doctor standing by the wall getting instruments out,
who never even acknowledged me.  The only real
furniture in the place was a big treatment chair,
rather like the thing that dentists use, and the
doctor called out to the guard, without even turning
around, that I should be sat down and secured.  The
plastic was really cold against my bare bum, and it
didn't seem right to be strapped in when I was going
to be operated on - the guard fastened straps around
my calves and thighs, and then pulled my T right up to
my neck and fastened a big strap right around my
chest.  I sat there with my hands still behind my
neck, and wriggled to see if I could get free, but it
was no use.

The doctor came towards me then, pulling on a white
face mask, and picked up the tag on my collar and read
it.  "Oh, fuck me, not another vasectomy and
circumcision!", he said, sounding totally bored, and
at the same time reached down and took my cock in his
hand and started to 'skin me back.

"Please, doctor...  Please, it's not right, doing this
to me.  I don't want to lose my 'skin, doctor, as I
like the feel of it...."

"Shut the fuck up, boy!"  It seemed odd that he was
calling me "boy" when I was clearly a whole lot older
than he was.  "And I'm not a doctor - I'm a medical
student.  You don't need a doctor for this stuff, and
I'm just doing it to make some spare cash to help pay
my bar bills!"

He'd got me completely 'skinned back now, and was
looking with interest at my cock head.  "Still, you've
got a nice cock here, boy.  I can see why your owner
wants it exposed - why hide a good thick flange and a
well-formed piss slit away from view?"  He started to
wank me, which is something I didn't think he ought to
do, whether he was a doctor or a medical student, and
I protested.

"Shut the fuck up!  I've told you once....  Where's
the harm in me having a bit of fun with your cock?
I'll bet there's going to be enough men playing with
it in future - a servant with a body like yours is
only going to be used for one thing!"

"It's not right....", I started.  He glared at me,
went over to the cupboard on the wall and came back
with a small tawse, which he slashed down four times -
twice on each of my nips.  I screamed, and tried
desperately to thrust my body out of the way, of
course to no avail.

"I told you to keep silent, boy", he said.  "The next
time you speak, it will be worse for you - your
owner's paid for a 'soft' operation - i.e. with
anaesthetic.  But you say one more word and I'll
simply claim I didn't see that part of the
instructions and do you raw.  Do you understand?"

Glumly, I nodded, and said "Yes, sir."  Look, I know
you may think I'm a coward for giving in like that,
but the thought of having surgery done on my cock and
balls was pretty dire anyway, and without
anaesthetic....

He continue to play with me, obviously relishing the
feel of a nice hard real man's cock, until I shot - he
deftly caught my cum on a medical tissue and threw it
into a medical waste bin.  "Nice!", he told me.  "One
day soon, when I've qualified, I'm going to buy a boy
like you for real fun and games.... Now, let's get
started...."

It didn't hurt at all, actually - he gave me a couple
of shots into the groin that were effective pain
killers, and then sat between my open legs.  First he
pushed my cock up onto my belly and simply stuck it
there with a piece of surgical plaster so that he
could work on my balls - I started to watch as he made
a small incision next to my sac, near the root of my
cock, then had to turn away as it make me feel ill to
see myself being cut open.  I was surprised when he
said, after only about five minutes, "There you are -
all nicely tied off.  You'll feel as if someone's
kicked you in the balls as soon as the shots wear off,
but it will soon pass. Your owner ought to know that
you may still be fertile for a couple of weeks after a
vasectomy, so if she starts to use you, or puts you to
a woman, you'd better remind her.  Now let's do the
serious stuff - the 'skinning."

He reached up and read my label again, and remarked
"Same old boring stuff - a 'high and tight', as we say
in the trade!  The whole cock head exposed  all the
time, no loose skin on the shaft when you're fully
erect, and minimal scarring.  I do wish owners would
be more inventive - it's a whole lot more skilful to
do you so that your head just peeps out and exposes
your piss slit when you're not erect.  Or to remove so
much skin that you can't erect properly - still, I
suppose with a cock like yours, they're going to  want
to use you for sex.  Never mind, though - bog standard
again, but let's get on with it."

He wanked me to a full erection again, then, before I
could look away, cut at the bottom of my cock head to
free the 'skin all around.  I almost threw up as the
blood spurted out, and just couldn't watch what he did
with a small metal cylinder he slid over me.... I only
knew it was over when I saw a part of me, a flap of
skin, all bloody, lying in one of those stainless
steel basins doctors use.

He seemed to lose interest then, and just said "I've
put some stuff on to stop the bleeding, but I don't
believe in bandaging a freshly 'skinned cock as it
heals faster if it's exposed to the air.  Still, I've
done a nice neat job on you - there won't be any
unsightly scarring on your shaft.  But no wanking -
don't touch your cock tonight at all, as it will tear
the stitches.  In fact, don't wank for at least three
days.  Understand?"

"Yes", I said, as I was in shock, and the next minute
I was screaming as he slashed at my nips again with
his miniature tawse.

"You fucking servants come in here and think you can
stop being respectful to free men!  Let that be a
lesson to you."

He turned away and began to wash his hands, calling
for the guard to take me off to a holding cell as it
would be sensible to keep me in overnight so he could
examine me again in the morning.

I lay there, my balls and cock now starting to ache,
smelling that "hospital" smell that seems to pervade
everything, and listening to the woman in the next
cell sobbing - I couldn't see her as the walls of our
cells were solid except for the barred fronts giving
on to a narrow passage way. I gathered that she'd got
pregnant by her owner, who didn't want the kid and so
he'd had her aborted - stupidly she'd kept it as
secret as long as she could in the hope he'd change
his mind, and so when it had been flushed out of her
it had been quite recognisable.  Some women really are
stupid - once a bloke's said he doesn't want a sprog,
he isn't going to change his mind, is he?

Actually, there's a simple way of making sure a bloke
doesn't even try to wank after he's been 'skinned:
keep his hands cuffed behind his neck!  I was vilely
uncomfortable all night, and I went hungry, too, as
there was just no way I could eat the tray of food
they pushed into my cell - well, I suppose I could
have got down and stuck my face into it and eaten it
like a dog does, but there are limits to what a man
will do, after all.

The next morning, though, it got a bit better.  I was
told to stand there against the bars as a guard undid
my restraints, and stood there with my cock hanging
down from under my T as he pushed a tray of breakfast
through the bars - so at least I felt a bit better, as
I could eat it.  But it's true what they say about
hospital food - it is dreadful.

The guard had his prod out when he unlocked the cage
about an hour later, and he kind of herded me back
towards the room I'd been in yesterday, when the
medical student told me to sit down - I wasn't
strapped in, thank god - and he then sat between my
legs again and examined my cock closely.  He
pronounced it "a good job", and that was that!

I was put back into the waiting room on those vile
chairs again, but at least my shorts were given back
to me so I didn't feel quite as conspicuous as other
servants came and went, although I was shackled to
the floor - I was getting used to this by now - as it
seems that somewhere I'd been "flagged" as not yet
properly trained and likely to try to make a break for
freedom.  It was so fucking boring, as even when there
were other blokes waiting we weren't allowed to speak,
and I was glad when a guard came over with an older,
grey-haired man.  It was only when this older man
called the guard "Sir" that I realised he must be an
indentured servant too.

"I'm Finch", he said bluntly.  "You will call me
'boss'.  I'm the butler at your new home, and I manage
things for the master and mistress, who are too busy
to be concerned with the detail of keeping things
running and all the servants fully occupied.  I am, as
you may see, a trusty - I've been with the master and
mistress for eight years, and plan to stay on even
after I'm free the year after next.  They allow me a
modified prod..."  He produced something that looked
like "the real thing", and went on "It can't knock you
out, but at maximum setting it has a very unpleasant
sting, so I would advise you to obey, and obey
promptly.  Is that clear?"

I'd seen blokes "playing" with their prods as he was
now doing with his, tapping one end of it in the palm
of his hand, and I'd learned that they are just
itching for a chance to use it, so I answered softly
"Yes, boss."

"Good, Steve.  I can see you and I understand each
other.  Now I'm told you've got a reputation for being
wild and disobedient, and that simply won't be
tolerated in our establishment.  I have the authority
to cane you if necessary, and our master is himself
something of an expert with the cane, so I would
advise you to put out of your head all thoughts of
being wilful, or of trying to skive and not pull your
weight.  The cane, when wielded by the master, is a
very good teacher, but a very painful one.  Now, we
need to be going, as we need to catch the train at
thirty-two."

He turned to the guard again, and I could see his
whole stance change almost visibly as he bent kind of
subserviently, and asked the guard if he would please
attach one of the "leash" collars as I'd worn the day
before.  Then, gripping the handle firmly, he simply
turned and walked out, expecting me to follow, which
of course I did.

We didn't go to the Underground but to the mainline
station at Waterloo, and with an almost practised air
he scanned the departure boards and led me to the
fourteen thirty two to Guildford - the servants
compartment was at the front this time, so we had to
walk the whole length of the platform, and only just
had time to make it.  As we clattered out of the
station over the points, we found a seat and we sat
side by side.

"Look, Steve", he said, "Watch the suburbs and stuff
as this is almost certainly the last time you'll see
them.  The master and mistress don't let the servants
off the estate, except for me, and so this is the last
time you'll see the rich panoply of London life."

Well, the sad office blocks and nineteenth century
housing in Clapham are hardly what you'd call "London
life", if you ask me, but I did watch, just the same,
seeing the streets full of people and cars and shops
as the train clattered on.  We made a stop at
Surbiton, then at Esher (although there was no racing
that day, so the race course was just refreshingly
green), and Walton On Thames, and then, as we pulled
into Weybridge, Finch got up and pulled me to my feet.

Those of you who are familiar with the area will know
that it's quite a long walk from the Station to St
George's Hill, that most exclusive of private
residential estates - I suppose that the owners of the
big houses there get driven backwards and forwards by
their chauffeurs.  We walked, though, were "nodded
through" the entry barriers by the servant on duty,
and then it was a further long walk along the winding
roads.  Finch told me that all the plots had to be at
least two acres as the residents valued their privacy,
and that "our" house was on one of the larger ones, as
we had just over three.  "That's why the master and
mistress have decided to buy you", he went on.  "The
current gardener, Ian, has too much to do, and our
master and mistress want to maintain a very high
standard indeed.  You'll be doing the hard graft, the
digging, cutting the lawns, that sort of thing, whilst
Ian concentrates on the planting schemes, the pruning,
growing the vegetables, and so on."

It's difficult to keep a perspective up there as its
rhododendron country and the whole area is very
mature, having been started way back in the last
century, so when we turned a corner and Finch said
"There...  Home...." It was a bit of a shock.  The
place was huge - it's last century "Surrey
vernacular", I'm told, it's tile-hung walls and low,
sweeping roofs owing much to the influences of
Lutyens.  We went past the big oak front doors studded
with "nails", around past the garage block (in the
same style, but hung around with ivy), and to the rear
courtyard.

Finch led me in through a plain door, and we were in a
large room with a stone-flagged floor and a table in
the middle of it - a fairly y crude one, in oak, set
around with chairs.  "This is the servants' hall",
Finch told me.  "It had that function when the house
was first built and they paid wages to servants.  Now
it's for us -  we're a big, happy family here:  Ian
the gardener, as I told you;  Marco the chauffeur -
he's from Italian stock, as you might guess; the
chef's a nice young bloke - Pavel -  from one of those
Eastern European countries who entered here illegally
and was indentured for his troubles.  Then there's
three maids, and a nanny for the young kids - I didn't
tell you, did I, that the master and mistress have
three kids?  The eldest, Master William, is thirteen,
but the youngest is still only toddling,   As I said,
I keep all this running, and I expect you to fit in,
Steve!  The mistress does not like the male servants
having sex with the maids, and if I ever even suspect
that you have, there will be terrible trouble - she
has said it's a castration offence!  Do you
understand?"

"Yes, Boss."

"Good, Steve.  Now, we like to be one big happy family
here, working together to make life easy for the
master and mistress.  I expect you to work hard, to
listen to Ian and obey him, and not to cause any fuss
or trouble at all."

"Yes, Boss."

"Good, Steve.  Now there's just one thing we have to
do, and I can release you from this dreadful leash
thing... Kneel down, please...."

I was so used to doing as I was told by now, that I
dropped to my knees - the big flagstones feeling hard
and cold as I knelt there. Finch went to a cupboard,
and came around and put something cold and metallic
around my neck.  There was a "click", and he said
"There, Steve!  This is the latest technology collar,
and the mistress and master have had it installed on
all the servants.  If you try to leave the estate, it
will activate.  In any case, it has GPS built-in, so a
satellite can always track you.  And this...."

I felt a tingling in my neck, that became a sting.
"That's the control circuit.  The master, the mistress
and I all have a controller, and if you're
disobedient, or wilful, we can activate it.  You just
felt five percent power, and believe me, you won't
want to feel the one hundred percent.  So just stay on
the estate, and obey, and obey willingly, and, as I
said, we'll all be like one big happy family.  Now,
get up..."

I stood up and Finch undid the leash thing, and I
reached up and felt around my neck - the collar seemed
to be of steel, but with the edges subtly rounded, to
prevent chafing, I suppose.  I was like a dog -
collared, to be controlled.  How much further could I
fall?

"It's locked on, Steve, and don't try to remove it -
that will trigger the pain circuit.  Now.... Your
uniform.... Remove your clothes, please."

I looked at him, and he said coolly "Steve, is this
how you're going to be?  Disobedient?  Wasn't that
clear enough?  I told you to remove your clothes -
now, do so.  Get naked!"

As he spoke Finch put his hand on a small device he
wore on his belt, and I thought I'd better obey.  I
pulled off the T and dropped my shorts, and to my
surprise, Finch then did a somewhat reduced version of
the "inspections" I'd had at the auctions rooms- only
this time over my whole nude body.  His fingers ran
over my pecs, stroked my hard belly, then he turned me
around and felt my shoulders, and I could feel him
running down my ribs, until he cupped my bum, testing
the firmness of my musculature, before stroking my
thighs.  He turned me around to face him once more,
and took my cock in his open palm.  I winced, as the
site of my 'skinning was still very sore, and he
whispered "Easy, Steve...."  And then, as I calmed, he
went on "I can see why the mistress bought you - you
really do have a most interesting body.  Most of the
other men here are not as developed as you...."

"Boss, I thought it would be the master who bought
me.... They said that with a body like mine it would
be men who wanted to use me..."

Finch laughed.  "You'll wish it was, Steve.  The
mistress is VERY demanding, and poor Ian, and then
Marco, and then poor Pavel, in turn, have all found
out.  I suppose you're the next one she's going to
wear out.... And she fancies something a bit stronger
and more 'meaty' this time".

Inwardly,  I started to smile.  Some bitch of a woman
was going to discover what a real man could do for
her.

End Of Part Six