Date: Sun, 20 Mar 2005 01:43:47 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Spoils Of War, Part 16 (MM NC BDSM FANT)

THE SPOILS OF WAR  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 16

I was told to go to the main entrance block and wait,
and, freshly showered, in a clean T and shorts with
the Gleeson's Gladiators logo and name on them, I
jogged over there and stood in the luxurious area.
There were thick leather couches and a wide
oak-fronted reception desk with a stylish receptionist
sitting at it.  Magazines and newspapers were
available for those waiting, and I went to pick one up
- I'd realised that I'd had no idea of what was
happening in nthe world since I was enslaved, and the
news about the new war on the Arabs had come as a real
surprise.

"Boy, put that down!", the receptionist called out
when she saw what I was doing. "I don't know what the
world's coming to!  You'll be trying to sit on the
furniture next thing I know.  I don't know why the
Colonel lets you slaves who're going off to fight wait
here with decent visitors - it just encourages you to
get uppity and think you can start reading things.
And some of our visitors don't like to be close to
slaves, either - although you're harmless, they worry
that you might turn on  them and attack them."

"Oh, I'd never do that. That's ridiculous.  Look, just
let me glance through the papers - it won't damage
them."

"It's  'ma'am' to you, boy!  I'm  a free woman.  Even
though you're shipping out, it's not too late to have
a guard in here to cane you, you know!  And sitting on
one of those buses with your backside striped wouldn't
be much fun..."

"I'm sorry, ma'am!"  Indeed I had been thinking of
going and sitting on one of the couches - I mean, you
do, don't you, in a reception area?  "I'm sorry.
Ma'am.... But you're right - I am a gladiator, and I
do fight, but there's no way I'd harm a civilian.
That's how we were trained in the Corps."

"So you were a marine, boy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So's my son."

"So was he enslaved, too, ma'am?"

"No, of course not!  He wasn't as stupid as you were.
He was already serving down here in South when the
civil war broke out, and he wasn't so foolish as to
start attacking his own folk..."

"But ma'am, he must have disobeyed orders... Surely
the commanders told all Marine units in the country to
come here and break the rebellion...?"

"That's as may be.  And don't you call us 'rebels',
boy!  We're free folk, who want our own way of life!
But my son had more sense that you evidently did, boy.
 It doesn't matter what you're ordered to do, if the
order's illegal, you don't obey it.  And how could an
order to come here and attack your fellow US citizens
possibly have been legal?   No, it serves you right -
if you were knuckle-headed enough to obey illegal
orders blindly, then you deserve to be a slave.  It's
the best thing for you, if you ask me, to keep you
safely out of harm's way. A soldier who's stupid
enough to do one wrong thing could easily do a whole
lot more."

"But ma'am..."  I was going to tell her that a grunt
marine had to obey, that his whole training made it
like that.  It was interesting, though, that there
were some Marines who were not slaves - I guessed that
her son was still in the South, for example, as if he
went North, he'd be locked up for disobeying orders.
But just then the door opened and Lewis came in,
accompanied by one of the guards.

"Are you left handed or right handed, boy?", the guard
snapped at me.

"Left, sir".  I'm strongly left handed - knives,
spoons, pens, tool of any kind... Jerking off, of
course....  All have to use my left hand.

"Hold out your left arm, boy!"

I did as he commanded, and he snapped a metal cuff
around my wrist.  The cuff was loosely attached to a
metal rod about a foot long, at the end of which was
another cuff, which he promptly fastened around
Lewis's right wrist.  We stood there, just a foot
apart then, kind of closely-coupled together.

"Right you boys - that's you seen to", the guard
chuckled. "The Colonel doesn't like to let new boys
out by themselves until they've proved themselves to
be trustworthy, so shackling you together like this
make it real hard to escape - not that you can, of
course, with that chip inside you - but some of you
new guys have tried it, and the fuss and bother it
creates as they hunt you down just isn't worth it.
And, of course, it's the Colonel's loss as when they
capture you that geld you automatically, and a
gladiator without balls just isn't a fighter!  Now,
wait here until the transport comes, both of you".  He
chuckled quietly as he said this, pointing at the
shackle joining us, knowing that we now had to do the
same things.

"I'm not having two of you slaves cluttering up this
place!", the receptionist called out. "It was bad
enough with one.  You two get out there and wait
outside."

"Yes, ma'am", Lewis replied, almost automatically, and
went to move out.  I of course was just towed after
him.

"Hey, Lewis, you don't have to do what that miserable
cow said.  It was good in there with the
air-conditioning, and it's fucking hot out here... We
were told to wait in reception, and you should have
told her that that's what we were going to do."

"Oh Spike, don't be so fucking stupid!  She'd just
have called the guard back and ordered us both to be
caned.  Not that that one would do it - I know him:
he's always looking for an excuse to do a bare-assed
spanking!  Would you fancy having your shorts pulled
down, being put across his knee, and having your ass
spanked whilst she watched?"

"But we were told...."

"...and she told you to wait outside.  And the guards
will always believe a free woman, Spike, remember
that!  Newer get in a position against a free woman
down here in the South - they kind of revere women,
and if a man hears a slave being 'uppity', as they
call it, the best you can hope for is a caning or
spanking.... And you don't even want to think about
the worst."

"So where are we going, Lewis - they didn't tell me."

"The big TV centre in Atlanta.  They do a lot of the
shows from there on the second channel, as it's easier
to do them live when all the studios and stuff are
there.  When you fight here, it's taped for later use.
 But for a guy's first fight on that channel, they
like to do it live, in case you fuck up!"

He broke out into a grin.  "But perhaps that's a
dreadful pun!  I mean, they do it live in case you do
something spectacularly wrong, or refuse, or
something, so they can crucify you... And that's not a
pun!  I do hope you 'fuck up', Spike, as that's what
they're expecting you to do when you win.  But don't
fail to fight properly, or to fuck the guy if you win
- they have a cross, a big one, and they'll have you
on it in no time, and simply lash your hide off."

"Lewis, I don't like this... Fucking in public...."

"Tough, Spike!  The alternative's worse, believe me.
And what did you do to Stu the other night, or were my
eyes deceiving me?"

"Yes, but I was horny...."

"Well that's OK, then!  You can fuck another guy in
public if you're horny!"

"I didn't mean it like that..."

"It doesn't matter, Spike - you will be horny, really
horny, when you go into the arena in three days.  The
thought of escape isn't the only reason the Colonel
has us cuffed together - why do you think the guard
asked you which hand you use?"

I looked puzzled, so he said "It's to stop you jerking
off!  Well, you could use your other hand, I suppose,
but most guys don't like doing that..  But actually,
he has us shackled like this so that I can be punished
if you're not sufficiently horny!  Look, we're going
to be close - really close - for the next three days.
You can't jerk off without me knowing.  You can't fuck
anyone without me knowing.  So when you go into the
arena, you won't have had any relief for all that
time, and for a young stud like you, who jerks off at
least twice a day, that means that your balls will be
full of cum, and your dick will be aching!  Assuming
you win, you'll whip that little G-string off and your
dick will be hard as rock, and just totally impatient
to fuck ass."

"Hey, Lewis, I've fucked you, remember... I could
always do that again...."

"But not in the next three days, Spike!  It's more
than my hide's worth, if the Colonel ever found out!
And there's no way you could do it anyway, with us
shackled like this - I guess that in a fair fight you
could overpower me and rape me like you did Stu
yesterday, but shackled together, you'd never make it.
 So you'd better get used to having an almost constant
erection, a leaking dick, and aching balls.... At
least until the fight's over."

Just at that moment a small van drove up, and the
slave driving it opened the window and called out "Are
you two for the bus station?  Climb in...."

I could tell he was a slave as he had a collar on, and
I could see his torso was naked through the open
window.  But when Lewis and I climbed in (which is
actually quite difficult, when you're shackled as we
were) we were amazed to see that the only thing inside
the van was the driver's seat, which was made of steel
mesh, not padded as you might expect.  And the slave
was totally naked, and there was a cuff running from
his ankle to a bolt in the floor!  He saw us looking
at it, and smiled resignedly "Hey, what did you guys
expect - a luxury limo?  Just sit against the walls -
you're my only cargo this trip, but they keep it clear
in here so we can really cram them in if needs be."

"But you're naked, chained down..."

"Sure.  I guess they're worried about me escaping:
even though I'm chipped as all us prisoners of war
were, I could get quite a way in this van if I drove
off.  So they keep me shackled, so I couldn't really
get away from it, and naked, as there's no air-con and
it gets hot in here most days... And anyway, how could
I then buy gas or anything?"

Lewis seemed uninterested in this conversation, but I
went on "But it's inhuman - keeping a guy naked...."

"Hey, aren't you a gladiator?  They let us watch some
of the bouts.... You should worry about being naked!
And it's not so bad - it's easier to jerk off when I
get 'driver's dick'.  And I'm used to it by now.  I'd
rather be a driver that working away on one of those
work coffles, chained by the neck to the other guys."

"And", he went on, "This isn't so very different from
the shit I used to do in the Army - I guess it was OK
for you guys fighting there in the front line, but I
just worked in logistics, handling all your gear and
ammo, so driving this van isn't so much of a change."

I began to realise the size of the enslavement that
must have gone on, but I couldn't understand how it
had happened to him as he hadn't been fighting..

"But surely you weren't fighting down here, when we
lost?"

"No, but  I was stationed in Missouri.  When the war
started, they went through our base and all the guys
from the South were allowed to carry on as normal, but
guys like me, from the North -  I'm from Chicago -
were rounded up and trucked off to a huge transit
camp.  Then about a month later they started taking us
away in batches, and when it was my turn, I found it
was to be a fucking slave:  they tattooed my SID,
micro-chipped me, put this collar on, and that's the
way it's been ever since.  They said that having us
men down there was just part of the spoils of war."

I could hardly believe that they'd be so inhuman as to
segregate soldiers like this, just based on where they
were born.  I mean, this guy wasn't actually fighting,
was he?  And I bet that up North guys born in the
South weren't jailed or anything.  But it was
intriguing to think about how all this had happened,
so I asked "What about your folks, though?  What do
they think about you being a slave?"

"I don't know - the one thing we're never allowed to
do is use the phone or anything.  But I'm not hopeful
- a lot of places in the North were hit badly when the
oil was cut off:  Chicago's a pretty tough in the
winter at the best of times!  There are terrible
rumours about food riots, people starving to
death...."

A chill of fear went through me.  My parents were
getting on, and Maine can be even worse in the winter
than Chicago.  And with those gloomy thoughts, I kind
of sat there silently for the rest of the journey,
although Lewis carried on chatting to him about  the
prospects for fighters from our barracks.  I guess it
was the equivalent of stable lads talking to punters
about the chances of horses in forthcoming races, and
I wondered how many bets would be placed on the advice
that the driver had got from Lewis about the
capabilities of our gladiators  Still, it was good to
see that Lewis rated me highly - he told the driver
that I was booked for the second channel, and the
driver turned around to take a second look at me.

"Hey, Dude, cool!  You're going  to be fucking in
public, as well as showing off your butt, then!  It
must be great to have a job like that, when you're
allowed to fuck...  The management at my place is
really straight-laced, and they even look at the
sheets in the slave quarters every morning to make
sure we haven't jacked off, let alone fucked.  That's
why I don't mind being a driver - as I said, I gets
lots of opportunity to jerk off when I'm out and
about, where they can't see.

I'd assumed we were going to some sort of bus station,
but the van drove us to the airport.  We didn't get a
plane, though:  there were now relatively few flights,
as President Prexmire had decreed that oil consumption
really was to be cut dramatically and that the South
was not to become reliant on imports again (even
though he'd invaded the Arabs!).  But it had proven to
be convenient, the van driver told us, to make the
terminal buildings the new hubs for the bus network,
so that those people who did get long-distance flights
could then travel on by bus.

He dropped us off at the sign that said "Luggage And
Unaccompanied Slaves", and we went inside to join a
queue of slaves shuffling towards a check-in desk.
The woman at the counter was just like the
receptionist at Gleeson's Gladiators - I saw at once
that she had no collar, and so was presumably a free
woman - and Lewis hissed at me to remain respectful as
there were always a lot of guards around here, and it
wouldn't be good to have her call them over.

She keyed in Gleeson's Gladiators on her screen, then
Lewis and Spike, and muttered "Yes, a linked pair.
For shipment to Atlanta.  You slaves are lucky -
there's space on the next bus.  Here....."

She handed us a couple of bar-coded tags, and snapped
"Tie these to your collars..."

Lewis attached his, but she then saw that I was
standing there, holding it helplessly.  "You're one of
those fancy slaves without a collar - it always causes
trouble.  Put it on your snout ring, idiot!".  She
sounded cross now.

"Please, Ma'am.... If I did that, it would be very
uncomfortable, hanging across my mouth....."

"You should have thought of that before you had that
fancy snout ring fitted - a real affectation, I call
it!  A slave should have a collar, that's what I say!"

I felt the anger rising inside me like a geyser.  Did
she think I'd willingly have this vile ring through my
septum?  "I didn't choose this...."

"Guard!", she almost screamed it out, and at once two
guards  came rushing over, and as they approached,
drew their slave prods and whips from their belts.

"This slave is too dammed uppity - he refuses to
attach his routing tag to his snout ring."

"Boy", one guard said at once to me - it was ironic
really, as he was only about eighteen, and he was
calling me "boy" - you do as the lady says, or my
partner and  I will take you outside and teach you a
little lesson in how to behave when a free woman gives
you an order.  Now, get that tag attached, boy...."

Well, what could I do?  I didn't want to get Lewis
hurt, and being shackled to me he'd almost certainly
have been hit by the charge from a prod as it went
through me.  So I took the thing - about the size of a
standard luggage tag - and fastened the clip on it
through my ring.  It was really irritating - it hung
down right over my lips, and made it hard for me to
speak.

"Track seventeen", the woman rapped. "Now get out of
here."

"Spike, you need to be careful", Lewis said quietly as
we walked along.  "I know it's your first time out,
but the folk here are really touchy about the way that
slaves behave.  You almost got a good prodding there,
and possibly a whipping, too.  Just keep your cool,
OK?"

"But it's so fucking awful, having this thing hanging
down over my mouth!", I muttered with difficulty,
having to use my right hand to hold the thing out of
the way.

"Yes, Spike.  But for one awful moment  I thought you
were going to shout at that woman or something.  It
wouldn't help, she wouldn't back down - once a slave
has been given an order, there's no way a master is
going to back down and rescind it  -  even if it's
totally stupid, just do it, then take steps to correct
the problem later, OK?  Remember how it was with some
of those stupid new officers fresh out of training -
didn't know a fuck, but you had to obey them, and
clear up the shit afterwards.  Well, being a slave is
just like that."

"Yes, but..."

"No 'buts', Spike.  That's the way it has to be.
That's why the Colonel sends someone out like me with
you inexperienced slaves - he doesn't want you
arriving at the other end with your back or your butt
in tatters from some over zealous guard's whip.  Now
the sensible thing to do is this...."

We stopped for a moment, and Lewis unclipped the tag
from my nose, and attached it to hang alongside the
one from his collar.

"There!  See, simple.  We could have avoided all those
problems back there.  You do as you're ordered, then
you fix it later.  We have to have two tags as they
scan them when we board the bus, but as we're shackled
together, it's easy this way.... Now, before we go
down to the stand, do you need to piss?"

We were up on the concourse now, and I nodded as I
knew it would be a long journey, and if there's a rest
room, it's always as well to use it at places like
airports, isn't it?    They'd evidently been busy at
this place, though, as in addition to making the
"gates" serve planes or buses, a lot of other stuff
had been done, too:  I quickly noticed that at the
gates we went past, there were signs saying "Slaves
may not sit on the seats"; the phone booths had signs
saying "Use by slaves prohibited under Federal Law";
the coffee shops and bars had signs on the doors
saying "Slaves not admitted, whether accompanied by
their owners or not"; and then, of course, when we got
to the rest rooms, there were now three entrances:
"Men", "Women" and "Slaves".

"Hey, Lewis, what about female slaves....?"

"Oh there aren't many of those, Spike - and they
mostly don't travel as their owners usually keep them
locked up for their sexual pleasure.  But don't you
worry - if there are any female slaves in here, I'll
keep you safe from them... If they even come near you,
I'll tell them you like men now..."

"Hey, sarge, that's a lie...."

"Is it, Spike?  The way you've been at young Stu...."

"Hey, sarge, it's only because there are no ladies
around!  But I wasn't thinking about a fast screw in
the rest rooms, I was thinking about them looking at
me...."

"Oh come on, Spike!  Half the nation watches the
fights on the second channel, and half of them are
women, and they'll be seeing that big dick of yours
one way or the other soon - either it will be out,
rock hard, as you start to fuck the loser, or it will
be hanging down as he fucks you - you have to strip
the fighting pouch off, you know, as the string blocks
the asshole - or hadn't you thought about that?"

I hadn't, actually, and it was an unwelcome thought.
But anyway, as it happens,  there weren't any female
slaves in the rest room, but had there been, it might
have been awkward:  just as at the barracks,
everything was open and on view - there were no
cubicles or anything.  Lewis and I went to the trough
on one wall that was a urinal, and then as we stood
there, we both began to laugh.  "Jesus, sarge... I
can't get it out and piss properly with my right
hand...."

"Nor me with my left", Lewis replied. "Here....."

He stopped trying to piss himself and let his hand go
free, so I could use my usual left one to tug at the
tight shorts and free my dick, then hold it there
whilst my piss hosed out.  It felt so strange - I
mean, you're used to having another guy standing next
to you at those open trough things, aren't you - but
to have him so close, and him having to hold his hand
right down by your dick...  Well, it was odd - almost
as odd as me having to hold my hand there as Lewis
then fumbled to get his dick out.

We went down to gate seventeen then where the sign was
saying "Atlanta", and saw the passengers boarding.  I
went to join the line, but Lewis dragged me back,
shaking his head.  We went instead around to the other
side of the bus where a couple of slaves were loading
the bags into the cargo area underneath.  It was a
warm night, and manhandling all those bags is hard
work - both of the guys were covered in sweat, even
though they'd only been allowed to wear brief slave
shorts to help the keep cool.  There was a guard with
a leather strap watching them, and we could tell they
didn't dare stop working - they just nodded at Lewis
and me, but made no attempt to exchange even a few
words.

The guard saw us, though, and used a key to open
another door, next to the baggage compartment.  He had
one of those radio-linked scanner things like they use
at car hire places, and scanned the two tags that
Lewis held out to him, then motioned us through the
door.  It slammed shut behind us, and I heard him lock
it, noticing that there was no handle or anything on
the inside at all  - we were shut in here until they
chose to let us out!  And "here" wasn't all that great
- for one thing, it was only about four feet high, so
we couldn't stand up at all; and for another, it was
totally bare - just steel walls and a steel floor,
although there were a couple of small windows set in
the sides ,which I guessed we could peer out from.

Lewis saw me looking, and just shrugged.  "They just
define one of the baggage holds as being for slaves",
he told me.  "They're all like this.  Come on, let's
make the most of it - we've got a long journey ahead
of us.".  With that he went and sat against one of the
walls, and I had to go and sit next to him, of course.
 We leaned together to get some shred of human comfort
from that bleak place, and soon felt our virtual
prison start to vibrate, as the bus engines were
revved up.
I've never been particularly bored when on planes or
buses, or as a passenger in a car - I like to look at
the scenery as we go along.  So I didn't think the
journey would be too bad, as I could see out of the
tiny windows.  But only about three feet off the
ground, there wasn't much of a view, and the journey
did go on and on, and our butts got sore from sitting
on the bare metal and we were both soon shuffling
around.   It was hot down there, too - I guess the
folk above were all air-conditioned, but Lewis and I
were soon sweating, as although the compartment had
ventilation grills, all these did was bring in the
hot, humid air from outside.

It wasn't as if the bus went very fast, either - well,
it did on the Interstate.  But we kept having to slow
right down and go very slowly indeed through long
sections where there were repairs going on, and
sometimes come off it altogether and take normal state
roads.  We cold see gangs of slaves working away on
the ruined sections, just as we had when we were first
captured, and Lewis said "Poor bastards!  Look at
them, Spike - those chains keeping them in coffles.
And on a hot day like this, they bake, and come
winter, they freeze.  And you can just tell that some
of the guards are real bastards - look at them, those
typical 'rednecks', standing there with their whips,
guns and prods...."

"Why don't you think they use machinery, sarge?"

"I don't know, really  Perhaps it's to keep the slaves
occupied - I mean, there are an awful lot of us!  Or
perhaps it's to remind the North not to attack again -
the more roads and bridges they destroy, the more us
northerners will have to toil away...."

As we went past one coffle, I pointed out something
odd to Lewis - all the guys were white, or, rather,
the coffle wasn't the usual mixture of white guys and
blacks.  None of them was really, of course -  working
away nearly naked under the hot sun, every one on a
coffle was always deeply tanned, as you'd expect.  But
these guys looked especially dark and swarthy.

"Oh, I expect those are Arabs", Lewis explained. "They
keep them coffled together, as no one understands
Arabic.  And the guards have to really whip them to
make them get to see what's to be done."   Even as he
said this, I could see, as we were halted briefly, a
guard standing there shouting at the poor bastards,
who clearly did not have a clue what he wanted.  Then,
as they continued to stand there, he started to lash
out at them, seemingly randomly, with his whip,
driving them along the highway by the side of our bus.
 The poor guys, I saw, must be treated like this all
the time - not only was there now fresh blood running
down most of them, but I could distinctly see wounds
and scars all over their backs.

"See, Spike", Lewis went on.  "That's why you need to
be careful of the whip.  Look at those guys' backs -
they never recover properly.  And it would be a real
pity if your back, or your butt, got like that!"

End Of Part 16