Date: Fri, 4 Feb 2005 03:37:03 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Spoils Of War, Part  4

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

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

Part 4

We sat chained in our coffle in that fucking truck for
what seemed like another couple of hours.  The driver
was in spirited conversation with a guard on the
"goods inwards" bay who was going through the
paperwork the driver had, looking at things on his PC
screen, and making phone calls.  It seemed clear that
whatever they had in store for us couldn't take place
with the paperwork in a mess - it was just as if we
were a shipment of stock into a warehouse, and not a
load of men who needed food, a piss and a shower.

Eventually there was a lot of signing of forms, as
evidently we were "handed on" from the driver to the
loading bay guard, just as packages moving around get
signed for,  and the driver winched down the ramp on
the truck for what was to be our last time.  He came
in and undid the coffle chain from the front, and told
us to get out.  As we stumbled and staggered  onto the
loading bay, shivering slightly as there was a cool
breeze in the air, the guard turned to the driver and
said "Fuck this, these stink!  Man, I don't know how
you can do your job, having to drive filthy animals
like this around.  You'd think that they'd keep
themselves clean, even though they're only slaves,
wouldn't you?"

We all looked at each other, and I felt certain that
one of us would burst out and tell him how unfair that
was - if you don't allow guys to shower, make them
piss in the straw they're lying on, force them to crap
in the woods, and give them nothing to catch their cum
on when they jerk off, what do you expect?  But it
would probably have done no good - they'd only have
punished him, I guess.  But it did show me what a gulf
there was in the way that "ordinary" people saw
things, and the reality of slavery for us slaves.

The guard pressed a button and a door slid open with a
hiss of compressed air, and he snapped "Get your
filthy hides in there....".   We staggered through the
door, to find ourselves in a small chamber, with a
steel floor, walls and ceiling.  The door hissed shut
behind us, and it was kind of scary - standing there
in that totally featureless space, with no windows,
strip lights in the ceiling buried behind
tough-looking glass, and not even any handles on the
doors.  There was another hissing noise then - more
ominous sounding, and a white vapour started to appear
from grilles at floor level.  Some of us started to
panic then, shouting that they were going to gas us,
and young Dylan pushed himself against me and put his
arms around me, as he looked terrified.    The vapour
rose higher and higher, and it smelled awful - it was
clearly some powerful chemical, and one guy got
hysterical, screaming that he could feel himself
choking.  Some of the others, too, started pounding on
the doors and walls, trying to find some way out, and
shouting that they didn't want to die in here.  I
could feel  my heart racing and sweat breaking out all
over me as my body did the classic "fight or fly"
reaction (although neither was possible!), but then,
mercifully, there was a click, and a loudspeaker
somewhere said "Slaves will remain calm in the
fumigation chamber.  This is for your own good, to
protect you from lice and other infestations before
proceeding to processing.  We are required under
Federal law to remind you that this chemical has been
judged as safe for use on slaves and farm animals.
Men should take suitable precautions if handling for
prolonged periods."

This did at least quieten down most of us, and a
couple of the guys held onto the one who was almost
hysterical as the white vapour rose around us.  It was
pretty disgusting - you could breathe, but it had a
vile smell and almost made you gag, and there was no
avoiding it at all as it completely filled the chamber
and went into every pore of our bodies.    We were all
sincerely grateful when there was a whirring noise as
fans or something started to suck the stuff out, and a
few seconds later a door opposite to the one we had
entered by hissed open.

We were in a conventional shower area then, and all
twenty of us stood there feeling really great as the
water started to sluice down on us from nozzles in the
ceiling.  There were cakes of soap lying around on the
floor, and soon we were all soaping up - it was almost
like being back in a  barracks again (excepting for
that fucking coffle chain!).  Some of the guys
couldn't hold it as the water continued to pour down
on us - they must have been desperate to pee, and it
was just too much:  I saw several bright yellow
streams hosing from guys' dicks, and that pungent
smell of warm piss wafted through the air.  Still, it
was good to feel really clean again, and when the
water stopped, a further door opened and we went
through into yet another empty room.

Strangely, this room was also bare but had no ceiling
- there was just a heavy mesh on top, and there were
guards, armed guards, strolling around up there and
looking down on us.   The loudspeaker voice started
again:  "Slaves!  You are in the United Confederacy's
Department Of Slaves' Slave Processing And Auction
Facility for the greater Atlanta area.  Under Federal
law slaves can only be auctioned in approved
facilities like this, once the slave had been properly
verified  and examined to ensure he is medically fit.
Whilst here in the facility slaves are enjoined to
obey all orders issued by officers, to remain silent
unless spoken to by an officer or are in a designated
slave relaxation area, and to be respectful at all
times.  Federal regulations allow officers at this
facility to punish slaves being held for auction as if
they were the owners of those slaves, so the full
range of lawful punishments is practised, up to and
including use of the bullwhip.  Slaves are reminded
that the penalty for escape, attempted escape, or
striking or harming an officer of the facility in any
way, is death.  Guards patrol the overhead catwalks
constantly, and will not hesitate to shoot slaves who
appear to be endangering the staff, customers or other
visitors to the facility."

It was the first time that the true awfulness of life
as a slave really came across, I suppose - the fact
that there were physical punishments regulated by the
state ("up to and including the bullwhip"!), and that
we could even be killed without trial. We stood there,
looking up, and a guard pointed a rifle down at us,
play-acted pulling the trigger, and gave us a cheery
wave.

Once again a door opened, but this time a guard came
in.  He was in the blue uniforms that the Confederates
seemed to favour, with a short-sleeved shirt with
epaulets saying UCDS - Atlanta, and tight-cut cotton
pants that seemed to be cut to emphasise his muscular
butt, tucked into black leather combat boots.  He
carried a short whip of the riding crop school -
leather handle, and about a foot of semi-flexible
shaft terminating in a thin leather strap - and
clipped to his belt was one of the slave prods with
which we had become familiar.  "Line up at attention,
slaves", he snapped.  "You were all soldiers, so you
should know how to do that!"

We shuffled into our order on the coffle chain, and
once again it felt so odd to be "on parade" in this
military stance I was so used to, but now naked, and
in chains.  The guard snapped "Stand easy!", and we
all did it in unison, as you'd expect from soldiers,
except for Dylan who I cold just see out of the corner
of my eye.  The guard moved along the line and stood
in front of the boy.  "Don't tell me - you're the one
they added in at the last minute, the newly-enslaved
sixteen year old?  You're the one that's been causing
all the trouble - we were just expecting some of the
captured insurgents, and all the paper work's fucked
up now.  So have they all been fucking you, boy,  on
the transporter - marines always like a nice young
ass?  You're cute enough...."

"Sir, no, sir.", Dylan said simply.

"I resent that", one of the guys shouted out.  "You
are impugning the honour of the US Marine Corps.
Marines don't fuck ass.... Sir."

The guard strode up to him, stood with his face close
to the slave, just as if he was  a sergeant on the
parade ground, and snarled "The next time you speak
without being spoken to, slave boy, I'll give you a
level five prodding.  For your information, marines do
fuck ass - and even if they didn't before they were
taken as spoils of war, they surely do now.  Most of
you men, who were such wimps you allowed yourselves to
be captured rather than fighting to the end, like real
men, will end up as some owner's fuck toy.  So you may
be glad to fuck ass, as a change from having your
asses fucked by your owners and their friends."

I couldn't bear it any longer.  "Sir, no, sir, no
way....", I shouted.  I wanted to tell him firstly
that we were not "wimps" - marines don't surrender,
just like that.  We'd only laid down our arms because
we were totally out of ammo, and hugely outnumbered -
our Captain had ordered us to do so, to save needless
and pointless loss of life, in the hope we might
escape and still be able to fight again.  And
secondly, that there was no way I was ever going to
fuck ass, or have mine used in that vile way.

The guard strode up to me, and the next instant I was
trying to scream.  I say "trying" as the pain that had
shot through me was so intense that my limbs had all
contorted and I'd started to fall to the floor, to
have my fall broken by the coffle chain which was now
strangling me.  The guys on either side of me who were
also being choked grabbed me and helped me try to
stand upright in spite of the cramps that were causing
my body to convulse.  The guard just stood there
looking, and said, calmly "There's always one that
protests when we talk about the sexual habits of
marines.  But let this be a lesson to you  -  that was
a level five prod, and there's two more notches we can
use, too.  You heard that slaves are not allowed to
speak here in the facility unless spoken to, or unless
you are in a designated slave conversation zone.  This
is your last warning, for all of you.  Behave, or be
punished - that's the motto here."

"Now", he went on, "I'm going to take that coffle
chain off you as we need to process you through into
the holding cells.  Let me repeat the warning you
heard - any attempt to escape, any violence against
officers or visitors, and it's death.  No second
chances, no arguments - the guards up on the catwalks
are all trained marksmen, and will take out any
troublemaker."  The guard strolling around above our
heads again pointed his rifle down at us, mimed
pulling the trigger, and waved again.  The guard
continued  "And just as there's always one who gets a
warning prodding as you saw a moment ago, there's
always one who doesn't believe us, and gets taken out.
 Don't let it be you - a life as a slave is better
than no life at all."

"Now, remain standing at ease, until I order you to
move off."  As he said this, he started to come down
the line, using a small tool to remove our collars.
The "clank" as mine, and the chain, fell to the floor
was one of the best sounds I've ever heard, and I had
to fight my body to remain "at ease" and not reach up
to massage my neck where the odious thing had been for
the last days.

When he released Dylan, from the end of the chain, he
said, more quietly, "Look, lad, you'd better stay with
these slaves until we sort out the paperwork.  I don't
like leaving a young guy like you with all these older
toughs - they may have treated you OK so far, but once
they're processed and in the dorms, their natural
tendencies will come out and they'll all try to fuck
you.  I've got a soft spot for young slaves like you -
my own sons are only seventeen and fifteen, and I can
almost visualise how terrible if would be to have them
standing there naked, as you have to.  If they try to
'interfere' with you - you know what I mean by that,
son? - shout out."

"Sir, yes, sir.  I do know, sir. My previous owner
'interfered' with me, sir."

"Oh, you poor kid!  I'd hate to think of that
happening to my own sons.  They fool around with each
other, I know, but having an older man use them when
they're so young would be terrible. Look, I wish I
could take you out of all this, take you home and let
you live with my sons, but I can't afford you, on a
guard's pay!  But whilst you're here, we'll try to
make it as easy as possible for you.  Have you spoken
to any of the men here, is there any one of them who
has tried to help you already?"

"Sir, yes, sir.  Steve, sir."

"One pace forward, the slave known as Steve!", the
guard snapped, and almost automatically, as that's how
our parades ran at base, I stepped forward and stood
there smartly.   The guard came up to me and faced me.
 "You're the fucking trouble maker!  Not a good choice
as the boy's guardian - but the kid's chosen you.  Now
listen, soldier boy, you're responsible for this kid,
understand me?  Make sure he gets treated right when
he's with you lot. Make sure they don't fuck him. Make
sure he gets his fair share of the food.  Make sure
he's tucked up in bed at night.... If I find he's been
abused or 'interfered' with or is unhappy, I'll
personally ream out your asshole with my slave prod.
Understand, boy?"

Inwardly I was amused - if anyone was going to do any
"interfering", it was likely to be Dylan, not any of
us soldiers!  But I kept a straight face, and just
said "Sir, yes, sir."

"Good!  Now, you men - we've got your medical results
from when you were first captured and sentenced to
enslavement.  So the rest of today is going to be
quick and easy - you all need shaving, most of you
need a hair cut, we need to mark you and collar you,
and then you can go to bed!  There's two weeks to sale
day, and tomorrow we'll start the exercise programme
that will get you in peak condition.  Now.... Right
turn.... March...."

We were shaved next, and it was fantastic to get those
days of beard off - I've always liked to be clean
shaven, although as I'm dark and have a fast-growing
beard, I often look as if I've got "five o'clock
shadow" by noon!  And when I've been in foreign parts,
especially all those engagements in South East Asia,
it was a real treat to be able to go to a cheap local
barber and be shaved every day - so much easier than
standing there with all your buddies around trying to
get to the same wash basin and so on.  So I was used
to being shaved by other men, and the two slaves who
went along and did us were really excellent - proper
cut-throat razors, not those new plastic things.  Of
course there were complaints - a group of guys always
bitches about something, don't they?  But three of the
guys had 'taches, and these had to come off, and I
heard the slap of the guard's lash once or twice as
the guys had spoken to the slaves, complaining, and
they were reminded that we weren't allowed to say
anything.

I hadn't been able to have a haircut for weeks,
either, so that was good, too - I've always liked to
keep my hair in a good marine's buzz cut, and hate it
when it gets long.  The trouble for me started at the
next stage in the process.

We had to go one at a time in front of a couple of
guys who looked us all over, and decided what was to
be done to us.  For me, they said something like "A
real hairy one here - shall we have him shaved all
over?"

"No - it's becoming more fashionable to have a
masculine looking slave.  And these really hairy ones
don't shave well anyway - it re-grows very quickly,
and it's constant maintenance."

Turning to the two slaves who were acting as barbers
he then snapped "Trim his pits, as I can see some pit
hair squeezing out when his arms are at rest.  Shorten
that pelt on his chest, but only a little.  Take off
about half his pubic hair, and shorten the rest to an
inch.  Then the standard sac and crack."

The two slaves had the electric clippers they'd used
on my head, and gestured for me to raise my arms above
my head so that they could each do one side of me -
there was a dreadful buzzing, and it tickled as my
pits were shortened.  And it was really odd having the
clippers on a high setting go up and down my chest.
But I went to push them away when they started on my
pubes, and the two men who'd given the orders gestured
to a guard, who came forward threateningly with a
prod, until I just resigned myself to my fate.

Look, I've always had a lot of pubic hair - a big
patch, running from one thigh right across to the
other, all dark and bushy.  They deftly shaved the
sides off all of this, so I was down to a circular
patch centred on my dick, then this was shortened to
about an inch all over.  I hated it as they held my
dick between thumb and forefinger to allow for the
passage of the clippers - I mean, this is not the kind
of thing one guy ought to do to another, is it?  But
when they gestured at me to sit in a big high chair
and lean right back, and then took hold of my balls, I
wanted to lash out at them and only the guard standing
right there prevented me.

Have you ever had your balls shaved by another guy?
It's fucking awful, I can tell you.  They have to hold
your most intimate parts, then they have to pull and
stretch at your sac to get nice smooth surfaces to
shave:  you know how convoluted and pimply your sac
is, and therefore how long  it takes, and how much
prying at you they need to do!  And all the time
there's this worry that they're going to really fuck
it up, and really hurt you - they didn't, of course,
as they were experts.  But when a guy has your balls
in his fingers, you just sit there really on edge,
always expecting it to happen.  Worse was to come,
though.  I'd wondered what "sac and crack" was, and I
now knew about the sac part;  and when they then told
me to get out of the chair and go and lie with my
belly on a table and my legs spread apart, feet on the
floor, I guessed what the "crack" was going to be!

One of them pried my ass cheeks apart so that the
other could run the clippers all down there, and then
I felt the warmth and tickling as the shaving brush
was used to lather me up.  That scraping of the razor
down both sides, then the awful feeling as, ever so
carefully and gently the tip of the razor "tidied up"
the loose hairs right around my hole itself.  I'd
never had anyone do anything like this to me before,
and never had another guy look at my ass so
intimately, even.  It was so fucking humiliating.  And
when they then told me I could get up as I was done,
it felt really odd as I walked across the room - my
ass cheeks kind of slithered against each other -  you
get used to the hairs there, I suppose, so you don't
notice them until they're gone!  And then there was a
mirror on the wall, and I caught sight of myself - I
did look better, actually, without quite so much hair.
 But my dick and balls looked huge now, and somehow so
exposed and vulnerable, as the white of my skin on my
sac  was now so clearly visible against the black
hairy nest all around.

I was ushered into the next room, and there was Dylan,
waiting.  He almost threw himself at me, and was
really upset - they'd shaved him completely smooth,
except for a really tiny patch of his pale brown pubic
hair just above his cock.  He looked three years
younger, and so very fragile and vulnerable.  "Steve",
he almost sobbed, "I no longer look like a mature guy
- this is how I was when I was a kid in eighth grade!"


I felt so embarrassed,  I can tell you, standing there
nude, with this naked kid with his arms around me,
especially a naked kid who looked as if he was jail
bait!   "Hey, come on, Dylan - it will soon grow
again.  And shall I tell you something - its well
known that when you shave hair off, it comes back
stronger!  So providing your new owner lets you grow
it, you'll soon look just like me!"  He grinned at
this, but I could tell that he was still embarrassed
at being made to look quite so young and innocent.

One by one we were called through into the next room,
and this was the "marking" they'd promised.  I had to
sit there whilst a slave with an automatic tattoo gun
pressed it into my upper right arm, by the shoulder,
and my slave identification number - or SIN - as they
called it, was inked into me.  "It's easy for you army
guys", he told me, "As they're just using your army
serial number with an S in front of it, so that all
the paperwork at the army records centre doesn't have
to be cross-referenced."

It felt awful just to be numbered like this on my arm.
 I was dehumanised, somehow, having a serial number
inked into my skin.  I know we all have social
security numbers, passport number, credit card
numbers... But having a SIN, and having it inked onto
your body, as a permanent indelible label, turns you
from being a human being into a piece of property,
that can be listed, catalogued and accounted for.
Still, I thought, with any luck my owner will let me
wear a shirt most of the time, so it won't be so
visible.  Oh, fuck me - I was starting to think like a
slave now - I was accepting that I'd have an "owner".
But just as this thought was going through me, the
slave with the tattoo gun told me to put my left hand
down on the desk, flat.  He put his palm over my
fingers to hold my hand steady, then brought the gun
down and put those same numbers on the back of my left
hand!  Now, I knew, everyone would always be able to
see that I was a slave - there would be no way of
hiding those big black numbers in such a place that's
always so visible.  I felt like punching someone out,
I was so furious, and so desperately needed to release
some tension.

Above the horrible insistent buzzing of the tattoo gun
I'd heard this kind of metallic clanking noise, and in
the final part of my "processing"  I found out what it
was - the automatic collaring machine.  In the final
room of this "processing suite" there was this big
machine, about he size of an office desk.  On one side
there was a big coil of stainless steel tape around
six feet in diameter, electric motors were visible in
several places idling away, and the was some sort of
hatch thing to one side with one of those warning
notices saying "Danger - isolate supply before
opening: high voltage welding equipment".  The most
striking feature of the whole thing, though, was the
curved depression in the centre of the machine, and
another one, on a heavy-looking metal beam, suspended
about two feet above it.

"Right....", the slave who was in charge of this piece
of apparatus said.  "Name and number."

"Er, Steve Masters.  86607016"

"That's just 'Steve' in future, slave.  Slaves don't
have more than one name as their SIN identifies them
anyway, and their name is just for the convenience of
their owners.  And your SIN is S86607016 - and you
don't have to remember that - just look at your hand!"

I felt myself burning with shame again a I looked at
those big black characters on the back of my left
hand, but saw that the slave had the same thing, too,
and it didn't seem to be worrying him. No doubt that
this was another adjustment I'd have to reconcile
myself to in my new life.

"Right - I've dialled this into the collarer here.
Now you go and kneel on the platform and put your neck
into that curved bit there...."

Feeling very apprehensive, I did as he said, and
rested my neck down, feeling the cold of the steel of
the machine, and the throbbing that was pulsing
through it.

"Right, Steve, now don't be alarmed.  Federal law
requires all slaves to wear a collar, and this little
beauty does a custom-made job just for you.  The top
bar is going to come down now, and it will squeeze
your neck, but only for a moment.  It's measuring the
diameter, so don't flinch - keep your neck muscles
tight.  It's not going to strangle you or anything,
but it might feel like it just a for a second!  Then
just stay there, and keep perfectly still - this
little beauty takes that steel tape, fashions it into
a tube and welds it closed, then bends it around your
neck and welds the end together so that you're
perfectly and permanently collared.  On the way it
etches your SIN into the collar, too.  It's really
great - a really humane piece of technology for the
slave and a huge advance over the old ways:  you guys
are really lucky.  It does really perfect joints,
completely smooth, so this collar shouldn't chafe and
scar because of improper manufacture or anything like
that.  This collar will be as good on the day you die
as it is today.  Fantastic... Here goes...."

It wasn't bad at all, really.  If you don't mind being
collared, that is!  All I had to do was kneel there
and feel this "thing" doing things to me.  But he was
right - it was "humane" (if you can accept that making
am man wear a slave collar is "humane"), I suppose, as
the thing cooled the welds so they didn't burn, and it
didn't take long.  When I was allowed to stand up, I
now had a two inch thick band of steel around my neck
as my slave collar, and it looked pretty dammed
permanent - no way of getting this off without special
tools.

Amazingly, I was then given clothes!  Simple, basic
cotton slave shorts, cut very high on the thigh and
tight around the ass, with a fly that was just
overlapped - no buttons, or fastenings, so that I felt
as if my dick might pop out if it went erect;  and a
loose kind of T, with no arms, and cut quite low so
that my nipples were almost exposed, and which was so
short that there was a gap between the low waistband
of the shorts and the end of it, exposing a good
stretch of my belly and its treasure trail.  Still,
after all these days, some clothes were better than
none.

As our "processing" finished, we were taken off to our
cell, and the twenty of us that had shipped in
together all ended up in the same one.  It wasn't so
bad, actually - not unlike some primitive barracks
I've been in (except that one wall was completely made
of steel bars, floor to ceiling, with a locked gate to
gain entry).   Plain concrete floor, simple iron bunks
stacked two high, very close together, with just one
blanket per bunk, and at one end, a crapper in case of
urgent need.  There was no window, but the lighting
from the fluorescents in the corridor outside the bars
was adequate, and there was forced air flow, keeping
it well ventilated.  The only jarring note, and that
would clearly distinguish it from a jail cell in a
barracks, was the huge injunction painted on the wall
"Slave Holding Facility - Obey Or Be Punished".

We all stood there, looking at each other, and rubbing
a finger almost nervously around our collars as we
struggled to adjust to this most public and obvious
way of differentiating us as slaves, from men.  Mind
you, I suppose that mathematicians would argue that
nothing had changed:  topologically, there is no
difference between a welded-on two inch stainless
steel collar, and a standard set of marine dog tags!
But in terms of the pride that a man can feel in
himself, they're worlds apart.

I felt sorry for young Dylan more than for myself, I
suppose.  I'd been in some tight corners in my
military career, times when my life had been in severe
danger, and this just wasn't that bad - it was
unpleasant, humiliating, and not to be recommended,
but not as bad as being in danger of losing my life.
For him, though, it must be really awful:  only three
moths ago he was a young guy of sixteen, at home,
brothers and sisters, mom and dad... And now he was a
collared, shaved slave, a slave who'd been used
sexually by his first owner, and made to do terrible
things to some of the guys in this room.  I went over
to him, put my arm around his shoulder, pulled him
close to me a little, and said "OK, Dylan?"

"I guess so, Steve.  What do you think happens next?"

I tried to sound cheerful, but I guess, deep down, I
was worried sick.  But there was no point in alarming
the lad, so I put brave face on it and said "Well,
sounds like a couple of weeks of fun - I'm looking
forward to working out again, and getting back into
peak condition.  And I'll show you some stuff that
will help you put muscle on, too.  Then the sale -
well, I suppose the buyers just look us over, and
that's that - well before Christmas you'll have a new
owner, and will be properly settled in.  Who knows -
our owners might even let us call our folks to tell
them we're OK."

Dylan looked much more cheerful then, and I chose a
bottom bunk, and he said he'd sleep on the one above
me.

End Of Part 4