Date: Fri, 19 Mar 2004 07:17:18 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Sweating The Asset

SWEATING THE ASSET

By Richard Davies

(This is one of the stories by Richard Davies which
portray life in a slightly changed present!  Richard
sadly appears to have disappeared from the writing
scene, and this opportunity is being taken to
cross-post some of his work so that it will survive in
the event of Yahoo deleting the group where it was
originally posted; and, we hope, at the same time
amuse and stimulate readers.   Pete Brown
petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

Part 1
My good friend Ford called to suggest a look at the
local paper. It didn't take me long to find what he
was on about. A small item about one Stephen Maine who
had been enslaved for three years for blackmail and
extortion.

'Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy', Ford laughed.

'The little shit is being sold through Scabbard and
Drass. Remember what you said about buying a slave for
college? What say you we get our butts down there?'

It was too good to pass up, and we agreed to meet at
the auction house at ten o'clock on Saturday morning.
Afterwards there would be time to nip across the road
to catch a few of the public floggings that were a big
draw
each weekend.

Stephen Maine had been our classmate. The son of
wealthy parents he was an arrogant jock who led the
bunch of assholes who had given Ford and me a hard
time over a period of years. No one forgets or
forgives a bully, and
Stephen was one of the worst. It was no surprise to
discover he had fallen foul of the law, and I was
determined to get my own back on the fair-haired
bastard. Just to see him in a slave collar would be
good for the soul, and
if we managed to rub a little salt into his wounds, so
much the better.

Scabbard and Drass had fancy premises on the
town-square, right opposite the courts and town hall.
Ford was there ahead of me watching some of the early
floggings. He was one of those kids who are almost
handsome, but not quite. He had dark colouring, and
glossy black hair, but narrow shoulders, long skinny
legs, and an awkward gait. But his excellent dress
sense (plain chinos and a blue shirt) made up for a
lot, as did his quick wit.

It was a warm sunny morning and a crowd had already
gathered. Old men sat on benches under the trees
reading the papers while keeping half an eye on the
action, and groups of teenage boys swarmed round the
ice-creams
vendors, chatting and hoping for some serious
flogging. Although there were four permanent whipping
frames, only a couple were in use, and those were
amateur punishments given by private owners. The
flogging we enjoyed came later, when the professional
whip-masters dealt with criminals brought in from the
local prison. To watch some piece of scum receiving
fifty lashes with a bullwhip was a deeply satisfying
way to spend a Saturday morning.
But first we had business. We put on our jackets,
buffed out toe-caps on the backs of our trouser legs,
slicked down our hair, and crossed the road to the
auction house.

The entrance hall was oak-panelled and rather grand.
Apart from a couple of cigar-smoking slave dealers
chatting in a corner, the place was empty except for
the female slave at the enquiries desk. She was a
fashionable corporate slave, neatly dressed in a blue
suit with nothing underneath. Her painted nipples were
visible and the left one was ringed. Her collar was
fixed to a broad leather neckband that held her head
erect. Her cropped
hair was dyed red.

We asked to inspect slaves of our own age group who
would be offered for auction or private sale within
the month. The slave nodded and asked us to follow her
through into the main auction room. This was in
semi-darkness, with the blocks, auctioneer's stand,
and electronic scoreboards all half-visible in the
gloom. The slave showed us into a viewing room, turned
on the lights, and asked us to sit. A negotiator would
be with us in a
moment.

The room was typical of its kind, all pink and baby
blue, lit by a chandelier with a stage enclosed by
Doric columns and gathered white muslin curtains. It
smelt musty.

Before long a door opened beside the stage and Mr
Drass himself came in. He greeted us as if we were his
best customers rather than a pair of gauche college
boys. He asked after our parents and relatives - small
town stuff.
We were anxious to explain our mission. Drass held up
a hand. 'Let me guess. You're at college together, and
in you second year have come round to the idea of
having a slave to look after you. Am I right?'
We both nodded. Drass smiled down at us. Of medium
height and built, with a smooth pink complexion and
receding hair, he was wearing a light check jacket
with a richly patterned silk square in the top pocket,
dark pants, and an open-necked green shirt. He looked
cool, well-to-do and pleased with himself. 'I think
I've a few items in stock that may fit the bill.'
He asked us to be patient for a couple of minutes and
disappeared. We sat in silence. We were gauche but not
ignorant. We knew all about hidden microphones,
two-way mirrors, credit checks, and the tricks of the
slave trade. Drass would be putting our eyes and
judgement skills to the test, mixing good stock with
bad, the superficially attractive with quality, the
vulgarly tarty with the desirable. But we were
prepared: not for nothing had we both been avid
readers of the monthly magazine 'Slaves and Slavery'
since the age of fourteen. We glanced at each other
and grinned. We were up for the challenge.

The first slave Drass brought in was black, with a
way-above-average muscle to fat ratio. Naked except
for his collar, a nipple ring and a leather gag, he
stood on the stage at the end of the room, and stared
impassively into the middle distance. We knew at once
that he was way beyond our price range, and trained
for public display. His cock hung down between his
thighs, and his stomach muscles were textured like
sculptured ebony. He was not for domestic use, but
would make a good mannequin in a gentleman's tailors,
or as an assistant in a lady's hairdressers. Drass
could not be serious. Nor was he - the merest shake of
my head and he dismissed the slave.

Next out was one of those physically perfect but
deadly dull purpose-bred slaves from Australia.
Although in the prime of young manhood, he was already
showing signs of decay in his sagging butt, and
wrinkling face. No
doubt we could get him cheap, but as an investment he
was a non-starter. The resale value of purpose bred
males was laughable. They lacked spirit and
intelligence, and were like old men by the time they
hit thirty. Once he'd been sent off, something much
more to our lking came on - a short cocky looking
youth with a gap-toothed grin and a well developed
torso. He did not mind eye contact at all, nor did he
blush when told to turn, bend and spread his butt for
an anal inspection. Drass was at pains to emphasise
the slave's fuckabilitiy, and said that if it was
buggery we were after this was the slave for us.
'We had a German dealer who specialises in slaves for
the big buggery houses in Berlin, and he was very
keen. If only the German authorities weren't so
restrictive about imports.'
Ford decided to take a close look and used a surgical
glove provided to test the sphincter and the state of
the rectum beyond. 'Not a virgin I take it,' he said
in his most grown-up voice.
It was Drass's turn to giggle. 'God no,' he said,
'that boy's been buggered from here to Istanbul... and
back.'
He caught himself and coughed. 'Excellent tightness,
even so. He's a firecracker. No question.'

It was an apt description, and I could see that Ford,
whose two greatest loves were vanilla ice cream and a
tight bum, was tempted. The butt was pert and the
cleavage sheer and tight, and he had a back broad with
beautiful musculature. Nor did the delights end there
- seen from the front his chest was flat, as was the
stomach. The Adam's Apple was large enoughto interfere
with the collar when he swallowed. His eyes were
bright and
full of cheekiness. No question he would be a delight
to own, if verylikely something of a handful.
Unfortunately, he was not what we were after, and in
any case his reserve price was too high.

Perhaps Drass had seen enough to decide we knew what
we were doing, because the next one on was Renzo
Filatino. This was embarrassing because we both knew
Renzo. He had always been a tearaway, but a nice kid,
and
handsome. His enslavement for rape had shocked
everyone in town. Things were made worse by the fact
that part of Renzo's punishment had been a public
whipping, and he had the torn back and hangdog
expression common among the recently enslaved and
flogged. He looked utterly broken. Ford lost no time
in asking to see the next slave, and poor Renzo, his
knees wobbling, and with a desperate look in his eyes,
was led out.

Before we had time to relax Stephen appeared. He
strutted in cuffed to a thickly bearded guard wearing
a severe dark blue uniform with a whip tucked into his
belt. Stephen was naked, and despite his arrogance,
not in good
shape.
'I should explain,' said Drass quickly as he took in
our shock, 'this slave has been giving us trouble and
we've had to discipline him, as you can see. However,
given proper training we've no reason to believe he
won't turn out to be a good slave. We've seen worse
cases, but there's no denying he needs training.'
There was a silence. Ford was staring at Stephen who
was staring back. It looked like they might fight
there and then. My eyes, however, were taking in
Stephen's tight, trim body. It was very much to my
taste, being limber,
well proportioned and beautifully detailed. The cock
was thick and uncut, and hung neatly over the large
ballsack; the thighs bulged and the calf muscles stood
out like bricks. The chest was remarkable for elegant
pecs and small nipples, and the washboard stomach was
made interesting by a tiny, deep belly button. The
back view stirred my balls - the butt had exactly the
right ratio of roundness to width. And seen
objectively the face and neck were superb.
Stephen's defiance and contempt only made his square
jawed features more impressive, as did his unkempt
fair hair. Now that the bully was caged, and the whip
was in my hand, everything that had used to intimidate
me was
turned to my advantage.  I wasn't rich, but I was
determined. I'd find a way to have him. Looking back,
I mark that moment as the start of my manhood. Stephen
would be mine, whatever it took.

Being an experienced salesman Drass sensed what was
going on. He seemed a little amused. Maybe he saw the
movement in the front of my pants, or the look in my
eye. Certainly Stephen did because he dropped his gaze
the
second our eyes met.  Yes, I thought, you're scared
stiff aren't you? Pity you didn't think of that four
years ago. I turned to Drass and asked in a voice loud
enough for Stephen to hear, 'How much is he?'
Drass looked at the slave and cocked his head. 'Like
that, without further training...' He pondered a
moment and then mentioned a figure.
Ford rolled his eyes, but I simply asked whether his
company's Slave Owner's Starter Pack was included in
the price. When Drass said it was, I turned to him and
held out my hand.
'I'll have him. I'll be in Monday morning with the
money order, and pick him up later in the week.'
Drass shook my hand and gave me a long shrewd look. 'A
pleasure doing business with you.'

Twenty minutes later we were in the crowd across the
road watching a child rapist being whipped. The man
was a gaunt lanky giant, and he had been secured so
tightly at the neck his head was forced upwards. I
could see the
gag in his mouth, the sweat on his face, the
expression of agony and despair. The whip-master had
already landed lashes along his outstretched arms,
down across his butt and thighs, and the shoulders and
back were a mass of weals and seeping wounds.

'We can't afford to buy Stephen.' Ford seemed bemused
by my decision. He could barely concentrate on the
flogging.
'If we buy him now, and sell him next year, having
training him up, we'll make thousands.' If Ford wasn't
convinced, no matter. I had a plan.
'What if he doesn't train well? What is he runs away?'
Ford's voice rose a little, as if close to panic.
'Don't worry. It's a challenge. We'll make a good
slave of him. There is no alternative. Failure is
unthinkable.''
Ford shook his head. 'But did you see that look in his
eye? Pure venom and aggression.'
'We'll give him double everything he throws at us.
I've a good feeling about this. Trust me.' I put my
arm round his shoulder. He shrugged but did not push
me away.
The prisoner had fainted and the whip-master had to
pause while water was used to revive the wretch. The
whip was dripping blood, and the whip-master used a
rag to wipe it clean.
'Let's be serious about this,' I said. 'If we get it
right we'll have a decent slave and a valuable asset.'
Ford seemed to cheer up. He turned his attention back
to the whipping. The prisoner was conscious again.
'You're probably right.' He cupped his hands round his
mouth and shouted to the whip-master. 'Lay it on
man... This isn't a kindergarten spanking.'
There was laughter. Ford was always good value at a
flogging.

Part Two

My Uncle Vincent was a bachelor who had made a
fortune, and in retirement had taken a large townhouse
where he amused himself dabbling in the arts and
collecting antiques. He was also a keen slaver, and
therefore the natural man to approach to finance our
purchase of Stephen Maine.

No one had better trained slaves than Vincent, who was
living propaganda for the slave system. He had always
kept and traded slaves, and never economised on the
number in his household. Even in retirement he was
still active in the salerooms. Tall, slim, tanned,
with grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache, he
exuded a certain type of panache and energy expressed
through ruthlessness of opinion and action, elegance
of dress and movement, laconic speech and dry wit. He
was not a man to be taken for granted.

When we told him about Stephen Maine he was amused. He
had never liked the men in the Maine family who he
thought drunken and philistine. Even so, he drove a
hard bargain, and Ford was in two minds, but I knew
we'd not get a better deal elsewhere. And doing
business with him was simple: he set out his terms, we
shook on the deal, and he wrote a cheque.

He did, however, offer us the warning that while we
might enjoy breaking in our old enemy, there would
come a time when Stephen would be ready to serve, and
willingly. 'Then you will learn that there's more to
being a master than willpower and the exercise of
authority. There's the obligation to accept loyalty,
hard work and devotion our slaves offer us.'
On the Monday morning I met Ford for breakfast before
setting off to take possession of our new slave. We
discussed the slave-name we would give Stephen
(deciding on Hades), and how we would divide up the
training duties. Then we headed into town to Scabbard
and Drass, arriving shortly after they opened for
business. We were in a hurry because we were driving
straight on to college.

Unlike the silence and languid atmosphere at the
weekend, the place was already bustling as sellers and
buyers arrived for an auction. Everyone was in a
hurry, even the slave dealers, who seen en masse,
looked like a breed apart with their droopy
moustaches, Havanas, bulging bellies, jaunty
waistcoats and loud suits adorned with bandannas and
ivory-handled whips.

After completing the paperwork and waiting for the
cheque to be approved, we were asked to go to the
despatch area were Stephen would be brought to us.
With some trepidation we made our way through the
crowds and down the stairs to the stock rooms. Guards
in olive green and black uniforms and peaked caps were
guiding in-coming slaves to the holding cages. They
used the deep barks and shouts of command, punctuated
by whip cracks, that are common to all slave-drivers.
There was the constant clanging of metal doors, and
snap of lock-bolts firing.

We pressed on through the crowd to the despatch area.
This was scarcely less busy, with rows of shackled
slaves being loaded onto trucks. They were naked
except for work-boots and sun-hats and cock rings with
labels attached, and each slave was chained to another
at the neck and waist, and all had been branded on the
forehead and right buttock with the name and logo of a
public utilities company. Whistle-blowing,
stick-wielding, bandanna-headed young overseers
stripped to their blue shorts drove them up onto the
back of the trucks that drove off at speed.

We joined the line of those waiting for their
purchases to be brought down from the courts or up
from the holding kennels. Ahead of us a young couple
with a baby were waiting for a young female who
finally appeared weeping like a child. The woman tried
to comfort her while the husband looked on in dismay.
A very pretty golden haired young male was claimed by
a purple-faced clergyman who immediately produced a
chain from his cassock and attached it to the collar
on the slave's thin neck, and then led his prize off
like a puppy on a leach. A butch female guard brought
up a girl with long auburn hair and a voluptuous
figure, who was presented to a very tall,
severe-looking woman wearing a black suit with a hat,
veil and gloves. The slave girl had to bow while her
new owner removed her bra. The woman put on a pair of
spectacles and played with the slave's left breast
before carefully fastening a brass tag of ownership to
the nipple. The girl inced and tears fell from her
eyes as the device was tightened, but the woman seemed
not to notice her pain.

Then Stephen appeared. He had been cleaned up since we
last saw him, and was wearing a cut-off dark red top,
that left his stomach bare, and white cotton shorts a
couple of sizes too small at the crotch. The bulge was
eye-catching. They had even given him new sandals and
a rather snazzy black iron collar. His hair was
freshly cropped, but his beard had a day's growth.
There was a piece of sticking plaster on his lip where
it had been cut, and he had a yellowing bruise on his
neck, but otherwise he seemed fit. The cuffs on his
right hand were not attached to the guard leading him,
perhaps because he was carrying the Slave Owner's
Starter Pack. The guard walked beside him with an easy
swagger of command and had a friendly smile. He had
pale eyes, a long nose and wide thin lips, but
powerful shoulders and a narrow muscular butt, and he
wore his uniform well. His crotch also bulged, and
some slave had laboured long to achieve the shine on
his boots.

The guard explained in a soft drawl that Stephen had
been behaving himself since receiving a 'sound
spanking' over the weekend. He was sure Stephen's
attitude would begin to improve, but in the meantime
we should keep a close eye on him and 'give his butt
the heat it needs.'
He went on to explain that the Starter Pack contained
most of the items we would require as slave owners.
There was a spoon, and bowls for eating and drinking,
spare sandals, shorts and work-shirt, jock, sun-hat,
blanket, toilet bag, tattoopen, butt plug, cock ring,
gag, hood, cuffs, shackles, nipple clamps, spare
collar, various ointments, indoor and outdoor paddles,
and a domestic whip. There was a book about slave
training and maintenance, a selection of religious
writings suitable for slaves, a punishment book, and
leaflets on slave exercise, diet, and discipline.
After we signed for our new slave, the guard handed
over the cuff keys and gave Stephen a firm smack on
his butt.
'You've got yourselves a good buy here; we've all
become quite fond of old Stephen.' He ruffled
Stephen's  close-cropped skull; wished us good luck,
saluted, and was gone.

At first everything went smoothly. Hades, as we now
called Stephen, settled in well and followed our
instructions to the letter. He showed no resentment
and seemed to be trying hard. He certainly wasn't
cheerful, but we saw no glimpses of attitude.
A routine developed and Ford and I spent most of our
time on campus. For much of the time Hades had little
to do. The apartment off-campus was in an
unfashionable neighbourhood, but had a pleasant
old-fashioned feel with spacious rooms. We furnished
it sparsely.

The slave quarters were beyond the kitchen, and
separated from the rest of the apartment by a lockable
metal grill. It consisted of a small bedroom with
shower and toilet. Hades didn't seem to mind sleeping
on a hard bed with only a blanket, any more than he
missed the TC. It was as though he had decided to
scale himself down to simply exist through his term of
servitude.

Even so, it was hard not to be aware of his brooding
presence. This annoyed me. At home I had never given a
second thought to what the slaves might overhear or
think. Their opinions counted for nothing. That was
not the case with Hades. He might wear a collar but he
remained very much a young free man doing his level
best to play the role of a slave. There was always an
underlying tension. We knew each other too well,
shared too much history, and carried too much baggage
for one another.
Things changed when our friend Rey came over to watch
a game on TV. He liked to come on like he was a
redneck, and looked like one in his baggy old
Bermudas, oversized T-shirt, and baseball cap. But his
good old boy act masked a shrewd intelligence. Nor had
his being overweight and bandy-legged, with no neck
and podgy features, stopped him from gaining a
reputation as a cock's man.

When Hades came in with our beers, Rey let out a low
whistle. 'Didn't know you guys have help. Look at the
butt on that. Fucked it yet?'

I shook my head. We were sitting in armchairs facing
the TV. Hades looked at me for further instructions
and I dismissed him with a nod.
'Hang on there.' Rey stuck a foot out and half-tripped
Hades. 'Mind if I poke about? These shorts... they're
kinda eye-catching.'
He reached out and ran his hand over the front of the
cotton shorts. He used his other hand to pat the butt
and then pulled the shorts down revealing the cock and
balls and the whole bottom. He took hold of the
circumcised cock. 'Pity the rope's been cut... but
very nice balls... needs shaving guys...the rear end
could use a razor too... but cute.'
He gave the butt another smack. 'Where did you get
him?'

Hades was blushing deep red. His lips were moving
although he made no sound. His knees trembled
slightly. Ford said he had been on special offer. I
said nothing. I felt uncomfortable, and it didn't take
Rey long to cotton on to the fact.

'There's something I'm not getting here. What is it?'
Rey still had hold of Hades' cock and was playing with
the tip. Hades stood stock still withhis eyes closed.
'He was in our year at school.'
Rey let out a great roar of laughter and raised his
left arm and gave Hades a great swat on his butt.
'You've bought your best buddy as your slave. Man,
that's cool.'
Ford shook his head. 'You've got it wrong.'
Rey cocked his head and then used his thumb and
forefinger to flick Hades' scrotum. 'Hey slave, look
at me.'
Hades turned and looked down at Rey who fell back in
his chair, crossed his legs and looked up at Hades
with a cocked head. 'What kid of a guy gets bought by
his classmates?'
When Hades said nothing, Rey kicked out at his shin.
'Speak.'

'I guess they thought I was worth the money.'

Rey looked past Hades at me. 'What the fuck type of
slave is this? He guesses... man you've got some funny
ideas about slaves. I'd kick his butt to the corner
and back if mine spoke like that.'

Ford told Hades to get out. The slave pulled up his
shorts, sniffed deeply, and turned to go, not
hurrying, and as he took a step Rey tripped him again.
He fell awkwardly and swore, but was on his feet in a
second and headed for the door as fast as he could.

Rey laughed and gave us both an old-fashioned look.
'So gentlemen... Why not tell your Uncle Rey all about
it?'

Things changed for Hades after Rey's visit. No longer
was he allowed to be the aloof and dignified figure
who served us without expression or enthusiasm. Rey
gave us a set of 'dos and don'ts' that soon turned our
cool young school bully into a proper master-fearing
slave. Rey taught us that it is as pointless to treat
a slave fairly as it is to treat a pair of pants
fairly. A slave is an owned object to be used, or
misused. If we fancied sticking our cock up Hades's
nice anus then we should not think twice before doing
so. If our balls itched for release, then have him
kneel and suck our cocks until the balls were drained
of every last drop of come. A slave could be made to
stand on one leg all evening, or run on the spot until
the floor was slick with his sweat. We could shove a
butt-plug up him and leave it there for days, or gag
him full-time.

We knew all this, of course, but having never owned a
slave before, and having been raised by conventional
parents who ran conventional households, we were
unaware of the possibilities. We had been inhibited,
and only when we ceased to be did we begin to enjoy
Hades.

At first he suffered the indignities with stoicism,
but it could not last. He began to beg for mercy, and
once or twice had to be beaten after showing signs of
resistance. Before long he began to buckle under the
taunts and
all the discomforts and humiliations. I began to
notice a different look in his eye, and cultivated it
by beating him more often, and fucking him. When I
relented I saw more than relief - there was gratitude
too. The bully was
being turned into a malleable slave.

But as his confidence waned his body developed. We
kept him on a diet of slave mush with added vitamins
and plenty of water. If he so much as ate a morsel of
our food we not only thrashed his hide, we would force
feed him a foul-tasting 'punishment mush' specially
manufactured for disobedient slaves. When he gagged we
would wash his mouth out, and then give him a
stringent enema. And we made sure he exercised hard
for two hours a day, ducking our blows as he sweated
and strained. His body changed fast, losing puppy fat
and gaining muscle, broadening at the shoulders and
thighs and calves as his chest deepened and his
backside grew more rounded. His voice lost its
arrogant edge and became soft and pleading, and he
learned to move silently, and to stand stock still,
and obey instructions without hesitation.
When Uncle Vincent came to visit he brought along his
chauffeur who was a fine looking black slave who wore
his dark uniform and boots with natural pride. Vincent
inspected Hades and declared himself impressed by the
progress we had made with him. He suggested the two
slaves be made to strip and fight.

This seemed like an excellent idea and Ford alerted
the neighbors. Students came piling out of the dorms
and we had to take ourselves into the yard so that
everyone could get a good view of the sport.

It made a fine sight. Vincent was dressed as always
like a gentleman in slacks and jacket and club tie,
while the rest of us were students eager to enjoy
ourselves. We made a square arena and called in the
two naked slaves.
The chauffeur was a fine specimen, his black skin
gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and there was a
purr of appreciation at the sight of his muscles
stirring and gathering, while he held himself with
dignity and stared round
with the fierce look of a true fighter.

Hades looked good too. His skin was fair, but shone
with health and vitality, and his musculature was
scarcely less developed. He looked nervous, but showed
no desire to flunk the match. He raised his fists with
a determined air and glowered at his opponent.

Vincent took a blue and red-spotted handkerchief from
his top pocket and held it out saying the fight would
begin when he dropped it, and would end when he
retrieved it and waved it over his head. The winning
slave would be
rewarded with a roast chicken dinner eaten off china
with napery, while  the loser would be flogged. He
then waited until the shouts of encouragement from the
crowd died down, and let the handkerchief fall.

The chauffeur made the first move, and strode up to
Hades, used his inside arm to smack the side of
Hades's head, and then punched him in the gut. Hades
groaned and doubled up, allowing the chauffeur a
second punch in the same place and another smack on
the back of the head. It seemed it might be quickly
over.

But Hades was made of stern stuff. He rallied and
grabbed the black slave by the balls and cocks,
squeezing them hard enough to make him jump and squeal
like a pig in a poke. The chauffeur fell backwards
with Hades on top
of him and the crowd roared its approval as the two
slaves, one so black, the other a pearly white, but
both perfect specimens, wrestled and bit and punched
one another. It was excellent sport.

The chauffeur was soon bleeding where he had been
bitten on his left buttock, and Hades's left eye
closed after a savage punch. There was much tearing at
nipples and balls, loud groans and exhalations, but
the pair seemed well matched and there was no clear
likely winner.

Vincent shouted that bets were permitted until he
retrieved the handkerchief, so all the students dug
deep into their pockets to find a few bills to lay on
one writhing body or the other. Voices were raised
threatening to whip the slave who lost and carry the
winner shoulder high in triumph round the campus. When
the fight became sluggish Vincent raised his
silver-topped cane and declared all the men present
should beat the slaves until they fought again like
the brave slaves of ancient Rome. Switches were cut
from trees and slaves sent running for sticks and
whips, and soon enough blows were landing on the
writhing, exhausted slaves to spur them on to better
efforts.

Vincent knelt to retrieve the handkerchief, and
shouted for the betting to cease. He acted just in
time because it was becoming clear that Hades would be
the winner. The chauffeur lay on his stomach with his
face pressed into
the dust, while Hades pounded and tore at him. There
was blood on the grass, and desperate gasps for
breath.

Vincent waved the handkerchief and declared Hades the
winner. A great cheer went up and young men stepped
for ward from the crowd to grab Hades and kick the
chauffeur. They raised Hades high and put a crown of
leaves on his head, and marched him off in glory. Ford
and I exchanged a look. Would this triumph make our
humble frightened slave into an arrogant bully again?
Vincent came over. He was smiling broadly as he
replaced his handkerchief. 'Not a bad afternoon of
college sport.'

Ford shook his head. 'I hate to think of the effect
all this will have on Hades.'

Vincent feigned shock. 'My dear fellow you will have
to spank him if he shows signs of getting too big for
his boots, but this display will enhance his value at
auction.'
He looked down and saw his chauffeur still lying
trampled in the dust. 'Find some slaves to take this
wretch to the nearest flogging frame.' He used his
polished boot to turn his chauffeur on his back.
'Fifty lashes for you.'

The slave stared up at his master in despair. Too
exhausted to plead for mercy, too weak to stand, and
covered in blood, grime and snot, he lay motionless
with his eyes closed.

Two young slaves from the kitchens came to remove him.
Dressed in white overalls they took hold of him
gingerly and raised him up. One complained that he
would be punished for getting himself covered in blood
and mess. Vincent said his chauffeur should be whipped
at once and without being cleaned up. 'Get it over and
done with. The wretch must drive me home tonight.'

When Hades returned from his tour round the cheering
dorms, we let him enjoy his moment of triumph and sent
him off to shower and tend his wounds. We had the
slaves from the kitchens set up a table in the yard
and lay it
with silver and fine linen. We borrowed a slave cloak
made of royal blue velvet and white slave-boots from
the small museum in the Department of Slave Studies,
and when Hades reported to us we sprayed him with fine
cologne.

He was smiling and looked as happy as he had ever when
bullying Ford and myself. So we let him have his
moment, and dressed him and led him out to enjoy his
roast chicken dinner. A crowd had gathered to watch
and a roar of approval went up when Hades appeared
clad in royal blue and still wearing his crown. And
how he smiled round after he had bowed! Then he sat on
a gilt chair. The kitchen slaves brought and sereved
the food. They poured the wine, lit candles and spread
a napkin across Hades's lap. He was naked except for
his cloak and had a hard-on. There was no denying he
looked a most handsome young man, and hardly like a
slave.

Before Hades had time to take a mouthful of food, two
slaves from the campus security division appeared with
the chauffeur. Whereas he had been merely exhausted
before and covered in cuts and bruises and bites, now
he
sported a back laced with whip marks, many of them raw
and bloody. He slumped to his knees before Hades who
laughed out loud at the sight of his opponent so
humiliated and broken.

It was too much. No slave should get away with such an
uppity show, and certainly no slave belonging to me
would go unpunished. I stepped forward, and pulled the
small whip from my hip pocket. As Hades reached for
his
knife and fork I placed the whip on the tablecloth
beside his wine class. I took the fork from his hand
and dug it into the mashed potatoes. I raised it to my
lips, tasted it, and nodded my approval.

Hades was smiling up at me, and I could see the old
insolence of the bully in the cool stare behind the
boyish grin. With a flick of my hand I tipped the
plate of food onto the ground, and then cleared the
linen of wine and
condiments. I grabbed my slave by the back of its
neck, raising him and forcing him ass-up over the
table. I kicked away the gilt chair, and used my boot
to force the muscular legs apart. I tore the cloak off
him and tossed it to the chauffeur, whose grime-caked
face was breaking into what looked like a smile, and
cupped my hands and spat.

'This slave is an insolent affront, and will be shown
the error of his ways.' My voice rang out over excited
whoops and laughter. Then I rubbed my hands together,
pushed the palms between the slave's buttocks,
withdrew
them to be wiped clean by an attending slave, and then
had another slave kneel and open my fly. Hades was
bent over the table, and did not move. He would be
weeping before long.

I plunged in deep, making Hades cry out for mercy, and
then rode him like a Derby jockey heading for the
finish. It took me ten minutes to climax, and after I
withdrew I thrashed his red rump with a crop and then
offered
him to the crowd for general use for the next hour.
I'd decide whether to have him flogged in the morning,
but in the meantime I hoped my college buddies would
take full advantage of a very well made hole, and a
mouth as
nice and softly comforting as any pussy.

By the time Vincent left around midnight the chauffeur
had recovered sufficiently to wear his uniform and
drive. Vincent told him the exercise had done him
good, adding that no slave was ever the worse for a
flogging. The chauffeur meekly agreed. He bowed deeply
as he held the door open for Vincent.

I didn't see Hades until the next morning. He looked
gaunt and was trembling, but I felt no compunction
when I ordered him to be taken away and flogged as the
chauffeur had been. What's sauce for the goose is good
for the gander.

Ford and I sold Hades six months later and made a nice
profit. As I watched him on the block, so trim and fit
and handsome, and so meek and slavish in his
demeanour, I felt a surge of pride. We had done well
with him. He had another two years to serve as a
slave. With any luck his new owners would apply to
extend that to ten years or more. Enough to get good
use from the asset we had created.

That night we celebrated and asked Rey round for a
drink. The slave I'd bought that day to replace Hades
served us. He was young and still fresh from the
courts. Rey took one look at him and shook his head in
mock-disbelief. 'Guys, what we have here isn't a
slave, it's an affront.' He gave the slave a huge
whack on his butt, and sighed. 'Listen up while your
Uncle Rey tells you what has to be done with him.'

THE END