Date: Mon, 7 Nov 2005 06:29:26 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Steve's First Job, Part Two

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

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

Part 2

Stu:  Well, if seeing the slaves shaved and collared
in the morning wasn't erotic enough, in the afternoon
we moved on to having their brands burned in.  I know
it's controversial, but it is the law - I mean, how
else, ultimately, can you tell a slave from a free man
if you can't see his brand?  An escaped slave can
always have his collar removed, or a tattoo effaced,
but there's no way of getting rid of the  deep
scarring from the branding.  Anyway, I know we've
talked about it in the past and you think it's cruel,
but that isn't the point:  it's the law, and owners
who don't have it done face extremely heavy fines, and
even imprisonment.  Jon  says that branding is good
for the slaves,  though:  once  they understand that
they are so totally in our power that we can order the
mutilation of their bodies in this way, it brings home
to them that their life has changed irrevocably and
that they're now no longer "men".  They might
entertain the hope that one day some change in their
circumstances would lead to their freedom and they
could have their collars cut off and return to
"normal" life, but the fact that we can order them to
be branded signals clearly and finally to them that
this is never going to happen.  A slave's hide, marked
with an ownership mark, is so clearly "property", just
like we have the china in the workers' canteen marked
to prevent them stealing it.

Jon said that the branding would best be done after
we'd eaten, as the stench of the burning skin could
upset the stomach, so we left the slaves in the
"crush" and went over to the canteen - but not before
we'd used the moveable barrier at the rear of it to
really "crush" the slaves up tight against each other,
so that their dicks were lodging in the butt cracks of
the guy in front, and their bodies were in contact
along their whole length.  We just left them there and
went off - they couldn't escape from the barred
"crush" after all - and Jon said it was another part
of the bonding that they needed to go through:  in our
forty minute lunch break it was inevitable that some
of them would have erections, and they'd start to
overcome their shyness and embarrassment at knowing
that their fellows could feel it.

Our company treats its workers well and the canteen
for the depot workers is subsidised - again, dad says
that it's only common sense, as with cheap, good food
the workers stay there during their lunch breaks and
only use their forty minutes.  If we didn't do this,
they'd go out, it might take longer, and they might
end up in bars and so on and come back with a drink or
two inside them, which would lower productivity.
Dad's good like that, understanding how to make a "win
win" situation that's good for the men and good for
the company.

The slaves don't eat lunch, though:  they're fed twice
a day, normally, although as I've explained, during
their initial training we vary this a bit so that they
learn to understand their total dependency on us for
everything.  Jon said it was a good idea to water them
before the branding started, though, and he insisted I
do this. "They're your team, Steve, and they need to
learn that it's from you that their sustenance comes.
Think of it like training a dog - a good owner always
feeds a new dog himself, so it knows that the hand
that feeds him is his master's."  So I went down the
line of them as they stood there in the "crush" with
the waterer - that's what we use most of the time:
it's a big bag of water on a strap, that you sling
over your shoulders an under one arm, with a pipe
coming out of it.  You put the pipe in the slave's
mouth, then squeeze your arm down to force the water
up and into him.  It's a pretty standard way of doing
it, as it ensures no water is wasted because
everything goes into the slave's mouth.  Some of them
wanted to refuse the water, but Jon had warned me not
to allow this.  "They're worried about having to piss
in the "crush", Steve.  But a slave needs water to be
able to work properly, and they've got to learn that
when their master gives them some, they take it:  if
you start to let a slave make decisions for himself,
you're on the top of a slippery slope where soon it's
him who's deciding everything, not you."  Mind you, I
didn't like having to force their mouths open to get
the pipe in.

I don't know what it must be like to get an erection
when you're standing so close to the guy in front that
your dick forces its way between his butt cheeks, but
it can't be all that bad, surely.  But when one guy
started to piss after the watering, a whole lot of
shouting and argument broke out.  Well, what else
could the poor guy do?  And it's not as if there's a
real problem with piss, is there - I mean, it's
perfectly sterile.  Still, I suppose the first time
you feel a stream of hot piss bursting in your butt
crack it must be a bit unsettling.

The slaves all started to look really worried when
they brought in the branding kit - a stout frame, to
tie the slaves down on to, the same slave who'd
collared them that morning, and a glowing charcoal
brazier which he tends.  Jon told me that it is now
possible to brand slaves with a branding iron dipped
in liquid nitrogen or some such, but that we prefer
the "traditional" way as the heat, the smell of the
searing flesh and the sizzling sound as the branding
iron burns its way through the skin and subcutaneous
fat layers all add to the atmosphere and remind the
slave that this is it, this is his life from now on.

The first slave in line in the crush, the first one
who was going to be branded therefore, was a blond guy
- big boned, open faced, bright blue eyes, and with a
shock of curly dirty blond hair before he was trimmed.
 He looked a typical farm boy, and as we went to get
him, he blurted out "Please, sirs, not this!  I'm a
southerner too, sir.  I ought not to be  slave, sirs,
so please don't brand me - my folks live in Arkansas,
and although they're only poor farmers, I'm sure they
could scrape together enough to buy me from you, sirs,
an release me back to our family."

I was a bit startled by this, and thought he must be
lying, and so I snapped "Rubbish!  You're a northern
soldier, who came and tried to invade us."

"It wasn't my fault, sir.  I was in the marines, and
my unit was stationed up north when the war began...
So what could I do, sir?  We were ordered to come down
south when the war started...."

"You should have done the right thing, boy!", Jon cut
in .  "No real southerner would bear arms against his
fellows.  You should have deserted or something, and
made your way back to your folks.  Or rejoined the
southern forces, properly."

"But my buddies, sir..."

"So where are your buddies now, to help you?  No, boy,
you brought this on yourself by denying your heritage.
 You're a slave, and you're a slave, and that's it.
There's no going back, and I doubt that you'll ever
see your folks or that Arkansas homestead again."  Jon
was really tough on things like that, and I suppose
he's right - I mean, if you or I had been in New York
or somewhere when the war finally erupted, we wouldn't
have fought for the Yankees, would we, Stu?  We'd have
got back home and joined out forces, defending our
right to the way of life the southern states have
chosen.  Mind you, it did make me feel a bit uneasy -
I wondered how many other southern boys had been
enslaved like this, as there were far more southerners
in the old combined forces than northerners - all
those Yankees work in offices and such, and the poor
southerners have  always traditionally ended up in the
army as there was no other work.  Still, that's one of
the penalties of fighting a civil war, I suppose -
there are always going to be some cases of unfairness,
but it's pretty minor in relation to all the other
things that went on.

He carried on shouting and arguing as Jon and I herded
him over to the frame with our prods, and Jon showed
me how important it is to have the slave tied
absolutely immovable.  If his body can even twitch a
little, the edge of the brand won't be sharp and
crisp, and it spoils the effect.  We use an adaptation
of the standard "flog and fuck" frame - the slave can
be secured on his belly on the cross piece and his
legs strapped rigidly to the back legs, and then you
throw a strap around his waist and really haul it
tight to make sure his butt can't move.  There are
additional straps that go around his thighs, too.
It's the right arm that's the real problem - the left
one is just cuffed to the front leg as usual, but
there has to be a special platform to take the right
arm straight out.  Jon really tugged at the binding
around the slave's wrist  to keep his hand flat on the
platform, and then it's really fiddley to tighten all
the individual ones to hold the fingers down.  Jon
explained that it's pretty bad when the branding iron
sears their butt, but there aren't all that many nerve
endings per square inch down there.  But on the back
of the hand, it's different and it's so much more
sensitive.

Actually, I'm glad we'd eaten lunch before the
branding, as I'm not sure I'd have fancied it
afterwards as it's pretty stomach-churning.  I'd not
been to one before, and I suppose that like a lot of
people  I was just aware of seeing the slave brands on
the butt and hand, but hadn't really considered how
they got there.  There's an awful lot of noise, of
course - all the slaves, without exception, scream as
the branding iron goes into their flesh - and remember
it has have to stay there for five or ten seconds, to
sear through the outer layers of the skin, and all
this time the slave's screaming is really pitiful.
They tend not to stop, either when you put them in at
the back of the "crush", and stand there sobbing for a
couple of minutes.  If you add in the shouting and
pleading form the slaves still to be done, it's pretty
wearing, I can tell you.  You'd have thought that big
tough soldiers would be more stoical, and would have
seen that what was going to happen to them was
inevitable, but it didn't stop all of them shouting
all the time.  But it's the smell that's the worst -
not so much the smoke and smell of burning meat, as
that's not all that different from a barbecue at home.
 No, it's the fact that most of the slaves lose
control of their bowels and bladders, and there's soon
the awful smell of shit everywhere.  The big slave
who's in charge of he brazier and the heating of the
irons has to clean up the mess off the floor after
each one, but it's still not very nice.

It's bad enough for the slaves, I suppose, but I have
to tell you, Stu, that your old buddy Steve was pretty
scared himself!  Jon insisted that I actually do the
branding myself, as it's another powerful way of
reinforcing to the slaves that I'm in total control of
them.  I've never done anything even remotely like
this before, and  I was terrified of fucking it up and
potentially ruining a valuable slave, especially as
Jon went on and on about making sure I pressed the
iron in with a firm, even pressure, about not being
distracted by the slave, and by him telling me of the
need to keep count of the time - as you first touch
the iron to the skin you start saying to yourself one
and two and three and four.... To make sure you leave
it there long enough, but not too long.  It's not so
bad doing their butts, actually, as it's a nice big
area, it's not so critical for timing and pressure,
and at least you can't see the slave.  But when you
come to do the back of their hand, it's different -
you have to get it lined up quite precisely, you have
to make sure you don't press too hard as you don't
want to risk destroying any of the nerves that control
the fingers, but what's worse is that the slave is
looking right at you.  His head is there, just where
you're trying to work, and he's screaming and shouting
away with a terrible mixture of fear, pain, and
downright hate for you.

You know, Stu, it was made worse by thinking about
what that young Arkansas guy had told me.  If the war
hadn't finished, you and me might have been fighting,
just like him.  And the northerners could have
captured us, and it could have been us strapped there
on the frame, waiting to get our butts branded.  But
then, I suppose it wouldn't have been so bad for us,
as the northerners don't have slaves, do they? That's
what got this whole stupid civil war thing stated in
the first place.

I was pretty  upset, and not a little nauseous, by the
time all nine had been done, and Jon said hat that was
enough for one day:  we still had some stuff to do the
slaves, but they needed to be allowed to recover.  So
one by one we took them out of the "crush" and marched
them over to the slave sheds, and locked them in to
"their" cage.  It's a lot of effort, when you need to
escort them individually like this with your slave
prod, and I'll be glad when they've finally become
resigned to their status - Jon says it always does
happen - and are no longer at risk of escaping, and
just obey orders.         Steve.

Steve:  Frankly, it all sounds absolutely barbaric.
How can you get involved with this?   Stu.

Stu:  Hey, it's not very nice to get these critical
one-liners from my oldest buddy.  Don't blame me,
blame the system!  Mind you, I didn't like branding
the guys much as it really did hurt them, and over a
beer last night I talked about my concerns to Jon.  He
made a number of points, that I think you ought to
consider before criticising me!.

Firstly, it is the law.  All slaves must be branded.
No exceptions, no excuses, as I've told you.  Dad's
company has to use slaves to be competitive, and so we
have to brand them.  Or else we'll be fined.

Secondly, think about the consequences of not branding
them - or, indeed, of not having slaves at all.  Jon
says that in all major wars in the past soldiers were
ultimately repatriated to their homes.  But that's
when foreign soldiers come in and invade, and even
then it's far from total:  we and the British
ultimately repatriated the Germans in WW II, but the
Russians kept many of them for a long, long time.  But
it's different when it's a civil war - these guys
aren't foreigners, who invaded the country, Stu.
They're our own countrymen, who came down here and
tried to change our way of life.  What are we supposed
to do with all the captured soldiers?  We can't just
send them back and let them go free, or the north
would be tempted to do it all over again, so they've
got to be kept down here in the south.  So either
they've got to stay in prison for the rest of their
lives, which costs a huge amount to do, and which
isn't very good for the guys anyway, or we have to
adopt the solution we have:  gradually sell them off
as slaves, so that they cost society nothing and the
men can lead useful and productive lives.  Now, if
these guys were "foreigners" who were enslaved, that
might be OK as you can generally tell a foreigner from
one of us.  But they're the same as us, Stu, we were
all citizens of the same county, speaking the same
language, used to the same laws and customs, and
everything.  So if you make a guy like that a slave,
how are you going to be able to locate him amongst the
rest of us if he escapes? Collars can be cut off, and
the brand is the only sensible way of permanently
identifying them.

And thirdly, Jon points out that it's best for the
guys themselves.  I know that sounds odd, but it's
difficult for a free man, especially one brought up in
a country like ours, to accept that he's now a slave.
Stripping him and collaring him starts the process,
but once you've burned a brand into his skin, the guy
can be in no doubt about what he is.  Stu says it's a
kindness, really, to help them through this difficult
transition as quickly as possible.

I'm not a complete monster, you know that - or, at
least, I hope you do!  That night, when they were all
in their cage, I went along with a big jar of burn
salve that Jon gave me - again, it's me that has to do
this, as they're "my" men and they need to know that
it's me who's looking after them.  They have to be
branded without anaesthetic, Jon says, as you want
them to really remember their transition to full
slavery, but there's no point in prolonging their
suffering unnecessarily and  so the burn salve was
there to help.  I must say the branding scars look
pretty horrific at this stage as I smeared the
antiseptic analgesic stuff on to them, and I didn't
even get the expected "high" from getting to feel
their butts!  But Jon tells me they'll scab over very
quickly, the when those drop off, the brands will be
sharp and clear and not at all unpleasant to look at.
He said  Idid a good job with the branding iron, and
there's not many guys my age could have performed as
well - I feel quite proud.  Steve.

Steve:  Look, stop making excuses, will you?  You
sound as if you've got it all worked out, but it's not
right to take free men and turn them into something
approaching animals!  Do you realise that you've never
even mentioned any of these nine men by name?  You've
already effectively dehumanised them.  I'm not sure I
want to hear any more about the horrible things you do
to these poor unfortunate guys.  And I think you
should talk to your dad again about getting out of
this whole mucky business, and coming to college here
in Atlanta.  It's fun, and I miss having my old buddy
with me - the other guys in the dorm are all very
serious and don't want to sneak out and try to bluff
the bars into serving them a beer, and life would be a
whole lot brighter if you and me could chase the tail
together and do again some of that "good guy, bad guy"
stuff that made us so successful at getting laid in
High School.   And are you certain that this Jon is a
good influence on you?  He sounds pretty cold-blooded
to me. Stu.

Stu:  I hate to say this, but I think we're growing
apart.  They say that always happens when people go
away to college:  you lose touch with your buddies.
You're there, going to classes, "chasing tail", living
in the dorm (from what I hear, those places can be
fun), fooling the barmen, and still living the kind of
life we used to when we were at High School.  But I'm
a working man, Stu, doing a responsible job.  I've got
other worries now, like making sure my slaves are
properly trained, and convincing Jon that even though
I'm young, I'm as capable of doing the work as the
other draymen are.  You probably can't understand how
hard it is for "the boss's son" to be accepted as a
genuine worker by his colleagues, either.  I think
you're just postponing  "real life" by majoring in
eighteenth century English poetry - if you were out in
the real world, as I am, you'd begin to realise how
hard it is to make a living these days with the
economy still on its knees after the war - we ought
all to be trying to do our best for the country, not
idling away our time in some Elysian academic
paradise.   And, I'm beginning to think, Jon's a
pretty great guy in spite of what you said in your
last note - he looks after my interests, advises me,
and really knows "the world".  I really admire him,
and hope I'll be half as good one day as he is now.  I
must go now - I've got to be at the yard by six to get
the slaves started.  Think about what I said, buddy:
I hope I can still call you that.  Steve.

Steve:  Hey, lighten up!  Do you remember that story
we studied in English class about the dictator who
said he was fighting a war for "truth, beauty, poetry,
and things like that".  And then when it had been
going on for years and years he asked for a poet to
write a commemorative eulogy for one of his generals,
and was told that there were no poets any more, as
they'd all been drafted into the army to prosecute the
war effort?  Well, I think you're in danger of being
just a little bit like that - sure, we need to rebuild
after the war, and civil wars are particularly hard to
recover from so history tells us.  But there's no
point in guys like you working away to "rebuild"
unless there's something to "rebuild" -  we need
poets, just as much as we need slave drivers, Steve.
But please let's not quarrel over this - I value our
friendship, and I don't want to lose you as a friend,
and I'd hate to miss out on our correspondence, even
though I find some of it a bit - well - upsetting,
shall we say, and leave it at that?  And I'm still
concerned that this Jon is too much of an influence on
you. I guess the worst is over for your slaves anyway?
  Your buddy...(?) Stu.

Stu:  Hey, just stop criticising me, OK?  You do your
thing and I'll do mine.  Don't worry about Jon - he's
a great guy, as I've said.  I really enjoy working
with him. And you are coming back home for the
holidays, aren't you?  I ought to have my team
properly trained by then and you can come out for a
ride on the dray with me.   I thought it was all going
well today - I got to feed the slaves myself for the
first time, as it's another of those things the
drayman does himself to bring him closer to the
slaves.  It's awkward until they're properly trained,
though, and you can trust them to be out of the cage,
as you have to do each one individually and it all
takes time - you get the slave to kneel in front of
you with his back straight and his butt resting on his
heels and his hands clasped behind his back, then you
press the spout of the feeder into his mouth and give
one turn of the handle, and there it is!

The feeder is a special thing that I've not seen
before - the slaves at home eat normal food, the
scraps from the table, supplemented by slave chow.
But the slaves here are fed a special very high
protein low volume diet and you literally stuff it
down their throats! As you turn the handle on the
feeder the very small quantity of food paste goes
directly from the feeder's spout down the slave's
throat.  Jon says this had two benefits - firstly, the
slaves' teeth keep in good condition, as there's no
sugar and stuff in the mouth to rot them, and you
don't need to keep cleaning their teeth as there's no
food lodged in the cracks or anything.  But the very
low volume concentrate has a major benefit in that the
volume of crap the slaves produce is tiny, and it's
hard and consolidated into one, or at the most two,
tiny turds a day.  This means that it's very unlikely
the slaves will have a desperate desire to shit when
they're working in the streets, and, if the timing is
wrong and they absolutely have to, the very hard,
small turd is relatively inoffensive, and can simply
be rolled down into the nearest drain in the street.


I thought I'd got the hang of it, and was doing OK,
when one of the slaves, as I let him out of the cage,
tried to take the feeder himself and said something
like "I'm not a goose, to be stuffed like that, as if
you're making foie gras...".  Jon was close by and
slapped his face, hard, as that's simply outrageous
behaviour for a slave, and the slave in turn swung a
punch at Jon and almost felled him.  It was fortunate
that I had my slave prod to hand, and I was able to
help Jon to his feet as the slave lay there writhing
in front of us.

Jon looked grim.  "Ah, well, at least it's happened
early", he said, and we began preparations for what I
thought would be  the day's work by leading the other
slaves off to the "crush" and imprisoning them there.
The slave who had struck John and was still twitching
on the floor from my prod (I'd had it set to the
default of "maximum" as I hadn't been expecting to use
it) and we hauled to his feet and secured him to a
flogging horse that's always waiting there in the area
- his legs were spread wide and you could see his big
dick and balls hanging down between his thighs.  Jon
didn't bother with the waist and upper body cinch
straps, just the ankle and wrist cuffs, as he said
that for what we were about to do it would be more
instructive for the other slaves to see this one as a
"buckaroo" as he called it, when the slave's body is
mostly free to move but where he's still unable to
escape from the horse.

Jon went to the cupboard and came back with a strange
instrument with a handle on the side that looked a bit
like a pair of pliers - no, more like a chuck on an
electric drill, as there were several pieces to the
"head" - and a thick black ring made of rubber, with
just a tiny hole down the middle.  He went over and
walked down the line of slaves standing there tightly
jammed together in the "crush", showing them the ring,
then slipped it over the drill chuck thing and turned
the handle on the side of the instrument.  Slowly,
very slowly, very slowly indeed as the thick rubber of
the ring needed a huge amount of effort to stretch it
open, he continued to turn the handle until the jaws
of the thing were right open and there was a large
hole through the rubber ring, now stretched extremely
tightly indeed.

He walked over to the helpless slave on the horse,
knelt down, and began to "knead" the guy's balls,
massaging and pushing them so that they were right
down low in his sac, then, as the slave almost groaned
in pleasure from this, he slipped the sac  down into
the instrument, moved something that released the
jaws, and the thick black rubber band snapped back to
its "rest" position, but now firmly around the root of
the slave's sac - we heard the "snap" of the rubber,
but it was instantly drowned out by the slave's
totally agonised screaming,  It almost made me vomit,
to think about the pain the guy must be in as the ring
squeezed those delicate tendons and tubes in his sac,
and I don't think I'd eve heard anything before quite
so terrible as the howling from the guy - it just went
on, and on.

Jon beckoned to me, and we went outside into the
fresh, morning air, leaving behind the horror he'd
just caused.  I started to remonstrate with him, and
he said quietly "Steve, you're not thinking!  Look,
why do you think we buy nine slaves when we only need
eight?  It always happens, one of them takes a shot at
us, and we always do this."

"...but the slave's in agony", I blurted out, and he
said "Yes, but only for a while.  It only takes about
an hour for the guy's balls to die, as that ring
totally cuts off the blood supply."

"....but it's cruel...".  He shook his head , as if in
disbelief.  "Look, Steve, you're not thinking like a
drayman yet!  You've got to control eight slaves,
right?  They've got to understand that they are
slaves, and that if they disobey, the most terrible
punishments are waiting for them.  And you've got  to
control them on the open streets, where there are
unlikely to be other guards and so on around.  And
they're not chained up when they're working, remember
- they've got to load and unload the dray!   How do
you think you're going to do that?  Well, I'll tell
you - firstly, by being the acknowledged 'leader' of
the pack of them - that's not as hard as you'd
imagine, as they're all soldiers, and by their nature,
soldiers tend to be the type of men who are
predisposed to follow orders.  But secondly by having
them understand that you are ruthless - you'll prod
them if necessary, order them to be whipped if they
displease you, and you'll even be prepared to make
them pay the ultimate sacrifice for a man, and take
his balls."

"But even so...."

"No, Steve, it's best this way.   One of them suffers,
suffers terribly, I'll grant you that.  But the other
eight have learned a lesson they'll never forget, and
it's kinder for them, in a way:  this one
demonstration of our power over them, done early, will
save them from a whole load of trouble in the future,
and if we hadn't done it, you'd have almost certainly
have had to order a few whippings for them - and
that's not pleasant, as making them work with whip
scars and fresh blood, with the flies and all...."

Well, to cut a long story short, we left them for a
couple of hours, and when we went back in the slave's
balls had gone all black, and he'd stopped screaming
and was now just whimpering, almost to himself.
Actually, it was the slave I was most worried about -
he'd got those kind of thick, "brutish" features that
implied he was a real redneck,  and he had a kind of
swaggering insolence where his whole attitude was one
of "I know best".  I think he'd been some sort of
corporal, and  I could well imagine him terrorising
the younger recruits in his platoon.  In a way, I was
glad he was gone, as I thought my task of controlling
the other eight would be much easier now - so I could
see that maybe what Jon had said was correct.

The other eight in the "crush" glared at Jon and me
but didn't dare to say anything - they were beginning
to learn that held tight in there they were very
vulnerable to the lightest stroke of the prod, and it
didn't just hurt one of them:  the others, making
close electrical contact because of their sweaty
skins, caught it too.  We called in slaves to take the
eunuch away, and Jon told me, in a voice loud enough
for my slaves to hear, that the ring was left on for a
few more hours, but then the sack and dead testicles
had to be cut off as otherwise there was a danger of
gangrene setting in.   "He'll end up as some lady's
servant, probably", he went on.  "As you take this
crop of fine male slaves on your delivery runs, you
might even see him, trotting behind some lady as she
goes shopping ,carrying her packages, her umbrella...
All that sort of stuff.  It's quite the fashion now to
have a gelding performing these little services for
fashionable ladies."

We really had to press on then with the remaining pats
of the slaves' "processing" - firstly, one by one,
they were taken out of the "crush" and fitted with
permanent cock rings - well, not the sort of
recreational ones that guys like to wear sometimes,
but proper "working" ones.  The rings are so tight
that there's no way you can get the dick and balls
through them, even when the slave's not erect, so the
blacksmith fits them - there's a special shaped pliers
that squeezes an open ring tightly closed and the ends
are glued together:  Jon says that it's not so long
ago that they had to be welded shut, and that was a
big problem as there's just no way you could stop the
slave's body and balls getting burned at the same
time, so we do seem to be making progress in dealing
with these guys humanely - that ought to please you.
And finally, long after it was our normal lunch time,
we had the tattooer in to ink them.

They're required by law to have their SIN tattooed
under their armpit of course, as are all slaves, but
in the Company we also have it done as a barcode on
their right biceps as it makes it easy to use modern
technology to scan them when we're doing inventory and
so on.  Jon whispered to me that it's also good as yet
another means of reminding the slaves that they're
just property now, and accounted for just as  we do
for any other items on the company's asset register.
And finally, just as they thought they were finished,
we took them all out again and one by one we had their
backs inked.  I'd read their files by now - we got
them from the Department Of Defence as part of the war
settlement, so I knew their names - and thought that
we'd just use shortened forms of these on them:  Dan
instead of Daniel, and so on.  But it just shows you
what a good man Jon is, as he counselled me to only
have numbers on them:  the big digits 1 to 8, running
from their necks to just above the start of their butt
cracks.  "If you let them use their names, Steve, it
seems as if they're almost like men, whereas a number
reminds them that they're just 'things' now.  Some
guys like their slaves to have 'pet' names and have
them inked with 'slave' names like Binky and Snotty
and so on, but I don't think that looks very
professional - we are part of a major business here,
and so I'd advice you just to go for numbers".   So I
did.

I was really peckish after all that, I can tell you,
and was ready for lunch.  But before Jon and I could
eat we had to take them out, still individually, to
the "exercisers" in the yard.  They're like big
treadmills that you find in the gym, except that they
slope upwards so the slaves are always running
slightly uphill as it's better exercise for them, and
there's a big elastic harness you put on them that
drags them backwards and which they have to work
against.  It looks pretty good exercise, actually - of
course the slaves have to be cuffed to the side bars
to prevent their escape, but once you've done that,
you can just leave them:  you set the timer and speed
control for the amount you want to exercise them, and
that's it.  The spiked bar at the back means that they
can't stop, or else it's pretty painful for them!
Jon says my slaves are still in pretty good shape as
they were in a holding camp that made them exercise,
and it ought to be only a week or so before they've
re-build enough muscle to be able to get them to work
properly.  This slave stuff is really interesting, the
more you get in to it.  Steve.

Steve:  I know you said "stop criticising me", but,
old buddy, don't you think it really is cruel to be
treating the slaves like this?  They are men, after
all!  And castrating that one, even if he was a
swaggering bully...  I'm not sure I can go on writing
to you.  Stu.

Stu:  You know nothing!  You just don't understand, do
you?  These aren't men, they're slaves.  The sooner
they acknowledge that, the sooner they understand that
they've got a different life now, the better it is for
them. And none of the things we did are really cruel -
castrating that one did I'm sure make it a whole lot
easier for the others.  And the cock rings are a big
help - if you are going to live and work totally
naked, imagine how you'd always be worried about
catching your dick and balls in things, or even
sitting down "wrong" :  the rings keep them all up and
more out of the way. And I do need to be able to
command the slaves, so I have to be able to
distinguish them and what easier way for a naked body
than by a big number that's clearly visible? And I'm
sure it is kinder to do that than to keep reminding
them of their former lives by using their names.  I
think you'd better shut the fuck up about things you
know jack shit about - your dad won't even have
domestic slaves, after all, so perhaps you just don't
understand anything at all about the slave mentality
and how he needs to be made to work.  Steve.

Stu:  OK, I did put the phone down on you.  But you
sounded so fucking self-righteous when you rang me
after my long note, when we hadn't corresponded for a
week as we were both so pissed off.  Look, I miss you,
Stu, as I need someone to talk to - all the other guys
here are much older, as they say you can't be tough
enough to be a good drayman until you're thirty or so,
and I come in from a fair amount of joshing from them.
 I reckon it's a test dad's putting me through.  And
it's worrying enough, trying to handle all these big
slaves and making sure I'm doing the right thing,
without having to go around worrying about what my
oldest buddy thinks.  So let's just agree to differ on
this, shall we?   I'll tell you how I'm getting on,
and you can tell me about college life, and when you
come home for the holidays we'll really sort it out -
I'll take you for a ride on my dray (I ought to be
properly in control by then).... And I'll show you one
or two other things I've learned, old buddy....
Jerking off isn't the only thing that two buddies can
do together!  OK?  Steve.

Steve:  Look, you'll never convince me that owning
slaves is right.  But we've been buddies for so long,
it would be stupid to break up over it.  It was so
good to hear form you again, Steve - and what's all
this about "what we can do together"?  Stu.


End Of Part Two.