Date: Sat, 26 Nov 2005 23:01:27 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Steve Grows Up, Part Four

Steve Grows Up

By Pete Brown        petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


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


Part 4

I didn't sleep well that night.  For one thing, Cliff
was wide awake and wanted to talk to me - he was
really interested in knowing what the inside of the
big house was like.  I tried to give him truthful
answers as far as possible, but I was going to do what
mom and dad wanted and not tell him everything:  after
all, in only two years time when he was sixteen, he'd
be finding out for himself!  Then he demanded to know
why I was wearing dad's boxers, and I had to make up
some lie about mom having got the laundry mixed up,
and he told me he thought it was "gross" to wear
another guy's underwear, even if it was freshly
laundered.  I wondered what he'd think about having
another man's dick up your ass!

He did go to sleep eventually, but only after he'd
thought I'd gone to sleep, and then only after he'd
noisily and uninhibitedly jerked himself off.  And
then through the wall I could hear the low murmur of
mom and dad talking as they went to bed - followed
shortly by the unmistakable sounds of their bed
creaking as, presumably, dad started on the job of
getting mom pregnant again!  As I listened to the
muffled, indistinct sounds, my ears straining to try
to understand what was going on, I wondered if dad was
as good with mom as he had been with me.  Did he go
slowly and gently as he had?  Did he his back arch
erotically when he shot his load?  Did he press his
wonderful muscled body, slicked with the sweat of his
exertions, close to her as he had done to me?   My own
dick was erect again now, and I knew that I needed to
jerk off before I could sleep, so I did so as
surreptitiously as I could as I didn't want to wake
Cliff again - but as I lay there thinking the thoughts
that we all need to make our climaxes real fun, all I
could think about was dad, and the feel of him and the
smell of him, and the way he'd been so gentle with me,
but how it had felt to have his dick inside me.  And
then, of course, my mind raced away and I pictured in
my mind's eye his ass, and the way it felt - and then
I began to pant and sweat as I remembered that
wonderful feeling of power, of domination, of control,
as my dick had shafted in and out of him, and how he'd
moaned with ecstasy as I'd fucked him, and how I'd
shouted with the sheer pleasure of coming off into
him.... And as I did, I erupted again, pumping out
such a huge load that it overwhelmed the piece of
toilet tissue I'd carried into bed with me and soaked
my boxers.

Fortunately Cliff is one of those guys who just can't
wake up in the morning and although I'm an early
riser, the next morning it was to be even earlier than
usual - dad came in and shook me awake and gestured
for me to get up:  he was in his boxers, and as I
climbed out of bed I was acutely aware of standing so
close to him in the tiny bedroom, my own shorts
tenting out with my morning hard-on, and embarrassment
starting to break out as I thought of dad seeing this
and the stiff patch all over them where the cum had
dried from last night.   He put his finger to his
lips, though, to signal that we  should be quiet, then
outside the room he said "Let Cliff sleep on for a bit
before school - but you're a man now, and the Colonel
says you're to work with me in the forge, so we have
to get up, and get out."

I pushed my fingers through my hair - that instinctive
gesture I do in the mornings - but now I felt only the
crop that I'd been given, just like dad's.  Then dad
said I should go in the bathroom, and hurry on down
for breakfast.  He slapped my ass playfully as I
turned to go, and added "....and get rid of that
hard-on!  We don't want to embarrass your mom."

There was a surprise waiting for me when I went down
to the kitchen, too:  there, standing next to dad's,
was a new pair of work boots.  I'd really only ever
worn sneakers and stuff like that before, and now here
was a pair of heavy-duty work boots with thick rubber
soles in that sort of yellow-brown leather-like
material.  Dad saw me looking, and said "Welcome to
the world of work, son.  If you're going to be round
the forge you'll need those as things do get dropped,
and the Colonel doesn't want his s...."  He almost
said "slaves", but corrected himself and went on
"...workers getting their toes crushed."  He looked at
mom then, and continued "Steve, remember what we
talked about last night?  Even now you know, let's not
spoil it fore your brothers and sisters, OK?  So we
don't use the 's' word here around the house."

I nodded, and then I got my second surprise:  instead
of my normal glass of milk (well, I guess it was milk
substitute of some kind - mom mixed it up from a big
container of white powder that was supplied to us.
Slaves presumably didn't warrant the real thing -
although the container had all sorts of stuff on the
side of it about it being "fortified" and "enriched"
and "designed to complement the diet"), mom pushed a
big steaming mug of coffee across the table towards
me!  Normally, only dad, and occasionally mom, drank
coffee and all us kids had the "milk", so this was
another one of those signs of me entering adulthood.
The breakfast was the same as always, though - the
kind of grits stuff from another packet, with boiling
water added, that we had every day for breakfast, and
which claimed to be "a complete food to enable a hard
day's work".  Complete it might be, boring it
certainly was, but now I saw why we never had bacon or
eggs or any of the other stuff I was given when I went
around to Rob's - mom and dad never had any money to
buy it, and we just ate the slave rations that were
delivered in bulk in those containers.

The forge itself was attached to our tiny house but
there was no inside connection, so dad and me "set out
fore work" by walking out of the door and around the
corner.  Still, I thought I saw mom shed a tear as she
waved goodbye to "her men", and dad and I strode
together in our clean but threadbare jeans, white Ts
and matching work boots.  Once in the forge dad told
me to get the fire lit - surprisingly difficult, as
it's hard to get the coke and charcoal alight and
glowing - as he laid out the tools for the day, and
then he pulled off his T and dropped it onto a nail on
the wall, gesturing for me to do the same.  "Haven't
you noticed, Steve, that I always take my T off?", he
asked me when I looked puzzled.  "You'll find you
sweat a lot in here, son.  But more importantly, the
Colonel likes his 'workers' to work bare-chested, even
if he allows them jeans, or shorts and doesn't have
them totally in the buff like the niggas.  It's meant
to encourage 'team working or something, as guys
working stripped to the waist at least know they're
men, men working together - and, of course, if Mr.
Stryker comes past and you're not working hard enough,
his tawse can 'encourage' you as he lays it across
your shoulders!"

"Dad, surely Mr. Stryker doesn't hit you...."

"Well, not very often, Steve.  But he did catch me
standing around idling one day, and I can ell you that
it does 'encourage' you as the strands of the tawse
catch your shoulder blades!"

"But dad, surely he can't hit a man...."

"Steve, you're right.  If Mr. Stryker touched a man
with the tawse he'd be up in court for assault, or
something.  But we're not men, Steve... Remember that.
 A slave had no rights, and an owner can punish him as
he thinks fit."

I stood there and knew that what dad said was true -
we'd studied master/slave relationships in Civics at
school, and I remembered all the stuff about the
differences between the law for men and the law for
slaves,  but that how 'ethically' a good master
treated a slave much as he would a man.  "After all",
our civics teacher had told us, "It's a mark of a
civilised society that those in power treat the world
properly.  So just as an owner treats a favourite pet
well, taking his dog to the vet if it's in pain,
feeding it properly, and not punishing it arbitrarily
but only when it had been disobedient, so too an owner
ought to treat his slaves.  After all, we are not
uncivilised barbarians."

So dad and I set to work on hammering in to shape a
huge set of flat iron bars that was destined to become
new ornamental railings to go around some slave
compound on the plantation, where the current one was
considered to be too ugly and not in keeping with the
air of respectable gentility that the Colonel wanted
to achieve on the place.  Dad never stopped, and
in-between turning the big handle that drove the fan
to keep the coals burning brightly, he showed me how
to use the medium-weight hammer to flatten and shape
the iron into the required shape.    I used to use the
gym at school for working out occasionally, and I soon
realised how futile that had been:  a half an hour of
pounding away with a four pound hammer was better
exercise for my muscles than all those elaborate
weights machines ever were.

The only relief from this unadulterated hard work came
when one of the overseers bought in four of the field
niggas to have their collars adjusted:  they all
seemed quite interested to be here, and their eyes
were shining with excitement as they stood there
waiting to be dealt with, and dad told me that the
niggas were often like that when they came in.  As all
they normally ever did was get up, get their collars
chained to their coffle, then go out into the fields
and work until late, then go back to their quarters to
sleep, any change from the routine was exciting and
special for them.  Poor bastards, I thought, if the
highlight of their  life was to spend an hour in the
blacksmith's forge having their collars adjusted.

Dad started to show me what to do but said that I
couldn't do it until I was a lot more experienced,
though.  He had a huge pair of clippers that, with his
muscles bulging with the effort, he could sheer off
the head of the rivet holding the collar closed.  Then
he carefully measured the nigga's neck, telling the
guy to strain his muscles as he did so as he needed
the neck at its maximum dimensions, and selected a new
collar from the pile of blanks in the corner.  Once
around the nigga's neck, and when dad was satisfied
that it was tight, but not too tight,  dad had to put
a  red hot iron rivet through the fastening and then
hammer it flat to make sure it couldn't come out.

It was skilful work, and after the overseer had taken
the niggas back, dad explained that we often did this
as the niggas tended to put on muscle as they worked,
and so after a few months on the plantation their
initial collars needed replacing so that they didn't
choke.  I asked dad why the niggas had these big,
heavy iron collars on, when I'd seen niggas on TV with
little thin stainless steel ones, and dad explained it
to me.  "Look, Steve, a slave is supposed to wear a
collar, and when you see them on TV they're usually
niggas who are 'domestics' serving I restaurants,
cleaning rooms, that sort of stuff.  So their owners
pay to have them neatly collared like that.  But here
on the plantation our niggas are just workers, and it
doesn't matter - these iron collars are really cheap,
as you can see that the ones I took off those niggas
today can be re-used just for the cost of a rivet.
And of course we can do it here, in the forge - if the
niggas all had stainless steel collars, we'd need
special equipment to weld it, or special glue, or
whatever.  It also reminds the nigga of his status -
not only are these iron collars heavy, so he had a
constant reminder that he's owned property, but he
tends to remember the feeling as I bash in that
white-hot rivet, just an inch or so away from his ear.
 And of course there's no possibility of a nigga
escaping wearing one of those -  it's immediately
obvious that a slave in a thick iron collar has it on,
even if he manages to find a shirt with a high neck to
try to hide it."

I looked around to make sure no one was watching or
listening, and said quietly "Dad, we're not collared -
if I ran away I could pass as a free man.  There was a
program on TV I saw at Rob's that said that they don't
have slaves in Canada... I know it's a long way, but
if I hitched rides and so on... I could get a job,
save money, and then come back and buy you and mom
from the Colonel...."

Dad looked almost panic stricken.  "Steve, promise me
you'll never even try such a thing!  You won't make
it, son - for one thing, you've got no papers, and no
money.  You can't buy stuff to eat in restaurants and
stores  without a 'meal ticket' as they call it -
every free man has one now, as all their purchases are
charged automatically and get passed to their bank
account.  And if you try to hitch a ride, what will
you do when you get to a rest stop?  And there are
terrible stories, Steve, of truckers who pick up guys
and when they realise they're not buying food, they
get suspicious.... And claim the bounty!  And even if
you did make it to the border, you'd never get
across..."

"Dad, it's thousands of miles.... I could get across
easily... And what's this 'bounty'?"

"Son, you'll never get anywhere within a hundred miles
of the border.  Although we're not collared, we're
'chipped' - a small transponder, buried in our
bodies.... In the border zone there are monitors
everywhere that shriek an alarm whenever a  runaway
slave's chip gets within range.  And the bounty is
what any free man can claim who helps detect a runaway
slave - half the slave's current price!  And
particularly for us whiteys, that's a whole lot of
money, particularly for a trucker.  So a lot of
truckers and bus drivers and people who do a lot of
travelling on the interstates all carry scanners
anyway, and can see if you've been chipped.  But the
worse thing is, son, what happens then - once the
slave patrol have you recaptured, before they return
you to the Colonel they castrate you.  It's mandatory.
 Even the Colonel has no say in it.  So when you get
back here the Colonel has a eunuch, and he's prey
pissed off anyway as he's had to pay the 'finder' half
your value....  He's not gong to be a happy owner!"

"Dad,  castrate a guy... Really?"

"Yes, Steve.  It's not helpful to the slave, of
course, as once he's run his owner is likely to keep
him shackled in future.  But it's really to serve as a
warning to the rest of us.  And think about your mom,
the kids, and me, too, Steve - if the Colonel even
suspects that we might have helped  you run, he can
get a court order to administer much worse punishments
than usual."

"Like what?"

"Well, the Colonel can order any punishment up to and
including a bull whipping that flays our backs into
shreds as his right.  But beyond that he needs a court
order, following the passing of the Humane Treatment
act ten years ago - so if he wants to geld us, or
blind us, or cut the tendons in our legs, or any of
that sort of stuff, he has to apply to the courts,
with a 'good and sufficient justification' - and
helping a slave to 'run' is certainly regarded as that
by the courts. So if you don't want to see me gelded,
or your mother reduced to permanently crawling, or
your brothers and sisters...."

"Dad, the Colonel wouldn't do that, surely...."

"Well, I don't know, Steve.  He'd lose a lot of money,
of course, as a lot of our value is  because we're
good-looking whiteys.  But if he was really pissed
off, and if he wanted to send a clear signal to all
the other slaves around here....  So even if you're
not concerned about being gelded yourself, Steve,
think of the rest of us, and don't do it."

I was going to ask dad more then, but he at once began
working as we heard  a trap draw up outside, and dad
evidently thought it might be Mr. Stryker or one of
the other overseers.  But it was in fact the
veterinarian, who hadn't been on the plantation all
that long as he'd qualified a couple of years ago, we
all knew.  I'd seen him around and he always stopped
to talk to me and the other kids, and I guess that
when we'd received treatment for minor injuries, and
fevers, and such like I'd always wondered why it was
him, and not the proper doctor, who had called at the
house.  Mom always said that it was because he was so
nice and we didn't need to pay doctors' bills when we
were so poor, but now I understood the real reason -
he was "good enough" to treat slaves.  Actually, it
wasn't that bad - there was another TV programme I'd
seen at Rob's that said that if you were young and fit
but had a minor problem, you were better off going to
a veterinarian as they dealt with so many minor
injuries and illnesses amongst young, fit slaves that
they were vastly more experienced than your average
doctor.

"Good morning, blacksmith, Steve....", he said as he
strode in, and even as we started to reply, he went on
"Steve, go out and water my pony, will you?  He's had
quite a long run today..."

This was so typical of the veterinarian - I've told
you everyone thought he was a nice guy, and to be
concerned about his pony like that was the sort of
thing he always did.  I scooped a bucket of fresh
water from the trough in the corner and went outside,
and there he was -  Sam.  I'd spoken to him around the
place several times, and as usual he broke into a big
smile as he saw me.  We couldn't shake hands or high
five or anything like that, of course, as like all
ponies he was manacled, his wrists fastened to the
shafts.  It's pretty silly, really, as no well-trained
pony is going to run off or anything, is he?  But it's
one of those things that it seems that all pony owners
do, and when I'd looked at traps in the showroom in
town, they all come with the shackles kind of built
in.  The veterinarian also had that other
indispensable thing for a pony driver - the long
carriage whip standing there in its holster by the
side of the driving seat - but I'd never seen the
veterinarian use it.  The pony didn't have a bit or
anything in, as like most ponies used "domestically"
he knew all the local routes and stuff, and could just
be told verbally to go to the bank, or "home", or
whatever without the need for elaborate guidance from
his owner.

His skin was running with sweat, though, as it was
quite a humid day, and he was really glad when I used
a scrap of rag from the forge to wipe his brow and
stop it running down into his eyes.  Then I used a tin
cup to scoop water up from the bucket and hold it to
his mouth, and he slurped it down greedily.  We
started to chat, as we always had done when I'd seen
him before, about this and that, and quite naturally,
without even thinking about it, he began to piss as he
stood there -  I had to take a step back to stop it
splashing my new boots!  He saw me, grinned and said
he was sorry - it's so easy to forget, he explained,
as he was naked and shackled all day and it just
seemed natural to piss when he wanted to, and he just
didn't think.  "Mind you", he added, "I was in the
courtyard at the big house the other day and without
thinking about it I just let go, and there was hell to
pay!  There was a big pool of my piss on the paving
slabs as it couldn't soak away into the soil, like
here, and the Colonel cane out with my owner and was
furious, and my owner had to slash at me with the
carriage whip, something he normally never does."

He was still smiling, so I guessed that this whipping
had not been too bad, and he went on "You don't want
to help a guy, do you, Steve?  Like I asked you to
last time?  Man, my dick's aching.... If you just
helped me out, I'd be easier for the rest of the
day...."

This was a kind of running joke between us, as every
time I'd seen him since the veterinarian arrived, he'd
always asked me to jerk him off.  "Hey, man, why
didn't you do it in the stable this morning?", I
therefore replied.

"I did, man!  But that was four hours ago!  Us
stallions need to shoot a lot - you whiteys just don't
understand what it's like for us nigga boys with big
dicks.... Come on, Steve, help a guy out here - it
won't take long...."

I laughed as usual, as I'd never taken him up on it,
but he was kind of waggling his hips so that his big
hard dick was shaking from side to side.  "Oh, please,
Steve", he begged in a comic accent, rolling his eyes
"Look at my dick - if it has to wave around like this
when I'm running...."

"...so get your owner to do it!", I laughed again, as
we both knew that there was no way an owner would do
stuff like that to his pony in public, whatever he
might do in private.

Just then, though dad poked his head out of the door
and told me to get back inside, and the veterinarian
said quietly "OK, Steve, now this isn't going to hurt
- really - and it won't take long.  Just take your
jeans off, and those boxers whose waistband I can see
sticking out so alluringly."

I looked at him, and went to ask him why, but dad said
"Steve, do as you're told!", so as the two men watched
me I unlaced my boots and took them off, then slid
down my jeans, followed by my boxer shorts, and stood
there in my socks.

The veterinarian told me to go and sit up on the work
bench that ran down one side of the forge, and I
pulled myself up and felt the cold of the metal
against my butt.  He stood between my legs and took my
dick in his hand, and 'skinned be back!  Well, I
suppose that's all right for a veterinarian to do, but
then he opened his big black bag and took out
callipers, a measuring tape, and a calculator.  He
started to pull my 'skin right forward, as far as it
would go, and then used the callipers to transfer the
length to the measuring tape, and keyed the results
into the calculator.  Then he measured from the tip of
my dickhead to my body, and then I heard him say "And
now, Steve, for the fun bit...."

He began to stroke my dick, at the same time tickling
the underside of my balls!  Well, as you might expect,
I went erect and he again measured the length  of me,
and tried to pull my 'skin as far forward as it would
now go, again using the callipers to assess the
length.

He looked at dad, and said "This calculator's really
useful - it takes a lot of the guess work out of it.
Knowing the length of the 'skin, the flaccid and erect
dick, and so on, I just press the button and it tells
me exactly how much to cut off.  People don't
realise", he went on, "But when you 'skin babies it
doesn't much matter about these things as they kind of
adjust as the kid's body grows up.  But for a mature
male it's different - you really need to know how much
to cut:  too little, and the slave won't have 'the
look';  too much, and the dick won't go properly
erect.  But none of those problems for Steve here -
the colonel has said that he's to have a 'high and
tight' so that his dick hangs free when he's not
erect, and is just nicely stretched at erection.  This
scientific way really does take the guesswork out of
it.... So we may as well begin."

"No...", I started to say.

"Steve, shut up!", dad snapped.  "Son, you're a slave,
remember?  All slaves are 'skinned - you know that!
Have you ever seen any of the niggas around here with
a 'skin?  And the Colonel has ordered it, now you're a
man."

".... and it won't hurt a bit, Steve", the
veterinarian added.  "I did all the courses at
training college, but since I've been here I've had so
much practical experience -  the Colonel tends to buy
criminals and illegal immigrants and the like, so a
lot of the niggas have their 'skins when they arrive
and there's no substitute for experience in things
like this.  So we'll have you neat and trimmed in a
coupe of minutes... Now, hold still..."

He got a hypodermic out of his bag, fitted a needle,
then plunged it into me, at the base of my dick.
"There - now let's just wait whilst that takes effect
-  I was trained to do it with the slave strapped down
and then there's a whole lot of screaming, but this
way's easier - you won't feel a thing, Steve.  But you
must sit still, absolutely still, as I'll be using
one-cut scalpel and these things are incredibly sharp:
 one move from you and it could as easily slice
through your dick as through your 'skin!"

Well, he was right.  I didn't feel anything, as my
dick was totally numb.  He sliced down on the
underside of my dick - the blood starting to drip out
quite quickly - to free my 'skin from where it was
attached to the head, then slid a metal cylinder over
the end of my dick, pulling my 'skin up over it, then
neatly sliced around the circumference!   The cylinder
had little grooves cut in it to help guide the
scalpel, and it was over in an instant. He used a
little gadget then to put in a line of what looked
like tiny staples all around the cut ends of the
remaining 'skin to close off the inner and outer
surfaces, brusquely swabbed the whole area  some sort
of liquid - which stung as it went on, actually, ten
slapped a long plaster on.

"Right, Steve.  Now, no jerking off for at least three
days.  No fucking for a week.  These things holding
your 'skin together mostly stop the bleeding, and will
fall out themselves in a couple of days - fantastic
new technology, isn't it?  Specially developed for
this.  You'll feel some pain when the anaesthetic
wears off, but I'll leave you a couple of aspirin, and
that's really all you need.  If it's still bleeding
tomorrow, make sure I get to hear about it as it
shouldn't be.  And that's it.  Do you want the 'skin
as a souvenir?  You can dry y it...."

"No...", I managed to say, and as he was cleaning his
instruments, the veterinarian just tossed the tiny
flap of skin he'd cut off onto the forge, where I saw
it sizzle, blacken, and be consumed.  "Right, old chap
- just one more thing", he added.  I can see you're
really white as your butt hasn't been in the sun - but
if the Colonel does decide to have you tanned all
over, remember that this new skin that's exposed on
your dick is especially sensitive - it's always been
the inside layer, after all, and now it's on top.  So
lots of sun screen, OK?"

I sat there, almost in shock.  "Steve, the
veterinarian asked you a question!  I won't have a son
of mine being disrespectful, boy!"

"Yes, sir, I understand", I said to the veterinarian,
but it was hard not to sound sullen, as I didn't think
he ought to have done that to me.  I mean, some
parents have their kids 'skinned at birth, and there's
not much you can do about it as you grow up, is there?
 But I was a man, fully grown, and that's the kind of
decision I ought to have been able to make for myself.
 But then, I was a slave, and it was starting to come
home to me just how much of a change in my life that
really was.

The veterinarian snapped his bag shut and left, and
dad watched as I gingerly pulled my boxers on - it
didn't hurt, actually, and then my jeans.  We started
to work again, in silence, but then dad said "Steve,
it's no use being like this!  I heard that tone in
your voice when you spoke to the veterinarian.  Now,
snap out of it!"

"But dad, I've been 'skinned.  It's not right,
dad...."

"How do  you think I felt, son?  It happened to me
too, you know!  But I was twenty when I was done.
You'll get used to it!  It's not so long ago, you
know, that almost all Americans were 'skinned as
kids.... Still, what you've never had, you don't miss,
I suppose.  But you've got no choice, Steve - all the
Colonel's niggas are 'skinned, and he likes to see
your dick head when you're serving him naked.  So
that's it - he owns us, remember, and what he says
goes.  And being sullen and upset about it won't do
you any good - all it will earn you, later in life, is
a whole lot of trouble.  Whatever your owner tells you
to do, just do it, and look cheerful about it - it's a
proven fact that happy slaves get whipped a lot less
often that miserable ones, even if the two slaves have
committed the same offence."

Well, I could see that, I suppose, but it's not easy.
 And what was all this about serving the colonel
naked?  I wanted to ask dad, but he was really working
hard. Still, I did try to work with dad willingly for
the rest of the morning, and when mom brought our
lunch over, I tried to look cheerful for her sake, as
I didn't want her to see I was upset.  We're lucky,
actually, as most slaves, and certainly the niggas in
their coffles in the fields, get fed only twice a day
- in the morning, and at night.  In the exceptionally
hot summer weather they might be allowed to rest in
the shade for an hour or so, but otherwise they just
worked on all day.  But because we were doing very
hard manual labour - and not because we were soft
whiteys, which is what some of the niggas allege - we
were allowed to stop at lunchtime and eat.  Mom had
made some of the grits stuff very thick, and then
fried it so that it was in nice crisp bars, and dad,
mom and me sat together for a moment, eating it.  Mom
seemed really pleased to see dad and me together like
that, and said that she was so relieved that the
Colonel had decided to have me work in the forge as
she'd always imagined that we I'd be sold as soon as I
was old enough, and she'd never see me again.  But
now, well, if I worked hard, and supported dad....
"Oh yes", I thought., "And if I have the Colonel's
dick up my ass, just as dad has to."  But I didn't day
it, as it's not the sort of thing you can say to your
mom, is it?

It's funny, isn't it?  Although I was feeling a bit
miserable but was coming out of it at lunchtime,
you've got no way of knowing what else is going to
happen to you. And if I'd known how I was going to be
that evening, I might well have "run", in spite of
everything dad had said!

Half way through the afternoon we heard another trap
draw up, and this sounded quite different from the
veterinarian's!  It was a lot faster, and it stopped a
lot quicker, and Mr. Stryker came in.  "Attend to my
pony, boy!", he snapped at me, and I went outside with
the water bucket again.  This poor guy was nothing
like the veterinarian's happy pony, though!  For one
thing, he was much bigger - at least six-six, with
really long, legs, and his skin was jet black, coal
black, the kind of black that most of our niggas
weren't (we call them blacks, but actually they're
mostly pretty dark brown of course, because of all
that interbreeding that went on between the slaves and
owners the first time around when slaves were first
introduced.  But this guy must have been a direct
import from Africa, he was so black.  He was manacled
to Mr. Stryker's trap, as you'd expect, but Mr.
Stryker obviously liked to be a "hands on" driver as
in addition to his heavy iron collar the pony wore a
leather strap around his head, holding blinkers in
place so he could only see to the front.  He had a bit
in his mouth, and I could tell from the way it was
pulled so far back into the corners of his lips that
he must have had teeth pulled to get it there - and
because his jaw was half open, there were two slicks
of his drool hanging down from the corners of his
mouth.  The bit was held in place by straps around his
head and under his chin so he couldn't push it out
with his tongue, and the strap underneath was attached
to his collar with another short strap, so holding his
head down and making it impossible for him to toss it
back, or even look up.

He was covered in sweat as he'd been run really hard,
and it was not only running down his totally shaved
body, but making almost a little rivulet where it went
along his dick, so it seemed as if he was continually
leaking piss!  I could hear the flies buzzing, and
that was because  his shoulders, and his butt, were
covered with a fine mesh of bleeding lines, where Mr.
Stryker had evidently been using the carriage whip on
him.   I spooned water as best I could into his mouth
- he had to bend slightly at the knees so that I could
reach - although it was awkward with the bit there,
and further complicated by the tongue depressor
attached to it that kept his tongue right on the floor
of his mouth.  I could only guess at how much he
wanted as he was quite incapable of telling me as he
could make no intelligible sounds, but I gave him a
break, knowing that too much water at one time can be
bad for you however much you may feel you need it
after hard exercise, and tried to do something about
his back.  I used the scrap of rag to try to wash away
the blood, and thus get rid of the flies, and as I ran
it over him, he gave shudders and moans, as if he was
really hurting.  This was the ultimate in slavery, I
thought - they made dad and me strip and fuck, the
niggas on the plantation were made to go naked and
collared all the time and were chained into coffles,
but this poor guy had been reduced to the status of a
mere beast.  No, worse than that, as even when men
ride real horses they have some freedom, but this poor
slave was blinkered, couldn't raise his head, had been
deprived of the power of speech, and was clearly
constantly whipped in order to make him "go faster".
Thank goodness I was a whitey, and couldn't be used
like this, I thought.

I was still helping the pony to drink - the spilling
water from his half-open mouth cascading down his
magnificent torso - when dad called me back into the
forge.  He looked worried, and those veins were
standing out on his forehead as they do when you're
really annoyed but unable to do anything about it.  He
looked at me and said quietly, though, as if he didn't
want to worry me, "Strip again, Steve."

Well, I thought at first that Mr. Stryker might just
want to inspect my 'skinning, but once I was naked dad
led me over to the big solid anvil that was standing
there and told me to lie on it - the metal was icy
cold against my chest, and dad positioned me so that
the "horn" of it, where he shaped the horse shoes, was
sticking out from between my thighs.   I hated my legs
and ass being forced apart like this, and wondered if
they were going to attach my hole again. But I began
to realise what was going to happen as dad got out the
straps and fastened them around the anvil and my body,
so I was held there rigidly.  Us kids were never
allowed in the forge when new niggas were brought in
for branding, but I'd peeked in through a knot hole
often enough to be able to see them strapped down like
this, and I knew what was going to happen to me.

I wanted to shout out, to protest, to beg dad to stop,
but I knew it was no good.  He'd clearly been trying
to argue with Mr. Stryker, risking punishment for
himself;  and perhaps I realised that once a master
has said "no" to a slave, that's going to stick - I
mean, a master isn't going to back down, is he?  If I
pleaded with dad, and he went on at Mr. Stryker again,
who knows what might happen.  It was as if the whole
thing had a sick inevitability about it - sixteenth
birthday, ritual fucking by my owner, 'skinning, and
now this.

Mr Stryker advanced on me and I felt his long bony
fingers stroking over the surface of my left butt.
"No need to shave your son, blacksmith", he told dad.
"He's got some faint hair here, but not enough to set
on fire.  Now, I want a really nice, crisp brand - so
make sure the iron's hot enough, but not so hot that
it sets his fat alight and damages him.  And I warn
you, blacksmith - hold it there for the right time, so
it goes in deep, and don't hold back just because he's
your son.  I've seen you do lots of niggas in here and
I know you know how to do it, so any failure and
you'll be in severe trouble."

"Yes, sir", dad said with that same air of resignation
that  I was feeling.   He came over to me and gave me
something - my arms were free, and it was only just my
body that was strapped down.  It was a cylinder of
hard, black rubber, about nine inches long.  "Bite
down on this, Steve - it will help.  Well, not as
such, but it will stop you biting your tongue off, and
it will stifle the worst of the noise - we don't want
to alarm your mother."  I took the heavy, almost solid
thing off him, and saw the impressions of the teeth in
it from the hundreds of other slaves who must have
been strapped here as I now was.    "Be brave, son -
it will soon be over", dad almost whispered, as if he
didn't want Mr. Stryker to hear.

He got on with the rest of the preparations - a few
handsful of straw were scattered underneath the anvil,
and dad then took the branding iron - about a metre
long, with the big "S" at the end of it, and plunged
it into the coals, turning the handle to make the fan
turn them almost white with incandescence.  I gripped
down on the rubber bar in my mouth, and my saliva
started to drool from one corner, but I couldn't move
it as out of the corner of my eye I saw dad advancing
towards me.  I felt the heat of the thing against my
bare skin the moment before the agony of the pain went
through me, and then it was as if there was a series
of snapshots - the smell of my skin charring, the
sight of dad's face so grim as he held the thing
against my butt, the frantic scrabbling of my feet and
hands as they tried to do anything to get free, the
look of excitement on Mr. Stryker's face as the brand
seared into me, the sound of my own muffled wailing
and screaming, and then nothing.

Mercifully, as can happen when pain gets so bad, I
passed out.  The next thing I knew , dad was undoing
the straps and trying to help me to my feet, slapping
my face and saying "Steve, Steve..."  The pain struck
me again then, rolling over me like the ocean, and I
was powerless to do anything about it.  It consumed
all my thoughts, all my feelings.  I remember looking
down and seeing  a pile of crap and piss in the straw,
and dad saying "Don't worry, Steve, it happens to all
the slaves when the iron bites - their bowels just let
go", but I was beyond, way beyond, embarrassment.

Mr. Stryker stood there then looked closely at my
butt.  "Excellent, blacksmith.  The way those blisters
are forming already I think you've done a good job.
Allow the boy to rest for the remainder of the day - I
don't think we can get any sensible work out of him",
and with that, turned and walked out, and we heard the
cracking of the whip as the trap rolled away.  Quick
as a flash dad dived down under the workbench and
pulled out a jar of the ointment mom used, as she had
to soothe the cane stroke last night, and began to
wipe it over my butt - I screamed again, as this hurt,
but dad told me to hang in there, as it would start to
take the pain away soon.  Which it did; well, about
half of it:  but even that half was all consuming,
terrible, and utterly inhumane.

"Why can't I have an injection, like when the
veterinarian 'skinned me?", I managed to ask, and dad
just shrugged.  "They never do, Steve.  I have heard
it said that they want all new slaves to remember the
moment they finally turned form men into slaves - with
a brand like that on you, you know the power that your
owner has over you, and you'll never forget it.
Still, at least you've got somewhere to go, somewhere
quiet - imagine those poor niggas when I do ten or
twenty of them, and then they all have to thrash
around in a cage altogether."

With that, dad opened the door of the little store
room just beyond the hearth, and I could see that he
must have known about what was going to happen for
some time.  We used to play in there when I was
younger and it was a real junk yard and last resting
place for odd lengths of metal, chain, fancy collars,
broken tools, and all the other junk that accumulates
around a forge.  But it had been cleared out, and
half the narrow space had a good covering of straw on
it, with a blanked spread out across the straw, and
another piled neatly on top.

"This is your room now, Steve.  You're a man, too old
to be still living at home with us, and this is a
place of your own.  You can still come in to the house
for meals and mom will still do your laundry, but this
is where you sleep and hang out.  Mr. Stryker was
going to send you to sleep with the niggas, but I
persuaded him that it was best you stay here - you can
get up early to light the forge, and we can get
through more work."

I looked at the rough blanket and lay down on it, very
gently so as not to hurt my dick, and dad brought me a
cup of water and the two aspirin the veterinarian had
left me for the pain from the 'skinning.  "Here, take
these now - they might help", he said, and then
gently, very gently, pulled the other blanket over my
naked shoulders and as much of my thighs and legs as
he could without touching the brand.  I lay there, my
head cradled in my arms, and if I had not been beyond
tears, I would have been sobbing.

Really  I wish dad had just let me sleep - at least I
wasn't aware of the pain then.  But he shook me awake,
and as I lay there moaning said gently "Time to get
up, son.  Mom's almost got the dinner ready."

"No, I don't want to eat..."

"You must, son.  You've got to keep your strength up.
And, anyway, we don't want to worry the little ones as
you know we always eat together.  Come on, you've got
to do the right thing...."

It was absolute agony easing the boxer shorts on, even
though dad tenderly slathered more of the ointment
across my brand, and the jeans were even worse.  Dad
knelt down and pulled my boots on for me, and laced
them shut, as I don't think I could bend.  We both
pulled our Ts on then as if it was the end of an
normal day, and walked slowly, very slowly, around to
the house.

Mom almost cried out when she saw my strained,
tear-stained face, but told me to go and wash up.  "It
will pass, Steve", she said.  "The pain will go away.
You'll survive, son."

"Mom, you can't know what it feels like..."

"Oh yes I can, Steve!  Remember, I'm a slave, too."

I stood there in astonishment.  I mean, I know they'd
seared an "S" into dad's butt as they had into  mine,
but it just hadn't occurred to me that they'd do
female slaves too.

I don't remember what excuse they used for why I
stayed standing as I forked down the vegetable stew
from our garden that mom made to garnish the grits
stuff, but afterwards dad gave me a cup of coffee, I
thought Cliff look jealous.  And when dad said I
should go and turn in now, and Cliff learned that I
had my "own place", he started to say how unfair it
was, that as the eldest I always got the best of
everything, and all that other crap that younger
brothers always think.  If only he knew!

End Of part 4