Date: Wed, 30 Nov 2005 08:09:30 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Steve Grows Up, Part Five

Steve Grows Up

By Pete Brown        petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


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


Part 5

It wasn't much fun for the next few days.  Although
the pain in the brand gradually went down, I started
having trouble with sleeping as I  couldn't jerk off!
Well, I was a horny sixteen year old, after all, and
you're most sexually active then, so they say.  And it
was no fun having to wash in the big trough of water
in the forge, either - at least we had warm water at
home!  I kind of skimped on the actual bathing part,
until dad noticed and told me I stank, then without me
being able to do anything about it he scooped me into
is arms and just dropped me into the trough!  I sat
there spluttering and gasping from the cold, but dad
just laughed, and eventually I did, too.  He helped me
out and I stood there shivering a bit in my soaked
jeans, so he told me to strip off and for the rest of
the afternoon I worked in just my smith's apron (a big
leather apron that covers you in case sparks and hot
metal are flying) - it wasn't so bad, as once you got
used to feeling the air on your naked butt, it was
actually quite cool when you started sweating.

I hadn't seen Rob much, but that night there was a
knock on the door as we were all eating dinner, and
there was Rob.  Mom asked him if he wanted some
vegetable stew, but he said no, and when I'd finished
dad suggested that I should take Rob to "my place"  so
that they could all get  on with their work
assignments and so on.

Rob looked suspiciously at the narrow cupboard and the
straw, but then said "You know, Steve, if would be
kind of neat if you were still fucking girls - get
them in here, and you could do what you liked..."

"Hey, Rob, what do you mean?  'IF I was still fucking
girls...'?  I'm a pretty hot date..."

"You were, Steve.  But not now.  A lot of girls in our
class decided to fuck with you as there were rumours
that you were going to be enslaved, and they wanted to
be able to tell girls at college that of course they'd
fucked with a slave.  But now you actually are a
slave, well, it wouldn't be polite, would it?  No nice
southern girl is going to sleep with a slave -  that's
the sort of sick thing they do up north."

"You mean even if I asked them, if I danced with them,
blew in their ears, kissed them....?"

"And when are you going to do that, Steve?  Slaves
aren't allowed into our socials and stuff - well, not
unless they're there as waiters and other servants!"

"So you think I won't be fucking, then, Rob?"

"I'm not sure about that, Steve.  My dad was talking
to your owner, the Colonel, yesterday, and I overheard
the Colonel saying he was on the lookout for a slave
for you to mate with - he wants you to start breeding
now, as there's a lot of money in whiteys, especially
good looking ones like you.  Still, that's good
news...."

"Rob, suppose she's a hag...."

"Steve, don't be so stupid.  Any young whitey female
costs a fortune, and the OK ones aren't all that much
more expensive.  So it would be false economy for the
Colonel to buy a vile one if he's trying to breed good
looking slaves to sell on in due course - no, Steve, I
reckon you're going to be pretty lucky, and get some
stunning girl to fuck."

On the one hand I was pleased, but on the other hand
it sounded so wrong.  "Rob...", I said hesitantly.
"It's not right.  I mean, I ought to be fucking
around, and choosing a wife for myself.  How can the
Colonel choose for me?"

"Oh Steve, of course he can - he's your owner, and he
can choose anything he likes for you! He's chosen your
job, what you wear, and all that stuff already.  And
his dad chose your mom for your dad, after all."

"Yes,  but what if I don't love her?"

"For Christ sake, Steve, what's that got to do with
it?  You're going to be provided with her to breed
with.  Love and stuff - well, that's for free men, not
slaves.  You can live your life with her and just keep
fucking and breeding - a lot of men do that with their
wives anyway, don't they?   The only thing you have to
worry about, I suppose, is that he might choose to get
you some older woman who's a proven breeder, and then
you'd just have to sleep with her every night, and it
probably wouldn't be as much fun - imagine fucking
every night with someone who's old enough to be your
mom!"

"He couldn't do that...."

"Steve, get real!  Of course he could. Or he might
hire you out as a stud - you know, travelling around
from place to place, just fucking whatever woman you
were put to."

"No..."

"Hey, Steve, what's the problem?  A fuck is a fuck,
after all!  It's more than I'm likely to get - my
parents are taking me to Europe for most of the summer
vacation, and I expect I'll be on a pretty tight rein
and even if I do manage to meet any girls, there'll be
precious few opportunities to fuck them."

"Rob, have you actually ever fucked a girl?  I know
you always asked me about the ones in the class who
did.... But have you ever got it off with any of
them?"

"Sure."

Something in Rob's tone struck me as odd, so I said
"Oh yes?  So who, then?", but he didn't reply, and
instead said "Well, I guess I'd better be going - see
you when we get back from the trip.  I'd send you a
postcard, but I don't think my mom and dad would like
me writing to a slave."

"But your mom was always so good to me, Rob, giving me
all that nice food, and stuff..."

"But that was  before you were a slave kind of
'officially', Steve.  Don't you see that changes
things totally?"

I just looked at him, and shrugged.  "Oh well, have a
good trip.... And they always say the girls in Sweden
are prepared to put out...".  As I said this I stuck
out my hand to shake, but Rob just stood there, hands
at his side.

"...and Steve, a free man can't shake hands with a
slave!  Folk might think we're friends, and you know
the  old saying...."

"Yes, Rob.  'You can't be friends with a slave'.  So
does that mean we're no longer buddies?"

"No, Steve.  But it may be different.  See ya....."

He turned and walked out, and I stripped off and
pulled the blankets over me.  Fuck it, I decided - I
didn't care if my dick ran with blood - I just had to
beat off or else I would never sleep.  But as I
stroked my dick it kind of felt all wrong - that
lovely sensation as my 'skin slid up and down the
shaft and on and off the head was all gone.  And I
realised I needed to use a lot of spit now to
lubricate my hand as it grasped the shaft and began
beating away.

As it so happened the veterinarian called in the next
day and I had to drop my jeans and boxers so he could
inspect progress.  He seemed pleased, asked me if
there was any tightness or discomfort -and I said no -
and he smiled.  "Another success, then.  You know,
Steve, I'm not an expert in these matters but I think
it definitely does improve the appearance of a slave -
you're somehow much sleeker, more obviously 'ready for
action' without your 'skin."

I was going to tell him that may be so, but jerking
off wasn't nearly as much fun, when dad interrupted
and asked him if he'd mind going in and seeing mom, as
she was worried about something.  He nodded and went
off, and I went outside to see if his pony was OK.

He stood there as usual, looking pretty nice as he had
a buff body and good long legs as you'd expect, and he
smiled.  "So, Steve, the word on the street is that
you're one of us now - lost your 'skin and gained the
big 'S'!"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, my master's got a special black bag, for
'skinning.  And Mr. Stryker's pony said that the other
day after you'd watered him there was all the
screaming and stuff that means a branding.  We were
all talking about it - a young whitey's rare in these
parts."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Oh, you know, all the guys in the outdoor slaves'
barn - us ponies, the gardeners, chauffeurs, the guys
who pull the mowers... All the domestic staff at the
big house who're not 'indoor' slaves:  the waiters and
cooks and guys like that sleep in the attics."

"I thought you'd all be together, with all the
niggas..."

"Oh no!  They keep  us close to the house in case
we're needed for urgent duties.  And the ordinary
coffled niggas are way down at the other end of the
plantation.  They're all locked up and everything at
night, but we're 'free' - they know we can't escape,
as there's nowhere to go."

I gave him another drink of water, and he said
casually "now that you're one of us, do you want to
join in the fun?  Come on - let's see how you are....
My master might be some time, and you could jerk me
off..."

"Hey, Sam, I told you I didn't do stuff like that...."

"So it's true what they say, Steve....  You whiteys
are stuck up!  You don't want to mix with the rest of
us slaves...."

"No, of course not!  I'm not prejudiced against
niggas!  Or women.  Or the handicapped.  Or anyone.  I
even get along with the utterly thick and stupid!"

"So why won't you jerk me off?  Come on, if you're not
prejudiced, you must be scared.  What are you worried
about - my owner coming back?  He won't mind as he
knows it's natural for young guys to jerk off, and he
says it's OK for slaves to do that sort of stuff
anywhere, as long as it doesn't interfere with their
work.  So it must be your dad - you're scared your dad
will see you with your hand on my dick, aren't you?
And I thought you were a grown up, an adult...."

"Sam, I am a man.  I've got the big 'S' to prove it!
And I do what I like, not what my dad tells me...."

"Go on then - get hold of my dick, and show me you're
not scared..."

Well, I could hardly back down now, could I?  And it
was not as if I hadn't done this before - I had jerked
off Rob, after all.  But as I reached down for his
dick it seemed really exciting and different - here we
were, out of doors, where anyone could see.  And this
guy was shackled into the trap, so he couldn't use his
hands to do anything.... As I gripped his shaft and
began to stroke it, I was seized with the idea of also
grabbing his balls with my other hand, and stroking
them, too.  I did all the things that I like myself -
varying the pressure on the shaft, letting my thumb
and forefinger bang hard up against the rim of my dick
head, being really tough on my dick head - squeezing
it as my hand flew across it, and running my thumb
across his piss slit.   He was soon moaning with
pleasure, and tried to back away from me, even -
something I soon stopped as I squeezed his balls just
a little, a very little, so he could understand that I
was in control.

And as I did this, there was that feeling again - that
fantastic feeling of having another guy under my
control.   Without the use of his hands Sam was
powerless - I could do what I liked to him.  My own
dick was rock hard inside my jeans as I realised this,
and the more I jerked him and the more he moaned, the
better I liked it!  He shot his load all too soon - I
felt my hands go all slimy with his cum as I continued
to jerk him, and he was almost pleading with me to
stop as he evidently had one of those dicks - a bit
like mine - that likes to be allowed to rest as soon
as the cum has shot.  But I kept on, and now he was
almost crying out as he attempted to do anything to
get away - but those lovely balls of his in my other
hand were still in control.

When I did stop and stood there looking at him, a
fresh burst of sweat had broken out all over his body,
and he was smiling.  I thought it was really very
erotic - I was a whitey,  and although I was
bare-chested I was wearing jeans and boots, whereas
Sam was a big nigga, and was totally naked.  And this
big nigga was totally under the control of a sixteen
year old.  I felt as if I was about to cum myself, I
was so turned on by the whole thing.

I went to go, leaving a thin drool of his cum still
leaking out of the end of his dick, and when he asked
me to remove it as he didn't want the veterinarian to
see it, I taunted him saying that he'd said that the
veterinarian didn't mind.  "So", I went on, "If you
want to get rid of it, you'd better piss!".

I went back into he forge, and dad grabbed me - one of
his big hands was really hurting my left arm, and he
almost shook me.  "I saw that, Steve!  What do you
think you're playing at?"

"Dad, he wanted it.  And he said it was OK as the
veterinarian didn't mind."

"Well I mind, Steve.  A son of mine, in a lewd
display... Suppose your mom had come out?"

"Dad, I'm a slave, OK?  You keep telling me that.  And
yet when I try to act like one, you complain.  Now
mind your own fucking business - I'm a man now, and
I'll do what I like."

"You disgusting animal!", he screamed at me.  "Your
mom and I brought you up to behave properly.  And look
at your jeans..."

I looked down, and there, right down the leg, was a
big slick of Sam's cum lying on the surface of the
denim.  I hadn't been watching all that closely as he
shot.  I blushed, but brushed it off as casually as I
could.

"...and you think that makes it OK, do you?"  Dad
snapped.  "What about your mom, who's got to wash
those jeans tonight?"

"It's no worse than washing our boxers, dad, when
they're covered in our cum from where we were made to
fuck..."

Dad lost it then, and began to hit me, and I fought
back.  Before long we were rolling around on the floor
of the forge, trying to punch each other but, I guess,
kind of holding back as we didn't really want to hurt
each other, just establish who was the superior one.
And I lost, of course - dad had twenty or thirty
pounds of solid muscle more than me, and before long
he was sitting astride me, his knees pinning my
shoulders to the ground and his calves gripping my
sides.

"So, Steve, you're a man now, are you?  And it's OK
for slaves who are men to have sex in public, is it?
And it's OK for a slave who thinks he's a man to talk
back to his dad, is it?"

"Fuck you, dad!", I almost spat at him.

"Steve, you always were wild, and didn't want to
listen to advice and stuff I gave you.  Well, it's
time you learned, boy, not to argue with those who are
bigger and stronger than you.  It won't do you any
good, Steve - you'd better learn this lesson, or else
you'll have a terrible life as a slave, as by
definition your owner is always stronger than you -
even if not physically."

As he said that, dad was undoing the buttons on the
fly of his jeans, then, as I bucked and writhed in a
futile attempt to escape, his dick flopped out and dad
kind of raised himself up so it was hanging down
almost on top of my face.  Dad's hand gripped my chin,
and his incredibly powerful fingers dug themselves
into the side of my jaw.  "Open up, boy...", he said
with an air of grim determination.

I went to say "fuck you!", again, but the moment my
grip on my jaws loosened, dad's fingers did their work
and my mouth was effectively jammed open.  Then, with
a dreadful, slow determination, dad used his other
hand to position and then lower his dick into my
mouth!

There's no simple way of describing the taste of cock,
is there?  It depends so much on what the guy has been
doing, when he last showered.... But dad's was salty,
and sweaty, and somehow meaty... And it was warm, and
soft, and hard, and overwhelmingly "male".  Dad
lowered it into me, and didn't stop even though I
started to gag and choke, my body thrashing around and
my chest heaving as I struggled for air.  I was dimly
aware of the smell of dad's jeans as the crotch
pressed into my nose, and then dad pulled back, and I
lay there gasping.

"You'll have to learn how to take a cock down your
throat, Steve", dad said grimly, "Just as I had to.
But I can't trust you yet not to bite, so for now...."


Dad began stroking his dick, and as it hovered above
me I could see his big horny hands sliding faster and
faster over it.  Dad began to give little snorts and
groans, and then he almost stopped.... And pointed his
dick downwards, and his cum spurted out all over my
lips and cheeks and nose, and tricked down into my
mouth that was still held open by dad's fingers.

He continued to kneel there on me, and I could see his
chest heaving as he recovered his breathing after his
climax.  I couldn't help it - I put my tongue out and
licked my lips clean - well, I suppose it's a reflex
thing, isn't it?  The sweet, salty taste of dad's cum
was everywhere, and the smell of it, that strange
ammoniacal smell that isn't like the taste at all, was
assaulting my nostrils.  Dad looked down at me and
said quietly "So, Steve, sex in public is OK, is it?"

He got off me then and stood there, looking down at
me, his dick still hanging out of his jeans.  Then he
reached a hand down and helped me up to my feet.  I
just stood there, looking at him, until he suddenly
threw his arms around me and held his head close to
mine, his big strong hands holding us together.  "Oh
Steve, I'm sorry....".  He was almost sobbing.  "I'm
sorry, son.  I shouldn't have done that.  But you were
going on and on, defying me.... It's a problem... But
I shouldn't have done it."

"It's OK, dad."  I was almost crying now.  "It's OK.
It didn't hurt me."

"Steve, look, it's only natural.  And it might happen
again.  It's what all fathers and sons do - they fight
for position, as there can only be one alpha male in
the house.  It's easy when the kid is young, but as he
matures, he naturally challenges his father, and the
father fights back, of course - it's programmed into
us.  And they go on, challenging and repelling, until
it erupts into a major fracas, and one walks away the
winner.  And if it's the son, then the father knows
his time has come.  But if it's the father, it will
happen again as the son can't help challenging.  It's
just that for normal families it usually stops at
shouting and arguing, and the denial of privileges,
the stopping of allowances and stuff like that - but
for us, Steve.... well, they've corrupted us....
Making us slaves like this means the arguments are
going to be stronger, the fighting more real....  And,
in any case, I've never been able to give you an
allowance to stop..."

"Dad, it's OK...."

"Sure, Steve.  This time I won.  But you'll challenge
me again.  And again.  And one day you'll win.  It's
not so bad for a normal father, Steve, but this is all
I've got - your mother, the kids.... I don't own
anything, don't have a position in society... Nothing.
 Just the head of our little household.  And even
that's pretty precarious, as I have to do exactly as
the Colonel says.... Have another kid, fuck my
son...."

"Dad, it's OK..."

"No it isn't Steve.  I've just realised I've got
nothing, other than the love of your mom and you kids.
 And if I go on like this, I'll lose that."

I was crying now, as I pressed my face into his hot,
sweaty shoulder by his neck.  "No, dad, you won't lose
that.  I'll always love you, dad."

Well, I think we were both a bit embarrassed then, as
you're just not used to speaking with your dad about
things like that, are you?  So we kind of broke apart,
and dad said that we could stop work for the day if we
started especially early the next morning.  And that I
didn't have to bathe in the trough that night, as I
could have a shower at home!

When we went into the kitchen mom stopped what she was
doing, and looked at us.  "What have you two been
doing?", she asked.

"Nothing.", dad mumbled, rather sheepishly.

Mom stood back and looked us up and down again.
"Those bruises.  All that dirt on your clothes, and
your bodies... You've been fighting, haven't you,
Steve?"

"Mom...", I began.

"I don't want any lies from you, Steven!", she said
severely.  "Now, have you and your father been
fighting?"

"It wasn't  serious, mom".  I knew I'd better tell the
truth, as when mom called me "Steven" instead of
Steve, she was really serious.

"Wasn't serious?   Wasn't serious?"  Mom's voice was
rising, almost to a shout.  "Two grown men, fighting
like children!  And you say it wasn't serious?"

She paused for breath.  "So what was it about?"

"Nothing".  Dad and I said, almost in chorus.

"You men!"  Mom sounded very exasperated now.
"Fighting.  And then trying to say it was about
'nothing'. Still, I don't expect you'll tell me.  I
suppose it was one of those strange 'men' things!
Thank goodness I'm a woman, that's all I can say.
Now, both of you, go upstairs and shower as the
dinner's almost ready.  And if I hear any scuffling or
anything when you're up there, you'll have me to deal
with!"

Dad and I both half smiled, but we looked pretty
sheepish as we trooped up the stairs.  And then there
was a problem, as I no longer had anywhere to change,
so I had to do it in the bathroom as dad was in the
shower, and he stood and looked at me as I was drying
myself and dressing.

"The veterinarian did a good job, Steve", he
commented.  "Are you OK about it?  I mean, I remember
when I was done, and it was odd at first, but I've
kind of got to like it - and it does save some time in
the shower..."

"Well it's OK, I guess..."

"Look, Steve, there's no point in beating about the
bush.  The Colonel will use you for sex again.  And
me.  And I expect he'll make us perform together
again, too.  And we'll have to do it in front of an
audience.  So let's understand that now, shall we?
Then, when the order comes, it won't be so much of a
surprise."

"Sure, dad... But, you know.... Well, I'm used to
girls...."

"And so am I, Steve!  I've had all you kids, remember?
 But we're slaves, Steve, and if we're ordered to go
with a guy, we don't have any choice, do we?  And
actually, son, it's not so bad - in fact, it can be a
whole lot of fun.  Don't get me wrong - I love your
mother and everything, but every now and then a bit of
good, hard, man-on-man sex is really great.  I think a
whole lot of men secretly wish they could go with
another guy.  And at least as slaves we get the
opportunity."

"...especially if you win, eh, dad, and you're on
top?"

Dad looked a bit sheepish again - he has that way of
kind of hanging his head, and cocking it slightly to
one side, and looking down.  "Well, actually, Steve,
I'm like a whole lot of guys - I prefer to be fucked.
I know it looks odd - a big strong guy like me with a
big hard dick, but I prefer to take dick, rather  than
give it.  I have to give it, of course, if I'm ordered
to - but if there's a group of us performing for one
of the Colonel's parties, I try to take it, if I can."

He looked at me and saw me staring at him.  "Steve, I
can see what you're thinking.  A whole lot of men
think like you, at first - you think the only way a
'man' can be a 'man' is if he gives dick, if he fucks.
 Not if he lies there and takes it.  But it's not so,
Steve.  When two men are fucking, fucking properly,
not tied down and forced, it's a mutual thing - one
gives, and one takes, and one isn't 'better' or 'more
manly' than the other - just different."

"OK, dad."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Well maybe it's one of those things I have to find
out for myself."

"There you go, Steve.  You never listen to my advice.
But that's you, I guess.  Come on, son, dinner's
ready..."

As we went into the kitchen and saw all my brothers
and sisters sitting around the table, mom looked at us
brightly and said "What kept you boys?"

"Oh, I just had to give Steve a little talk... You
know.... 'The birds and the bees', that sort of
stuff."  Dad was smiling, and I just grinned.

Mom stood there then, and looked at the family sitting
around the table.  "Well I have some news for you all.
 I saw the veterinarian today - such a nice young man
- and he's confirmed that there's another one of us on
the way."

I slapped dad on the back, and said "You dog, you,
dad!  And at your age!", and dad rushed over and
hugged mom.

We all laughed a lot over dinner, and even the
youngest was excited, asking when her new baby brother
would be here.  But when it was over, I knew they
wanted to be alone and talk together quietly after all
the kids were in bed, so I said goodnight and wandered
back towards the forge.  But I was restless, and I
thought about what Sam had said about the barn where
he and the other guys slept, and as it was a bright
moonlit  night, started to make my way across the
fields on the short cut to the big house.  I missed
Rob, as it was at times like this  "before" that I'd
go around to his place and we'd talk and stuff, and
now I was lonely.

The "barn" where the outdoor slaves lived was just
that - a piece of history, almost, left over from when
the big house had needed carriage horses and so on for
those elite ladies and gentlemen in the nineteenth
century to be able to live out their charmed lives.
It really was a barn, and on warm days the big double
doors were always open to show the high roof and the
wooden structures where the horses had lived and so
on.  Tonight, though, the big doors were closed and
only the usual "pass door" at the side was open, and I
went in.

Inside it was warm and kind of comforting - the
"historical revival" thing that was all the rage in
interior design now meant that they used real straw in
the stalls where the slaves lived - and it gave the
air a spicy, fresh feeling; and the lighting was low,
and in pools, as electric candles in small sconces
cast a warm glow (some owners apparently used real
candles, but the Colonel, I was told later, considered
this to be too much of a fire hazard).  There were
even some real horses in the barn still, as the
Colonel used to like to ride out to inspect the
plantation, and in addition to the hacks kept for
this, he had a couple of real thoroughbred "hunters"
as he local landowners had revived the tradition of
fox hunting - Rob and I had often gone to a "meet" to
see them all set off, and they'd got an English
gentleman over to advise on the "form" and he'd got
them all to buy the famous scarlet coats and white
breeches.  The pack of hounds milling around were fun
and the hunt servants in their smart black jackets
"whipped them in", as it was called, to keep control.
I'd read about this at school in some of the
literature - we read Sassoon once and his great
autobiographical novel about hunting before World War
1 - and it seemed to be just like it:  the only
differences, I suppose, were that the servants handing
around the glasses of sherry on the silver salvers
were slaves, got up in "complementary" uniforms of
short black tunics (which left them exposed whenever a
breeze blew, or when they handed a salver upwards to a
rider) and with scarlet ribbons adorning their
collars.  And of course the carts that followed the
hunt to take the lunchtime feast so that a pavilion
could be set up wherever the hunt stopped were pulled
by dray slaves, not horses.

Still, the presence of the horses added a certain
"animal" smell to the air, over and above that
indefinable "something" that told you that there were
men here, horny men, men waiting for sex.  I felt my
dick stir in my jeans, and tried to look nonchalant as
I made my way into the place.  It seemed that the
first couple of bays on the left hand side were where
the dray slaves slept, as each was filled with the
eight strong, powerful slaves they used for this kind
of work - not tall particularly, but strong, very
strong, with powerful thighs and butts to give the
power needed to pull a loaded dray up and down the
hills around here.  And, of course, their torsos were
heavily muscled too, not only as they needed to work
at loading and unloading the drays, but because
everyone knew that owners likes slaves to be
"proportioned" - heavily muscled legs meant that the
slaves had to exercise daily to have heavily muscled
torsos as well.   They must all have been exhausted by
their day's work, as although it wasn't all that late
they'd all mostly finished with sex and were lying
sprawled across each other asleep, in the relaxed
attitudes that only tired, satisfied men can have.


The next  bay was for the gardeners, and the Colonel
had eight of these - I knew some of these guys as when
I was walking through the grounds they'd wave
sometimes - well, if they were weeding or pruning or
something, and there wasn't an overseer around.   And
they were good to us, too - many a "thinning" from the
vegetables they tended in the kitchen gardens ended up
with mom so she could grow them on in our vegetable
plot without having to buy seeds and stuff.  And
sometimes they even tossed me an apple, or even a
peach (albeit a damaged one) from the orchards.  But
on the days when the lawns needed mowing they had no
time - or energy - for anything  like that, as they
dragged the heavy mowers along, pushed the barrows to
carry away the clippings, and then crawled up and down
the lawns in a long line taking out daisies and
dandelions and other pernicious weeds by hand.  I
stopped by them to say hello, as they were generally
nice guys - all ages, of course, as you needed
experienced gardeners who knew what they were doing,
and younger "lads" who could be taught how to keep the
whole thing going.  One of the older gardeners was
teaching one of the "lads" something different,
though, as his buddies sat around and watched:  it
gave a whole new meaning to "planting the seed"!
They were all so intent on this that I didn't
interrupt them, although the increasing ache in my
dick indicated that I'd have quite liked to stay until
the end to see the guy shoot - the gardeners were all
of a "type" that I quite liked - not over muscled,
like the dray slaves, but kind of "normal", like me,
with good, hard, bodies.

The ponies used for pulling the traps were in the last
bay along, and I was surprised to see only Sam and the
big, very black nigga used by Mr. Stryker in there.
Sam saw me and got to his feet to welcome me, and
"invited me in" to go and sit on the straw by him.  It
turned out that there were usually four other guys in
there with them, but that the Colonel was out at a
dinner with neighbours  and had used them all to pull
the ornate barouche, rather than just using one or two
of them with a gig or dog cart.

I shook Sam's hand, and went to do the same thing with
Mr. Stryker's pony, but he just sat there and glared
at me.  "Don't worry about Dob, Steve - he's really
pissed off about life.  He's always like that", Sam
told me.  "All of the rest of us keep trying to tell
him that it won't do him any good - it's his own fault
that he's a slave, after all, as he tried to get into
the USA illegally and everyone knows that Congress
long ago decided that if illegals wanted to get here
so much, we ought to grant them their wishes and keep
them here permanently.  He keeps going on about his
wife back in his home country, but so what?  Still, at
least we've taught him some English now."

"I'm not Dob, my name's....", the other guy cut in,
but Sam just snapped "Look, Dob, that's part of your
problem.  No wonder Mr. Stryker beats you so much - if
he wants to call you 'Dob' - or 'Dobbin' as he thinks
that's a good name for a pony, that's his choice.
Just like I'm 'Sam' or 'Sambo' to the veterinarian.
Masters give their slaves names to suit themselves,
and you'd better just get used to it."

Sam then turned to me, and went on "So why are you
here, Steve?"

"Well, I just thought we might shoot the breeze or
something...."

Dob cut in "Sam, get that white trash out of here...."

"Hey, cool it, Dob!  Steve's a good guy.  He waters us
at the forge, remember?"

"Fucking white trash.... Get him out of here before I
decide to fuck him..."

Sam got to his feet and came and stood in front of me.
 Before I could stop him he'd undone my belt and the
buttons on my jeans, and pushed them and my boxer
shorts down to the ground.  He turned me around, as if
to display me, and I felt his hand slap my butt
lightly.

"See, Dob - he's one of us.  He may be white, but he's
a slave, just as we are - look at the 'S" on him..."
he turned me around again to face the big nigga, and
said "....and look at this.  When the white masters
fucked you, they weren't cut like we are, were they?
As I said, Steve's a good guy."

Dob still looked sullen, but Sam put his arms around
me, and I felt the heat of his body against mine.  His
hands moved down my back to cup my butt, and he pulled
me close to him so that our dicks rubbed together.  We
were both rock hard, and as if it was the most normal
thing in the world to do I began to move my hips so
that our dicks and balls began to thrill each other.
"Come on, Steve - get those boots and jeans off.
You're stopping the night, aren't you?" He added,
rather unnecessarily.

End Of Part 5