Date: Mon, 14 Nov 2005 04:12:51 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Steve's First Job, Part 7

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

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

Part 7


Stu:  I'm glad we had that second phone call.  When my
phone rang immediately after you'd got that last
message, we were both so keyed up that I though we'd
never recover.  So OK, it did take us almost two weeks
to pick up the phone again, but then, we're both very
strong willed. And even now I'm not sure which of us
backed down!  I think we'd better agree to differ on
this one - I'm certainly not going to change my view
that my slaves are better off working on my dray than
they would be down the mines, or still locked up in a
prison camp.  We agree, I know, that we couldn't just
send them back to the north - so what are we going to
do with all those rebel prisoners of war?  It's not
right to keep them locked up all their lives, and so
making them slaves is the only other solution.  There,
I've said it again, and I hope that doesn't spark off
another round of "discussion".  And I promise not to
make fun of the Jesus myth in future - I've known you
long enough to see you grow out of believing in the
tooth fairy, and Santa Claus, and so I'll hang on
until the day that you finally see that Jesus is just
another in that long line of inventions that amuse us
in childhood but which we discard, with a smile, once
we are mature and start thinking for ourselves.

Anyway, let's put all that bitterness behind us, and
you said you wanted to know how I was getting in with
my slaves, so here' a bit of a catch-up.  Things went
well all week - I kept two muzzled  the whole time,
and tethered to the dray whenever we went out - he was
the only one like this, and I could see it eating away
at him as he couldn't function properly in the way he
wanted to, even though he was functioning perfectly as
far as I was concerned:  he wanted to be with "his
men", and at lunch time and so on he couldn't do that
as he remained tethered when they went off to sit
down; and he couldn't give them orders, or even talk
about their problems at night.  But for me it was fine
- he was a big, strong healthy animal pulling the
dray, and his performance wasn't affected by the
muzzle or tether - indeed, it was perhaps improved, as
two's anger turned inwards, and made him work his
balls of to "prove" to the others that he was still a
"leader".

We had a problem on the Friday, though, as we were
delivering one of those big double fridge/freezers
with the ice-making mechanisms and stuff:  they're
really bulky, and fucking heavy, and this one had to
go to the third floor of an apartment block and it
wouldn't fit into the elevator.    It only just fitted
into the stairwell, too, and I told six of the slaves
to get themselves behind it and get it carried up.
These ex-soliders work well under orders, but
sometimes you need to be very precise and they don't
always show much initiative, and I "took my eye off
the ball" for a moment and they lost it!  The thing
slipped, and almost trapped seven underneath it - he'd
have been seriously hurt if it hadn't just got wedged
in angle of the staircase in the nick of time, and as
it was, it still took ages to get him out, then to
actually get the box up, and then to fill in all the
paperwork as we'd damaged their building.  As I stood
there completing the forms for the block Super, I
could see the other slaves telling two what had
happened, and he seemed to be almost stamping his feet
with frustration as he stood there, unable to speak.
I realised that had he been with them, it would never
have happened as two would have been "in charge" and
would have made sure the whole thing went smoothly.


Perhaps I haven't mentioned it to you, but we work six
days a week - well, only half a day on Saturday, as we
mainly do "domestic" deliveries then where the
householder has not been able to be home during the
week.  And on Sunday we don't work at all.  It's not
particularly for the benefit of the slaves, but as a
benevolent employer we don't want to make the draymen
work all the time, and we don't want the additional
expense of hiring additional draymen to work some
complicated shift pattern.  On Sundays the slaves have
to attend a church service, and there's a rota for
about a quarter of the draymen to come in just to
"supervise" the slaves as they stand there in the
depot:  we arrange for a pastor to come in and do it,
so we can control the content of the service, and it's
not particularly hard work for the drayman on duty as
all he has to do is stand there with a carriage whip
in case any of the slaves seem to be falling asleep,
or fail to kneel, pray, stand, or whatever as the
pastor tells them to do.  See, Stu, religion does have
some uses - we get the pastor to preach on the themes
of obedience, rewards in heaven for those who lead a
good life and obey here on earth, being kind and
gentle and not violent to others, and all that other
stuff that's in Christianity and that's really useful
for keeping the oppressed in their places.  Wasn't it
Marx who said "religion is the opiate of the people"?
- well, it certainly works for at least some of the
slaves, as they seem quite fervent as they are ordered
to their knees to pray, and perhaps it makes our job
of controlling them easier.    Mind you, the pastor
had a bit of a job when he came to administer that
sacrament stuff to two - he managed to stuff  the
wafer thing in through the hole in two's muzzle, but
then two couldn't swallow it as his tongue was
depressed, and the pastor seemed really upset when, as
he tried to get the wine in (well it's not wine
actually - we don't allow the slaves any alcohol, so
we just use coloured water.  But it makes no
difference - if you can believe that wine transmutes
to blood, you can presumably believe that coloured
water does, too) he couldn't, and it trickled down
two's chin and dripped down on to his chest.

After the service I locked some of the other sets of
slaves in their cages and fed and watered them,
leaving my own slaves standing in the yard.  When I
was finished I went back out and was pleased to see
they were still standing in formation, two blocks of
four, in their numbered sequence, properly at "slave
rest" - they were managing to meld all that training
they'd had in the forces with the ways of slavedom,
and I was proud of them.  I was going to take them
back to their cage, but it was a nice day - the sun
was shining and it was not too hot -  and I had not
much else to do, so I thought they deserved a bit of a
treat.  Jon would argue with me if he ever heard me
using words like "deserved", as, he says, slaves
"deserve" nothing:  their only role in life is to obey
and serve.  But, as I said, it was a nice day and I
was in a good mood, so I decided to take them out,
down to the river park, for a bit of a change in their
rather boring lives.

My first thought was to take the dray, but I had come
down to the depot that morning in my trap and my pony
was resting for the return home in the shade of one of
the barns.  I went over and told him to pull the trap
over in front of the slaves, and then to wait for me
on my return - he could have the afternoon "off" but I
ordered him not to go into the barns where the dray
slaves cages are as he's really keen on sex, and I
didn't want him bending down in front of the cages so
that he could take dick through the bars!   I got up
in to the trap, and said to the slaves "OK, guys, I'm
going to take you to the park for the afternoon.  I
want you to line up in twos, and you'll jog in strict
formation after me.  One of you can pull my trap, and
the rest follow.  I pretended to scan the slaves, as
if choosing which one to pull me, but I had of course
already made up my mind.  "Two, get between the
shafts", I snapped, and as he came forward and stood
there, I commanded him to kneel so that I could take
out his muzzle.  He knelt there, flexing his tongue
and exercising his jaw, but not for long - although it
isn't necessary as the pony is perfectly capable of
obeying verbal orders, it's the fashion to always
drive pony slaves with a bit, bridle and reins -
you've seen me do it often enough, Stu, to know what I
mean.  So I told two to open his mouth, and then put
the metal bit in, and fumbled and fiddled to attach
the restraining straps behind his head and under his
chin.

He probably felt this was much the same as the muzzle,
but then I attached the reins to the end of the bit
where they protruded from his mouth, and he began to
look uncomfortable as he realised he was being
transformed even further, from a big, tough  slave
down to something that was going to be steered by
tugging on his bit!  But worse was yet to come - I
don't usually do it for my pony, but there's a ring
under the strap that holds the bit in place, and I
told two to bow his head, and then attached this to
the D ring on his collar, so that he was unable to
raise his head.  From the box on the trap I then got
out the blinkers - again, not something I put on my
pony except on very formal occasions - and slipped the
thin leather harness over his head and adjusted them
so that he really could only see directly frontwards.
  I commanded him to his feet and he stood there
moving his head as if to try to see what was going on
- his view was now severely restricted, to the small
patch of ground directly in front of him - and told
him to pick up the shafts of the trap.  As he did so,
I snapped the wrist restraints closed, so that he was
held immovably between the shafts, and we were ready
for the off.

I went and stood by him, and said, calmly, "You're a
trap pony now, two, and it's rather different from
working the dray!  For one thing, I don't give verbal
orders - if I want you to turn left, I pull your head
to the left with the reins, and similarly for the
right.  When I want you to slow down I'll pull back
gently on both, and pull harder when I want you to
halt.  You speed up when you feel the carriage whip on
your butt, and if I want you to run really fast,
you'll know it as the power of the strokes will
increase.  Obviously you can't see much, so you have
to rely on me to guide you - you have to trust me,
two, and believe that I won't let you run into a wall,
or under a truck, and I'll steer you around the bigger
potholes in the highway.  All you have to do is feel
my commands through the reins and the whip, and react
and obey:  provided you do it promptly and well,
there'll be no difficulty.  But if you resist me, or
fail to feel some of my lighter touches, you might be
in big trouble - I only steer you around potholes with
 a very gentle tug, and if you go into one of them and
stumble, you might break a leg.  So this is all about
trusting your driver, two, and complete and utter
obedience to the smallest command.

I didn't give him any chance to reply or react - not
that he could say much with the bit in his mouth, and
went and got into the trap.  I pulled the reins to
position him towards the gate, and gave him a light
flick on the butt with the whip to tell him to move
off (the carriage whip is a lighter version of the
dray one, and shorter, as it only has to reach the
rump of one slave rather than four.  These light
"driving" touches don't hurt at all - they barely
sting - but of course like any whip, if you increase
the power of the stroke, you can really make the slave
understand you mean business!).   I could tell from
the way that two was trying to move his head that he
hated being forced to keep looking down, and straight
ahead - he could have no sense of the landscape, or of
turnings coming up, or anything, and he was absolutely
reliant on my touch commands to perform.  He kept
shifting his hands on the shafts, too, although again
the shackles holding him there prevented anything
other than a tiny movement of an inch or so - it was
as if he was now an integral part of my trap, just
there to serve me, as were the wheels, or the seat.
And he knew that any faltering, any hesitation, and
the carriage whip would sting across his butt.  I had
finally reduced him to something that was even less
than a dray slave - he was no more than a dumb beast,
totally devoid of any means of independent action or
thought.

At first I was concerned about taking my slaves out
without even the dray to provide some degree of
"control" - even though, apart from two, they were not
tethered to it, it served as a constant reminder of
their role and of the fact that they had the depot to
go back to, and the resources of our company to hunt
them down should they try to escape.  Now they were
just lined up in three rows of two and one at the
rear, and there was nothing "binding" them to their
normal role.  They were just seven naked men who were
expected to run behind my trap, and I was concerned
that their sense of freedom might get the better of
them and they might run off - it's pretty pointless,
of course, as with those heavy slave collars on they
aren't going to get very far:  no one is going to use
heavy machinery or an arc torch to take a slave's
collar off, and they can't board a bus at the bus
station, or a train at the train station without going
through a metal detector that the collar will surely
trigger, and they'll be caught.  But nevertheless it's
a risk - if they did do anything foolish, when they
were recaptured we'd have to have them whipped,
seriously whipped by the bull whip, and then they just
wouldn't be the same - not only does their back never
really recover, but somehow once he's been whipped
like that a slave loses that little "something" - such
small amount of independence he's allowed as a slave
is totally dissipated and he's dull and totally
lifeless and cowering - not something I wanted in my
slaves.

I kept casting occasional glances behind me as we went
along the highway towards the city centre, but the
slaves were performing well, jogging along behind my
trap, with their dicks neatly bobbing up and down.  I
suppose I could have had them run in front, so I could
keep an eye on them, but then I couldn't have the
pleasure of "steering" two by tugging on his reins and
guiding him where I wanted to go - I'd have had to
have shouted orders to the leading slave.  Now, at
least, I had two's sweating body in front of me, his
powerful butt and thigh muscles pounding away, and the
spread of his shoulders and the taut muscles in his
back all accentuated by the fact that his head was
bent, held there by the strap to his collar.  It was a
magnificent sight, and I flicked casually at his butt
to speed him up, enjoying seeing how he was spurred
forward as the sharp stinging tip of the whip caught
his cheeks.

My trap is very light, and I don't suppose it was any
harder for two to pull it than it was for him to take
his one eighth share of the effort of pulling the
loaded dray, but I sensed that for him this was the
hardest work he'd ever done in his life - he couldn't
toss his head proudly for relief, or spit a huge gob
to clear his mouth.  He couldn't vary his grip on the
pulling bar, or reach down to scratch an itch, or even
wipe sweat out of his eyes.  No, he was totally
helpless, there in front of me, unable even to see
clearly where he was going and totally reliant on me
to steer him clear of potholes and obstructions.  He
had to trust me completely and feel for the small
movements I made with the reins to control him, and he
knew that if he faltered, or slowed, the sting of the
whip would be there to remind him of his duty to run
at the pace I wanted.  It amused me to make him go
faster than he would have liked - a run, almost,
rather than a gentle jog, as I knew this would tire
him.  It was bad enough for the following slaves, who
were free, but for two the effort of the increased
speed would be terrible, and as we stated up the
gentle incline towards the city centre I felt I could
sense the problems he was having in maintaining the
power and speed I demanded.  The breath must be
whistling in and out of him through the hole in his
muzzle, I thought, and now I could see his back and
butt starting to shine in the hot sunlight as the
sweat ran out from him as if it was a glossy coating
on an iced cake.  I wondered how much longer he'd be
able to keep it up, and at a stop light I could see
him visibly flagging as his body bent almost double as
he tried to suck more air in:  he needed to learn
valuable lessons now though, so I pulled hard back on
both reins and called out "Keep your body straight two
- a show pony, pulling his  master's trap, always
maintains good posture so that the public can see what
a fine animal his master has!".

It's unfortunate in a way that from the city centre
it's all downhill to the River Park as I felt that two
might even have "broken" if I'd driven him at that
pace much longer, but going downhill is a little more
risky in a trap because of the lack of effective
braking, so I had to slow down somewhat (and of course
the load was much reduced).  So two had recovered
somewhat by the time we were going along the path by
the river, and it being a nice day, the grassy areas
were full of people lying around or playing games, and
from under the cool shade of the trees a little
further back there was the appetising smell of
families' lunchtime barbecues.   We were quite a
spectacle, I suppose - although pony traps are
relatively common, as are delivery drays, it was
unusual for a man as large a two to be harnessed in a
trap as most ponies are younger, and thinner; and of
course you do not usually see a line of well-drilled
slaves following a trap, as I had.  So people stopped
what they were doing and to watch us, and mothers and
fathers were probably telling their infant children to
remember to behave, or else they'd end up like those
slaves over there, and even like that pony, who must
be very bad indeed if his owner needed to keep him
restrained like that.

In response to the possible sensibilities at having so
many slaves mixing with free people on a Sunday, I
drove the trap for a mile or so along the river bank
until we had left the normal Sunday family crowd
behind, and there were just a few couples well back
towards the bushes, probably enjoying some semi-secret
outdoor tryst.  I stopped two out in the sun, but
conveniently near a shady tree that I could sit under,
and looped his reins around a litter bin so that he
was effectively tethered there.  From under the seat I
took my blanket and lay down in the warm afternoon
air, and then dismissed the seven slaves and told them
they could go off and play, or swim in the river, or
whatever, but that they were not to stray by more than
100 metres from me as if I called and they failed to
come, they would be punished.  Several of them
clustered around two as he stood there, but there was
nothing they could do for him as he was immobile and
muted by his harness and muzzle.  They stayed there
for a while, as if to show solidarity with him, but
after a time they all drifted away to take part in an
impromptu game of soccer, and a refreshing swim in the
river.

I lay there in the cool shade, watching two as he was
forced to stay there in the broiling sun,  and after
about an hour, by which time I judged he'd be very
hot, and his legs would be aching as he couldn't sit
or even move very much, I pulled on my sun hat and
sauntered over to him.  He must have heard me coming,
but when I ran one hand over his butt and with the
other gently tweaked his left tit, he shuffled
nervously, as if surprised.    "It doesn't have to be
like this, two", I told him.  "If you were a good,
obedient slave, you too could be frolicking round in
the meadows here, and taking a refreshing dip in the
river.  It's only your own stubborn pride, refusing to
accept that you are now truly totally a slave, that
must obey your master's every order, that makes me
have to treat you like this.  If you agree to behave
as a slave should, all this would be over - I'll set
you free from my trap and you can join your buddies...
But I'd need your assurance that you would obey me
completely, just a you used to obey your officers in
the service.  I cannot and will not tolerate you dumb
insolence, and your attitude.  Now, is that a deal?"

To the best of his ability, two shook his head.  "Very
well", I told him, "It's of no real concern to me as
you can remain tethered and muzzled for ever, so far
as I am concerned.  The cane and tawse will ensure you
put out the amount of effort I require, and the
muzzle, tether, and perhaps those blinkers, worn
permanently, will ensure you are not too independent.
It's a pity for the others, of course, as without you
they are at risk."  This seemed to stop him dead, as
he at once looked as if he was taking an interest, and
I went on "These men are used to having a leader, two,
you know that.  They're only simple soldiers, and they
need a sergeant to keep them in order, and to make
sure orders are properly  obeyed, so they avoid
punishment.  Without someone like you to guide them,
two, they'll get slovenly, and will need punishment;
and they might even do themselves serious harm - have
they not told you how seven nearly had his back broken
when that delivery went wrong on Friday?  What do you
think happens to a slave with a broken back, two?   Do
you want your men injured because your stubbornness
and pride is making you so intransigent?  Still, it's
your choice - as I said, I'm happy to keep you working
as you are, and perhaps that's for the best:  no
arguing, no concern for what you're doing, just neatly
tethered and muzzled - I can live with that.  And I
suppose the others will get used to the more liberal
use of the tawse and cane that their increasingly lax
behaviour will bring them."   I turned to walk away,
and there was mumbling sounds of protest from two.  I
went back, and rested my hand on his butt again,
enjoying the warm wetness of his crack as I allowed
one of my fingers to stray into it a little, and with
my other hand I traced patterns on the firm wetness of
his belly.

"Yes, two?  Were you agreeing with me, or starting
some argument again?"  I could tell by the way his
body was slumped now that he was not in the mood for
further argument, and so I said gently "here, two,
let's take the bit out for a minute or two, so we can
talk."  I fumbled with the straps holding the bit in
his mouth, and could almost feel the impatience
building up in him.  Then when he'd moistened his lips
with his freed tongue, he said "Please, sir, let me
look after my men...." - and I knew I had him!  I just
stood there, with him helplessly shackled as I let my
hands experience the richness of his torso and the
splendour of his belly, and then to wander down to
savour the delights of his manhood, and told him that
it was completely up to him.  I would release him, but
only provided I had his complete and utter obedience.
I finished by saying "You see, two, I don't really
think that you've accepted that you are a slave, that
your only role is to obey me dutifully and completely.
I shouldn't need to bargain with you to allow you to
look after my slaves - a truly dutiful slave would
want to help his owner get the best possible service
out of the others.  It's still symptomatic of your
wrong thinking.  I'm not sure that keeping you muzzled
and shackled isn't actually in your best interests -
it's not much fun being a slave when you are
constantly chafing against it and are not content."
Finally, he broke down.  He stood there, his head
bent, now in misery rather than because of the
physical constraints I had placed on him, and said
"Sir, please don't do that.  I hate it, sir, being
muzzled and shackled.  I know I'm a slave, sir, but I
am a man, too, a man who likes to use his body. And
keeping me shackled and muzzled is not good, sir, for
you, or for me.  I can manage your other slaves, sir,
and I want to do that.... Please let me, sir...
Please."

I nodded, and said quietly "I think we both understand
each other now, two.  I will let you run free with the
others, but if there's ever the slightest resistance
from you again, I will have you muzzled and shackled
again, but this time permanently.  And as a shackled
dray slave working in a team, you would really have no
need of sight and so I would think of replacing
blinkers with a little laser treatment to your eyes,
to permanently dim your vision.  And to save you even
attempting argument, a shackled slave could be muted,
permanently, by the simple cauterisation of the vocal
chords.  So think, two, and obey - or take the
consequences.  This is your only, and final warning."
As I'd been saying this, I'd taken the blinkers off
him, and then I used my key to unshackle him.  He
stood there, and as a man does ,even if he's a slave,
he stretched reflexively, and I was rewarded by the
sight of his firm, flat belly stretching as his arms
went above his head, and his dick was inevitably
tugged upwards:  there could be no doubt that here was
the absolute perfection of the male form.

"OK, two, off you go and organise those slaves - it
would be better if they were to exercise by playing
volleyball or something like that, or by swimming.
Don't go far away - when I whistle, I expect you all
back here almost immediately.  Understand?"  He
snapped "Sir, yes, sir", and I thought he was going to
salute me - but he turned and raced over the grass
towards the others.  A few minutes later I wished I
could go over and watch the volleyball - the sight of
those hard, fit slaves leaping around entirely naked
would have been spectacular, but I needed two to know
that I trusted him to organise these things for me.

At the end of the afternoon - or, rather, when I was
bored and wanted to get off home, I whistled and two
at once rounded up the others and they jogged over
towards me, neatly in formation.  This slave
management stuff was going to be so much easier with
two to organise things, I thought.  I looked at them,
and said "Now, which of you is going to pull my trap
back to the depot...?" And to my surprise, two at once
stepped forward.  "Sir, I pulled you here and I have
the experience and expertise - please allow me to pull
you back, sir."  At first, I thought he might be being
sarcastic and that he'd need to be whipped after all
for this, but then I realised he was indeed sincere -
to two, it was some sort of special mark of respect to
have me select him for a task different from the
others, and so as their leader it was "his right",
irrespective of whether it was hard work for him.

After I'd fed them and locked them in their cage that
night, I decided to have a little celebration, and
went over to Jon's for the evening.  He sensed my
happy mood, and when he asked me why, I just said "Oh,
things are kind of shaping up, you know.  I'm getting
the hang of these slaves, and so life is a lot easier
than it was!"  He looked at me for a minute, then
slapped my butt, and said "So let's see if we can't
make it just a little harder, then!".  Steve.

Steve:  That's not the way it works!  You humiliated
that two in front of his fellows, and at some point it
will rebound on you.  He's just obeying you because
he's afraid of you - and who wouldn't be, when you've
threatened to have him blinded!  Take care, old buddy
- you may be heading for big trouble here.  And what
did you mean when you said "Jon slapped me on the
butt...."?  Stu    P.S.  I've posted you the
manuscript of my new epic "Consequences"  - it doesn't
look right in an e-mail as the indentation of the
lines is important.  Stu.

Stu:   I never threatened to blind him.  I
specifically said I'd "permanently dim his vision" -
some owners have it done to all their slaves as it
quietens them down - it just makes most things more
than a couple of feet away be totally out of focus,
like not wearing glasses.  You wouldn't want to blind
a slave - think about it:  his value would be halved!


Now, about "Consequences" - I'm not an expert, and I'm
more of a prose person than a poet, but I think I can
see what you mean.  The spacing of the lines like that
adds a certain power to the feeling of emptiness and
loneliness in the last stanzas that wouldn't be there
if all the lines were packed properly.  But then I'm
no judge - unless poetry rhymes, I don't think it's
poetry!  But I'm glad you shared it with me - even
though it makes me glad I'm not doing that sort of
thing at college:  I'm a tad more practical, as you
know.  Still, I'll keep it safe - if you ever get to
be another T S Eliot or Sylvia Plath, it will be worth
real money!

I might even have time to write something myself - but
a story, or even the first chapters of my
autobiography (I may as well get it out of the way
now, as it's happening, as I have this feeling that
I'll be famous, ha, ha.) - with two now effectively
"running things" when we're out delivering, and
constantly inspecting and monitoring the slaves in the
depot, I've not got all that much to do.  He chides
and kind of "nudges" the others into the correct
behaviour, and is an absolute stickler for them being
neat and smart at all times - his background as a
sergeant helps, and even though they are all
technically the same, all slaves together, the others
don't seem to resent him doing this in any way.  I
suppose it's all their training as soldiers, when a
sergeant was an authority figure, who they obey
instinctively.  Steve.

Steve:  You?  Write?  Don't make me laugh!  You've got
no creative imagination and don't use imagery.  Don't
get me wrong, old buddy, I like you, and you're great
to go out partying and drinking with, but you're just
not "creative" - artistically creative, that is.  I
doubt that you could string a story together, let
alone a poem.   Stu

Stu:  Of course I can write!  Look back at our
correspondence.  I'm telling you a whole lot more
about my life than you are telling me about yours.
When we had to sit through all those endless
dissections of famous poets and their work at high
school I always thought they were arrogant.... You're
at least qualified on that score to be one, then!  But
don't stop - when I do my memoirs, I can always say
"And before he had that string of lovers that his
poetic temperament suited him for, he had me.  My hand
was the first to make love to him...."  There - isn't
that poetry?  What an image!  Steve.  P.S.  Have you
actually fucked the Scandinavian yet? Steve.

Steve:  Ha fucking ha!  "Making love to your hand" is
hardly a poetic image.  Even though it makes the
trouser snake stir a little at the thought.  And don't
ask such personal questions, not even to your best
friend.  What happens between Inga and me is our
business.  Stu.

Stu:  So you haven't, then (fucked her, that is)!
Steve.

Steve:  Mind your own business.  Stu.

Steve:  Where are you, buddy?  When I said "mind your
own business" I didn't mean for you to go totally
silent.  Come on, I want to hear more about those
slaves of yours.  Stu.

Stu:  I don't know how to write this.  It's really
hard.  But if I don't tell someone, I'll go mad.
Maybe putting it down on paper will make it better.  I
just couldn't even bear to sit at the screen these
last three days.  And just when everything was going
so well.

Look, it was late.  I'd fed and watered my slaves and
caged them, then gone to have a little talk with Jon,
and was about to go home when I crossed the yard and
there was a team of slaves just standing there, in the
dray.  It was raining, and the poor guys were all
huddled together, trying to keep warm (I've told you
how rain is the enemy, even on a relatively warm day).
 They were the team that that big guy I told you about
- the one who hauled the bar tender across the bar -
drove, and it was always whispered (although not in
Matt's presence) that he didn't look after them very
well, and was unnecessarily harsh with the cane and
tawse.  I knew where he'd be, of course, and by the
time I'd marched across the road to the bar, I was
pretty pissed off - these slaves are, after all, a
valuable asset of the company, my dad's company.

I tied to be reasonable, and went over to him and said
that I'd seen his slaves standing there shivering, and
wasn't it time they were fed and caged.  He put his
beer down, looked at me, and just said "Mind your own
fucking business!".  I lost it, Stu - I was so cross
that I shouted back "It is my fucking business!  Those
are the company's slaves getting cold out there, and
they might come down with pneumonia, or something....
It is my business - it's my dad's resources you're
risking as you stand here with that beer...."

That was it!  He just grabbed me, slapped me a couple
of times, and shouted "Mind your own fucking business!
 Daddy's boy, coming here and trying to tell a real
man how to manage a few slaves.  We've all seen you,
treating those slaves of yours as if they were free
men, almost.  Keep your nose out from where it doesn't
belong, boy."  Well, I went for him, but it was no
kind of fight - he'd huge, and although he's flabby,
immensely strong, and taller and much heavier than me,
and a few punches and I was a crumpled heap on the
ground.  As I lay there he slowly and deliberately
finished his drink, as if he was in no hurry, then
said to all the other draymen "I'd better go and deal
with my slaves, I suppose.  They need teaching a
lesson - causing me trouble like this!".  He turned
and ambled out of the bar, and as soon as he'd gone,
some of the others, who all seemed afraid of him, came
and helped me to my feet.  I stood there ,hurting like
hell from where his punches had landed, but I
staggered to the door and across the road to see him
standing in the courtyard just slashing wildly at his
slaves with his punishment cane as they still huddled
together in the pouring rain.  I half ran over, as
best  I could, and tried to stay his hand, screaming
at him that it wasn't their fault and to stop hitting
them - he just lashed out at me then, and floored me
again, then stood over me saying "I ought to cane you,
you young puppy, interfering between a drayman and his
slaves."

I though he was going to start caning me, and, as it
turned out, that might have been the best thing to
happen.  I couldn't get to my feet, but I curled my
arm around his legs and tried to pull him over.  He
seemed to lose all sense of proportion then, and
reached down and grabbed me.  He had me in some sort
of wrestling hold that  I couldn't break away from as
he was so big and strong compared to me, and he half
carried, half dragged me across the depot to the
stairs leading to the BDQ where he and some of the
other draymen lived, then hauled me up the stairs.  I
remember hearing his door crashing open, and then I
was face down on his bed - it's funny, isn't it, but
you mind takes snapshots of things that you can recall
later, and I can remember seeing a hard patch on the
sheet, probably his dried cum, and getting the sour
smell of where his body had been lying on sheets that
need laundering.  His weight was heavy on me, and his
head was next to mine as he muttered "Now you're going
to get it, you little fucker - let me show you how a
real man deals with interfering busybodies...."

He was so violent that he actually tore the buttons
off my pants as he wrenched them down so that I was
lying there half naked, and my shirt and T fared no
better as he pulled them off me, not caring if he
caught my ears or anything.  I realised what he meant
to do, and began to really struggle and fight again,
but far from making things better, it made them worse
- it semed to inflame him, to drive him on, and he was
shouting at me telling me that now I was going to get
it.... And  when I saw him dropping his pants and
tried to get up and run out, even though  I was stark
naked, he just caught my arm, slapped me across the
face with his other hand so hard that I almost passed
out, then hit my ass twice as he threw me down on to
the bed.

Stu, I don't know how I can tell you how awful it was.
 I'd always thought that to rape a guy you'd push him
over something so he was bent at the waist, but Matt
just threw himself on me.  His one knee was pressing
painfully into my right thigh, and that in itself was
almost enough to keep me pinned to the bed, and his
other knee was pushing my other thigh so far over that
 I thought I might split open.  One huge hand was
around my neck, and he forced my face so far down into
the mattress that I thought I might suffocate.  And
then I felt his dick at my ass - his other hand was
forcing my butt apart, and once he was satisfied he
must just have pushed down with all his body weight,
as there was no stopping it as his dick speared up
into me.  From somewhere I heard myself scream, or try
to, as my face was deep down, as I've said.  The pain
was indescribable.  And then, as he began to pound up
and down, I shouted, raged, screamed and cried, all to
no avail.  I could hardly breathe as his huge body
pressed down on me, and I wasn't sure I wanted to, as
I hurt so much.

I'd always kind of imagined that a rape would be over
quickly.  I mean, in those stories, and in the movies,
it's all over after a couple of quick pumps of the
guy's dick into the woman, and if I'd ever thought
about it at all, I'd imagined it would be like that
when one guy takes another forcibly (not that you
normally need to - most guys are happy to have sex,
after all.  But then, you wouldn't know that, Stu).
But this went on and on - I was almost suffocating,
and I was hurting:  hurt like I've never known it
before, as he remorselessly and ruthlessly continued
to pump his huge dick in and out of my battered ass.
And it wasn't like when I've fucked slaves -
relatively gentle, and slow and sensual - no, it was
fast, hard, pumping action and above the sound of my
own attempts to scream I could hear that awful slap,
slap, slap noise as his big body crashed into mine.
He was grunting with satisfaction as he worked at me,
and the rank smell of his stale sweat was nauseating.
  I hung in there with everything I'd got as I needed
to remember this - I was going to have my revenge on
him, and in spite of everything I was going through I
didn't want to pass out as I needed to be able to
recall it so that his punishment could match his
crime.

Finally it was over as he gave a great shout and
stopped pumping in to me.  You know how they say in
those stories that you could feel the hot cum spurting
up into you, well it's not true - there are no sensors
up there and you can't detect it, and the only way I
knew he must have cum is because he stopped the
terrible pounding of my body.  But then he flopped
forward onto me, and I could feel his big flabby belly
on my back and his weight almost crushed the breath
out of me.  Fortunately he'd let go of my head so I
could just about breathe, and he now put his mouth
next to my ear and said "There you are, you little
fucker!  That's how a real man deals with a boy like
you.  Now you've had a real man's dick up you, perhaps
you'll learn not to interfere in other men's
business."  The stench of his breath was foul, as he'd
been drinking and the beer and alcohol fumes washed
over me, and I felt like being sick.

He moved his heavy thighs and the weight of his body
eased a little, and I took the opportunity to slide
out from under him - we were both so slicked with
sweat that it was relatively easy.  But before I could
make my escape he'd grabbed my arm and pulled me back
onto the bed.  "Come here you little fucker!", he
roared, and before I knew where I was he'd sat on the
side of the bed and put me over his knees.  It was all
a bit of a blur - being up-ended like that, and one
moment I was standing, the next I was conscious that
my eyes were staring at his feet with their horny
misshapen long toenails.  It was absurd, I know, but
the thought went through me that a man ought to keep
his toenails neat!  But it was driven out as he began
to spank me, his big hand falling repetitively on my
ass.  I tried to get away, but he opened his thighs
and neatly trapped my dick and balls between them, and
that, and his other hand around my waist, held me
there as his huge, heavy hands beat me again and
again.  I'm not proud of it, but I screamed - no,
squealed is probably more like it.  I tried to stifle
it, but the stinging violence of his brutal strokes
really hurt.

Finally, he'd had enough, and he just pushed me off
his lap and I lay there, sprawled at his feet.  He was
s laughing now, laughing at me, and this was almost
the hardest part of it, Stu.  "You think you're a big
man, dealing with those slaves of yours just as if
you're a proper drayman.  But you're just a boy,
aren't you?  A boy who gets put over a real man's
knees and spanked if he's naughty!"  I felt my eyes
fill with tears from the pain I was suffering, but my
anger was so fierce that I got to my feet and threw
myself at him, my fists and legs flailing wildly as I
tried to punch, kick or even scratch him.  I saw his
arm draw back and his fist coming towards me, and that
was it.

He must have carried me back to my own room in the BDQ
as I woke up lying naked on my own bed.  There was cum
and ass juice everywhere, and as I tried to move I
realised just how much I was hurting.  I managed to
drag myself into the shower, but the face I saw when I
went to shave was almost unrecognisable:  I had black
eyes, bruises on my cheeks, and all over my body were
big hand prints and more bruising.  I tentatively ran
a piece of toilet tissue along my ass crack, and I
almost screamed when it came away covered in blood.
I'd never hurt so much in all my life.  Steve.

End Of Part Seven.