Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2005 14:28:09 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Spoils Of War, Part 7

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

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

Part 7

I must have stood there on that fucking plinth for the
best part of six hours.  Other than the old woman, and
the kind guy, there wasn't much interest in me - the
casual stroking, pinching, and general handling of my
body continued, but I didn't sense any real interest,
rather it was just some sort of cheap thrill to those
who were able to touch a body like mine knowing I was
unable to retaliate..  Gradually the noise died down
as the spectators withdrew, and guards came to
unshackle me.  They took my blindfold off, but left me
cuffed and gagged.

We were lined up against one wall, and a pair of
slaves came down the line lifting our kilt things and
holding up a bucket for us to pee into.  I decided not
to, but a guard standing by snapped "It's not
optional!  We don't want any accidents on the stage! 
Fucking piss, when you're told to, or maybe a touch of
my prod will get it flowing...."

So I forced myself to do it, and you know how
difficult that is, and then just knew that it would be
unpleasant later as there was no provision for getting
it out from under my 'skin.  We then all faced right,
and gradually, quite slowly, the line shuffled
forward.

When I was almost at the head of the line there were
two guards with rifles aimed at us, and two slaves
quickly undid my handcuffs - I suppose the guards were
there as this was some sort of pivotal moment, when
slaves might try to escape.    "Hands in front", one
of the slaves said as if this was all routine to him,
and when I complied, he picked up a bar about a metre
long with cuffs on either end, and snapped them onto
my wrists.

I moved forward, and now the second slave put a hook
attached to a chain through a loop on the bar, and the
chain started to tighten.  My arms were gradually
pulled up above my head, spread out as a result of the
bar.

The chain was pulling now, and I had no option but to
follow it as the little trolley to which it was
attached ran along a track in the ceiling, and I heard
the two slaves saying "Hands in front" to the guy
behind me.    The chain jerked forward a few feet,
then stopped for a little while, then jerked forward
again.  It was just as if I was some piece of meat in
a meat processing plant!

The last movement took me up eight steps to stand in
front of a door.  After that same interval, the door
hissed open, and the chain pulled me forward onto a
brightly-lit stage.  Through the glare of the lights
that were shining at me from all directions, I could
see an audience sitting, men and women, all peering at
me.  

The chain moved me to the centre of the stage and
stopped, and I was standing there, hands above my
head, body nicely taught.  One of those florid,
overdressed slave trader types was standing there with
a microphone, and the PA system boomed out "Lot two
seven three.  Mature buck, aged twenty six. 
Physically in excellent condition.  Certified to be
disease free. Former member of the armed insurrection
forces, being sold as a part of the spoils of the war
which ravaged our country. Believed to be an anal
virgin but this is not warranted."

I've been to auctions before and heard the auctioneer
describing the lots as they're brought forward, but,
should you ever be in a similar position, I'll tell
you now that nothing prepares you for hearing yourself
as a a "lot" and offered for sale like that, with
those short, cursory descriptions.  And why was I only
"believed" to be anally virgin?  Did I look like the
kind of guy who took dick up his ass?

The dealer fiddled with my kilt, and tore it off, so I
was then standing there entirely naked and exposed.   
"As you will see, ladies and gentlemen, in addition to
a good physical demeanour generally, this slave is
nicely hung, and is not cut, allowing you the choice
of whether to remove the 'skin or not."

"Turn around, boy, so they can see our butt", he
hissed at me, out of microphone range, and when I
hesitated, he slashed at my butt with his riding crop.

"As you can see, ladies and gentleman, the slave is a
little shy, but I'm sure you will agree that he has
nothing to be shy about - it's rare that we get
powerful thighs like these combined with such
thrusting buttocks - imagine, if you will, this slave
working naked on your demesne:  what a splendid sight
he'd make as a labourer near the house, where all this
bodily perfection could be enjoyed."

"Turn around and face the front", he hissed again.  I
did, this time, as it was pointless to get another
whipping, and just stood there, feeling all the eyes
in the place riveted on my dick.  The dealer played
the tip of the whip on my dick and balls, gently
moving them from side to side with the leather strap,
and rasing my dick up and letting it flop back down. 
I couldn't help but respond by starting to have an
erection,  even in front of this big audience.

"As you will see, ladies and gentlemen, a slave who's
really ready for action.  He's fully fertile, making
him suitable as a stud if required, and for those of
you of a nervous nature, given his background, I'll
remind you that all salves leaving the facility here
can, for a very small fee, be 'calmed' before delivery
with your choice of prosthetics at no additional
cost."

"Now, what am I bid.... Do I hear an opening bid of
twenty five thousand?"

The bidding went up very rapidly, and through the
bright lights I couldn't see who was bidding for me. 
There seemed to be several bidders, though, but soon
it narrowed down to two, and things slowed down.  It
was simply terrible - standing there naked, unable to
cover myself, and hearing my body being sold like that
just as if I was an animal at a country fair.  
Finally, the hammer fell and I was sold.  The chain
started into motion and dragged me off the stage, and
I just knew that the audience would be watching my
dick bob up and down as I walked along.

On the other side of the stage the chain led me down
steps, then along a short corridor and into a room
marked "Despatch".  There were the ubiquitous guards
with guns there as I was released from the chain, and
taken into a "holding cage", about four feet square,
so I could only stand there and not sit or anything. 
"Sir, please, sir, can I have some clothes?" I asked
the guard.

"Stay naked, until your owner decides what's to be
done with you."

I stood there, shivering slightly in the air
conditioning, as I watched other slaves brought down
and put into cages like mine.  Then the buyers started
to arrive - they'd come in, offer some piece of paper,
presumably to show they'd paid, and then be led to the
cage holding their new slave.  I watched in
trepidation each time the door opened, dreading the
arrival of some old woman and her nephew - I had quite
a picture of them in my mind's eye by now, her with
bleached blond hair, a Chanel suit, very petite and
birdlike, and him all floppy and goofy, dressed like a
fop.  

Suddenly, there seemed to be hope for me - one of
those men in suits with a big red cross on his arm was
being shown around.  "Please, sir!", I called out as
he came near, before the guards could stop me.  

He came and stood and looked at me through the bars of
the cage.  "Please, sir, I believe I'm a prisoner of
war, and as such they oughtn't to be holding me here
in a cage..."

He peered in, and in his accented English replied "Are
you one of the prisoners captured recently in the
civil war, the men who are the so-called 'spoils of
war'?  We in the International Red Cross are concerned
with the welfare of prisoners of war..."

"Yes, sir... But it isn't a civil war.  We're fighting
for freedom, for the beliefs America believes in, to
quell the evil of slavery...."

"I'm sorry, young man, but the UN unanimously declared
that the former USA is indeed fighting a civil war. 
And as such, prisoners like your good self are not
covered by the conventions governing the prisoners of
war.  You may be governed by the Human Rights acts
which are in force.... "

"Thank Christ for that, then, sir.  They're going to
castrate and blind me.... "

Turning to the guard, the man said "Please bring some
responsible authority to me at once.  This man has
made a serious allegation of potential mistreatment
which most certainly contravenes the human rights act.
 If, as he alleges, he is going to be castrated and
blinded, then some action needs to be taken swiftly."

"Slave, show him your hands!", the guard snapped at
me.  I was so startled, that I held them out.

"What's this?", the man asked, looking at my big
tattoo on the back of my hand.

"My SIN - slave identification number - sir."

"Are you a slave, then?"

"Yes, I was sentenced to slavery when I was
captured...."

"How dare you waste my time then!", the man snapped. 
"Guard - I want this slave punished for attempting to
spread seditious information.  He alleged most serious
crimes against the state - castration and blinding -
but he's a slave!"

"Please, sir, I don't understand...."

"You are an American citizen fighting a civil war
against another part of the US.  A validly constituted
court here in the US sentenced you to slavery, and so
you are validly a slave.  Had you been captured in
another country and forced into slavery, then that
would be a severe violation of your rights.  But this
was a sentence, a legal sentence, from a properly
constituted court, and so you are indeed a slave in
the eyes of international law.  And the human rights
acts apply to, surprise, surprise, humans.  By
definition, they do not apply to slaves.  Had anyone
threatened you wit h castration and blinding as a free
man, then this would indeed be a serious matter.  But
slaves are slaves, and we are loathe to overturn the
rights of ownership, those important principles on
which all international law is founded.  For the sake
of order in the world, we will not interfere when an
owner does whatever he is rightfully allowed to do
with his possessions.  If you were concerned about
your loss of human rights, you should have complained
whilst you were still a man, before you became a slave
- it's too late now!"

The man stalked off, and I just stood there, almost in
despair.  How the fuck did he think I could ever have
made such a complaint?  There was never any time, I
went from being a marine, to a slave, in about two
minutes!

My eyes kept scanning the people coming in though, as
I was not only worried about the woman and her nephew,
but I wanted to see my temporary buddies again, and
find out what happened to them - and there was Dylan,
too.  But this holding area was very large, and hard
as I tried, I saw none of them.  

Slaves were being taken away, and I was watching them
being taken from the cages and ushered out with their
new owners.  And I failed to spot the big man who was
now standing there, looking in at me.  He was about as
tall as me, with one of those big, loose-limbed bodies
that some men have, and in his mid-fifties, I'd guess.
 Unlike the slave dealers I'd seen before, he was
dressed with an air of understated elegance - a
leather jacket, smart pants, conservative black shoes
to match the jacket, and a dark red polo neck sweater
in what seemed to be in a very expensive, very fine,
wool.

"So, Steve... The ex-marine."

I recognised the voice. He had been examining me! 
"Sir, yes, sir..."

"I'm your new owner. Gleeson, of Gleeson's Gladiators.
 Here, boy, you can put these on... I don't like to
see a proud ex-marine standing there nude for everyone
to gawk at...."

He had a small bag with him, and tossed through the
bars a pair of the tight, non-closing crotch shorts
I'd worn before, but in grey , and a singlet thing,
that again didn't quite reach the waistband of the
shorts, also in grey, with "Gleeson's Gladiators"
embroidered on the left pec.

Some sort of official came up then and talked to the
man about me:  paperwork was shown, and Gleeson and
the official talked for a few moments before he came
back to me.  

"Right, Steve.  As I was saying, I'm Gleeson, of
Gleeson's Gladiators, one of the best gladiator
troupes in the Confederacy."

I must have been looking slightly puzzled, as he went
on "We're a big attraction - we regularly feature on
the two TV gladiator channels, which is where I make
most of my money.  But we also do live shows, and
private parties are also getting to be big as more
wealth comes back to the area after the cessation of
hostilities. "

"Please, sir, gladiators?"

"Yes, gladiators - fighters.  I have a string of you
boys who know how to fight, and I promote shows where
you display your talents.  Don't be alarmed, though -
it's not with knives and swords, like the Romans did -
you're too scarce and expensive to keep replacing! 
But it's a mixture of boxing and wrestling - pretty
exciting stuff, to see two fighters pounding away
until one wins.  There's not much risk of permanent
injury, provided you're well trained, although for a
few days after a fight you'll be pretty sore from the
bruises and stuff.  I always buy ex marines when I
can, as you're so much easier to train - you already
have the basic skills, and they just need honing.  And
you're used to obeying orders, which makes it easier
for the guards and handlers, too."

"Anyway, I'm all done here.  I've made arrangements
for you to be shipped to our base, just outside
Raleigh, and I'll see you there and brief you better. 
Glad to have you aboard, boy - I think you're going to
do well!"

He strode off, leaving me standing there.  What was I
thinking of - I don't know:  this gladiator stuff
sounded, frankly, a bit weird.  But I wasn't left
there with my thoughts for long - guards came and
unlocked my cell, and marched me out of the building
onto the loading bay.  I noticed they were armed, and
saw the pattern now - when I was cuffed or coffled,
the guards just had whips and prods.  But the moment I
was "free", and capable of escape, or doing injury,
the guards got weapons.

I was handed over to a UPS guy!  I watched as
paperwork was signed to transport one slave from
Atlanta to an address in Raleigh, then the UPS guy
hung a chain around my neck with a bar-coded tag on
it.  He scanned the tag with his hand-held reader, and
said to the guards "take him to truck three - we've
got a lot of stock moving this afternoon after the
sale, so make sure you get the right one."

At one of those oh so familiar dark brown trucks, now
saying "UPS - Southern", I noticed, the driver again
scanned my tag and looked at his little screen.  "Yup,
this one's for me...  Now, boy, strip off those
clothes - you're going to be with us for a couple of
days, and we want to deliver you at the other end
fresh and pristine..."

I guess I'd become almost oblivious by now to being
naked in front of other men, but being treated like a
package like this still hurt.  Anyway, with a guard
standing there idly playing with his prodder, there
was no point in disobeying, was there?  So I pulled
the singlet over my head and dropped my shorts,
picking them up and just standing there holding my
clothes.  The driver handed me a long, dark brown
garment that when I put my head in I found was like a
smock - just one piece, with a neck hole and two
armholes, and which came down to my knees, "One size
fits all".  He in turn folded my stuff neatly, and
stuck it into a plastic pouch which he deftly sealed
up.  His little box of tricks spat out a bar-coded
label which he fixed to it, and he grunted with
satisfaction.  "There, boy, don't you worry about your
owner whipping you for having lost those fancy clothes
he gave you - they'll get whisked through our system,
just like you, and we'll deliver you both at the same
time at the other end.  Now, up into the truck..."

Well, I'll say this for them, those UPS guys did at
least afford us some dignity, even though they were
delivering me as a package, paying as much attention
to me as they were giving the pouch with my clothes
in!  Unlike the last time I'd been shipped, I did now
at least have somewhere to sit, as there was a bench
along one wall of the slave cage inside the truck, and
it also had a shitter, and a spigot where you could
get water.  Five other slaves were loaded in before
the cage was locked, the truck doors closed and we
moved off, and we were all dressed the same, in the
ubiquitous smocks, except for one guy who was
apparently only a "local delivery" in the Atlanta
area, and so had kept his own clothes.

We chatted in that kind of desultory way folks do on
trains and planes, as we didn't know each other, and
it wasn't a very long journey anyway, as we were only
being taken from the slave facility to the main UPS
depot to the north of the city.  There were guards
with guns there, too, as I suppose the risk of some of
us trying to make a break for it, in spite of our
slave collars, was quite high.  Mind you, the place
was a miracle of "efficiency" - we could see conveyors
moving around with parcels and packages on them, and
they were being sorted automatically as flaps moved to
direct the flow from one place to another based on the
barcodes on them.  We were "sorted" and routed n the
same way - although we weren't on conveyors - the
guards all had those little hand-held things that
could read the barcodes on the tags around our necks,
and they directed us this way and that until I and a
group of other slaves was waiting on one section of a
loading bay.  

We were ultimately loaded into an "express" destined
for Charlotte, and as this was a long journey,
overnight, there were actually "bunks" inside the
slave cage of the vehicle - well, not really bunks,
but wide, flat shelves that you could at least lie
down on.  At the Charlotte depot we were fed and
watered, and the same procedure of reading our tags
was used to route me to a truck bound for Raleigh. 
They let me shower  there, too, and I was given my
Gleeson's Gladiators singlet and shorts back, as this
was going to be the truck making the final delivery of
me.  All the time I'd never had an opportunity to do
anything, or make any choices - I was just a
"something", being moved dispassionately and
efficiently through the system.

I wondered what sort of place I was going to, so as we
turned off the Interstate to Raleigh, I pressed my
eyes to one of the tiny windows that they'd provided
so we didn't have to travel in total darkness.  As we
turned into a big complex with one of those impressive
corporate signs on it saying "Gleeson's Gladiators,
Inc.  Home of the South's Premier Fighters", it
certainly did look as if  there was money here.   Low,
beautifully detailed buildings were set around in a
kind of "campus" style.  There were trees, broad green
lawns, and in front where there was a discreet sign
saying "visitors and spectators this way, please",
fountains threw their jets high up into the air.

We didn't go in that way, as you might expect, but
followed a sign to "goods inwards".  I was unloaded,
and watched sullenly as my tag was again scanned, a
piece of paper came out of the driver's machine, and
which was signed for by the man at goods inwards.  I
still hated being treated just like an abject like
this - I was a man, after all, not some package that
had been sent to them, but I suppose I ought to have
been used to it by now. Still, the place looked good -
there was absolutely none of the mess on the loading
bay that you often see there - no empty cartons, no
cages of stuff waiting movement, no litter or dirt: it
was all pristine neat and clean.  And the guy who'd
signed for me looked smart, too - no fat slob with his
belly hanging over his pants top, but a neat, trim guy
in his late forties in khaki slacks, black leather
boots, and a dark blue polo shirt bearing the discrete
motto "Gleeson's Gladiators".

He quickly and efficiently snapped a cuff on my right
wrist, the other end of which was on his left, and
said, simply, "Now, boy, I don't want any trouble -
you can't run, tethered to me.  But I have an alarm,
and if you attempt to pull, or even attack me, I'll
use it and then you'll really be in trouble.  I'm
going to take you along to the Colonel, as he likes to
see all the new boys when they first arrive.... Come
on...."

"Who's the Colonel"?

"Boy, you'd better remember your manners!  Am I
wearing a slave collar?", he gestured at his neck, and
went on "So you can tell I'm a free man.  And around
here at least, slaves are always properly respectful
to free men!  You were in the army, I guess, as all
the new slaves generally were, so you know the proper
way of speaking to officers, and free men!  Now, try
again."

"Sir, please, who's the Colonel, sir?"

"That's better!  Remember to act like a proper slave,
and you won't have too many problems here.  Look at
that...."

We'd left the building with loading bay in it and were
walking across the grass towards another building.  He
was at this pointing out a wooden platform raised up
about five feet in the air, on which there was a big
wooden 'X' and something that looked like old-style
stocks.

"...that cross is used when a slave has been very bad,
and needs flogging with the bullwhip.  It doesn't
happen often, as it ruins him for the future, and he
has to be sold off as field hand fodder, or to the
mines.  But the stocks are used fairly frequently when
one of you slaves has been particularly uppity and
needs correction - you're all paraded out here so you
can watch, then the miscreant is put into the stocks
and publicly caned.  So take this as a friendly
warning, as none of us like to see you boys hurt -
just behave properly, like a slave, and you'll have no
problems."

"Anyway, The Colonel is Colonel Gleeson, our CEO and
your owner now.  He was in the army himself, but left
after he'd fought bravely in the civil war as he
thought that the Confederacy wasn't being tough enough
on its soldiers - in the flush of victory, they were
going 'soft' and allowing men into the real fighting
divisions who weren't fit enough.  He got financial
backing to set this place up, and he's never looked
back.  He runs this place just like a military base,
and provided you remember that, you'll have no
problems.  But he won't tolerate uppity slaves, or any
failure at all to obey orders from us guards, or from
the slaves who are your 'handlers'.  Believe me, you
don't want to cross the Colonel, or else you'll be up
there on those stocks, or even the cross!"

We entered a long, low building that said
"Administration" at that point, and inside it did have
many similarities to the bases I'd been on - utterly
functional, no fuss, no lavish display, just a
corridor whose thermoplastic tiles shone with polish .
 It felt vaguely cold and almost sinister to my bare
feet.  He led me along, and we went through a door
into what was clearly a secretary's office - there
were filing cabinets, telephones, two desks with PCs
on them, each of which was occupied by a slave, who
stood smartly to at attention as we entered (well, I
assume they were both slaves, as like me they were
wearing the singlet and shorts, and had a slave collar
around their necks).

"Easy, boys, back to work.", my guard said.  "And
please tell the Colonel that the new slave is here for
his initial interview."

"Sir, yes, sir!", one of the slaves rapped, and picked
up a telephone, and spoke quietly but formally into
it.  We just stood there until the phone buzzed, and
the slave said "Sir, you can go in with the new slave,
sir",  stood up, and held open the door in the wall
opposite to that which we had entered by.  Inside,
behind a large desk, was seated the strong, virile,
authoritative-looking man who I had last met at the
slave auction.  He had a file open on the top of his
desk, which was otherwise empty, and was leafing
through it.

"Ah, Steve, isn't it?  Ex-marine. Distinguished
service all over the place.  And then misguided enough
to take part in the unlawful invasion of the south by
the terrorist government of the north...."

"Sir, yes, sir", I interrupted.  "But sir, it wasn't
misguided.  I was obeying orders, sir, as a marine
does, sir."

He smiled, faintly.  "I like to see spirit, Steve, but
beware - I won't tolerate uppity slaves at all.  I'd
advise you not to interrupt me in future.  And you're
anyway wrong - you were misguided, as a soldier is not
required to obey orders that are unlawful and contrary
to international law in particular.  How could you
think that acting against your fellow citizens could
possibly be lawful?  The government in Washington and
the Pentagon were acting against the constitution and
without lawful authority in ordering the army and
marine corps to take action within the USA, and you
were not bound to obey them.  Your arrogant stupidity
has led you to this - capture, and being sold as part
of the rightful spoils of war that we in the south can
claim, having defeated the unlawful invasion."

"Sir, it wasn't...."

"Silence, slave!  I've explained the position to you,
and I don't expect to hear arguments from slaves.  As
I said, I like spirit in a man, and he needs that if
he's going to do well here.  But you'll need to learn
to turn that rebellious nature to focus on the tasks
we set you to do, not on those in authority over you."
 He sounded very calm, but controlling, just like the
senior officers I'd encountered in the corps.  His
tone changed to one of normal order-giving though when
he looked at my guard and said "Release him."

"Now, Steve, I'm having you released, but I think I
can rely on you not doing anything stupid.  We're not
all that far from the border here, and sometimes
slaves are tempted to make a run for it - they never
succeed, of course, as there's no easy way to get that
collar off you and folks around here are not at all
sympathetic to escaping slaves - they have been known
to lynch them! But I think you're a sensible kind of
guy, and as you are no doubt planning to escape,
you'll nevertheless bide you time, spy out the land,
reconnoitre the opposition - 'Time spent in
reconnaissance is seldom wasted', we were taught in
basic training."

"Sir, yes, sir".

He smiled, faintly. "So you are planning to escape...
Well, I expect that.  But you'll find it isn't all
that easy.  Still, let's not waste time.  Unclothe, so
I can make sure my considerable investment was
worthwhile."
                   

End Of Part 7