Date: Sat, 26 Jun 2010 08:06:18 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Canal

THE CANAL
A short story by Pete Brown (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

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

It's my own fault, I admit that.  But I'd never have been caught at all if
it hadn't been for that bitch Marie-Claire.  Look, we all know that you can
only get enslaved in three ways - for a violent crime like murder, or
beating someone up, or rape; for being captured in war; and for cheating on
your taxes.  I have to say that I used to agree with it - we certainly
don't have anything like the level of violent crime there used to be.  And
war has mostly died out, too, as you can't get soldiers to go off and fight
if they think they'll end up as slaves.  And as for taxes - well, there's
always been too much cheating, and I suppose the government has to get the
money somewhere.

I was smart - I could easily have gone to college, as I was a star pupil at
school, but I wanted to be "free", to get on with life, and I saw an
opportunity where we lived to go and do landscape maintenance for the rich
folk - they'd be prepared to pay almost anything for a fit, strong man who
could be relied on to turn up on time and do exactly as they asked, and I
soon had a thriving business.  Most of the payments were in cash, of
course, and so it was easy enough to keep two sets of books - one for the
tax man, and one for me that was securely encrypted on my laptop so I could
see exactly how much money I was making. Which was a whole lot more than
showed up in the first set!

Not only was my business going well, but I picked up a stunning girlfriend.
I knew it was never going to last - her family was really rich and didn't
approve of me at all.  But she liked my body, and she liked the way I
fucked her, and so we were doing all right.  And it was great for me - sex
every night with someone who was as enthusiastic about it as I was.  And
when I went down to the sports club and she came to collect me, I liked the
way all the other guys' eyes swivelled to eye her up, and I knew they were
all wildly jealous of me when she came over to me, threw her arms around my
neck, and kissed me deeply.

It might have gone on for at least another year, I reckon, until the day of
the big match - the really important one.  I wanted to go down the sports
club and watch it on the big screen with all my buddies, but she wanted me
to take her over to see her folks - fucking stupid, really, as she could
after all drive herself in her big fancy Mercedes sports.  So we had a bit
of a quarrel before I left, and I was in a bit of a shitty mood when I got
to the club. But I soon cheered up when all my buddies arrived and one
thing led to another - two beers became four, then six, eight.... I lost
count.  So when I did get back to her apartment I'd certainly had too many,
way too many, and I was really horny.  She met me in the entrance as soon
as I'd opened the door, and started slanging me off about being drunk.  I
tried to throw my arms around her to kiss her and make up, but she pushed
me away and I banged against the wall (I was a bit unsteady on my feet!).
 That really pissed me off, and I threw myself at her again, this time
succeeding in grabbing her around the waist, picking her up, and carrying
her into the bedroom.  She was struggling hard and hitting me as I did
this, and somehow it was a real turn-on.  I threw her down onto the bed and
forced myself on to her - well, forced is a bit of a strong word, as
there's no way she could stop me: I am six foot four and muscled to match,
and very fit and strong from all my landscaping, after all.  The more she
tried to stop me, the more exciting it became, and it was lucky I could get
my dick out of my jeans in time, I was so close to shooting.  It wasn't an
epic fuck, but it was what I needed.

When I ultimately woke up the next morning I had the very son of a bitch of
a hangover.  I could smell coffee from the kitchen so dragged myself in
there, scratching my balls as guys do in the morning.  But the coffee
wasn't for me, and there, in the hall, I saw a lot of bin liners with all
my clothes and stuff in them.  She was icily calm as she said "So you've
surfaced at last.  Go and put your clothes on - I left some jeans and a T
by the bed - then pick up all your stuff here and get the fuck out."

I tried to reason with her, really l did.  I was sorry for the night
before, and it's not as if we hadn't fucked lots of times before.  But she
was saying stuff like "rape" - I mean, what a lot of rubbish: it wasn't
that at all, just a guy having sex with his girlfriend.  I went to put my
arms around her to "kiss and make up", and she threw her coffee at me - I
screamed as it hit my bare chest and trickled down on to my dick, and with
my head pounding away as it was, it really pissed me off.  I remember
shouting that if she was throwing me out we may as well fuck one last time,
and I suppose I repeated the previous night's performance.

I swear she enjoyed it!  But afterwards she told me to go, or else she'd
call the cops and I'd be enslaved for rape.  "And what will your family and
all their fancy friends thing about that?", I retorted.  "If I get taken to
court for that, I'll have to tell about how you like sex, all those special
things you like me to do... And I'll say that I couldn't tell it was rape,
as you usually liked to scream and try to fight me off.... It will make you
sound like some really sex-starved slut...."

She made me leave anyway, but I knew I had nothing to worry about as her
family wouldn't want there to be any upset on the social scene.  So I moved
back into my own tiny apartment, and set about finding myself another girl
to fuck - well, a young guy of twenty-four needs sex, doesn't he?

They came for me six weeks later.  Sent a van and three members of the
Slave Police to pick me up where I was working.  I couldn't put up much of
a fight as I was stripped down to shorts as it was such a hot day, and they
had no problem in finding some bare skin to use the slave prod on, after
which it was easy to cuff me and throw me into the back of the van. At the
station I shouted "You've got it all wrong - it wasn't rape at all... The
bitch wanted it, she was insatiable, she...."

"Boy, shut the fuck up!"  I hated being called boy, but the way the chief
honcho did it, tapping his slave prod into this hand in a menacing way,
convinced me to be quiet.

"Who said anything about rape?  Acting on information received, we today
went to your apartment and unlocked your laptop. And decrypted your secret
files!  You've been cheating the taxman, boy, and we only needed to make a
few enquiries from some of your clients to see that their cash payments
were recorded in one set of files, but not the other."

"But how did you decrypt..."

"Information received, boy, as I said."  I knew what had happened then-
that bitch knew my decryption key as I'd been so proud of the profits I was
making that I'd showed her all my "real" books one night.  She must have
ratted to the police on me, and I kind of knew, I suppose, what was going
to happen to me now: I was going to be enslaved for tax evasion, so she'd
get her revenge without sex even being mentioned in the court.

The lawyer the court appointed - it was a requirement, because of the
seriousness of the crime and the probable punishment - told me it hardly
mattered whether I pleaded guilty or not guilty, as there was so much
written evidence backed up by a whole lot of witness statements and stuff.
He did his best, but there was really no argument: it was clear I was
guilty, and the statutory punishment was handed down - I was enslaved.

________________________________

I've been doing this fucking job for four years now.  I'm one of a team of
three slaves whose only job is to keep the irrigation canal clear.  It runs
for about ten miles from a lake high up in the hills, mostly along the
ridge line, until it ends up in the city water works of a small farming
town.  When I say "canal" some of you probably thing of those wide, calm
stretches of water you find in the UK and France and Germany and so on,
that were dug in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries to take
barges carrying industrial raw materials and finished goods - they were
basically made obsolete by the arrival of the railways.  This one is
different - it's an irrigation canal, built in the late eighteenth century
because they didn't have the technology to make big enough iron pipes at
that time.  It's about a metre wide, and never more than a metre or so
deep.  It must have taken hundreds of men to build - they had to make
cuttings through hills, make
 embankments across a couple of valleys, and so on, because it's
essentially flat - or, rather, it slopes gently along its whole length from
the lake to the waterworks, so the water rushes along without the need for
pumps or anything which I guess they didn't have then, anyway - they could
easily replace it with a pipe these days, but then it probably would have
to be pumped at some point, and all those ecologists and "save the planet"
people would be up in arms about the waste of energy when the current
system uses none at all.  None at all, that is, except the manual labour of
me and my buddies, and I don't suppose that counts, as we're all three of
us slaves.

The whole thing is a kind of stone trough - big slabs of stone a metre or
so high and two metres long form each side, with a similar piece forming
the bottom. It's open at the top.  These slabs must have taken an awful lot
of cutting, but they've certainly lasted, and they're sunk into the ground,
with the joints between them made watertight by posts which the slabs on
either side slide in to.  The problem with this open trough is that it runs
through woods, and across open fields, and stuff falls in to it - branches,
weeds, and, worst of all, a whole lot of rubbish like old tyres, and near
towns supermarket trolleys and general rubbish.  So our job is to patrol
the thing, starting at the lake, and working our way towards the
waterworks, clearing out any fallen branches, shovelling out any soil or
rock that has fallen in and is lodged up against the posts and which sooner
or later will build up and really restrict the flow, and of course removing
and
 hauling away all the urban junk like tyres and stuff so that it's not
unsightly - the canal has a public footpath running alongside it, and the
authorities like to make it an enjoyable experience for walkers and hikers.
In fact, we have to keep the path clear, too, chopping down an fresh growth
that tends to narrow it, replacing and bits which have got washed away in
the rain, and so on.

And when we get to the waterworks, we have to walk back up the path to the
lake, and start all over again.

It's fucking hot most of the time - there's shade in the wooded stretches
of course, but when you're on an open section in August, the sun beats down
on you mercilessly.  It's never actually cold - even in January the daytime
temperatures are surprisingly warm - although it does go down to freezing
overnight!  So our "uniform" is pretty minimal.  We've all got slave
collars as you'd expect: big, heavy iron ones. They say the weight of them
is to remind us of our status, as we're always conscious of them even after
wearing them for years; and of course as soon as any of the hikers see
them, they know we're slaves.  They also contain a GPS device too, so it's
no use us trying to escape, or even to stray more than fifty metres or so
from the side of the canal.  Other than that all they give us is a tiny
loincloth, in bright orange canvas, held up by a length of old rope tied
roughly around our waists!  You'd think they'd at least give us shorts, but
we've
 been told that the loincloths are a further way of reminding folk what
could happen to them (especially the groups of young kids who go hiking):
not only is it humiliating to have your dick and balls so nearly exposed to
everyone, but your ass is completely uncovered so they can easily see the
big "S" branded in to the left ass cheek.  Yes, of course I was branded -
the very day after I was arrested and tried (justice is swift these days,
with none of those endless appeals and stuff they used to have).  I was
"processed" by being collared and branded, and then, when I was still
whimpering with the pain, they held me down and tattooed my SIN (slave
identification number) in big, big characters on my right pec.

You'd expect that we'd be given workmen's boots because of all the digging
and stuff we have to do, but we are barefooted and my feet have really
toughened - I have a good half inch of hard skin all over my soles.  They
say it's because we're always in and out of the water (which we are, as we
have to dig stuff out of the canal) and boots would simply get soaked.  But
I think it's really so that the scrap of bright orange cloth is the only
thing we have - bare feet simply add to the effect of us being almost
totally naked, and makes us look even more humiliated And, before you ask,
the loincloths are that bright orange like you see on the safety vests of
highway construction crew and the like, as they want to emphasise that we
are indeed workers.  And yes, we do have to work - work fucking hard, as
our position along the canal is constantly monitored and if it seems we're
taking too long on stretch, one of the supervisors comes out and
"encourages" us
 with a light strapping, or the punishment cane if he thinks we've really
been slacking.

So here I am, at twenty eight, tall and muscular and really fit.  My skin
is burned a deep, deep tan (even my dick and balls, which you'd expect
would be covered by the loincloth, but the sun seems to creep in.  And
sometimes, in the height of summer, we do lie naked if we're on a really
secluded bit as we eat our dinner).  My hair is streaked rough blond from
the sun, too, and it's kind of long - well, it only gets cut every couple
of months when the supervisor remembers to bring scissors with him on one
of his inspection trips, and it's not at all neat as none of us is a
hairdresser and we just have to hack at it.  I heard a woman say to her
companion recently as they walked past us that it was a disgrace that they
spent money on cutting slaves' hair so fashionably - apparently, the
"rough, tousled look" is the way a lot of male models and celebrities and
people now wear it: we wouldn't know, as we don't get magazines or TV or
anything!  We don't
 look like models, though, as we've usually got a whole lot of rough beard,
as we only get to shave once a week when one disposable razor is delivered
with our ration of chow for the week - we have to share it between the
three of us, and use the cold water from the canal as there's no heater.

My two companions are older than me - Dan's thirty, and Ken's thirty two.
They're not as tall as me, but they're muscled and fit, of course, from the
work.  Dan's got quite curly hair and a lot of body hair (he usually has to
hack at his pubes when the supervisor brings the scissors - well, we all do
from time to time, as those loin cloths are really small, but Dan needs to
do it most times), and Ken's is a bit like mine.  It's lucky we all get
along together - although I suppose it's inevitable as we spend twenty four
hours a day, every day, in each others company.  If we didn't at least rub
along, we'd probably have killed each other by now.  Dan's actually a
captured soldier - his real name is one of those unpronounceable ones they
have in Eastern Europe full of C, X, Z and K - but it starts with Dan, so
that's what he uses.  We were apparently "peace keeping" in some rat hole
in one of those central European places, and gave both sides fair
 warning to stop the civil war, and when they didn't, we went in heavy and
simply took all the captured soldiers on both sides as slaves - the war
soon stopped then, after years and years of strife.  Ken's the one I
sometimes worry about, as he's got a real temper and doesn't control
himself all that well - you have to be careful not to upset him as he's
likely to strike out at you.  That's why he's a slave - someone said
something Ken didn't like about his woman in a bar, and wouldn't apologise
(or, most probably, Ken didn't like the apology and gave no second chances)
- Ken punched him to the floor, and then started kicking him before Ken's
mates stopped him - but too late, of course, as that sort of behaviour is
no longer tolerated.

We rely on each other I suppose, as it really only works if the three of us
act as a team.  You see our shelter - yes, we do have shelter, as the
nights can be very cold - has to be portable: it's a big tube of heavy duty
plastic sheet about three metres long, and a length of rope.  Every night
we thread the rope through the sheet and tie each end to a tree.  Then we
lie inside the tube, and that's where we sleep - no mattresses or anything,
and we have to search around to find two suitable trees that have, ideally,
got grass under them to make it a bit soft.  The sheet, the rope, and the
big sack of slave chow they deliver once a week is all we "own" (and of
course it's our owners who own it, not us really).  One of us has to carry
all that along whilst the other two work,: at the start of the week it's
really tough as the plastic weights quite a lot, and a full sack of slave
chow is very heavy.  It gets better as the week goes on and we eat our way
 through the chow - that's all we ever get to eat unless some kind hiker
gives us the remains of a picnic (although the public generally know why
slaves have been enslaved, and they don't have a lot of sympathy for us),
and in the autumn, if there's time as we're on schedule, we can pick
blackberries from the briars we have to keep hacked down away from the
path.

There's no drink either - except the water in the canal.  As I was standing
there pissing into the canal one night, Ken was drinking from upstream of
me, and Dan laughed suddenly and called out "Have you thought, Ken, that
there might be someone like Steve just standing a bit further upstream,
pissing into the canal that you're now drinking?"  Ken just shrugged - I
mean, what can you do?  The water's not treated or anything until it gets
to the works at the end, but it doesn't seem to do us any harm - we all get
a touch of the runs occasionally, but I guess our bodies are used to it.

May, June, September and October are the best months.  It's pleasantly warm
during the day, and not too cold at night.  July and August are hell, as
the sun is so fierce on our naked bodies, and it's often so hot that sleep
inside our "tube" is impossible and we just stretch out on the grass.  The
rest of the year is a bit problematic - rain is a real issue, as it's
terrible to have it on your naked skin: it hurts, and it makes you cold!
And in March and April we're likely to get really hard downpours, much
worse than being in a shower bath, and they're really painful - we huddle
inside the plastic sheet, but we can't stay there for long else we fall
behind with our work and get punished.  October through February are the
worst for us - once the sun gets up it's not all that cold (and you do see
people hiking in T shirts in those months) - the real problem is that if
we're in the trees, the air is quite chill.  And, as I've mentioned,
overnight it
 drops almost to freezing anyway.  The only way we can keep warm at night
is to all huddle together in our plastic tube - well, at least it gives us
an excuse - so, OK, I'd better tell you about sex.

What do you expect three very fit young guys are going to do?  It's simply
not true that nubile young hikers throw themselves on horny slaves -
indeed, most of them look terrified of us and don't even speak as they
scuttle past where we're working: I suppose we do look kin of wild, and the
probably imagine we were all enslaved for rape.  So that leaves jerking
off, or fucking.  Look, I don't want you to think that I'm queer or
anything - before I was enslaved there were always enough bitches lusting
after my body that I hardly ever even had to jerk off once I was sixteen.
But what's a guy with a hard erection supposed to do when you're huddled
together with two other totally naked guys all night?  So, yes, I do fuck -
Dan and Ken, both.  And, actually, I enjoy it: look, I'm sure every guy has
given his girlfriend one up her ass every now and then, just for a bit of
excitement.  Well, fucking a guy's ass is better, way better.... Well,
fucking Ken's
 and Dan's is, as they're hard and muscular, and can really give my dick a
good time.  And it's kind of satisfying to hear another guy crying out and
trying to stifle a scream as a long, thick, hard dick rams into him (and
mine is both long and thick!) - it must be something about the need all men
have to prove they're "top dog". There's never any doubt amongst us three,
anyway.

So that was my life - working away along the canal, clearing and chopping,
and carrying away big items of rubbish to the nearest point where the canal
went under a track so that a truck could collect it (or, sometimes, if we
were near a town, it would be a cart pulled by a couple of slaves acting as
human ponies - they didn't have a lot of time, as they were monitored, like
us, but at least it was someone else to talk to).  Actually, working near
towns and roads is the worst as people come past and make comments about
you, and even taunt you as they know you can't retaliate. Most of the time,
the hikers we see are OK - they're pretty decent sorts and simply ignore
you: I suppose they're generally the better educated and well off, as poor
ignorant slobs don't go hiking.

As I said, I'd been doing this for four years, with no prospect of any end
to it - I could see myself there in a loincloth when I was fifty!  The
worst thing is the boredom - I've lost count of the number of times I've
been up and down the canal, and there are no surprises any more as I know
every inch of it.  And although Dan and Ken are nice guys, we haven't got a
lot to talk about as we are always together, and we don't see the news or
TV or anything.  We sometimes mention some outrageously freakish fat person
who's waddled past, or occasionally we play a game with each other where we
have to describe the bitch we'd most like to have fucked that day, and see
if the others remember, or even agree.  But that's about it.  I even
reckoned I was losing the ability to read, as even if we did find an old
newspaper, it was soaked and generally in no fit state to be read.  I once
heard a hiker tell some others that part of the punishment for a slave was
the
 endless repetition of mindless tasks that could easily benefit from the
use of power tools and the like - but slaves had to do it manually to
emphasise how they were utterly important.

One day I was in the water throwing silt out onto the bank when a voice
said "Steve...?  Surely it's not you....?"  At first I didn't react - I
just thought it was a hiker talking to her companion, as they generally
totally ignore us slaves.  Then I looked up at a pair of expensive hiking
boots were in front of me on the path - and as my gaze wen higher, there
was Marie-Claire!

I scrambled out of the water and up the bank onto the path as best I could,
conscious that my loincloth slipped and exposed me to her as I did so - but
then, she'd seen my dick often enough.  I stood there, looking at her - she
was as stunning as ever, and I felt my dick begin to stir as memories
flooded through me.

"Yes, it is you, isn't it, Steve?".  She laughed, and went on "What a
coincidence!  I never thought I'd see you again, once you were enslaved.  I
thought they'd send you down the mines or something, as you were so strong.
Still, slavery seems to suit you, Steve, you're looking even better that
you used to.  And that tan....!  I don't think much of your clothes sense,
though: you used to be so proud of that designer stuff you always wore!"

"Get out of my way, bitch!  I'm working."

She took her hiking pole and pushed it towards my loincloth, as if to move
it to one side.  I wasn't going to stand for that, so I grabbed the end and
snapped "Cut that out!"

"Well, Steve, you are getting sensitive.  You were always keen enough on
waving that dick of yours at me once.  But I don't like the use of the word
'bitch'....  Let me note your SIN I can see inked on your chest, slave!
I'm sure that if I report that a slave was rude to a member of the public
there'll be at least a caning for you, if not a whipping.  I think you
ought to apologise."

I gritted my teeth and said "Please, ma'am, you're preventing this slave
from working.  And if you continue to stand there, those fancy hiking boots
are likely to get covered in this slimy silt - and it will probably splash
onto your legs, too, ma'am."

She stood back, smiling slightly.  "Well, as I said, Steve, slavery seems
to suit you.  At least you're no longer fucking women against their will.
Or cheating on your tax!"

"So it was you....!"

"Of course it was, Steve.  You needed to learn how to treat a woman."

"But it's for life, Marie-Claire - a lesson that's gone on for four years,
and will go on for ever...."

"Perfect.  A good example to others.  I bet some other small contractors
were deterred from cheating on their tax when they read abut your case in
the papers!"  She turned and went to walk off, but paused and added "At
least you don't have tax to worry about now, do you, Steve?  But what do
you do about sex?  I don't see a whole lot of women around here - so has
Steve the big shagger of women turned into Steve the queer?  Do you force
yourself on those other two slaves, Steve?"

"I don't have to force myself..."  As I said it, I knew it was the wrong
thing to say.  I didn't force Ken or Dan - we all knew that we wanted sex,
and all knew that I was never going to take cock, so it was understood that
I fucked them.  But Marie-Claire took it the wrong way - probably
deliberately, to provoke me.

"Oh, so you don't force yourself.  So you like men now, do you, Steve?"

"Fuck off, Marie-Claire!"

"One call, Steve, that's all it takes.  One call on my mobile...."

"Please, ma'am, please leave us to get on with our work."

__________________________

We got down to the water works about six days later, cut our hair and
shaved our beards as best we could, and were about to start the long trek
back to the lake again when one of the supervisors came out and ordered me
to follow him in to the office.  There was an older, distinguished looking
guy in expensive clothes sitting in there across the desk from the office
manager.  I stood there for a moment, and the manager said "This is the
slave you enquired about, sir."

The older guy looked me up and down.  "Very satisfactory.  I suppose I'd
better make sure he's complete, though".

The office manager snapped at me "Lose that stupid loincloth." , and when I
hesitated, pulled his prod up from where it had been hanging on his belt
and pointed it towards me.  I got the message, and untied the rope from
around my waist and let the shred of cloth fall to the floor.  It's not
that I'm ashamed of my body or anything, but being forced to strip in front
of other guys is really humiliating - even if you weren't wearing a lot to
begin with.

"My, he is a big boy, isn't he?  Very impressively hung", the older guy
commented.  And the office manager nodded in agreement.

"I think the deal we agreed is fine then."  As he said this, the older guy
pulled out his mobile phone and keyed something in.  "There - the money's
transferred."

The office manager turned to the PC on his desk and typed something in, and
nodded "Received.  He's all yours."

I'd been sold!  Just like that!  It was bad enough to be enslaved
initially, but now to see that I could be sold just as if I was a mere
nothing, in a few seconds, so casually....

"No, my good sir".  The older guy was speaking again.  "Our agreement was
that you would have those changes done - the new collar, and so on, at your
expense.  You can have him delivered to my villa next week."

Well that seemed to be that.  The two men shook hands and the older one
left, and I stood there, then bent to pick up my loincloth and tie the rope
around my waist again.  The office manage laughed. "You may as well cling
to that shred of modesty, boy - I don't expect you'll be wearing it for
long.  Your new owner's got a big villa near the coast, where it's hotter
even than here."

I nodded.  It didn't sound all that bad - at least it wouldn't be so cold
at night.  I was going to ask more, but he called out and a supervisor came
in and herded me out.  I realised I was never going to see Dan and Ken
again, in all probability - two guys I'd shared my life with totally
intimately for four years, and now we were torn apart, just like that,
because some guy chose to buy me.

I was shipped to a slave processing centre - an ordinary brick building in
a run-down area on the edge of a city.  They wasted absolutely no time when
I arrived, and I was soon sitting in what looked like a doctor's office,
except for the chair that I was sitting in.  It was more like that in a
dentist's office, except for the straps holding my arms down, and the
heavier straps around my upper body and belly that stopped me pulling away
from the chair.  A doctor came in - well, I guess he was a doctor as he had
a white coat - together with another, younger guy, also in a white coat.

"Before we start, you need to make sure the legs and feet are immobile",
the doctor said.  "We don't use anaesthetic here as it's too much trouble
to get a special licence, what with the annual inspections that requires,
and so on.  So they can kick out at you if they're not properly
restrained."

The younger guy nodded, and bent and began to fasten more straps around my
ankles, holding them to the legs of the chair.

"Now let's get him in position...."  The doctor moved a few controls, and
the chair hummed and I was almost prone.  The doctor pulled up a seat next
to me.  "Now watch this carefully...", he told the younger guy, who I
guessed was some sort of assistant.

"What are you doing to me?"  I demanded, struggling against the bonds that
held me immobile. I'd kept silent up until then as I kind of knew that it
was useless for a slave to ask anything.  But all this talk about
anaesthetics had got me worried.  No, not worried - scared.

I shouted with the shock, as the doctor slapped my belly, hard.  "Let's
have some proper respect, boy!" - I hate it when they call me that, but
it's pretty normal, I suppose, even for slaves who are even older than me.
"We're going to give you a vasectomy - you know, tie off the tubes from
your balls, so when you shoot, there are no little swimmers in it."

"NO!  Please... Please, you can't do that.  I want to have a family one
day, have a son to carry on the family name...."

"No chance of that now, boy.  I guess your owner has got female slaves
around and doesn't want all the mess and bother of them getting pregnant
from a stud like you.  Or the expense of having them aborted.  So it's
easier to have you tied off."

"No, please, I want to stay as a man...."

"Don't you know anything about biology, boy?  You'll still be a man - male
hormones will still get made in your balls.  And when you jerk off -
assuming your owner lets you do that - there'll still be a lot of
ejaculate: that's generated in the prostate, and only about two percent of
a man's cum is actually sperm.  So don't worry - you'll act like a man
still...."

"No, please....  I don't want it.  I want to be able to be a father....."

"Boy, it's not up to you.  You're a slave, and your owner has ordered it,
and that's all there is to it.  You're lucky he didn't order a castration -
that's becoming the popular option these days, especially for big guys like
you - without all the hormones, you'd be much calmer".  He fiddled around
getting instrument ready, then looked t me and said "Now, let's not play
games by me telling you this isn't going to hurt - it is!"

I did scream as his scalpel cut into me - even though it was only a tiny
cut - and carried on screaming as he probed inside to find the tubes up
from my balls.  At some point the doctor told his assistant to shut me up,
and to add to all my other problems a big wad of surgical dressing was
stuffed into my mouth to quieten me.

After what seemed like a lifetime, they'd clearly finished as a small piece
of adhesive plaster was stuck over the cut, and the wadding was pulled out
of my mouth.  My whole body felt sore from where I'd been futilely
thrashing against the bonds holding me down, and I was glistening all over
with sweat.

"OK, you can let him free now", the doctor said to his assistant, and in a
harder tone, to me "Boy, behave now... I've got a prod here and if you
cause any trouble...."  He stopped, flicked through his papers, then said
"Hold it!  Leave him tied down.... There's more work to be done.  His owner
wants him circumcised."

I tried protesting again, but it was useless.  I told them I was a man, and
I ought to be able to choose stuff like that myself.  But of course they
simply reminded me that I was a slave, and it was my owner's requirements
that mattered now.  Then to my horror I heard the young assistant say "Can
I do him?  I've never done a 'skinning myself before - I've watched it of
course, but I need to practice.  And this looks like an easy one - a nice
big penis so it won't be too fiddley... And a loose-looking foreskin
already.... And the owner wants a 'high and tight', so it's nothing too
fancy."

The doctor told him that he could, and this time they gagged me before I
began to scream.

If the pain of the vasectomy was like someone hitting you constantly in the
balls, my 'skinning was a whole series of sharp, jagged pains that hurt as
they happened, and then went on stinging and stinging.  The first cut was
of the little flap underneath that held my foreskin to my dick head - that
hurt - then when they slid a sort of cylinder down over that, it hurt even
more as the metal abraded against the raw edges of the cut on this really
sensitive part.  I was almost past caring as they cut in a circle around my
'skin, using the cylinder to cut against.  And when they came to stitch the
inner and outer cut ends together to finish up, all I could do was console
myself that it was nearly over.

I was locked in a tiny cell for the next two days in the so-called
"hospital" - well, more like a cage, really, as it was just stout metal
square trellis separating us from each other along a long corridor -
together with some other slaves who'd been operated on.  And, yes, they
actually did do castrations, they weren't kidding me along.  There was one
young guy who had been castrated - he was in the cage next to me - and for
all the time I was there and all he could do was huddle in the corner, and
sob.  So I suppose I was not as badly off as him.

On the third day I was taken back to the room where the operation had been
done on me, and this time I put up some sort of a struggle as they tied me
down into the chair - not much, as they gave me a half-dose of he slave
prod, and I realised that resistance was useless.  This time it was only
the young guy, and he smiled at me as I lay there in front of him,
helpless.  "I'm just going to inspect my handiwork, so don't worry.  You're
my first, and I want to see how I did....."

It didn't hurt all that much, and I only shouted with the surprise when he
pulled the stitches out.  But then he looked at his papers again - he had
one of those clipboards, so beloved of professionals - and told me "Oh, I'm
in luck.  Your owner phoned in a new work order today, and I can do that
easily...."

I suppose that compared with having a vasectomy, and being 'skinned without
anaesthetic, having your nipples pierced is pretty tame.  Some of you guys
hearing my story have probably had your nips done, and you don't understand
why I made such a fuss about it.  Well I expect you have nice small, thin,
rings as a sort of ornament.  But mine are really heavy gauge, and after
he'd pierced a hole through each nip with a needle, the young guy had to
kind of ream it out to make it wide enough for the very heavy rings I was
to be fitted with.  Blood streamed down my body as he worked away, but at
the end he seemed very pleased with himself.

When I stood up I felt the weight of the rings dragging my nipples down,
and the moment I moved I was aware of them in a way I'd never been
conscious of my nips before (except when a bitch was teasing them as I
fucked her).

"You look good", the young guy told me "A slave with good firm big pecs
like yours can take heavy rings - it kind of complements you.  But you'd
better stay fit - if you get flabby, sagging pecs as some guys do as they
get older if they don't look after themselves, it will look terrible."

The young guy did do one good thing, though - having cautioned me against
trying to escape, he used a fine electric saw to cut through my heavy iron
collar and remove it - I only got burned a bit from some stray flying
sparks.  My sense of freedom was short-lived, though, as almost immediately
he came back with a much thinner, lighter one, in stainless steel.  He
fitted it around my throat, then squirted some sort of glue into the lock
to seal it permanently.  "You are a handsome one", he told me.  "A thin
collar like that perfectly complement the thick steel of the tit rings -
clearly your owner has good taste."

It seemed that he order to have me ringed had indeed been a last-minute
thing, as I was led out and straight into a slave transporter - well, a
small white truck really, with a couple of guys already inside.  I was
pushed in and my wrists were manacled to the walls, and we were off.  The
other guys in there knew hat we were heading even further south, to the
coast, and I suppose they were right as it got hotter and hotter as the day
went on.  All of us were streaming with sweat, and the sides of the van
were radiating heat at us.  They stopped to give us water every hour or so,
and I noticed that the driver seemed cool and crisp, hardly sweating at all
- they merited air conditioning in the cab, but us "cargo" didn't matter.

I was delivered just as if I was a parcel - the driver had a delivery note
that my owner had to sign, and the driver warned him to inspect me as he
was signing to say that I had been delivered without visible damage.

My owner wasted no time as the delivery van left.  I stood there naked in
front of him at the entrance to his villa, and he simply said "I bought you
as a present.  I'll be handing you over tonight.  But I expect you'll end
up living here and working my estate, as it's impracticable to keep a slave
like you in the city and to transport you backwards and forwards every
weekend.  You look very tanned so I suppose you're used to outside
working...?"

"Yes, sir."  I said, trying to sound like a good slave, as I know it's
important to make a good first impression.

"Well then, you'll be responsible for the grounds, the pool.... You'll be
the only outside slave - I have a chef and a general 'do-all' for inside,
but only you outside.  So it will be easy to see if you work properly and
you won't be able to blame anyone else if I find the standards falling.  Do
you understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"You'll wear a loincloth.  Personally, I think outdoor slaves on a private
estate can be nude - it saves a lot of expense.  But I do have sensitive
guests from time to time, and the part of the lawns at the far end can be
seen from the road, so to avoid offending everyone's sensibilities,
especially when faced with such a very well hung set of tackle like yours,
I think a loincloth is probably the best thing."

"Thank you, sir".  This was sounding better already.

"You'll sleep in the stables with my ponies - get in there and shower and
shave, then go and inspect the estate.  Be at the back door at precisely
seven."

He didn't add "OK?"  Or "Is that understood", or anything.  He seemed to be
used to commanding slaves, and expected them to be attentive to his orders.
I couldn't help wondering what happened to those slaves who failed.

When I appeared a the back door, I was handed a plate of food - proper
food, meat and stuff!  Then when I'd eaten, I was led inside and told to
wait outside my owner's study.  I stood there in the massive hall, the
marble floor feeling cool to m feet.  Then my owner opened the door, and
beckoned me in.

"Happy birthday, darling!", he said.  "I thought you'd like a slave as a
present.  So I've got you Steve here."

"Hullo again, Steve", Marie-Claire said, an evil smile playing over her
face.  "Daddy's very good to me, and after I'd seen you by the canal, I
dropped a lot of hints about what I'd like for my birthday.  And here you
are....."

She reached down and pulled my loincloth away.  " The last time I tried to
do that, Steve, on the banks of that canal, you stopped me, remember?
Well, no more of that".  She stared at my dick, and went on "Oh, and he
listened to what I said about men and foreskins.  Do you remember, Steve,
how you were always playing with yours when you were getting ready for sex?
Well, not any more.  And I expect daddy ordered you to be vasectomised, too
- I hated the way you refused to wear a condom and insisted I took the pill
- it's bad for a woman, you know - well, not any more. When I'm playing
with you, there'll be no risk!"

_________________________

I wish I was back working the canal.  I hated it then, but compared with my
life now it was almost a paradise.  It's not that the work is hard - I can
easily mow all the grass, sweep the leaves, keep the flower beds weeded,
tend to the pool, scrub the terrace and steps....  No, it's the weekends I
hate.  Marie-Claire comes down from the city, and it amuses her to play
with me - use me as a sex toy!

Sure I get to fuck her, but it's not like the old times: firstly I have to
kneel in front of her as she sips a glass of wine, and jerk off.  She makes
me lick my cum out of my hand afterwards as she watches, and you've no idea
how humiliating it is to have a bitch make you do those things.  It's so
that when I do get to fuck her there's no danger of the session not going
on for a very long time, so that she gets plenty of time to reach her
orgasm. And before I even start, there's a lot of foreplay, of course,
which is something I don't like all that much as a guy's tongue shouldn't
be there, should it?  That's what a dick is for!  And when we are fucking,
she tells me how to do it.  I can't be too rough, but I must be "forceful";
and she makes me change positions to suit her, and not to do what seems
natural to me at the time....  And how is all this achieved?  With that
fucking collar - not only does it have the GPS chip so I can't escape from
the
 estate, but it has one of those circuits they use in dog collars -
Marie-Claire has an ornamental ring on her finger, and when she touches it,
my collar gives me a shock!  Not enough to incapacitate me, as a slave prod
would, but enough to make me shout and be very careful to please her so
that it doesn't happen again.

To add to all of this, she's got my tit rings - I always had sensitive tits
and didn't like Marie-Claire touching them when we were having sex.  Now
she strings a light chain between my rings, and pulls on it when she thinks
I need a bit of "encouragement".

Marie-Claire also thinks that a man like me ought to "ineract" with other
men, as she calls it.  Her father owns two ponies - a matched pair of big
niggas who were found trying to come ashore locally from a small boat,
illegal immigrants from Africa, and who were therefore enslaved.  They're
three inches taller than me, and have VERY powerful legs, thighs and butts
from all the running they do.  And big dicks- very big dicks, as in their
case what they say about niggas' dicks seems to be true!  And the powerful
legs and muscular butts force the big dicks into me - generally one holds
me down whilst the other fucks me, then the other one fucks me (which is
not quite as bad, as the first one's cum is a lubricant).  Then, as an
encore, one fucks my arse again whilst the other rapes my throat - right
down, and I've never been able to master not gagging so I end up with slime
drooling out of me.  Marie-Claire really likes watching all this, and she
 occasionally says things like how unpleasant it is to be forced to have
sex when you don't want it.

Once I said to her "I could still tell everyone about how insatiable you
are, you know....."

"Oh Steve, you are so naive.  Who do you ever get to tell anything to?  And
who would believe a slave, even if you did ?  And, even if they did, it's
kind of expected that good-looking slaves like you will be used as an
owner's plaything."

I can see no end to it, until Marie-Claire tires of me - and she is talking
about handing me over to one of her girlfriends - but I don't suppose it
will be any better then.  I lie in my tiny room some nights cursing the day
I cheated on my taxes.  Why was I so stupid?  I hope my story will be a
lesson to all you guys out there.

(The above true story was transcribed for, and published by, the Ministry
Of Finance And Fiscal Responsibility for use in the current anti-tax
avoidance campaign).

The End.

Pete Brown.  Provence,  June 2010