Date: Wed, 14 Apr 2004 10:50:50 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The County Line

THE COUNTY LINE, By Richard Davies

(note from the poster petebrownuk @ yahoo.com : This
is one of the many fine stories by Richard Davies, a
writer who, sadly, appears to have stopped posting to
the net.  All his known work has been collected
together into a new Yahoo group, homagetorichard, and
if you enjoyed this story you can see more there:
    groups.yahoo.com/group/homagetorichard   )


THE COUNTY LINE, Part One

There should be a warning as you cross the county
border. Something like 'males under 21 beware - you
are entering a "short servitude" zone.' That way, at
least young guys would have some idea of what happens
to those who step out of line.

I'm not complaining. I believe in law enforcement, and
I've got a slave of my own. Furthermore a community
should be free to decide on how they want to run their
affairs. All I'm saying is; outsiders should be
warned. The problem is simple. ****** County has a
liberal policy on alcohol. At eighteen you can buy it,
drink it, get pissed on it in a bar; and not only
that. It's also a few cents cheaper than where I live.
Small wonder guys came in from the neighbouring towns
to stock up with as many six-packs as their cars could
carry. But there was a catch. Whatever you do in
****** County, if you are under twenty-one, and male,
you're in big trouble if you break the law.

My girlfriend had stood me up. Called to say she had
to stay home and study. Bullshit of course. We were
drifting apart. She was on the hunt for someone to
marry, while I was not about to give up my sports and
drinking with the guys. I told her I'd call her over
the weekend, which wasn't really true. My plans were
in place: to party from dusk to dawn. I shared a house
with five guys and because I was in work and got paid
on Fridays, and had a car, and a slave, it was my job
to go over into ****** County to buy the beers. It had
become a house tradition, and it suited me fine.

After a week spent working in an office, it was good
to jump in the car with my slave and set off for the
two-hour drive through the hills. It's beautiful
country, and I could put on some music, smoke my first
cigar of the weekend, and generally relax and be
myself. My car and my slave called Pick were my two
most precious possessions, and they had much in
common, being both ancient, beat-up, much abused by
me, and more reliable than I had any right to expect.

It was getting dark by the time we crossed into ******
County, and Pick was starting to fret over us being
late getting back to base. He had promised to iron
some shirts for one of the guys. I reminded him that
he was my slave, not a house slave, but he just
shrugged and said he needed no reminding of the fact,
nor would it stop him getting his butt kicked if the
shirts didn't get ironed.

On these expeditions I always made a point of stopping
in the first town to buy some cigars. Low local taxes
meant a decent smoke was cheaper and the choice
better. The hill towns in this region are unwelcoming,
but there was a cigar dealer on the main street who
was the exception to the rule. It always gave me
pleasure to browse in the little store, set between a
barber's shop and a private slave auction house. Not
only was the stock interesting, the whole ambience of
male company and taste appealed to me.

Coming from a home dominated by women, the cigar store
was like a male refuge with its dark wood cabinets,
green-shaded lights, rich aromas, worn leather chairs,
relaxed but amusing conversation. It was a small haven
where men of all backgrounds could meet as men and as
equals. Small wonder I tended to linger. By the time I
left I'd spent more than I could afford, and was
carrying two boxes wrapped in shiny brown paper under
my arm (to this day free men in that region never
carry parcels in their hands). As soon as I saw my car
I knew there was trouble. Three men in the work
uniform of the local brewery were standing by the car.
The door was open and Pick was kneeling on the road
with his arms in the air.

As I got closer I saw that his old work-shorts were
down over his thighs. I don't know why, but I got
angry. That was dumb. In such situations the best
thing to do is simply wish everyone a good day,
express amazement at the state of the slave, tell him
he will not escape flogging, and then get him in the
car and drive off. For better or for worse, in those
parts slaves are considered fair game for main street
hazing. So long as there is no injury or impairment,
it is not for a gentleman to protest at the light
misuse of his slaves by other 'gentlemen.'

So I'll admit the fault was mine. I called them some
uncomplimentary names, told Pick to cover his butt and
get in the car, and then without so much as a 'good
evening gentlemen,' I drove off. Such discourtesies
might seem negligible in a larger, or more open
community, but they are not forgiven in small hill
towns. For the next hour, however, things went pretty
smoothly. Pick sat grumbling in the back, hinting that
it was all my fault for being so long in the cigar
store, and claiming he had been kicked to hell and
back. I replied that he'd been lucky they hadn't
whipped him and that if he didn't shut up I'd stop off
on the return journey and ask those same gentlemen to
remedy their omission. To this Pick had the nerve to
say that they would as likely whip me as him. I told
him to button his lip and be sure to remind me to cane
his scrawny butt at the next convenient opportunity.

At the big liquor mart I chose the beers and paid for
them while Pick carried them to the car. Since we
weren't as late as Pick had thought he asked if he
might have a bite to eat at a local slave-feeding
joint on the edge of town. I should have refused, but
I guess I did feel a little guilty at having left him
alone in the car too long. Even so, on a Friday night
it was asking for trouble. The slave-feeding outlet
was set back in a rutted carp park beside by a
stagnant lake. Like most enterprises that relied on
slave-custom it had a makeshift air and was
deliberately left scruffy. A smart appearance would
attract the wrong kind of attention. Various cars and
trucks were parked haphazardly. Some obviously
belonged to wealthy locals who had let their slaves
take their cars for the evening. Others were
commercial vehicles, and a few beat-up old saloons
that were presumably kept for the use of family
slaves. As I drove in I was uncomfortably aware that
my own car could easily be mistaken for one of those.

I told Pick to get a move on and not to strike up
conversations with other slaves. I added that he could
bring me a coffee and a slice of cake. It may have
been a dump, but the feeder served the best food in
town. Pick held his hand out for some money, muttered
under his breath, got out, slammed the door and did
not hurry as he went over to the feeder. Damned slave!
Watching him helped me to make up my mind that a
formal, hard, and lengthy encounter between his tough
old butt and my brand new Malacca cane was overdue.
I'd make sure he slept on his belly that night.

I lit a cigarette, shifted my butt forwards on the
seat, tuned the radio to a favourite music station,
and closed my eyes. Maybe I drifted off for a few
seconds. A bright light woke me. A voice said, 'Take
that out of your mouth.' I looked round and sat up. A
police patrol car had drawn up. A cop had one of those
portable searchlights trained on me. I swore under my
breath.

'Good evening officer. My slave's inside.' I didn't
bother to remove the cigarette. The cop must have
taken me for a slave, and now he could see I wasn't
one, he would back off and drive on.

'I said, get that thing out of your mouth.' The light
was still on me.

'Officer, that thing...it's blinding me.'

I did remove my cigarette, and tossed it out of the
window. It landed between the two cars. That was a
dumb thing to do. Free men are seldom to be found
waiting in slave car parks, and especially not in cars
like mine. Nor, I have to admit, did I look like Mr
Free in my tatty T-shirt and with my hair cut
unfashionably short. It embarrasses me to admit it,
even now, but I was also wearing one of those fake
slave-collars that girls give their boyfriends as a
joke when they are dating. In daylight it's obvious
such collars aren't the real thing, but at night....
My father always said you know when a cop's serious
because he'll take his time, and he won't take his
eyes off you. This cop was serious. He got out of his
car, stretched himself, asked his colleague to hand
him his belt and cap, and wearily put them on. He
stifled a yawn, but all the while he never took his
eyes off me.

Like a rabbit stopped by a snake, I stared back not
knowing what to do. All my gut instincts were telling
me I was in serious trouble, but my conscious mind
remained calm and collected, as if confident of a
pleasant exchange with this representative of the law.
He opened my door and told me to get out. He spoke
evenly, as if he too were preparing pleasantries. But
my mouth had gone dry, and my knees seemed only just
able to support my weight.

No question he was a formidable figure of a man. He
must have been in his mid-twenties and had small dark
eyes under a broad jutting brow that matched a square
chin. His mouth was thin-lipped and wide, and his nose
was broken. His neck was thick and his shoulders
massive, but he had none of the soft bulk that so
often disfigures the torsos of large men. He was
hardly skinny, but he was lean, and at well over six
foot, with his dark blue shirt tight on his chest but
loose at his waist, and with surprisingly narrow hips
and long muscular legs, he was definitely worthy of
respect. The first thing he did was reach into his hip
pocket for his leather gloves. As he pulled these on a
half smile played on his lips without softening his
stern expression.

'Would you be good enough to retrieve your cigarette?'


He spoke evenly, as if dealing with a child. 'Yes
officer. My mistake.' I looked down and saw the butt
smouldering close beside his right boot. This had been
polished so that it reflected the light coming from
the slave-feeder.

'It's by your foot, officer, if you'd just...'

A gloved hand reached out, grabbed my by the top of my
head, and pulled it towards him and then down. At the
same time I was aware of the patrol car's other door
opening and a second cop getting out. There was
nothing for it but to drop to my knees. The pressure
on the top of my head was too great, but I did manage
some word of complaint. I found myself confronted by a
pair of black boots inches from my face. I picked up
the cigarette.

'On your feet.'

I sprang up, held out the butt and smiled.

'You're quite right officer, I should not have...'

'Eat it.' I stood stock still, and it dawned on me
that I had better do some explaining if I was to avoid
serious trouble.

'Officer I'm not a slave, my...'

'Eat it.'

The cop was standing, hands on hips, watching me with
something approaching amusement, while his colleague
was pulling something off his belt. I put the hand
holding the cigarette to my neck.

'This collar is a fake. I know the police want them
banned, and I can see now that they're not a good
idea, but if you look close, you'll see it is a
fake... a dating collar. My slave's getting something
to eat. I'm waiting for him.'

A nightstick landed hard across my mouth, forcing my
head back and my lips apart. It was a miracle my teeth
didn't snap under the impact.

'Listen boy, you eat it.'

The nightstick was still held against my mouth. Its
tip played with my lips and front teeth, edging them
apart.

'Want another crack. I can loose you three of these.'

The side of the stick rubbed against my front teeth.
'Spit 'em in the dust.'

'Eat it.'

A car engine started nearby and I glanced round, only
to receive a second whack in the mouth. This time I
could feel my teeth move. I stumbled back and slumped
against the side of my car. The cop ran his hand along
his stick and then raised his stick. There was nothing
for it but to obey. I opened my mouth wide and stuck
the butt on my tongue. Its hot end sizzled and my
mouth filled with acrid smoke.

'Chew it boy, and swallow. And while you at it, use
your hands to drop your pants and show us your dick
and butt.'

Despite having my mouth full of a filthy tasting
cigarette, I had to laugh - it was just too absurd. As
I did so I choked on some loose tobacco strands that
flew out and dribbled on my chin. For the first time
the cop took his eyes off me and turned to his
stick-wielding colleague.

'You know Ches, I really don't think this piece of
shit has a clue.'

'I'd say not.'

'So what'll we do?'

The cop stroked his chin as if deep in thought. 'Take
him round the block?'

'Sounds good to me.'

The other cop chuckled and walked back to his side of
the car. The first cop opened the back door of the
patrol car. 'Drop you pants boy, then get in.'

My fingers fumbled with my belt... them my flies. I
pushed my jeans down to reveal my freshly laundered
y-fronts. A brief wave of muted laughter came from the
slaves as they saw these - proof of my free status.
Few slaves wore pristine white underwear.

'Where are we going officer?'

'For a short ride. Turn round.'

He pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his hip
pocket. Using both thumbs tucked under the back of my
y-fronts, he drew the tight-fitting material up to
expose both butt-cheeks. He fondled them and let out a
sigh of appreciation, and then gave each one a smack.
Next he turned me back to face him and carefully
pulled down the front of y-fronts until my cock and
balls were revealed. He tucked the material under
them, leaving them sticking out. It was as if nothing
was happening. I felt embarrassed and humiliated, and
yet somehow calm. Perhaps I just couldn't believe any
of it.

'But my slave...'

Without realising what I was doing I swallowed some of
the cigarette. I retched and spat out the rest.

'OK officer, so I was out of order. I apologise, but
my slave is in there, and we've got to get back to
******.

The officer looked past me and said, 'Some piece of
scum here go find that property.'

A group of slaves had gathered round, but not close. A
voice yelled, 'Yes officer sir!

The cop looked at me. 'What's the name of this
property?'

'Pick.'

The cop turned back to the slaves. 'Find him, and tell
him to get this heap of junk out of this county within
the hour. I'm putting out a stop and search, and if
his slave-butt isn't across the line I'll have him
whipped in front of every church and school in this
county.'

He placed a hand on my shoulder. 'And you boy, get
your butt in this car.'

They drove around to the far side of the lake. No one
spoke as we bumped along the track. My buttocks warmed
the cool leather and rubbed against some metal
restraints. On the back of the seat in front of me
someone had scrawled 'HELP.' Although my mind was
racing I had no idea what would happen next. A voice
in my head kept repeating the same phrase - 'don't get
caught in ******* County if you're under 21.'

We drove up onto a jetty that stuck out about fifty
yards into the lake. It was as decrepit as everything
else in that neck of the woods, but I guessed we
wouldn't be there is it wasn't safe. The car stopped
at the far end. Both cops got out and told me to
follow them. With my jeans around my knees and my
y-fronts tight, I could barely stumble after them. At
the end of the jetty there were some steps leading
down into the water.

'Know why we bring slave-scum here?' The first cop
spoke. He sounded matter-of-fact.

'No officer.'

'We give 'em a dunking.'

I said nothing. The black water was lapping the jetty
and the breeze was cool on my butt and cock.

'Reckon that's what you need. Take some of the snot
out of you.' The cop still spoke as if he were
chatting to a child.

'Please officer, sir. I'm not a slave.'

The other one laughed. He was quite a bit shorter than
his colleague, and had neatly cut sandy hair, a
sunburnt nose, and narrow shoulders. He still had his
stick drawn.

'Sure... we know you're a free man. It's just that you
don't behave like one. You lick your slave's ass, is
that it? Does he get to fuck you like you're his
pussy?'

'OK, I shouldn't have stopped at that feeder, but my
slave... he's old.'

'We know all about your slave. We had a complaint from
three gentlemen that he was acting insolently in Main
Street, but by the time we got there his owner had
driven him off.'

'I see... I understand. I'll willingly apologise. I
know this county has high standards of honour and
courtesy.' I felt I should lay it on thick. That way
they would finish with me.

'We should whip that slave like a rabid dog. And hand
you to the judge.'

This was what I was afraid to hear. A reflex of panic
gripped my throat. 'I must get back... my uncle...
he's Judge Whitney... maybe you know him...he's
expecting me.'

'Now let me see,' said the first cop. 'Judge
Whitney... isn't the brother in law of our Judge Jim
Hackney?' The smaller cop laughed.

'Think you may be right there.'

'Well if this young man is a relative we'd better get
him in front of the Judge just as soon as we can.
Thing is, Judge Hackney doesn't like to see boys
brought before him who look as if the arresting
officer has not done his duty to the community. He
lies to see 'em mussed up a little.'

The cops stood back and laughed. The first one had his
hands on his hips and was shaking with mirth, and the
second one kept smacking his stick against the palm of
his hand. Although it was dark I could see both pairs
of eyes watching me.

'I'll tell you what... seeing as how you're a free
man, we'll not dunk you in the water... but....what do
you think Ches?'

'Look at his chin. Covered in strips of tobacco... ask
me... this boy has a mouth that needs cleaning.' The
cop chuckled.

'Reckon you maybe right there Ches.'

I was about to say something when there was a thud on
my back. It seemed to dig right into my spine, and I
fell forwards as the strength went out of my knees. I
looked up and saw both cops laughing down at me, but
they went out of focus, and all I could see was the
slither of sliver that made the new moon. Whatever
happens, I thought, the moon will still travel across
the sky, and by the time it sets these two will be
through with me. Other blows followed, falling on my
back, across my butt and thighs. They took time and
care in mussing me up.

The first cop told me to kneeling on my haunches while
the other one got some restraints from the back of the
patrol car. He cuffed my hands behind my back and
attached them to the manacles holding my legs in
position. Then he used my fake slave collar to link a
chain running from the back of my neck to my wrists.
He tightened it so my head was pulled right back.

'Seeing as how you're a free man, I guess we'd better
fix your mouth so it stays open.'

A leather muzzle and an attachment added that provided
metal struts that fitted inside to keep my mouth open
and jaw stretched. They took their time and when
everything was ready they went back to the car to
check in and make some calls. They left me trussed and
open-mouthed... at the ready. When the time came, the
smaller cop went first. He opened his fly and drew out
a thick pale stump of a cock that he tugged on and
then aimed at my mouth. As he said, it was an open
goal. He must have been three feet from me, and at
first he aimed too high and his warm piss went over my
head, leaving only a thin to descend over my brow and
eyes. But a second later he lowered his cock and the
piss splashed over my nose and then found its target.
It filled my mouth with force and speed, and I began
to swallow to prevent it from trickling down my throat
the wrong way and drowning me. He was soon spent, but
I had to swallow every last drop because my mouth was
forced back and open. I could not breathe otherwise.

The first cop was in no hurry to follow on. Instead he
tore open my shirt to get a closer look at me. He
twisted my nipples, congratulated me on my fitness,
and said I would make a fine slave.

'That's what you'll be this time tomorrow...a slave...
you know that don't you? Judge Hackney is very much in
favour of these 'temporary enslavement orders.' Hands
them out like candy.'

The other cop wriggled his butt as he squashed his
cock back into his pants. 'Especially when he sees a
boy who's been all mussed up. Makes him think nothing
but slavery will do.'

The first cop came and stood in front of me. He
unzipped himself and felt inside for his cock. I could
see the fresh white cotton underwear, and was close
enough to feel the warmth and even catch a whiff of a
soapy cheesy smell. 'You're going to thank me for this
boy, My wife made me a fine hot chilli for lunch.
Should sting your throat real well.'

The second deluge of piss was different. Hardly
suprising as it came from a quite different size of
cock. This one was long as well as thick, and burried
in a thicket of public hair. And the piss was thicker
and stickier, as if it had been stewed longer in the
bladder, and it smelt powerfully of chemicals and the
seashore. It came in a faster jet too, and I choked so
badly he had to stop, but soon continued. By the time
it was over, my nostrils were streaming in both
directions, my mouth was full, my throat bubbling, my
stomach retching, and my chest and belly were slick.
The cop's piss dripped off the end of my cock.

'That's it. We'll let you dry and then call for a
truck to come and fetch you. The judge is going to be
angry when he sees you in the morning. He doesn't like
you trashy boys coming across the line buying drink
that's meant for decent folk.'

He stuffed his cock back inside his pants and zipped
himself up with the air of a man who has finished a
job. 'No question in my mind, you'll be a slave by
this time tomorrow. How long do you reckon he'll get
Ches... six months, a year?'

'My guess is a year,' said the smaller cop as he came
round behind me and began to remove my shackles. Every
part of me was aching. I was covered in piss. It was
cold, and only wretchedness lay ahead. I looked up at
the moon. It had gone behind a cloud.

THE COUNTY LINE, Part Two

The judge looked at me over the top of his spectacles.


'Oh boy!'

He had a clipped way of speaking. He went back to
writing on his pad. After a minute or so he looked up
at the clerk and asked him if my rights had been fully
explained. The lawyer assigned to me rose to say that
I had agreed to accept a 'fast-track' judgment. The
two cops gave their version of events. It was a shrewd
concoction with plenty of the truth woven into their
lies. When I gave my version I could tell it didn't
hang together as neatly as theirs.

My lawyer had told me to expect a sentence of
servitude. When the time came for the verdict, the
judge looked at me again, and repeated his 'Oh boy!.'
It wasn't hard to see why he felt compelled to say it.
I was naked to the waist and still coated in piss.
There were marks across my back and I had a black eye.
My hair was filthy, my mouth bruised and I must have
looked like a vagrant. The judge leaned forwards
towards me.

'You're a mess young man. Until we can get a report on
you, I'm handing you over to the Servitude Department.
They will make arrangements for you to be placed with
a free citizen on the approved list. You will serve
that person in a state of servitude until the reports
are in. You will then be returned to his court for
official sentencing.'

He rose and I felt a gloved hand on my shoulder. Down
in the holding cells my lawyer appeared to tell me
that I had been assigned to a Mr Peter Riccardo and
would be delivered to his house later that afternoon.
In the meantime he had arranged for me to have a
shower and something to eat. He said he reckoned the
reports would take about three weeks. He was confident
that he could get me a short sentence.

'Just hang in there for the next three weeks.' He
smiled and apologized for not shaking my hand. 'Too
grubby.'

After he left I was taken off to shower. The guards
seemed unexpectedly relaxed. There was no cursing or
kicking, just instructions given in the confidence
that they would be carried out.

The showers were crowded with a team of slaves owned
by a bankrupt quarrying company who were being
reassigned to new owners. They eyed me as if I was
something displayed for their benefit. Two huge
slaves, with brands on their foreheads and deep whip
scars on their backs stood pulling on their cocks as
they watched me get the piss and grime off my body.
One had the hairiest butt and legs I'd ever seen. He
looked like an animal standing on its hind legs.
Others had hard-ons and there were appreciative
remarks about the shape of my butt. I had never been
among commercially owned slaves before. Like most men
who had grown up taking the slave system for granted,
it had never occurred to me they might have lusts just
like free men, or that their behavior might change
when no overseer was around to supervise them. I was
used to seeing them cowering under the command of a
whip-wielding overseer. These were not cowed by
anything. Their bodies were laden with thick slabs of
muscle, and many had been disfigured with brands or as
punishments. One had no nose, another only one ear.
Several had leather pouches instead of scrotums,
indicating they had been gelded. But they seemed no
less fierce for being castrated.

It was not hard to see why their overseers were quick
to use their whips. Just as I was ready to leave the
shower, one of the slaves whispered in my ear that I
should hang around. He spoke with an educated voice,
and yet looked like a wild man. Out of curiosity I did
go back under the showers one last time, and as I
stood letting the tepid water run over me, two young
men came in. They were nothing like the others, and
nothing like me. It was, in fact, all too obvious that
they were slaves from a whorehouse. They had rather
long, crudely dyed blond hair and make-up around their
eyes. They had soft feminine hairless pink bodies, and
the stood giggling, holding their hands over their
mouths as they ran under the showers. It didn't take
long for the slaves to make their move.

There must have been a dozen watching, and each one's
cock rose within seconds. Even the eunuchs had
erections, and several slaves had thick long cocks
that were far too large for the tender looking bottoms
of the whore-boys. But mercy was not on the agenda. A
fierce fight broke out after a brutally ugly slave
made a grab for one of the whores. The slave without a
nose jumped on him, and they fell on the shower room
floor, their legs and arms sprawling. The whores
screamed with alarmed delight, but this was cut short
as the second one was hurled to the floor and sat on
by a slave whose whole torso was covered in raised
welts. After that the rest of them piled in and the
floor became a mass of writhing, fighting bodies. The
noise was enough to bring in a couple of guards. But
they were more amused than punitive, and merely
cracked their whips to bring order to the scene. They
said a pecking order should be agreed and the whores
taken one by one. Each slave could have one whore.
There would be no crossovers. The whore's asses would
not cope with double doses.

The whores were afraid, and loud in their complaints,
but shut up when a guard flicked his whip across their
backs. I stood back with the eunuchs. A small part of
me was disappointed not to be thought worth having,
but a eunuch explained cheerfully that a whore is
always a whore, while it was clear I wasn't a real
slave at all.

The slaves proved themselves expert rapists. They went
to work ruthlessly, pumping the moaning whores' asses
like thirsty men at a well. No one thought to turn off
the showers, so the water continued to pour down on
the scene of lust, as slave after slave thrust their
cocks up the anuses until they came, whereupon they
would withdraw to allow another to take his place. The
whores' rectums must have been brimming with come, but
no one was in any mood to worry about such delicate
matters. The expression of lust was everything, and
only when it was over did the mood change and helping
hands were offered. The whores staggered away to the
lavatories, and the guards withdrew. The sated slaves
sat around the sides of the rooms, smiling to
themselves and joking. A few dozed off. The eunuch
beside suggested I might leave. Slaves were virile
despite their servility, and it would not be long
before their appetites returned. A second time round
they might broaden their range and try my butt for
size.

I left the shower area and went to find my clothes,
only to be told by the duty guards that my free man's
clothes would be washed and stored and that henceforth
I would be wearing a slave outfit. I was given a pair
of loose fitting yellow shorts and a matching T-shirt
and battered sandals. The T-shirt had the county name
printed back and front plus a number to contact if the
wearer was seen lazing or caught not showing proper
respect. The material was coarse. The shorts rubbed
against my cock and butt cheeks. I was told to go and
eat and then report back to be collared.

The food was slave-mush and hard biscuits. I'd fed
mush to Pick often enough, and at home the slaves all
ate it and seemed to like it, but to me it tasted
sour, slimy and foul. It was all I could do to swallow
it. And the biscuits were so hard a dog would crack
its teeth. I was given a metal mug containing some
form of warm liquid, and that tasted better. The slave
sitting beside me, who had not spoken, suddenly asked
me if I was 'for life' or 'under servitude.' When I
said servitude he shook his head and seemed close to
tears. He explained that he had been sentenced to life
slavery for robbery and was waiting to be flogged. He
expected to be called to the whipping room at any
moment. I offered him my sympathy and that seemed to
please him. How he had managed to eat just before a
flogging I could not imagine.

I left when a guard from the 'department of
discipline' appeared and called my companion's slave
number. He gave me a wink and something like a smile
as he went off. He made a forlorn sight, a middle aged
man with a bent back and a defeated air being led off
to be whipped by a handsome young guard in a crisp,
neatly fitted uniform.

Back at the reception desk the guard on duty went to a
cabinet and took out a handful of slave collars. He
tried a few round my neck for size, and then, almost
before I had time to think or swallow, he snapped on
one, and twisted the lock to seal it. He clipped a
couple of tags to the ring below my Adam's apple. Then
he slapped me lightly across my cheek and smiled.
'You're a slave now. Official.'

At six o'clock my name was called and I was taken out
and put in a taxi. It seemed there were no slave
transporters available. The guard told me I would be
whipped and gelded if I tried to escape and that
ninety nine per cent of runaways were caught. The taxi
driver laughed and said he would lock the doors to
save me from such a fate. We drove out of town through
the leafy suburban streets. When I asked the driver
what kind of neighborhood I was being taken to, he
said it was upper income. He went on to say he had
once been given a term of servitude and it had been
the making on him. 'Calmed me down.'

We drew up outside a large redbrick house set back
among trees. A sign directed us to the 'slaves
entrance' and I was dropped off in a small service
yard. The driver said there was nothing to pay, and
that it was not for him to hand over slaves. So he let
me out and left me standing there. The temptation to
run for freedom was intense, but I was wearing the
yellow state slave uniform, and would not get far. Did
I want to suffer the fate of the slave who had sat
next to me. What state would he be in after that young
guard had flogged him? It didn't bear thinking about.
I went indoors through swing doors and along a
corridor. A door at the end said 'visitors' and one to
the right said 'slaves only.' Hard to know which to
take, but chose 'slaves only.' After all I was one.

THE COUNTY LINE, Part Three

Within ten minutes of arriving at the Riccardo
household my spirits had risen just about as far as
they could go. My temporary master, Peter Riccardo,
was not some mad sadist living in isolation with
terrified slaves, but a regular guy with a wife and
two sons who ran a thriving business. The family owned
three slaves, one of whom was convalescing after an
operation.

The 'slaves only' door had opened into a slaves'
pantry, a pleasant room furnished with some ancient
armchairs, a table and a large Welsh dresser decked
with all the tools of domestic service. I was greeted
by Kit, a male slave in his thirties, wearing a white
shirt and plain black pants, and he introduced me to
Melly, a cheerful and overweight female of about sixty
who was chiding a fair-haired pubescent boy who wanted
some cake.

When I bowed to him he smiled as asked if I was the
new slave. I did my best to reply respectfully, and
got an approving nod from Melly, who said the boy was
called Billy and that he was the terror of the
household. She gave him a handful of cake and told him
to take me through to meet the master.

This should have been a moment of stress and fear. I
could remember at home how terrified slaves always
seemed when they first arrived and were brought in to
pay us respect and be inspected. But everything seemed
so relaxed I couldn't summon any feeling except
relief. After the degradation of the past twenty-four
hours, just being back in civilisation was enough. As
the boy led me along a passage and through a heavy oak
door he explained that we were entering the 'family
side' of the house, where he lived, while I would live
on the 'slave side.' When I thanked him for the
information, he added,

'You'll be our side most of the time, doing stuff for
us.' His voice was hoarse, indicating the onset of
adolescence. 'We keep our slaves pretty busy.'

He strode ahead of me, his trainers squeaking on the
polished floor. A loose T-shirt hanging over his jeans
could not disguise a cute bottom, and his broad
shoulders hinted at the use of exercise bars and the
swimming pool.

We crossed a large hall. On the far side I could see
through open double doors into a sumptuously furnished
living room. A woman was sitting on a
small-upholstered chair beside the fire, and opposite
her I could make out the back of a man's head.
Somewhere in the house a piano was being played badly.
Billy told me to wait and went into the room. His
mother said something to him about having his mouth
full of cake and he sat next to her to be chided.
Nothing was said about me standing out in the hall. I
began to feel self-conscious. In such a beautiful
house my yellow County Slave Department outfit must
have looked out of place.

A door slammed on the landing above and I head feet on
the stairs. A strikingly handsome young man of about
eighteen appeared. His crisp blue-striped shirt hung
loose over his jeans and his brown hair was wet. He
exuded a sense of health and preppy self-confidence.
He was whistling a tune I recognised but he stopped
when he saw me. 'Good god, what are you?'

I bowed and said I was the new slave. 'What are you
doing here?'

He pointed back along the corridor. 'Slaves belong
back there.'

'Yes sir. Young Billy is introducing me to the master
sir.' The young man smiled and rolled his eyes.

'You'll wait all day if you're relying on him.'

He walked past me into the living room. I heard him
announce the arrival of the new slave. He then got
into a brief argument with his brother about being
forgetful. A woman's voice suggested 'my darling' go
out and deal with the slave. 'We don't want him in
here right now.'

A man's voice agreed and told the boys to stop
arguing. I took a deep breath and stood as smartly as
I knew how. The man who came out of the living room
was slightly shorter than me, about five foot nine,
but well built, if a little heavy round the waist. He
had thinning blond hair, large blue eyes and a rather
poor complexion. He wore a check red and black woollen
shirt, jeans and loafers.

I bowed as he came up to me. If I had been free he
would have stopped within easy distance so we could
shake hands, but being a slave I had no such invisible
barrier. He stepped close and rather than shake my
hand he took hold of my collar tags and squinted at
them. 'Your name?'

His voice was deep, but not unfriendly. I gave my free
name.

'Can't use that...don't worry...the boys will soon
think of one for you.'

He placed a hand on the side of my face and used his
thumb to push open the corner of my mouth. 'Tooth
decay.' He sighed and placed his forefinger under my
blackened right eye and dragged the skin down to
expose the eyeball's underside. He grunted and ran his
fingers over my bruised upper lip. 'Been whipped yet?'


'No master.'

'You will be.'

The older son appeared behind his father. 'What's his
name Dad?'

'Dunno. You give him one.'

'Bruno. He looks like a Bruno.'

'Bruno it is then.'

Mr Riccardo held me by the back of my neck and dug his
fingers in under my ear. He looked me in the eye. 'I
wanted a trained slave, not some juvenile delinquent.'
He frowned and looked stern. 'Make no mistake, you'll
be treated round here as well as you deserve, no
better and no worse. We all make mistakes, but you've
been careless of your liberty boy, and I'll not
tolerate sloppy indolence in my slaves. Do you
understand? There's a wall in the yard the boys use to
play ball. Any trouble from you and you'll find
yourself against it for a whipping.'

The youth burst out laughing. 'That's telling him dad.
Get him shitting in his pants.'

Mr Riccardo turned and shook his head. 'Don't talk
like that.' He went back into the living room. The
youth winked at me. When I attempted a weak smile he
frowned and shook his head.

'Scram Bruno, before the old man finds his whip.'

With a laugh he span on his heels and marched back
into the living room. 'You can relax mother, he's
quite presentable.' A woman's voice thanked heaven for
small mercies.

Life with the Riccardos was nice. There's no other
word. Mr and Mrs Riccardo were good people, and well
respected. That made being their slave easier. No one
was going to haze Mr Peter's slave, and at the stores
Mrs Riccardo's order was always dealt with promptly.
And the boys were chips off the old block. The older
one, Henry, liked to be stern, but his good humour
kept breaking through. The one time he decided to
spank me ended in farce and he never tried again. And
Billy and I became firm friends after I helped him out
of hot water a few times. His parents knew what I'd
done, and scolded me half-heartedly, but it was
obvious they were glad not to have to punish their
beloved younger son.

Not that the Riccardos were slack with their slaves.
We always had to be up at dawn, smartly turned out,
clean and cheerful. We worked hard and Mrs Riccardo
saw to it that we cut no corners. But they were kind
people.

When news came that I was sentenced to nine months
servitude, they broke the news gently and left me
alone for an hour, and then sent some special ice
cream to my room to cheer me up. On my birthday I was
called to the living room and given tea and cake and
presented with wrapped presents. Some were lovely,
like the shirt Mrs Riccardo gave me. It was
overwhelmed. I hadn't had such a luxurious object of
my own for five months, and I admit I burst into
tears. Mrs Riccardo comforted me, and whispered that
the shirt was to be put away for the day when I was
'my own man again.' Until then I would continue to
wear my uniform of cheap white service-shirts.

I was lucky to be serving the Riccardos. The
slave-counters at the stores and service stations were
full of slaves bemoaning their cruel masters who
starved and beat them. I had no complaints, and served
my family as well as I could. But if goodness shields
people from evil, it also blinds them to its presence.
The Eden of my daily existence with the Riccardos was
not without its serpent. Looking back I'm always
surprised I never said anything to my master my
afternoons with Mr Tilling, and that no one ever
noticed the marks on my body, nor the expression on my
face when I returned. Maybe I wanted to protect them
for the ugly truth. It was, perhaps also, simply a
matter of closeness and distance.

Mr Tilling lived right across the street, and yet life
in his house was light years away from that in the
Riccardo's. Mr Tilling had been born into one of the
most prominent families in the county. He had grown up
in the family mansion, surrounded by adoring female
relatives and fawning slaves. He had never expected to
earn his living and had therefore developed a
connoisseur's taste in music, literature and art.
Although his trust fund had dwindled over the years,
he was still comfortable, but seemingly always ill at
ease with the world. He was, as Mrs Riccardo put it to
me, 'one of those gentlemen who shouldn't need our
help, but somehow always seem to.'

And for that reason she had me go over three
afternoons a week to help Mr Tilling whose own slave
had runaway and not been caught. The two houses were
less than a hundred yards apart. When Mr Tilling had
dropped by to agree to borrow me, I had been called in
to meet him. From the moment I set eyes on him, I knew
he was not a good man. A slither of cold seemed to
slip down my spine to prickle my butt. Mr Riccardo was
his usual bluff self. He told Mr Tilling I was a good
slave but like all slaves needed keeping in my place.

'Don't forget to spank him where and when he needs
it.'

It was a joke of course. Mr Riccardo had threatened me
with the whip a hundred times, but had settled for lay
his razor strop across my butt a few times. Young
Billy was forever getting into rows with his parents
that ended with him being sent to his room to await
his father who would 'make sure you don't sit for a
week.' But those whipping too never materialised. Not
so with Mr Tilling.

The County Border Part Four  Mr Tilling was a short
ugly man with wet lips, a discoloured nose, no neck
and a paunch double the girth of his hips. He had a
goatee beard, and wore a smoking jacket, an ascot,
handmade pink shirts and leather-soled blue slippers
trimmed with gold. His house was full of oversized
furniture passed down from his family's mansions and
castles. He spent his days in a small parlour at the
back of the house, watching videos and talking on the
phone.

I worked for him in the afternoon every Tuesday,
Thursday and Friday, reporting at two and leaving
around six. He had me strip and would attach a
cock-ring and butt-plug before setting me to work
cleaning the bathroom and lavatory, washing the
kitchen floor and his underwear. He did not need me.
An agency provided trained slaves to keep things clean
and tidy. His interest in me was experimental.

Mr Tilling had theories about slaves and slavery. He
used me to gather evidence in the hope that I would
prove him right. In this he had an assistant. Bill
Cochrane was a burly young man who worked the evening
shift as a guard at the Tree Top Slave Centre, an
outfit notorious for its robust approach to slave care
and training. He lived in a small cottage at the
bottom of Tilling's garden, and would drop by on his
way to work around five o'clock.

Mr Tilling was happy to relate in detail all my
shortcomings and then discuss with Cochrane the best
methods to remedy them. Cochrane was a common sadist,
but a cheerful one. He never aroused my hatred and
contempt the way Tilling did. Nor did I blame him for
what he did to me. He was, after all, only following
his nature, and the bulge in his pants acted as proof
of his sincerity. On the other hand Tilling, who liked
to listen from the other room, and sometimes urged his
tenant on to more strenuous efforts, lacked even the
shred of dignity due to any man who has the courage to
satisfy his desires.

For Tilling the only satisfaction to be taken from my
suffering was the proof of his theory, and his only
motive was pride. I think most slaves, if they are
going to be beaten black and blue on a regular basis,
would rather have a professional do the work. As in
all things, the amateur may sometimes be lenient, or
unenthusiastic, but he is also unreliable. With
Cochrane the torture and punishment were always
efficiently administered. As is the way with torturers
and the tortured, there was nothing personal about our
sessions. I think he rather liked me, and I can't
honestly say I ever took a dislike to him.

He certainly looked the part. He was a tall young man,
with cropped black hair, rather startled brown eyes
and blunt fleshy features. He had a tree-trunk of a
neck and his shoulders were as thick, while his chest
and belly were solid blocks of muscle and cartilage.
He wore khaki uniform shirts, complete with epaulets
for his gloves, front pockets for his cigars and
lights, and decorated with the badges of his rank and
accomplishments. These shirts were always neatly
pressed with squares on the back and their short
sleeves were specially widened to fit his arms. His
tight khaki breeches were stretched across the
handsome curve of his big butt to accentuate the power
in the hard-packed gristle. At the front his cock and
balls were plain in outline under the smooth material,
while the breeches expanded on his massive thighs to
give room for a whip pouch and other special pockets.
Below the knee he wore riding boots that it was my
duty to polish and lick.

In the house he would not wear his broad-rimmed
cavalry hat, nor his belt and shoulder strap, but
would leave them over the back of a chair in the
kitchen, and send me to fetch any item attached to the
belt as the need arose. Tilling and Cochrane amused
themselves with me from five to six on Friday
afternoons, while in the neighbouring houses ladies
played bridge, kids did their homework, slaves
completed their day's duties, and retired men
practised their golf strokes.

Tilling explained his obsession as follows. A slave
must know slavery. He must become an expression of the
condition of servitude. I was not a real slave, and
with the Riccardo family I would never become one. He
saw it as his civic duty to provide me with the
authentic experience. In return he would use me as the
means to observe in action his theories about getting
the best from a slave. Society had given its free
citizens the right to own slaves without investigating
the science of handling and exploiting them. He hoped
to do his bit to rectify that mistake. He was sure
society could be far more prosperous and efficient if
only the slaves were put to work properly. And so I
would be timed and watched, and then beaten, and then
timed and watched again. Then tiny changes to my work
would be introduced, and after that I would be timed
and watched, and then tortured, or threatened with
torture, or with a fresh beating, and timed and
watched again. It was quite a business, and Tilling
seemed to find it hard work.

Certainly he would become impatient if my punishment
impeded my ability to repeat a chore, or the torture
turned my bowels to liquid and I would have to prevent
myself fainting by running to the outside lavatory to
remove the plug up my butt and empty myself. He
sometimes said he thought I should never have been
enslaved, and would despair of using me. But over the
weeks I did begin to provide evidence that he was
correct to believe that the application of systematic
pain would make a slave work harder and better.

It seemed never to occur to Cochrane, as he beat me or
inserted his stick up my anus, that Tilling was
anything other than a sincere gentleman engaged in
useful research. In the same way he was not in the
least ashamed of his sadism and would often tell me
how much he was looking forward to administering some
whipping or other special punishment. As often as not
he would tell me this while kicking me round the
bathroom, or deftly pricking me under my fingernails,
or expanding my anus to take a larger dildo.

If he were in a good mood there would be a playful
quality to his torture, and if he were in a bad one,
he would play the brute, and yet he was too much the
professional to vary the quantity and quality of the
pain. No matter what he was doing to me, he would call
it a day as soon as he heard the clock strike six. He
would accompany me to the bathroom and wonder out loud
what he would choose to eat when he stopped off at a
local steak house on his way to work. As he did so he
would carefully remove my ring and plug, and rub
disinfectant into any wounds and then have me help him
on with his shoulder strap, belt and hat.

He would often tell me to give his regards to Mrs
Riccardo, whom he regarded as a fine lady, and then
call out to Tilling as he went out the back way. I
would be left to dress, report to Tilling to be
dismissed and by six fifteen would be back across the
road to help Mally with the cooking and run upstairs
to the boys with their drinks and snacks.

Old slaves reading this may shake their heads and say
that an hour's torture a week is hardly here nor
there, and go on to tell their histories of daily
beatings, of duck's quills stuck up their cocks, and
cigars stubbed slowly on nipples. And towards the end
of my servitude, when Mr Riccardo began to fancy
himself an expert with a Malacca cane, I would
sometimes wonder whether Tilling and Cochrane were so
bad as I bent myself double over a flogging stool to
offer my bruised and battered butt for target
practise. And then, as suddenly as it all began it was
over.

THE COUNTY LINE, Part Five

The Riccardos said nothing to me about the termination
of my servitude. I was aware that the nine months were
up, but slavery dulls the will to act in one's own
interest. It can get a slave into trouble, while
acting in his master's interest brings rewards. Maybe
I had been driven half-mad by Tilling, or had simply
lost hope. The distance between freedom and slavery is
so great it's hard to believe it's possible to climb
out of it.

So it came as a shock, if not as a surprise, as I laid
out Mr Riccardo's clothes one morning, to hear him say
that I was to be set free that morning. I suppose I
was pleased, but more obviously I was confused and
embarrassed. Mr Riccardo said he would not be at the
court hearing, and would say goodbye to me when he
left for work. The slave auctioneers would pick me up
at ten o'clock and all being well I would be free by
midday. He said the family would miss me and added I
had been a useful and loyal slave. It would be hard
finding a replacement.

I gathered my few things together, said a dry-eyed
goodbye to everyone, and went and sat on the swing out
front. I avoided looking across the road at Mr
Tilling's house. Mrs Riccardo brought me some coffee
and seemed to want to talk, but my slavery was over
and I had nothing to say. I explained that I needed to
be alone to collect my thoughts. I think she was
offended. The court hearing lasted about thirty
seconds. I had to go through the routine of being
stripped to appear before the judge, but the guards no
longer treated me like a slave. Everything that had
seemed so threatening nine months before, now seemed
safe and unexceptional.

As soon as the judge signed my papers I was allowed to
put on a dressing gown before going down to have my
collar removed. The technician effortlessly cut
through the metal mesh and tossed it away. As he
swabbed my neck with disinfectant he said, 'OK, that's
you all done. Have a good day now.'

The sudden lightness on my neck and the routine,
unthinking courtesy brought it home to me that I was
free. I collected my clothes, put on the shirt Mrs
Riccardo had given me, was handed a leaflet from the
Ex-slaves Welfare Society, and walked out into the
midday sunshine. I took the bus home.

Not long after I was enslaved, one of my roommates had
written to the Riccardos informing them that my room
had been let and the guys had decided they wanted to
keep Pick as a house slave. As my owners the Riccardos
had to sign their agreement that Pick should not be
auctioned as was usual with the slaves of the
enslaved. They had agreed without consulting me.

Slavery changes a man, and I couldn't go back to my
old life. I dropped by the house and chatted to the
guys, but they were no longer my friends. The scars
and smell of slavery clung to me like an indelible
stain, and they were as uncomfortable around me as I
was around them. When old Pick appeared we stood
tongue-tied like shy teenagers. He mumbled something
about being a fortunate slave to be serving such
gentlemen, and not wanting to jeopardise his position.
I wished him luck and left.

I was lucky to find a job. It wasn't a good one, but
openings were scarce since the economy had turned
down. I settled into a solitary life and got used to
pleasing only myself, but knew I was becoming one of
those lonely, isolated ex-slaves to be seen in every
downtown bar and restaurant, sitting in the corner and
glancing around furtively, always afraid a tap on the
shoulder might lead them back to servitude. But
slavery had taught me how to work hard and without
complaining, and my boss liked me. As with many a
slave owner, he had little respect for free employees,
and when he promoted me he said I was the best free
slave he had. It was a joke, but nonetheless true.

I found myself supervising half a dozen slaves, and
drove them hard. They knew instinctively that I had
been one of them, and while obedient, they showed me
how unimpressed they were. I responded by imposing
strict discipline and handed out sets of fifty
push-ups, spankings, doses of foul tasting vitamin
supplements and heaven knows what else to keep them in
line, but to no avail. My reflexes were all wrong. I
lowered my eyes too often. I had lost the habit of
standing with my hands in my pockets, and jumped at
unexpected noises. I had to resist the urge to spring
to my feet when a free man entered the office, and I
found it easier to take orders than give them.

A pay rise meant I could move to a small apartment
with its own tiny slave quarters. The weak economy had
brought a glut of slaves on to the market and the
prices at auction were rock bottom. I decided to buy
myself a young male. I did not examine my motives with
any care; it seemed the natural thing to do.

To try and shift some excess stock one of the big
slave dealerships was advertising a special one-off
bargain auction. I went along on a Saturday morning to
find the hall full of families and teenagers, along
with buyers from the agencies that supplied industrial
concerns. Being in a slave environment made me
nervous. I trembled as I passed guards with their
whips drawn, heard the paddle in use against some bare
butt, and smelt that the distinctive odour of
frightened naked male slaves.

Even so the bargains on offer were too good to ignore.
Older males were going for the price of a lawnmower or
washing machine, while younger ones were trading at
half the price the Riccardos had paid for me. At the
'trade in' centre, the line of owners with slaves they
wanted to trade for a new one stretched outside into
the street. And the 'goods inward' door had been
closed after an invasion of free men hoping to sell
slaves had swamped the staff.

It was a scene of confusion. There weren't enough
sales staff to go round, and those that were available
had only scanty information about the items for on
offer. The crowds jostled round the raised stands
where the slaves were displayed naked with their feet
chained to the floor, and their hands cuffed behind
their backs. The auction had already begun in the
female section, and the rapid-fire talk of the
auctioneer came over the sound system adding to the
tension and confusion.

Despite the hundreds of slaves on display, there were
very few that interested me. There was a young black
with a fine body and an intelligent face, but the
salesman said he had been enslaved for persistent
theft. I didn't want to leave such a slave alone in my
apartment all day. Another was a white youth with
cheekbones and a butt that would have made him
desirable had he not been gelded. Castrated slaves
tend to become lazy. Most of the items were either
wild looking, or had physical defects, or were not
suitable for domestic work. Some didn't speak English,
others had long lists of owners indicating trouble,
and some were plain ugly.

In the end I found one who would be worth having if he
went cheap. He was white, with brown stubble on his
head and chin, dark eyes, and a firm but not
overdeveloped body. His butt was a rusty red from a
paddling, but he was otherwise unmarked. The downside
was a pair of thick spectacles, too much round his
stomach and on his hips, and his height. But he was
cute, being rather short and with a wide mouth. I
couldn't get hold of a salesman to give me the slave's
provenance until the last minute. I had managed to
check his mouth, and his gums and teeth were fine, and
the salesman had him turn, bend and spread his cheeks
so that I and a couple of other interested parties
could slip on a plastic glove and check his anus. It
was tight enough, but definitely not virginal. In the
confusion I could only get the salesman to say that
the slave had been sold into temporary servitude by
his mother when he was twelve, and that she had
re-registered him as a slave for life just before his
seventeenth birthday. He had been sold to private
owners on both occasions, and had a good health and
obedience record. When I asked why his butt was red
the salesman shrugged and said the paddle was in
constant use when marshalling hundreds of slaves.

Five minutes later he was mine. The others had soon
dropped out of the bidding. I got myself a bargain.
Sold sales were being led away for processing and
collection, while the unsold ones were made to parade
in a corner where they would be sold off in lots to
the agents looking to bulk but for industrial clients.
I went over and stood in line to pay with my credit
card.

All around me couples were discussing their purchases
and wondering whether they had made a mistake or got a
bargain. The middle-aged man in front of me was well
pleased with the garden slave he had bought, while the
woman behind me was having second thoughts about the
elderly female she had bought for her equally elderly
mother. When my turn came I paid the clerk who printed
out a technical data sheet on my purchase.

As with all slaves he had no name, but a registration
number and a local code ID. The registration was
recorded on a national database, while the local ID
related to the county records. While waiting for my
receipt and owner's certificate I glanced over the
data sheet. My new slave was twenty (only month and
year of birth given; no actual date) and weighed 135
pounds. He was five foot two and had either had all
the childhood contagious diseases or had been
inoculated. He was a slave for live, category B, and
that meant he could be sold at any time without court
permission. But he could not be sold for any life
terminating purpose. In the event of death, he would
have to be de-registered within five days. He was
subject to the Slave Act. If he ran away it was my
duty to report him missing within forty-eight hours.
Once I registered him as missing, my ownership was
forfeit until the slave was recaptured, and had been
disciplined by the state authorities (mandatory
castration and flogging). He would them be either
returned to me or sold. In the latter case I could
apply for compensation. If I encountered problems with
my purchase I could apply to the County Slave
Department for assistance. At the bottom of the page
there was a reminder that it was the owner's
responsibility to ensure the slave was properly cared
for and disciplined. I could be fined if my slave
misbehaved.

Thus armed, I went off to collect my purchase.  There
was still more confusion at the Slave Collection
Point. The sold slaves were standing in a line against
the wall overseen by a free man in a blazer and chino
carrying a heavy whip. This piece of equipment seemed
a bit excessive given that the slaves were naked,
shackled and cuffed. A man was loudly protesting that
the slave presented to him was not the one he had bid
for. There was some dispute over the age of a female.
A male suddenly urinated, the thick jet of his piss
splattering on the floor. A clerk picked up a paddle
and whacked the slave across his cock and balls. This
reduced the flow to a trickle. The slave just stood
still, staring down blankly as if the puddle had
nothing to do with him.

I could see my slave towards the back of the line. He
had his head tilted back as if in defiance. The
overhead lights were reflected in his spectacles. The
clerk who helped me was an eager high school kid who
was, despite the noise and chaos, enjoying his work.
He went off to fetch my slave and was beaming when he
returned and congratulated me on an excellent buy. He
released the shackles and cuffs and presented me to my
slave, who bowed. I had to admit I liked what I saw.
Although his nose was dribbling and he was shivering
he seemed alert. His eyes flickered behind his
glasses, but he stood firmly without fidgeting.

I asked him if I could trust him to follow me without
restraints and he replied in a pleasant voice that I
could. He called me master. I bought him some plain
slave house-clothes, some sandals, and an outdoors
tunic and woollen working gloves. He smiled as he put
them on, and looked at himself in the mirror with a
young man's natural vanity.

To stop him using the back of his hand to wipe his
running nose I had him use my handkerchief. I told
myself not to pander to him. He was my slave not my
son. I took him home and told him what was expected of
him. I told him all the usual stuff about taking no
nonsense from him, and that I was a firm believer in
the paddle and whip. I had him drop and give my fifty,
and took him to the bathroom to shrub him and give him
a proper examination. To every command he would say
'Yes master' and give me a slight smile. When I tested
him without his spectacles I discovered he could see
nothing. His smile of relief when he put them on his
nose again made me smile too.

For a second time I told myself not to be seduced by
his charm. But it was impossible. I called him Lucky
because he kept telling me how lucky he had been to be
bought by me. Heaven knows how his previous owners had
treated him, but he accepted everything I did to him
like a gift. When I paddled him he looked pained, and
tears would spring behind his glasses, but he was
always abject in his remorse for having let me down.
When I praised him he glowed and would literally leap
for joy.

My apartment was small, and we lived on top of each
other. Having been a slave I knew how much work a
slave can do, and when he is overburdened. I could
tell when Lucky was exhausted and when he was
feigning, and met his attempts to seduce me into
giving him a share of my food with a sound thrashing.
By keeping him of a strict diet with plenty of
exercise, he soon lost his fat and grew lean and hard.
He even grew an inch. He knew I had the measure of
him, and soon stopped testing me.

We slept together. I taught him how to suck my cock
and he was a willing student. His anus proved tight
but he worked on it with a dildo in his spare time and
soon had it loosened. In fucking him I began to
understand the full range of feelings and emotions
that can accompany the act, and afterwards he would
lie still beside me and let me sleep.

When my work took me away for a few days, I discovered
I missed him, and when he was not there (I volunteered
him to help with a local charity) I felt ill-at-ease.
My boss told me I should think less of my slave, and
get out more, and make friends among the free. It was
not healthy, and I knew he was right.

Lucky was a good slave who regarded me as his saviour,
but even he could not take too much close attention.
But it was hard to break the bond. The truth was I
found other people less interesting. Lucky was bright
and quick to learn. And with an understanding of the
world came maturity. He lost his boyish ways, and
became more serious and dignified. Paddling his butt
for spilling the sugar seemed petty, and our
lovemaking grew more manly and intense. A bond of
friendship began to replace that of master and slave.

If I felt he was my equal, it was not only because
somewhere inside me I still believed that I too was a
slave. In fact he was my lover; only freedom separated
us. In the end it was Lucky who suggested I sell him.
It was a joke, made during our lovemaking, but as soon
as he said it I knew he was right.

Every slave owner's manual says you should never tell
a slave he is to be sold until the dealer comes to
take him away. But I hadn't the heart to delude Lucky.
An agent came and posed as a friend from work, but
Lucky wasn't fooled. When the man came back a few days
later Lucky had cleared his room and was ready to go.
If we said goodbye to each other we did so in our
lovemaking. During those long last nights we made love
as equals, and I found I could use what I knew of
myself as both slave and free man to express my
affection for him. And then he was gone.

The market prices had firmed, and a group of
architects paid a good price for him. I did not go to
the auction, but would occasionally see him in town.
He had become one of those slaves in a position of
responsibility, who are granted privileges and go
about smartly dressed, but somehow always look a
little absurd. With his poor eyesight he seldom
recognised me, but on one occasion he did stop in his
tracks as we passed. I asked him how he was and he
said he was still a very lucky slave. For a moment we
stood staring at each other before he fell to his
knees and kissed my feet. It was a rather embarrassing
and unnecessary thing to do, but I suppose he felt
compelled to show his gratitude. I lifted him to his
feet, but there was nothing more to be said. I touched
him on his upper arm as he walked on. And that was the
last I saw or heard of him.

I'm married now. My wife has been good to me, and we
have a kid and a pair of delightful slaves. My own
enslavement seems like a story heard long ago. Even
so, there's a sense of emptiness that comes over me
whenever I remember Lucky, or wonder what became of
him. I don't have to think about Mr Tilling and
Cochrane. They come to me often enough in my dreams.

END