Date: Wed, 2 Nov 2005 02:58:28 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Steve's First Job

Steve's  First Job   by Pete Brown    petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 1


When I was a lot younger I semed to have more time.
There always seemed to be time to talk to my buddies
on the phone, or, when they went away to college, to
type them long e-mails.  In spite of all my aides and
secretaries, I never seem to have time for any of this
stuff now - it's tougher at the top that most people
think.  But last weekend I was clearing out the
private files on my PC - the very private ones, that
not even my trusted executive assistant is allowed
access to - when I came across some old copies of
notes I'd sent to my then best buddy, Stu, when he'd
gone off college in Atlanta.

As I read them, it took me right back to those early,
more innocent days, right after the war when there was
still some degree of chaos as the states sorted out
their new responsibilities and the two new governments
set themselves up in Chicago and Denver.  Stu and I
hadn't been affected, fortunately:  the war finished
just as we were about to be drafted, at sixteen, so we
didn't have to slog around the country fighting the
North as so many young men from our high school had
to.  And with the fighting over and the truce in
place, it was much easier for rich and influential men
like my father, and Stu's, to buy us exemptions from
the draft - or perhaps they had to buy a couple of
slaves and send them, or pay a bounty, or something:
it's all detail, and I forget.

Anyway, at the time of these notes Stu was just away
in Atlanta, as I've said, and I was still arguing with
my father about why I couldn't join him.  "Look,
Steve", he told me sternly.  "It's not a matter of the
money, you know that.  But I need you in the business.
 You need to learn about it properly.  You'll inherit
all the demesne one day, and its associated
businesses, and it's large and complex.  If you don't
start getting to grips with it, you'll be wasting your
inheritance."

"But dad, Stu went.... What about their holdings?
Isn't their demesne much the same size as ours?"

"Yes, and Stu has several brothers already working in
their business.  Let him enjoy college now, as I think
he'll have a tough time later on - younger brothers
don't usually do well in family businesses, you know.
I wouldn't be surprised if your buddy ended up as a
doctor, or lawyer, or something.... Not as one of the
owners of a demesne, as you will be."

"But dad..."

"Steve, I don't want to hear any more.  You will
either do as I say, or leave now, leave totally, and
go and make your own way in the world.  Your mother
left you a small inheritance from her own fortune -
the part that didn't come to me on marriage - and that
should be enough to get you started.  But don't expect
any support form me unless you're going to act like a
dutiful son should, and take your proper place in the
order of things, and knuckle down and get stuck into
our business!"

"But dad..."

"No more, Steve.  Get to work, or get out.  Make your
own mind up."

Well, I'd half a mind to just walk out, go to the
train station, and buy a ticket to "somewhere".  Dad
and I are both incredibly strong willed and I knew
there was no shaking him, and I was really pissed off
and ought to have gone my own way.  But it's hard, at
eighteen, especially when you've always had the finer
things in life:  my own suite in the big house, my own
personal slave to look after all my clothes and
stuff... Sure, times had been difficult during the
war, but the supply of the good things in life had
never been much affected where we were deep down in
Tennessee:  it was annoying not to be able to travel
to all the "fun" places like New York and San
Francisco as we had done when I was a child, when mom
was still alive, before the war started:  she was not
really "of the south", as dad was, and relished those
trips "to civilisation, to catch up on the plays,  the
music, the art....", as she put it.

More than most of my contemporaries, I suppose,
because of these trips I knew how expensive things
could be out there in the real world, and how
unpleasant things could be without slaves to take away
most of the irritations of modern life.  Much as I
wanted to show dad that I was at least as capable as
he was at  making my own decisions, in the end common
sense prevailed and I stayed at home.  And then dad
began his programme of introducing me to the
businesses on which our family's fortunes were based.


I'd forgotten most of this stuff, and it was only
finding this old copy of my notes to and from  Stu
that brought it rushing back:  it's a miracle that the
software still existed to read them after all these
years, and I sat there for half an hour as I pored
over the display, reliving those few weeks in my life.
  I think it will be interesting for my grandchildren
to know how it was in those days before the almost
universal use of "bred" slaves swept away some of the
practices of the day, and so I've copied and
reproduced those exchanges of e-mail here.  If I had
more time, I suppose I could add comments to them, or
give them a definitive time line, but I think that as
a "taster" of how things were, they are sufficient in
themselves.  All those interested can of course always
access the national archives, with all the news
bulletins, documentaries, films and such like from
those days.

So here it is, after all those years, just as it was
written.

Stu, you old dog!  How are the bitches in Atlanta?  I
know you - be careful:  some of those sophisticated
city ladies won'  be expecting  a country-boy cocksman
like you, and will swoon when you start some of those
tricks we both learned on the nigga girls from our
demesnes.  On the other hand, old buddy, they might
have tricks you might not be on the look out for:
they do say that they deliberately get in the family
way, and then expect you to marry them; and if you
won't, they take your folks to court and sue for
megabucks.  I can't imagine your dad would be pleased
about that... And he might even decide it would be
cheaper to let you get sold off as a slave.  Still,
don't worry:  if that looks likely just tip me the
wink and I'll make sure I buy you - I've always
fancied your ass, as I've told you, but you've never
let me in.  As a slave, you'd have no choice.  Write
to me, and tell me what it's like in the big wide
world out there - I feel stifled down here sometimes.
Steve.

Steve:  God, it's so formal here in Atlanta.  A jacket
and tie is required all the time in college.  And if I
"date" a young lady, as they call themselves, it's a
suit, especially if we "visit with" her parents, as
they call it.  No more jeans and Ts for me.  They say
its so we are distinguished from the slaves, who are
dressed "for work".  Unlike back home where the niggas
only work in the fields and around the house, slaves
here do all kinds of stuff - in offices, stores... You
even see slaves managing other slaves.  You often
can't tell at first, especially as some of them are
whiteys, and I've sometimes made the mistake of saying
"thank you" when a slave has served me in a store:  I
was with a few guys from my frat once when I did this,
and they almost screamed the place down with their
laughter.  It seems they have a sixth sense for who's
a slave, and don't have to keep looking for the
collars, as I do.  The women around here just don't
put it around - unless, as I said, you "visit with"
their folks, and practically get engaged... And then,
god help you if you don't go through with it.
Fortunately the frat has a few slaves up in the
attics.... But especially on the weekends they're very
heavily used and although I know we're supposed to  be
frat brothers and all that, I'm not sure I like using
a slave when she's still slimy with my "brother's"
spunk.   Thanks for the warning, though - I'll make
sure I don't get enslaved: the thought of that big
dick of yours forcing its way into my tight hole
doesn't bear thinking about - it's making me wince
even as I type this.  Still, there are enough niggas
on your demesne that your dick isn't lacking in
exercise, I assume?  Take care, buddy... Stu.

Stu:  Don't worry about your hole, old buddy.  If you
were a slave of mine I'd soon get you nicely stretched
and you'd be panting for your owner to service you.
Especially as I'd keep your dick in a chastity cage so
you couldn't fuck or even jerk yourself off - the only
time you'd get relief would be when my dick massaged
your prostate.  Must go now, as dad is sending me off
to work in our hauliers - it's one of our most
profitable businesses, and he wants me to learn the
ropes.  It sounds a bit dodgy, though:  instead of
going to the Board meetings and stuff, he wants me to
work with some old-timer in charge of procurement, and
"work my way up".  It sounds a stupid way of doing
things to me:  owners should manage and set strategic
directions for the business, not become involved in
the day to day detail.  Still, after the huge row with
dad about college, I've got to humour him a bit.  I'm
pretending to go along with what he says, so that when
I want six months off to go and see Europe, I can
point out that I've done everything that he's asked me
to.  Will you come with me?  Those foreigners might be
pretty peculiar, and I'd like my old buddy close by -
very close by - to help me.  We could share a bed, and
you don't have to take my dick - well, except in your
hand.  I do miss those mutual jerk-offs.  Steve.

Stu:  Hey, it was good to chat on the phone.  I do
understand why you can't come to Europe as you'll have
to work in the vacations from Atlanta - folks can be a
real pain, can't they, always trying to stop guys
having a bit of fun?  Anyway, my dad got me started
today, and what a day!  I kind of thought I might be
in the office or something, but when I got to the
depot downtown and spoke to the receptionist,  she
activated a pager, and this really old guy eventually
came out to meet me.  Well, I say "old" - he was
probably only forty!  But he had a hard, mean look and
he was clearly used to working physically, as he
packed tight jeans and a T, and those tan leather work
boots with thick soles.  He shook my hand - it was
kind of hard with patches of tough skin on it, and he
squeezed me as if he was testing me:  I'm glad we did
all those workouts in the gym as I think I gave back
as good as I got.  His name's Jon, and he seems to be
some sort of supervisor at the depot - not the
manager, who does sit in the office, but the guy down
there "on the shop floor", who actually runs things.
Not really knowing what to expect, I'd worn my new
dress chinos, my designer leather casuals, a smart
shirt, and had a jacket in deep tan linen, and the
first thing he said was "Boy, you'd better go home and
change:  we've got to go off to the military today,
and the men there can be pretty rough on someone who's
dressed fancy".  And that was it.  I'm just dashing
this off to you as I change - I guess I can't go wrong
if I follow his lead, so I've pulled on my faded jeans
- the ones you laugh about as the bottoms are all
frayed - but which I like as they're so snug and I
think they show me off to good advantage.  And that
plain dark grey T you gave me last Christmas.  See ya
later.  I'd better dash back, as that Jon looks pretty
businesslike.  Steve.


Stu:  Wow!  What a day.  Jon told me that my dad
wanted me to see the business "from the bottom up".
As you know, we're big in logistics and distribution,
and the depot services the last leg of the thing - the
big trucks come in and the loads are broken up for the
locals, and deliveries take place from there.  We use
drays, mostly, as the costs are pretty much unbeatable
compared with stuff powered by gasoline or diesel,
since the huge price hikes.  Anyway, the depot's
expanding and we were to go and buy and train a new
set of dray animals, and then I'm going to use them
deliveries for the next  few months - so long to
Europe, I guess!  Jon and I were going to the big base
on the outskirts of town, but when we went outside and
I went to get into my trap, he was almost offended.
"You can't go in that, Steve!", he told me, "They'll
think you're some rich guy and hike the prices.
Anyway, the government usually provides transportation
back, and you'll want to be with the animals. So I had
to send Blackie home by himself - the lazy fucker
didn't even run as he set off, and if this behaviour
persists he'll need a good whipping.  Then we caught
the street car out to the base - I haven't been on one
of those for years and it's quite interesting,
actually, to see all the other folk riding, going
about their business.

The streetcar stops four blocks from the base - you
probably remember it, as when we were kids they used
it for training marines, and there were all those
hunky guys around who we used to like to look at.
Now, though, since the war, they've turned it over to
keeping the POWs.  They're all under normal military
discipline as they say that's the easiest way to keep
them under control - they're mostly self-policing,
with their own officers and stuff, and it's only the
perimeter that needs guarding.  Mind you, it's pretty
grim as you approach it:  several layers of high wire
fencing with that "razor" stuff all over it to stop
them escaping, and guard towers with machine guns -
you can see they mean business.   You can just make
out the POWs exercising as you walk up the drive - it'
funny, really, as it's so impeccably neat, with all
the stones along the edge of the drive painted white.
There are guards on the gates, of course - our
soldiers, obviously, and they checked our ID and let
us in, pointing out that we wanted the "sales"
building, rather than "Base Admin".

You kind of expect military stuff to be all drab and
green or grey, but the sales building was different:
more like a Realtors, with big green plants,
spotlights, comfortable chairs in front of modern
desks.  Our sales advisor was a guy in his twenties in
a good suit, and when we sat down he asked us what we
were looking for.  Jon looked at me, as I'm supposed
to be picking and choosing, but I had no idea.  So I
asked him to specify our requirements, and he rapped
out pretty smartly "Nine.  Not younger than twenty
two, as we need them to have properly developed
bodies.  Not older than thirty two, as we want them to
have a long working life after we've trained them.
Tall.  Muscular - prefer heavy set, as it's powerful
work they have to do, rather than something for speed.
 Cart horse, rather than race horse, as you might say.
That's about it, really."

I wondered about the nine, as our drays are usually
puled by teams of eight, but Jon clearly knew the
ropes, so I said nothing.  They asked us to wait and
there were comfortable couches with the Wall Street
Journal, Newsweek, and all that sort of stuff, and a
young slave came and took our orders for complimentary
coffees, and Danish.

Our sales associate collected us after only twenty
minutes or so, and told us the stock was ready for
inspection, and we followed him through the base
towards one of the huts that were lined up in neat
rows - all very military.  As we went, we saw groups
of the POWs exercising:  some groups were drilling,
marching up and down and stuff, and some were out
doing what looked like heavy-duty physical jerks, all
under the control of their own officers, as I've told
you.  The sales associate told us that they were kept
like that, with normal military discipline maintained,
as it not only ensured the men remained fit and
healthy, but it required far fewer of our soldiers to
act as guards and stuff as the POWs were usually so
tired that they had little energy to try to escape.

The hut we went in to was almost bare inside, but
they'd lined up the stock already and they were
waiting for us - at least twenty guys,  in what
remained of their military uniforms:  mostly camo
pants, and khaki Ts, and army boots.  Some of them
must have been fresh from those exercise fields, as
their Ts were stained with sweat, and overall there
was that "male" smell about the place that you get in
sports clubs and stuff - sweat, piss, testosterone....
well, you know.    I felt myself getting hard - not
just from the smell and the sight of these fit,
muscular guys, ut because I was going to actually
select them!  Jon looked expectantly at me, and I kind
of shrugged.  "Shall I help you pick, then, son?" He
asked.  He'd called me "son" several times, and I
hated it - I mean, he's only about twenty years older
than me, and I am actually the son of his employer,
and I think a bit of respect is due.  Still, I did
need his help, as I haven't a fucking clue about what
to look for, so I told him to go ahead.

We went along the line of men and he made some simple
choices first.  There were five black guys, and he
rejected all of them. He says that he's not personally
prejudiced, but niggas can be awkward, especially
niggas from the North, who have lived almost like
ordinary men before being called up into their army.
And he says there are some prejudiced guys around, and
it can be more difficult to get proper "bonding" in
the team with a nigga in it, as some of the others
don't like having to work with blacks.  There were
three Asiatics, too  - big, tough guys who were
initially probably from Korea or somewhere like that -
not little Thai boys, as we'd specified height and
strength.  They got rejected as he says that when the
going gets really tough, towards the end of a long
day, with tight deadlines to meet for the last few
deliveries, they tend to collapse under the whip and
don't respond to it properly.  I guess he knows best,
from his experience.

So that left us twelve to pick from, although I guess
they'd bring more in if these were not suitable.  We
walked slowly along the back of the line then, and he
pointed out something I've never really thought about
before - all the POWs were about the same height, six
two to six four, but they were differently
proportioned:  their waists came at very different
heights as some had long legs and short bodies, some
long bodies and relatively short legs, and so on.  We
were apparently looking for "good balance" as you need
good long legs for the pulling, but a lot of that
strength is wasted if they haven't got good, big sound
lungs to power the whole thing.  He rejected six on
this count, and so we had too  few, and we indeed did
have to wait around whilst the sales associate shouted
orders out of the door, and ten more POWs were marched
in.

Jon was pretty fussy I'll say that for him, and he
seemed to know what he was looking for.  Occasionally
he'd run his hands over the flanks or the butt of one
of the POWs, and I wished he'd have offered to show me
what he was looking for - it would have been good to
get my hands on that strong, male flesh.  But there
were enough complaints from the men as it was as he
did this, and he looked rather cross.  "We'll'' soon
teach them proper manners, once we're at the depot",
he told me rather curtly.

.
Finally, we had twelve who were "mostly up to
standard" as Jon called it, and then he told the sales
associate to have them strip so we could get a proper
look at the bodies.  They didn't like doing this, you
could tell, but the sales guy threatened them with a
standard slave prod that he had clipped to his belt,
and they all complied, but with a lot of grumbling,
and they stood therein their army cotton boxers in
khaki, and their socks.  I was embarrassed as my dick
was rock solid now, seeing all their bodies starting
to get displayed, and in those jeans there's just no
hiding it!  Jon went up and down the line, front and
back, again, and a couple were rejected as they had
"unsightly" tattoos on places like their calves, and
shoulders.  Jon said that small tattoos - arm bands,
"semper fi" for the marines, that kind of stuff, was
acceptable mostly, as the public knew that most slaves
were ex soldiers, but anything too  big, or in an
unsuitable place meant rejection as they'd be going
around the streets for our company and we needed to
keep up standards.

He looked at me then and said "Well, there's ten here,
which nine shall we take?".  I honestly didn't know -
they all looked much alike to me, so I asked him how
we could tell.  "Well, if all else fails, there's
always the dick test", he said, smiling, and asked the
sales associate to have the men made to totally naked.
 Some of them really protested at this, and I saw Jon
making what looked like a mental note of these
potential trouble makers.  And the sales associate
actually had to unclip his prod and wave it around in
front of a couple of them before they all dropped
their boxers and stood there to totally nude except
for their socks.  I was in big trouble now - I felt
certain there'd be a damp patch on my jeans as  I was
leaking so much pre-cum at the sight of all these
hunky bodies.    But even I could see which one to
reject then - he was outstanding, or, rather, to
totally underwhelming!  Actually his dick wasn't all
that tiny, but compared to the size of his body, it
just looked ridiculous.  He must have been used to
being teased about it, though, as he just shrugged
when Jon said that we didn't want one with a kid's
dick like that.

So then we had our nine.  The sales associate asked us
to accompany him back to the sales hut to draw up the
contracts, and the men went to start dressing - but
Jon said that wasn't necessary.  "Just boots and tags"
he told the sales associate:  the tags so we can
register them properly before we collar them, and the
boots as their feet aren't tough enough yet until we
have them trained.  My dick gave another jerk at the
thought that we could order these big tough guys
around just like that, and I felt like asking Jon if
we hadn't better see if they could all shoot a good
load - that would have been a real sight.  But he'd
moved off, and I wasn't sure about what exactly we
could, and could not, ask to see.

There's quite a lot of paperwork, actually:  you need
the POWs name and army serial number, and all that
kind of stuff, and they won't accept credit cards or
anything:  Jon had got a certified cheque before we
left the office, as he knew the ropes, but we'd have
been in trouble without that.  I guess it's a bit like
buying a used automobile from a dealer's lot - you
don't trust him until you've seen the registration
papers, and he doesn't trust anything other than a
certified bank cheque (or cash, I suppose) for
payment.

Jon was grumbling about the price being so high, when
there were so many POWs available, but the sales
associate had what seemed like the "approved"
government answer "We've got tens of thousands of
these northern POWs and we can't release them all on
to the market simultaneously as prices would collapse
and many free men would be put out of work.   It's the
government's policy to release new stock in an
orderly, controlled rate that the market can bear, and
in the meantime the other POWs have to be guarded,
housed, fed, and so on.  The price you pay reflects
this, and the government thanks you for your support."
 So there!  It was only afterwards that it occurred to
me that I ought to have asked why the POWs just
couldn't be repatriated back to the north, as you
usually do after a war.  But I suppose it's because a
civil war causes all kinds of different problems, and
it might mean that those pesky northerners might again
try to stop us living our own lives in the way we've
chosen.

It seems that the price included transportation "a
reasonable distance" and after everything was signed
and sealed we went outside and saw a small standard
carriage cage on the back of a flatbed truck.  The
nine we'd chosen were then herded out of the hut we'd
been in by guards with guns, and once they saw they
were to go into the cage, some of our purchases
started to  protest - mostly because they said they
weren't slaves, but POWs, but a couple because they
didn't want to be carried through the streets naked.
It's as  if the whole thing had started to become real
to them at that point - or perhaps it's the odd
sensation of being naked out of doors, - you know how
it is, like when we went camping that time, and we
felt so strange even when there weren't any other
folks around for miles.  One was so violent that they
actually did use a slave prod on him and the soldiers
then picked up his twitching body and just threw it
into the cage, and the rest them followed, although
very reluctantly.

The driver was a young soldier and I sat between him
and Jon as we drove out of the base and back towards
our depot.  I asked him if he liked being a guard
there, and he said it was better than actually
fighting:  some of it had been pretty brutal in the
northern cities before they finally surrendered when
their oil ran out (most of the oil fields are in the
south of course) and the electricity was cut from
those big generators on the southern rivers.  "I guess
that if the war had gone the other way you might have
been in a POW camp in the north, and you might have
been in the cage at the back, rather than up front,
driving", I joked.  "Hey, it's not such a bad life for
them, and I don't know I'd mind all that much", he
told me.  "I've got a wife and two kids to support on
army pay, and that's pretty tough.  At least those
guys have got rid of all that baggage and are free to
be themselves."  I wondered what he meant by that, and
Jon explained that most of the stock we bought was
that bit older as we didn't buy the POWs who were "raw
recruits".  So they were mostly "career" soldiers, and
the culture of the army meant that you had a family
and such like.

We got back to the depot and Jon made sure there were
a number of our own handlers, all with slave prods at
the ready, before the cage was opened and they were
allowed to clamber out - slowly and carefully, as they
weren't used to climbing around naked and were
evidently worried about their balls!   We moved them
immediately into one of the  over-night sleeping cages
where the teams are kept, and once the door was
securely locked, Jon gave an almost audible sigh of
relief.  "It's the most difficult time for a slave,
Steve", he told me.  "Look, they were all soldiers,
then POWs.  They kind of knew - knew intellectually,
if you like -  that they'd be sold as slaves one day,
but they've been in that base for over a year waiting,
and it didn't happen, and they must have started to
think it never would.  Now it has, and they haven't
adjusted and still think of themselves as soldiers,
and soldiers try to escape, and to fight.  So it's a
dangerous time for us - and them - until we can start
convincing them that their life has changed, changed
utterly.  It's best we keep them here tonight and
start fresh tomorrow - but they're your team, your
responsibility now - make sure they're comfortable.
You need to do that every night, so your team bonds
with you and learns that you're responsible for them."
 I asked him what was to be done, and he looked a bit
exasperated, as if it ought to be obvious - but how
the fuck was I supposed to know what you do with a
bunch of naked slaves?  At home, our own guards look
after all that stuff.  "First, have they got enough
bedding?  Just check the straw in there and make sure
there's enough to keep their bodies off the bare
concrete.  Secondly, is the water spigot working?
Just flick the tongue plate up and down - you can
reach it through the bars - so that when they need to
drink, there's clean water available.  And you also
feed them, but we'll skip that tonight, as they'll
react better if they're hungry tomorrow."

It was a real pain  getting home, as I've told you I
sent Blackie back earlier with my trap.  So I had to
go on the streetcar again, and it was rush hour.  I
don't know how all the poor folk manage every day - we
were packed in like cattle.   Steve.

Steve:  Well, old buddy, you seem to be turning into a
real live 100% slave driver.  Look, we've debated this
before, and I don't want it to come between us.  But
you know that my whole family is opposed to slavery -
dad even imports Mexicans to work our demesne, and mom
and dad don't much like me being buddies with you at
the best of times.  They almost forbad me to see you
that summer when you came over and saw me cutting the
grass, and offered to go back and fetch one of your
dad's slaves to do it as it wasn't "dignified" for a
free man to be doing work like that.  So if you meet
mom or dad, just chat politely and ask how I'm doing -
that will fill the time, as they're really proud that
I got a scholarship here; and for fuck's sake don't
tell them about how you're getting on at work!  They
say that the northern POWs are just that, POWs, and
entitled to be treated as soldiers, who need
"rehabilitating" but then repatriating back to their
homes and families in the north.  Their church has
cake sales and collections to raise money to advertise
for the anti-slavery society, you know that!  Anyway,
take care.  I've met a stunning girl whose over here
from Sweden - she's so much more relaxed about
"things" than our southern girls, and I'm confident
I'll get my leg over tonight.  Must rush - I need to
shower, so I'm fresh and sweet.  Stu.


Stu:  Chasing tail, as ever!  I was expecting an up to
date progress report this morning, but as I had
nothing from you I expect you did the dirty deed and
managed to stay over at her place?  Take care, buddy -
you don't want to get lumbered until you've had time
to play the field a bit more... But maybe it's too
late for that anyway?  They say those European women
all take the pill, so perhaps you'll be OK.  I always
thought it was a crap idea to ban contraception for
the unmarried as it would reduce promiscuity -
sometimes our southern senators can be real assholes
when it comes to logic, and they are too  much
influenced by the church, who are a real bunch of
killjoys. But is it true they don't shave their pits,
or legs... Or anywhere?

I drove Blackie down to the depot this morning as I
couldn't face the streetcar again, but mindful of what
Jon had said about not being "different", I sent him
home when I was a couple of blocks form the depot.  It
was still very early (at least for me!), but Jon was
already there as he has a small apartment that's kind
of part of our compound - a lot of the single guys
find it's good to live right on the spot, and dad
encourages it by making worker accommodation available
at very reasonable rentals - he says the men are then
on hand, in case of problems, and the money he loses
on the low rentals he saves form not having to have a
lot of guys on "stand by" and "call out", and he
doesn't have to pay cab fares to get them home if the
shifts overrun or anything.

Jon led me through into the barns where the slaves
live, and "my" group were still asleep, mostly,
sprawled out all across each other on the straw.  Jon
says that we deliberately keep them in small cages so
that they can't avoid each other, and can't help being
in close contact with each other's bodies - it helps
them to "bond" properly as a team.  He banged on the
bars of their cage with his prod, and it was comical,
almost, as they scrambled to their feet:  most of them
still had their morning hard-on, and when they
realised it, they tried to cover themselves with their
hands.  It's funny - some of them came awake almost
immediately, and some of them were yawning and rubbing
their eyes for two or three minutes.  Just like
ordinary guys, really. And, as guys do when they wake
up, some of them were scratching their balls, and some
their pits.  Jon said to me that a lot of this would
be fixed later in the day.

Jon told them all to have a good drink as they
wouldn't be getting any more water for a long time,
and we had to wait as they all knelt down in turn in
front of the spigot and press their mouths around it
to release the water.  One of them asked Jon when they
were going to be fed, and he snapped that slaves
didn't ask questions - they just waited, and sooner or
later, when their handlers were ready, they'd be fed.
He turned to me and told me that for the first few
weeks we deliberately changed feeding times at random,
and sometimes skipped meals altogether, feeding them
double the next time:  it apparently helps the slaves
to realise that they're no longer in charge of even
simple things like that, and that they're totally
dependent on us.

It was a bit gross then, as it was time for them to
piss and crap - they weren't used to the idea that
slaves just crouch down and do it over a hole direct
into the sewers.  I guess Jon was ready for it,
though, as he'd lined up some of the other handlers,
with their slave prods at the ready, so there was no
trouble.  He whispered to me as we watched them do
their business that this morning was the really
difficult part -  by the time we'd finished with them
and they were all collared and so on, they'd have
started to adjust to their new status and would be
much easier to handle.

It seems the depot deals with a fair few new slaves,
so we have the facilities on site, rather than needing
to send  the slaves out for processing.  The best
thing of all is the "cramp", that keeps the slaves
secure during processing:  it's just two lines of
bars, really, just a couple of feet apart so the
slaves can only line up one behind the other and can't
get out of line or anything.  There's a gate at one
end so you can take the next slave off the front of
the line, and it's a bit like an airlock as only one
slave at a time can get through.  Similarly, at the
other end there's another arrangement of gates so you
can return a slave there after processing.  But in
addition to that there's a kind of moveable plate that
slides along rails on both sides of the rows of bars -
you can push this from the back towards the front from
the outside and thus "cramp" the slaves together.  I
couldn't understand this at first, but its use became
obvious as the morning progressed.

The handlers directed the slaves into the cramp, and
then the first one was pulled out of the gate at the
front.  He stood there in his army boots and dog tags,
and Jon directed him over to kneel in front of an
anvil thing, with a hollow for his neck in it.  He was
very suspicious, but kept a wary eye on Jon's slave
prod so it seems they all know what happens if one of
these touches your bare skin.  There's a full-time
blacksmith in the depot as there's always work to do
with the slaves or the drays and he went over and
measured the slave's neck, then fetched a collar,
slipped it under the slave's neck in the hollow in the
anvil, then used a "shaping tool", I suppose you'd
call it, that fitted in to the anvil and allowed the
collar to be bent in a smooth curve to close up.
There's a lot of noise and some sparks fly as he uses
a red-hot rivet to close the collar permanently, and
it's quite a sight to watch:  it's perfectly humane,
though, as there's a bit of wet sacking thrown over
the slave's shoulders so he isn't burned by the
sparks.  The blacksmith is a real sight, too  - a
huge, muscular guy, with biceps  that stand out almost
like footballs as he wields the hammer or strains to
bend the collar - he just wears a leather apron to
cover his front and protect him, but his back is to
totally bare and you can see the sweat running  down
his back and funnelling into his ass crack.  The
slaves at home all have thin, stainless steel collars,
but the ones at the depot working on the drays have
the conventional thick, heavy black cast iron ones,
riveted on, as I've explained.  Jon said that firstly
it looks more reassuring for the public to see slaves
heavily collared like that, and secondly that these
big men need thick, heavy collars so that everything
is in "proportion" - actually, I think he's right:
those thing stainless steel things would look too
frail on these big guys, even though they're probably
just as strong and as difficult to remove.

When the slave was allowed to stand up he seemed
surprised by the weight of the collar, and his head
was slightly bowed.  But then there was nearly
trouble, as the blacksmith reached up and cut through
the thin chain holding his dogtags on, and tossed them
into a bin.  The slave protested, and Jon almost had
to drive him back to the cramp and in through the rear
gates.  "See, Steve, the realisation is beginning to
set in", he told me as we watched the blacksmith take
the next slave from the front of the line.  "Whilst
they still have their dogtags, they can still think of
themselves as soldiers.  Now he's beginning to realise
that he's just a common slave, collared like all
slaves are."

With all the collars securely in place, Jon asked me
what I wanted to do about the hair on my team.  Well,
I had no idea.  So I asked for his advice - always a
good thing to do, as I was finding out.  "It's a
difficult one, Steve", he told me.  "You're a
fashionable kind of guy, judging from those clothes
you turned up in on the first day, and that pony you
had on your trap had the fashionable 'naked' look, I
noticed.  You have him totally shaved,, right?"  So I
told him that yes, I did have Blackie completely
shaved as "Gentleman's Quarterly" had said that this
was all the rage in New Orleans and the other
fashionable places.  I'd wanted it permanently removed
with electrolysis, but dad had a fit when I told him
how much it would cost just to do Blackie's balls, let
alone his head.  "Well that's OK for your personal
pony, I guess", Jon  said, "But it's a lot of work
here - you'd have to wait around all the time,
supervising them, to make sure they shaved off every
scrap of stubble almost every day.  Don't you find it
a problem with your pony?"  I shrugged and pointed out
that at home we have a stockman to take care of things
like that, and he just laughed!  "No time for all
those idlers, Steve.  You're the 'stockman' for your
team, so unless you want to spend a lot of time
monitoring them, I'd say the naked look was totally
out - mind you, it does help the bonding between the
team and their driver, as running your hands all over
their skulls and bodies every day gets them to accept
your touch.  But if I were you, I'd go for a
compromise look:  head hair at half an inch, as most
of them have anyway from the marines, but with no
sideburns and with the napes cut crisply in a sharp
line.  Loose all their pit hair - they'll sweat a lot
as they're working and as they lift the crates and
stuff on and off the dray, it's more aesthetic than
showing a big ugly patch of wet hair.  You only need
scrape it clear every week or so, so it's not too
difficult to manage.  Then the pubes and so on - well,
I always think all slaves' balls should be shaved, as
it makes them look tidier and of course we are going
to 'ring' them and that's harder when their balls are
all hairy.  And most of them have really unruly pubic
thatches , that's most unsightly  So I'd recommend you
have them much reduced, to a nice neat patch just
above their dicks, and then have that trimmed to no
more than half an inch.  As for the rest  - well,
personally I think a bit of variety is nice, seeing
all the different combinations of colours and shading
and growth on their pecs, bellies, arm and legs, so
I'd leave well alone.".

Look, I don't want to bore you with all of this, and
it's getting late as it took a fair old time to get
them all properly trimmed and so on....  There was a
lot of complaints as they were shorn and shaved, but
Jon told me to ignore it as we don't listen to slaves,
and it just showed that they were starting to realise
that their lives had changed for ever when another guy
could order their pubes to be clipped!   But nothing
prepared me - or them, I suppose, for the branding, as
I'll tell you about tomorrow!  But tell me - was she
all hairy, and do you want my advice about the
management of body hair?  I must be starting to be an
expert.   Steve.


Steve:  Look, buddy, I know you're trying to be
humorous, but please don't compare my girlfriend with
your slaves.  Not even in jest, OK?  And to answer
your question from yesterday,  no she doesn't shave
her pits!  But it's actually quite erotic, as there's
another place to sniff and lick.  Look, Steve, I don't
think it's good for you to be around all these slaves,
as you seem to be losing some of that sensitivity that
makes you such a nice guy to be buddies with.  You
don't have to work for your dad, you know- you can
always get a job elsewhere. Or why don't you tap some
of the other members of that big sprawling family of
aunts, uncles and cousins of yours and get to a
college?  At least with a proper education you could
make your own way in the world.   Stu


End Of Part One