Date: Thu, 5 Jan 2012 09:30:56 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Steve Buys A Slave, Part Four

STEVE BUYS A SLAVE
A story by Pete Brown (petebrownuk@yahoo.com)

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

PART  FOUR

I got my credit card and the official receipt and all the other paperwork
with no problems, but whilst I was at the desk I noticed several Scabbard &
Drass patrons casting admiring glances at Reb as he stood there next to me
- he was plainly embarrassed by the thin, tight boxer shorts as his face
looked flushed, and he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot and
moving his hands around loosely as if to sort of symbolically cover
himself.  One big guy wearing the typically flamboyant clothes of an
independent dealer even thrust a business card at me and said that if I
ever wanted to sell 'my property' I should call and get a valuation from
him.  I felt the pride of ownership you get when other people are admiring
your stuff - as some guys at High School did with my car.  But now these
were real people, businessmen, even, who could see that I had a good eye
and could make a wise choice of slave.  It was even exciting to hear the
dealer call Reb
 'property' - I'd never owned a human being before.

Reb got a lot of looks in the street, too.  I reckon it wasn't his
near-nakedness, as downtown it's almost usual for rich ladies to have a
young slave follow them around to carry their shopping and their parasols
and stuff like that, so the sight of a naked male torso shouldn't have been
that surprising.  No, it was, I believe, the fact that he was such a big,
well-muscled man, a man who looked like a man with his virile body hair -
most of the 'shopping' slaves were slim youths in their late teens or early
twenties.  It did make me reflect for a moment, though, on how fortunate I
was in owning Reb, rather than being one of those young slim youthful
slaves.... I guessed that they too must once have been free, like me, and
had made some stupid error in their life.

I think my car surprised Reb when we got into the garage - as we'd passed
the ponies and traps on the lower floor it was as if he expected me to stop
and untie one of the slaves.  He gave a low whistle as he saw me unlock my
little two-seater.  "Hey, your family must really be rich to afford
something like this...."

"My dad does OK", I told him.  "Get in."

Inside the car I was of course very close to him - even dad can only afford
a very small car these days, and Reb's big solid body seemed to almost fill
the space, let alone leave much room for me.  I couldn't help looking at
the way the muscles on his belly were forced together as he bent his frame
into the small seat, and notice the red stripes across the skin from the
strokes of the punishment cane that Jacob had inflicted on him. He had
trouble sitting down not only because of this, but also because I suspected
my own thrashing of his ass was still painful - still, that would be a
valuable lesson for him, I thought.  His intoxicating scent soon filled the
tiny cabin as I drove out and headed for home, and he sat there staring out
of the window.

"So?" I asked after a time

"So what?"

"That should be 'So what, sir?', I snapped.  Next time you forget, I'll
cane you when we get home.  If you have a problem remembering how to treat
a superior, think back to when you were a marine - I bet you didn't forget
to be properly respectful to the officers.  Now, try it again!"

"So what, sir?"  I thought the 'sir' was a bit kind of grudging and
possibly verging on the insubordinate from the tone he used, but decided to
let it go.

"You were staring out of the window and were very silent.  So I assumed you
were deep in thought - and wanted to know what it was about."

"Sir, you can control my body, I suppose, as I'm a slave now. But you can't
control what I'm thinking."

"I wasn't trying to!  It's just that we're going to be spending time
together - a lot of time as you'll be my personal slave at college - and I
thought I ought to get to know you properly.  So when you seemed to be so
deep in thought, I was interested, that's all!"

He looked at me, long and hard.  "Well, if you must know, I was thinking
about all the guys on the sidewalk - how they were free, probably going
home to fuck some bitch or other.... And here I am, a slave.  I guess I was
thinking how long it would be before I was free again and could pick up my
life and start over."

"The answer to that is simple - it's never!  Hasn't anyone told you that
enslavement is final? You're not enslaved for a few years, like if you were
sent to prison or something.  Once the Court pronounces you to be a slave,
that's it - for ever."

He looked at me again, as if some terrible realisation had struck him.
"You mean you own me... For ever ....Sir?"

"No, actually.  I don't plan to own you for ever.  Once I've finished
college and got a job and am earning I shall sell you and buy a slave more
suitable to my status."

"What the fuck does that mean..., Sir?"

"Look, stop thinking of yourself as something special!  You may have been
some sort of hot-shot marine, leader of your pack or squad or whatever they
call it, respected by your buddies, and all that stuff.  But you're
actually a pretty poor slave for a guy like me to own.  Even though my
dad's got money and he gives me a car like this, he won't give me money to
buy a slave, so I've had to pay for you myself.  And, frankly, you were all
I could afford.  You were right at the bottom of the price range for slaves
- a college guy like me ought to have a young slave, properly trained to
service my needs.  And I've got you - you're too old, really, and I don't
suppose you know jack shit about keeping an owner's clothes immaculate, or
about being able to rustle up snacks and stuff if my friends are around, or
about doing some of the tedious slog of researching and writing my term
papers....  You're a pretty poor choice, actually, and I only bought you as
having
 some sort of slave at college is better than having none at all.  Beggars
can't be choosers, as the old saying goes!  But as soon as I have enough
money you'll be replaced by a younger, better-educated model."

Reb glared at me.  "Hey, that's crap!  I'm a real man, not like some of
those weaklings you see mincing around...."

"Shut the fuck up!  I really don't care what you think - it's what I want
that matters, remember that - you're here to obey my orders."

He was silent then, and I find it hard to be in the car with a guy and not
talk.  So after a few minutes I asked "Your body is in pretty good shape -
I like a guy who's not gone to fat.  I guess you exercised a lot in the
marines?"

"Are you serious? Don't you k now anything about life?  Of course a marine
keeps himself fit.... What the fuck do you think the country has fighting
men for....  sir."

I felt my anger rising, but was determined not to rise to the bait.  Time
enough for polishing the rough edges and meeting out punishment for
insolence later.  "And does that include swimming?", I asked, keeping my
voice calmer than I felt.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you'll not be totally useless then as I swim a lot to keep myself in
shape, and it's more fun to race other guys than simply swim lengths.  Most
of my buddies from high school are away on vacation, and the pool's getting
tedious."

"There's no point in racing unless there's a prize, sir.  And as a slave, I
guess I don't own anything so I can't bet or anything...."

"We'll think of something.  How about I punish you if you don't win?"

"And what do I get if I win, sir?"

"You won't, so it's a hypothetical question.  An old guy like you, with
that heavy body, can never hope to win against an athlete like me."

He smiled, and I think he was starting to relax a bit and we might have
gone on talking, but at that point I realised we were passing a small strip
mall and there was stuff I needed - I'd noticed a store tucked away in
there called 'Dave's Slaves' and as we were nearly home, it seemed a good
place to stop.

I ordered Reb to stay in the car as I wanted to browse the place by myself,
and told him he could wind down the windows as it was a hot day, and went
inside.  It was interesting as they had a lot of good stuff like slave
shorts and tunics, loincloths, g-strings and other clothing, but I decided
that I needed to think more about what Reb was going to wear before I
bought a whole lot of stuff - and that he could make do with some of my old
workout clothes for a couple of days.... Or, even go naked, of course!
That was an exciting thought for me: I had the power to keep him totally
exposed, if I wanted to.

In the 'control and discipline' section I was amazed at the choice of
exotic things like thumbscrews and nipple pincers, ball crushers and penis
clamps, and stuff lie that. But I'd more or less made up my mind that I was
going to be fairly conventional and rely only on a slave prod and a
punishment cane - until I saw the price of the prods!  I called one of the
slaves who worked there over and asked if the price was correct, and he
nodded.  "I'm afraid so, sir.  Even though it's relatively simple
electronics and this is the bottom of the range - made in this country and
not one of the exclusive Chinese imports - it's the government tax that
makes it so expensive.  All 'advanced' slave goods are subject to a special
surcharge on the sales tax."

I must say I hadn't realised that, and when the slave saw my look of
surprise he added "It's the same with clothing, sir.  You can probably buy
yourself a new shirt from your tailor for less than the price of a pony
pouch, and don't even think about fancy harnesses unless you're extremely
wealthy."

"Does this tax apply to everything?"

"If it's destined for slave use, then mostly yes, sir.  Slave food is
exempt.  But to most other things, yes.  I'm told it's because the
government needs to raise money somehow, and the boom in slaves has
resulted in this new source of income - governments are always looking for
new ways to raise taxes, sir. But there are ways around it, of course."

Seeing my questioning look he went on "Well, for example, take the simple
punishment cane.  If you buy one intended for your kids, it attracts only
the regular tax.  But if it's for slaves, you have to pay the surcharge.
And as for clothes.... Well, a lot of owners, sir, buy 'regular' clothes
and then modify them for their slaves - reduce the length of shorts, for
example.  Or tear all the buttons off a shirt so that the slave's torso is
nicely exposed.... That kind of thing."

I thanked the slave - he seemed surprised, and I realised I really wasn't
totally into this slave thing as you didn't need to politely thank a slave
in the way you would a normal assistant in the store.  I looked again at
the prods and the prices then, and decided that I was going to discipline
Reb only with the cane, and picked up one from the section marked 'Not
intended for use with slaves. For use on children and young adults only.'
When I swished it through the air experimentally, though, it seemed to have
just the same 'feel' as it's substantially expensive counterpart in the
next section of the display which was for slaves.  And that was it, really
- except for a fifty kilo bag of slave chow which I paid for at the
checkout but which the cashier said a slave would load for me. I must have
been feeling generous, as I decided to feed Reb on the 'variety' chow,
rather than just buying the cheapest which was based solely on fish meal
and was
 optimistically labelled 'with the real taste of the sea'.

Reb was leaning against the car when I went out.  "I told you to stay in
the car", I snapped.

"It was hot, sir".  He saw me looking angrily at him and added, a small
smile moving the corners of his mouth "...and I thought you would like me
to keep my tan topped up, sir...."

Recognising that Reb was actually quite smart to think up that excuse on
the spot, I suppose I was rather pleased that he might not simply be a big
dumb hunk, and let it go at that.  He saw me toss the cane on to the rear
seat, and I smiled at him.  "I thought this would go well with your white
ass - the red stripes make a nice contrast.... But perhaps I'll have you
get an all-over tan."  I could see that he understood me - he'd pushed the
limits, and I'd let him get away with disobeying me by standing outside the
car, but he knew now that this was about as far as he could go.  Still, as
he was outside I ordered him to go around the back of the store and pick up
the chow I'd ordered, rather than driving around there and have the store
slave load it for me - he loped off, and soon came back with the heavy sack
casually perched on his shoulder, one arm stretched up to steady it: it was
a great sight, as his whole body was under a slight tension from the
 weight, and I could see that his bare torso and the flat planes of his
belly as he stood there were agreeably beaded with sweat.

He dumped the sack in the tiny compartment at the back and was about to get
in to the passenger seat when I told him to stop, as he was covered in
sweat from where he'd been in the hot sun and I didn't want to get the seat
stained.  "Dry off!", I ordered him, and when he stood there looking dumbly
around for a towel, I added "Drop those boxers, use them to towel yourself
down, and then re-dress - and hurry up, I haven't got all day."

"But sir, there are people around...."

"It's OK, we're not in the central area any longer."

"No sir, I mean I'd be exposed...."

"It's not illegal here in this area for slaves to be naked.  Now get a move
on!"

It was funny really - he pushed the car door wide open and then tried to
use that and the body of the car to shield himself from the passers by.  I
suppose he felt better as it was only his rear that they could see, but on
the other hand from inside the car I had a great view of his dick and balls
flying around as he hastily wiped the sweat from his body, and then hopped
from one foot to another as he pulled the boxers back on.  He almost threw
himself into the seat then and slammed the door.  He was looking flushed
and embarrassed, and a little angry.

"Is something the matter?", I enquired innocently.

"It's not right, sir!  A man shouldn't have to expose himself like that."

"You forget that you're not a man, Reb, but a slave.  And a good-looking
one, too.  So there's no reason for me not to have you nude all the time if
I choose.  You were keen enough to stand out there flaunting your body when
I was in the store, after I'd told you to stay in the car....."

"I wasn't 'flaunting' myself - I was hot!  And I had those fucking shorts
on!"

"Are you forgetting the 'sir'?  And having the shorts on, you will recall,
is something I let you do.  In fact, perhaps it would teach you a lesson if
we drove home with you wearing appropriate attire for a slave - that is to
say, nothing.  Get out, get naked, then get back in."

He stared at me for a couple of seconds and I wondered if I'd gone too far
at this stage of his adaptation to his new life.  I began to sweat
slightly, wondering what the fuck I'd do if he totally disobeyed me: he'd
almost certainly refuse to bend over the car and be caned for disobedience,
and then I'd have no choice but to call the police and activate the Court
order - I couldn't risk having a 'rogue' disobedient slave, after all.  But
fortunately, glaring at me and with his muscles all tensed up as he tried
to suppress his anger, he obeyed, throwing open the car door, stepping out,
stripping off my boxers in a flash, then hurling himself into the seat and
slamming the door.

I reckon I was lucky to get home without causing an accident!  It had been
distracting enough driving with a nearly naked Reb next to me, but now I
found it was hard to stop myself glancing down frequently at his dick as we
drove along - especially as he was one of those guys who partially bone-up
when they're travelling.  He saw me looking at him and casually moved his
hands into his lap so that he sat there almost concealed - but even though
he's got big hands, he's also very well endowed so it was only partially
successful.

He seemed to be impressed when I turned into home and waited for the gates
to open as they sensed the car - we have a long, straight driveway with the
house sitting squarely and imposingly at the end.  Some of my buddies have
a slave at the gates - well, during the day and early evening at least, I
don't think any of them make the slave sleep there all night - but dad
wouldn't pay for that, and I think it detracts from the general impression,
especially when we have guests. After all a young slave standing smartly to
attention then opening the gates for you says "welcome", doesn't it?
Especially if he's dressed in a fashionable uniform - when I go to my buddy
Bobby's it's kind of interesting to see how you get glimpses of the slave's
dick and ass as he scurries around undoing the latch then opening one side
after the other: their slave is in a dark green tunic with matching cap and
they have matching dark green bands around his ankles.  The expanse of
 bare leg and thigh between those bands and the hem of the tunic, which is
just low enough to conceal the dick when the slave is standing still,
really enhances the whole scene.  Still, as I say, there's none of that
'show', as dad calls it, for us.  "It's OK for Bobby's parents to do all
that stuff", he once told me when I was as usual complaining about the lack
of slaves at our place, "But they're 'old money' and it's considered
acceptable.  I work for my money, Steve, and apart from not wanting to
squander it, some in society would consider we were acting very 'nouveau
riche' if we did it, and reputation is very important."  Who was it who
said 'better to be nouveau than not riche at all'?  I think they had a
point.

Reb looked at the slaves who were manicuring the lawns along the sides of
the driveway as I drove in, and looked shocked when their overseer suddenly
lashed out at one of them with his tawse.  "Don't worry, they're not ours",
I told him.

"But the slave didn't deserve that...."

"I told you, it's OK - they're not ours.  It's up to the contractors to get
best value for money out of their slaves, and if they need to use the tawse
- or even a whip, I guess, although they probably do that back at the depot
as most customers don't want to see blood dripping everywhere, - then so be
it."

As soon as I'd parked around the back (dad doesn't like the symmetry of the
house spoiled by parking at the front) I told Reb to get the chow out, and
follow me.  He stopped and pulled on my boxers, and I was going to order
him to strip off and stay naked when I looked at the time and saw that Mrs
Williams would have returned and would be starting to prepare dinner, so I
let it pass.

We went into the kitchen and before Mrs Williams had time to greet me she
shouted "Get out, you filthy slave!  How dare you come in here to make a
delivery!  Go back outside, ring the bell, and wait for me to come out.
What is it, anyway?  We're not expecting anything."

Reb simply stood there, the sack balanced on his shoulders, still
presenting a perfect picture of masculine splendour.  "It's OK, Mrs
Williams", I told her.  "It's not a delivery as such - Reb here has got the
sack of slave chow I picked up on my way home...."

"We're surely not going to start pampering the slaves are we, Steve?  They
get trucked in to work here, not to sit around all day snacking...."

"No, Mrs Williams.  This is Reb, and he's sort of permanent - he's my
slave.  I bought him this morning."  I tried to sound nonchalantly casual
as I said this, but somehow saying out loud that I'd been able to buy a man
like Reb, and that he was now mine, was exciting and I felt my voice rising
towards the end.

"Well, Steven, I don't know what your father will have to say about it."  I
knew I was in for trouble then, as all my life Mrs Williams had called me
Steven when she was displeased with something I'd done.  "I'm surprised he
changed his mind, as he's always been so adamant that we only have contract
slaves..."

I shuffled a bit as I do when I'm a bit embarrassed and lowered my head as
I muttered "Oh, he'll be OK about it.  I'm a man now, able to make my own
decisions...."

"Steven, you're not eighteen for two weeks!  You should have got your
father's permission first."

"I'll sort it out tonight with him, honest."  I felt like a little kid
again as I said this, as it's the sort of thing I used to say when I'd made
mistakes when I was growing up.  In an effort to change the topic of
conversation I added "Is there any chance you could make me a sandwich,
please?  I missed lunch, and I'm starving...."

I knew by now that references to food and hunger were a powerful motivator
to Mrs Williams, and although she looked disapprovingly at Reb as he still
stood there, she moved towards the fridge, saying to me "Sit down, then!  A
growing boy like you can't afford to miss a meal!"  I hated being referred
to as a a 'boy' - I'm a man now, old enough to own a slave, but Mrs
Williams never recognised me growing up.  She continued "And
you... Slave... Reb, is it... You can go into the larder there and put that
sack on the floor, in the corner."

"Yes, ma'am!"  Reb's tone was cheerful, and he had a broad grin breaking
out over his face.

"Those look like your boxers that Reb is wearing, Steve", Mrs Williams
observed as she started to thickly slice the home made bread she prides
herself on.

"Uh, yes.  Slaves don't come with clothes when you buy them, and I couldn't
take him naked through the streets to the car...."

"I should hope not!  And I trust there's going to be no displays of nudity
here, either."

"Reb's a slave, Mrs Williams.  It's OK for him...."

"No it is not, Steven!  Not while I work in this house.  He can stay like
that for now as this sandwich is almost ready, but after you've had your
lunch you can take him up and find him something more decent to wear,
something that does not display him like that."

I knew I was beaten.  She'd called me Steven again, and that usually meant
no more arguing. And was there a threat that she wouldn't work there if Reb
was naked?  I couldn't risk that - dad and me relied on her to cook and
keep the place in good order, and if I upset her and she left, dad would
kill me.  So I put a good face on it and said "Sure!  He'll only work naked
when he's in the grounds, like the pool boy.  And, hey... I'm hungry, but
not that hungry...."  I pointed out the mound of bread as I said this.

"I expect Reb is hungry, too."

"That's what that sack is for, Mrs Williams.  It's slave chow - that's what
Reb will eat."

"No in my kitchen he won't.  People in this house eat properly!"

I felt like telling her that Reb would go outside the back door and eat his
chow there, but she was gesturing for him to sit down at the table,
opposite me, and I knew I was on to a loser and let it go.

Mrs Williams loaded some of the bread with big slices of rare roast beef
(remains of our last night's dinner), expertly sliced fresh tomatoes and
added those, together with some horseradish and slices of avocado, then
expertly sliced through the stack and slid the sandwiches onto two plates,
to which she added crisp green salad.  "Is beef OK for you, Reb?" She
asked.  "I know it is for Steve here, but some people don't like rare
beef...."

"It's fine, ma'am.  It looks great, no, wonderful - thank you.  I haven't
been fed for two days, and I haven't had a sandwich like that for years,
since I left home: mom used to do them like that.  In the marines you make
your own sandwiches in the canteen, and it isn't the same."  Reb was
smiling at her as he said this, and Mrs Williams slipped a second sandwich
onto his plate.

"A big man like you needs proper food.  Did you say you were a marine?"

"Yes, ma'am, I...."

"Mrs Williams, Reb's a slave, regardless of what he was before.  He's my
slave, and I decide what he eats."

She ignored me and asked Reb why hadn't eaten for so long.  "At the slave
dealers, ma'am, they don't treat you all that well.  They keep costs down
by only feeding you small amounts of slave chow.  And I was due to be
shipped out today, so there was no point in feeding me at all...."

"Oh, you poor boy!  I'll cut you another."  Mrs Williams used 'boy' not in
the way that we do, as a way of speaking to slaves, but rather in the way
that a concerned mother does to a grown son.

"No, he will not have another, Mrs Williams!  He's got to keep fit, and
lean.  And it's no kindness to start to get him used to habits that I won't
allow."

Mrs Williams threw me a very cross look, and as I like to keep in her good
books I added "But, just this once, he can have a handful of chow to
supplement what he's already eaten."

As I said this I gestured towards the larder where Reb had put the chow,
and Mrs Williams pushed an empty bowl at him and he went to get the stuff.

"He's had a hard time, Steven", Mrs Williams began.  "An ex-marine, someone
who served this country..."

"Yes, EX is right.  We don't really know why he's been enslaved - it's
pretty serious normally, isn't it?  So the marines would be certain he'd
done something very wrong.  So we need to think of him as a hard, tough
criminal - not some favoured son who needs pampering and...."  At this
moment Reb came back and sat down with a big bowl of the multicoloured
biscuits in front of him.  He also had a leaflet, rather like those you
find in expensive boxes of chocolates, with the different colours of
biscuits and a description of what's in them.

Mrs Williams leaned over and felt the stuff in the bowl.  "This is
disgusting, Steven!  You can't expect even a slave to eat this - as I feel
it, it's all greasy on the surface: it can't be intended for humans."

"Nonsense!  It's standard slave chow.  No, it's premium quality chow,
actually - I paid extra so Reb cold have some variety."  As I said this I
reached over and took a piece - a bright, sickly-yellow piece.  It did feel
sort of slippery in my fingers, but I bit in to it and started to chew it.
It was not particularly salty - I suppose they want slaves to be healthy,
so they keep the salt content low - but there was a strong kind of savoury
flavour, rather like you get in cheap Chinese restaurants.  It was cloying
as I chewed, though, and the paste I was chewing it to was sticking to the
roof of my mouth.  Finally, I managed to swallow it.  "See, it's perfectly
OK", I told them.

Reb looked up from where he'd been reading the list.  "That's the yellow
chicken one you had, sir.  It says here 'Pure chicken. Composed of finely
minced chicken gizzards as the protein base, ground feathers and beak to
add bulk and texture, recycled chicken fat from other culinary processes
for energy, and then a list of about fifteen chemicals....."  He paused for
effect, as I felt myself gagging and fought to control it.  "Just as well
you didn't go for the dark meat, that's the brown biscuits - 'Pure beef.
Lights, lungs, ears, udders, testicles and other non-premium parts of the
animal ground to a smooth paste, enlivened with finely shredded beef hide
for texture.... And a whole lot of those chemicals again.  The green ones
say..."

"Enough!" Mrs Williams said.  "No one is going to eat those sorts of things
in my kitchen!  I don't care what you say, Stephen, this slave will get the
same food as you and your father - it's as easy to provide for three as for
two."

"No!  He's a slave..."

"Steven, I will speak to your father about this as soon as he returns from
the city.  He usually allows me to decide all matters of household
management.  And as you know he's not a man who likes to become involved in
silly, trivial arguments."

I knew what she was referring to, of course - the last time she'd gone to
dad to discuss a domestic chore was when I'd refused to drop my dirty kit
from where I'd been playing soccer into a different pile on the bathroom
floor and had just left it lying around with my other dirty stuff.  I still
say that it would be easy enough for the slaves who did the cleaning and
laundry to sort it, but she said they were unreliable and it made the rest
of the laundry dirty.  Dad was furious with me after she'd been to see him
and called me stupid and inconsiderate to argue with such a treasure over
something so utterly trivial.  I was fourteen at the time, and when I
continued to argue with him as I knew I was right, dad had actually spanked
me, just as he had when I was a kid - although now of course it was fucking
humiliating as no guy who's sexually mature wants his father to put him
across his knees, bare-assed.  I didn't think dad would do it again if Mrs
 Williams went to him with this chow nonsense, but I couldn't be certain,
and I didn't want to have to fight dad if he did try, as now I'm fully
mature and probably stronger than he is and didn't want to hurt him.

"Perhaps this stuff isn't all that good for you", I remarked , looking
directly at Reb.  "I don't like all that chemical stuff in food.  So you
can eat Mrs Williams' food.  Go and give that chow to the slaves doing the
yard work - they always look half-starved and they'll appreciate it."

Reb got up, hefted the sack onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, and
went out.  Mrs Williams and I watched through the window as he strode
across the lawns and handed it over to the slaves - there was what one
might call a 'feeding frenzy' as they all dived in to grab huge handfuls of
the stuff and cram it into their mouths.  I think we were both shocked that
they could be so desperate for food that even the tawse of their overseer
couldn't stop them.  Reb came back then, tugging at the waistband of my
boxers in some futile attempt to pull them up higher.  "He's a big man",
Mrs Williams commented.  "You will need to get him proper clothes, Steve."

I nodded in agreement and muttered "Tomorrow".

"And where's he going to sleep?  None of the guest rooms is really
prepared...."

"That's not a problem.  He'll sleep in my room.  That's what he'll be doing
when I'm in the frat house, after all."

"I'll need to give you more towels... This is a nuisance, as the domestic
slaves have left..."

"Please don't make extra work for yourself, Mrs Williams.  Reb will be
using my towels after I've dried myself.  We're both guys, after all."

At this moment Reb came in, and to stop further debate I told him to follow
me out to the pool - I felt I needed to relax after all the stuff I'd done
that day.  And, to tell you the truth, I hoped it might take my mind off
what I was going to say to dad - I was due to collect him from the station
later, and wasn't looking forward to telling him about my purchase.

Our pool isn't Olympic sized, but it's not far off, and of course it's in
great condition as dad pays for the pool service to send the slave in so
frequently.  It was sparkling in the afternoon sun, and looked really
inviting.  It's not directly in view from the house as dad had it relocated
after we'd moved in, as he preferred to see the sweep of the lawns from the
windows, so it's kind of private.

I went into the pool house and found my swimming shorts, then went to drop
my chinos and remembered that I'd given my boxers to Reb.  Still, that
didn't matter, and I was hopping around pulling my shorts on when I
realised Reb had been standing at the door, staring at me.  Look, as I've
told you, I've got nothing to be ashamed of.  And at high school, or when
my buddies come around here, we all change together.  But somehow having a
grown man, a big, virile man, rather like my dad, watching me made me shy
and embarrassed - in fact in the last couple of years I hadn't changed in
front of dad, it occurred to me, and when we swam together at the weekends
I let him use the pool house first.  I tried to hide my embarrassment by
talking, as I do.  "It's fucking annoying having to wear these baggy shorts
to swim in.  They won't even let us wear Speedos at school now - they say
it's immodest and not suitable in front of the girls.  They really cramp my
style."

Reb nodded.  "It was OK in the marines.  Regulation Speedo-type kit when we
were in the pool training."

"So you swim then?"

"You could say that!  All marines do, of course, to fit them for battle
conditions as you never know what you'll find.  But I was the unit
champion..."

"So you fancy yourself as a real racer?"

Reb kind of shrugged.  "No.  But I used to win the inter-unit championships
pretty regularly."

"You're the wrong shape - too big, not a swimmer's build at all.  And
you're too old now."

He shrugged again.  "Only one way to find out, sir.  I take it you're a
competitive swimmer?"

"High School team captain..."

"So, forty, fifty, sixty lengths?  Or more?"

"I usually race over four."

"Oh, one of those flash-in-the-pan sprinters.  No stamina.  A real man
doesn't really get into his stride until he's been going for half an hour.
It's a bit like sex in that respect - but perhaps you've never had a proper
long session?"

I half believed he was winding me up.  Was that a double meaning - was he
referring to a long session of swimming, or sex?  I've done some endurance
swimming, and on vacations I've been in the pool for a long time.  But what
he was saying sounded like bravado, the more I thought about it.  So I
decided to test him "OK then, tough guy.  Twenty lengths - I haven't got
time for more as I've got stuff to do before I go to meet dad at the
station."

"And the stakes, sir?  Real men don't race without something at stake."

"If you lose, I'll stripe your ass three more times with the cane.  That
should incent you enough."

"And when I win, sir"

"I don't need to discuss things with slaves.  You're not going to win, so
it's not relevant, as I told you in the car."

Reb gave one of those shrugs again which I've now learned means that he
knows he's in the right, but that it's not worth arguing about.  He looked
around the pool house, and then asked "Where do I find shorts?  Are there
some spare, for guests?"

"Yes, of course there are!  Always freshly laundered.  But not for you -
you're not a guest.  You will swim naked."

Reb poked his head out of the pool house and looked around nervously.  I
told him "There's no one can see from the house.  And even if they could,
so what?  It's not as if you're a free man any longer.  This is one of the
times I wished I was a slave, as when I've been in Europe and have been
able to go to a nude beach it's been so much better - I reckon you're lucky
to be able to swim without these shorts around you.  Now, drop those
boxers, and let's get started."

He looked really uncomfortable as he pushed my boxers down and stepped out
of them, then we lined up side by side, and were off.

I outdistanced him comfortably for the first couple of laps, but by the end
of six he'd cut my lead right down.  I forced my pace higher, but by the
end of ten he was right behind me.  And, of course, after twenty he was in
the lead - but only marginally, I reckon.  We stood there in the shallow
end, breathing hard as we recovered.  I couldn't help noticing his dick
floating there in the water in front of us, and he saw me looking at it.
"See, sir, it is a matter of stamina", he said haltingly as his breathing
recovered. "I might not have a swimmer's body, and be too old, but as the
old saying goes 'age and experience will always defeat youth and
enthusiasm'."

"Nonsense.  You were only a fraction ahead.  If I hadn't been encumbered by
these shorts, it would have been different."

Reb smiled, then suddenly did a perfect somersault flip down into the water
- his white ass coming right into the air as he jack-knifed down.  I
wondered what the fuck he was doing, then suddenly my shorts were pulled
down and I was pushed over so they could be wrenched off over my feet.  I
thrashed around and stood upright, and there was Reb, almost laughing now,
holding my shorts.

"So, if these were stopping you from winning, and if you reckon you like
swimming naked, shall we do it over again..... Sir?"

I stood facing him, acutely conscious of my own dick jutting out towards
his, and that there was no real differentiator between us any longer - we
were just two guys together in the pool.  It was only as he turned and I
caught sight of the vivid red of the brand that I remembered his real
status.  "I reckon you deserve a caning for that!"

 I think he heard in my tone that I wasn't really angry.  "Just a bit of
horseplay, sir!  Us guys in the marines always did stuff like that.  No
harm done - we're all made the same, after all."

I looked down at his dick half floating there, and at mine.  "Not quite,
Reb!  We're not all the same - I've still got a 'skin."

End Of Part Four