Date: Fri, 28 Dec 2007 23:45:42 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Instrument, Part 9

THE INSTRUMENT

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  Nine

It's amazing how the human body recovers from even the
most savage things that have been done to it.  The
next day they kept me shackled in my stall in the
stables as the drays, and Jason, went out to "work",
and I have to say it was pretty uncomfortable:  the
pain from my brand and my 'skinning was still very
fierce, but began to gradually subside.  I remember
waking up from the sleep I had eventually fallen into
thinking that I must have had some particularly awful
nightmare, but then realised that the pain raking
through me was indeed real, and with sick horror I
remembered the events of the day before, and then
began to worry about what was going to happen to me.

Actually it's pretty boring being in the stables all
day - there's absolutely nothing to do.  I had nothing
to read, no PC to look at, nothing.  All I could do
was lie, and sit, in my little stall, totally unable
to move out because of the shackle.  The stable lads
came and fed me - a bowl was pushed in front of me
containing the usual mixture of slave chow and fresh
chopped-up dates and fruit - and I realised that the
only way I had of eating it was with my fingers, as no
utensils were provided.  As I munched my way through
the mixture, though, I remembered the arguments I had
had with the Sheikh about this very subject:  I'd
wanted to restrict the pony slaves to eating only
slave chow, as, after all, it's a complete diet and
the manufacturers guarantee that it contains all the
protein, carbohydrate, vitamins and minerals that are
needed for truly hard work, and that's the cheapest
and easiest way of doing things.  But he'd insisted
that the addition of the dates and fruit would be
beneficial, as he believed it would make his ponies
"look better" if they were fed more naturally, in
spite of the additional inconvenience and expense.  I
suppose I was glad now of this humanitarian
intervention on his part, as the fruit did at least
give some flavour, and some variation in the texture.
Of course I knew it was storing up problems - standard
slave chow as you probably know is designed to be "low
residue"  so the slaves produce as little solid waste
as possible, so easing the problems of  "mucking out"
their quarters.  The fruit, and particularly the
dates, had quite the opposite effect and made the
production of a lot of waste inevitable!  I knew that
I'd be dropping a lot of crap sooner or later, and
even as I sat there, began to feel the humiliation
that I would then experience.

As it was I had to piss of course, and being something
of a traditionalist, the Sheikh insisted that his pony
slaves emulate real ponies as much as possible and so
no provision was made for this, and the slaves simply
pissed into the straw.  "After all, Steve", he once
told me when I suggested putting rudimentary sanitary
facilities into the stables - just a hole in the floor
of each stall, "real animals just stand there and
piss, so why should pony slaves be any different?"
If only I had argued with him more forcibly at the
time, perhaps my plight might now have been better -
but, at the time, I had not wanted to press my point
too much for fear of upsetting him.  It just shows
you, I suppose, that you really ought to do the right
things all the time.

I was left in this wretched state for three days, as
my brand and scars healed somewhat.  All I could do
was sit there in the straw, bored out of my mind.  I
began to really look forward to the arrival back from
"work" of Jason and the drays, as even some small
change from "nothing" was a welcome relief from the
tedium.  Jason just walked past me to his own stall
and never even acknowledged me, but the drays, whose
communal stall was opposite mine, did at least smile
and wave.  I kept hoping that they might come over and
talk to me, but they never did - you may remember that
I told you that the drays were not shackled into their
stalls as were Jason and me as they considered they
had a good life as drays, and would never try to
escape.  Well, I suppose they were worried that if
they did not behave, and if they were found out of
their stall consorting with me, they might be
immediately assigned back to one of the field coffles.
 And, anyway, I suppose they didn't need to speak to
me as they had themselves:  I could see them chatting
quietly amongst themselves, and then settling down for
the night, their glorious bodies all entwined.  And,
of course, in the dim light I could see them enjoying
their bodies and having proper sexual relief before
sleeping.  It didn't immediately occur to me that they
might not want to speak to me as they hated me -  I
had, after all, been one of the "masters".

On the third day, though, when I was just sitting
there as usual thinking that this was going to be
another day of boredom, a guard with a slave prod came
along with some of the stable slaves, and watched as
they unshackled me and then told me to walk off down
the stables to the shower area.   I began to get quite
excited, as I hate to be dirty and all the time I'd
been lying on the foul straw I'd had no opportunity to
get clean.  And I could feel the stubble on my face,
which I really hate.   I thought perhaps that the
Sheikh had relented and I was being cleaned up before
resuming my normal life, but as I stood there and the
stable slaves began to soap me and then shave me -
making sure my balls were absolutely smooth, and then
trimming my pubes neatly as Jason's always were, I
suppose I realised this was not so.  And my opinion
was confirmed when I was told to squat down so that
they could cut my hair:  it seemed to take ages, but
it was only when they then took out the razors again
and began to shave my scalp that I realised that
they'd given me a "pony cut", like Jason's (a three
inch wide strip from neck to forehead, cut short on
top, with both sides of the scalp shaved smooth.  The
hair is then allowed to grow long at the back to trail
down the neck, to look a little like a mane).   I then
had my first "dressing" of slave oil  -  of course I
was familiar with seeing the sheen on the skin of
slaves that this produces, but somehow it's very
different when it's your skin that's being "polished"
to please other men!

All the time the slaves were working on  me the guard
just sat and watched, with a faint smile on his face.
When they were finished, he finally spoke.  "Right,
boy..... Come on.... You're off to  work".

He was indicating that I should walk out of the door
of the stables, and I said "Well, where's my fucking
clothes, then?"

He didn't use the slave prod on me - I suppose I was
lucky.  Instead, his punishment strap slashed at my
bare butt, and I gave a grunt of pain.

"Listen, boy, you're a slave now.  Not some fancy
overseer or manager.  Just a naked slave.  And perhaps
you hadn't noticed - but good looking slave boys like
you are kept naked! You don't need protective clothes
for the work you're going to be doing, so you'll be
naked all the time - it's easier, cheaper, and, well,
easier on the eye too for a boy like you."

I was going to argue with him, but what was the point?
 He indicated with his strap that I should walk out,
and so, reluctantly, and very conscious of my
nakedness, I did.

The sun was incredibly strong on my bare skin as I
walked across the stable yard, and several of the
passing slaves who evidently recognised me stopped to
stare, and then to jeer at the sight of my naked body.
 I halted for a moment and called out to them to stop,
but there was that terrible "sshhh" sound in the air,
and I squealed again as the punishment strap hit my
butt and the guard snapped "Fucking walk on, and do as
you're ordered!".  There's something particularly
humiliating about being made to walk - sort of driven
- naked in front of another guy, knowing that he's in
control of you and is waiting to punish you, given any
opportunity.

On the other side of the yard the Sheikh and Marc were
waiting, standing by two identical pony traps - one of
which already contained Jason between the shafts, his
wrists cuffed to them as usual, and his bit and halter
already fitted.

Marc smiled at me.  "Now, Steve, I'm going to take you
for your first ride today - his Highness is using
Jason, and he's promised me I can use you as my
transport around the demesne provided I train you
properly.  So get between the shafts...."

Frantic, knowing that this might be my last chance, I
called out "Your Highness, please... Forgive me.... I
did intend to come back.... And even if you are going
to treat me as a slave, please don't use me like
this... I have valuable skills...."

The Sheikh rapped out "Silence!  I do not want to hear
pony slaves using speech.  We have a simple way of
stopping that, you know- the veterinarian can easily
snip your chords!  I will not tolerate disloyalty, and
using you as a proper slave will be an object lesson
for others.  And as for you so-called special
skills.... Marc here has my complete trust, and will
run the estate, I'm sure, even better than you."

"Please, Highness, he has no experience... The
business here is complex..."

I saw the Sheikh gesture, and the next moment I was
writhing on the ground.  I would have screamed if I
could have, but my whole body was cramping and all my
muscles were spasming so violently that there was no
energy left in me to drive the air out of my lungs.
Unless you have even been prodded with a slave prod
you can simply have no idea of the effect it has on
you - it's not just the pain, which feels as if your
entire body has been dipped in boiling water - but the
fact that you are totally out of control as you
muscles alternatively spasm and twitch.  And, of
course, you lose control of your bowels and bladder,
although you don't care about that at the time and
it's only as you start to recover that you discover
that you're rolling around in a pool of your own piss
and shit.

Marc stood there, looking down on me, and finally said
"Now, Steve, that's your first lesson.  Disobey, and
you'll be punished.  Now, get between the fucking
shafts...."

Very reluctantly, and now ashamed of my body as it was
covered in piss and sand, I went and stood between the
shafts.  All the times I'd driven a trap, I'd never
realised just how different it was to be standing
there naked between them - of course I had admired the
strong powerful buttocks of the pony in front of me as
I drove him, and now I knew it was going to be my butt
that was exciting Marc soon.

Marc came and snapped my wrist cuffs to the shafts,
and I began to feel utterly powerless.  I was now part
of the trap, unable to escape from it.  I knew that if
the driver used his whip on me, there was no getting
away from it - all I would be able to do would be to
run faster, in the hope that he would stop hitting me.


"Kneel down, so I can put your harness on ", Marc
snapped, and I obeyed.  I knew I could so easily be
prodded if I refused, and so I dropped to my knees
between the shafts.  Marc took the bridle and bit from
one of the attending slaves, and came and stood by my
head.

"See, Steve?  You'll soon shut up with this in!  I
haven't got time to use the training ball down your
throat, so I'm going to use a tongue suppresser bit -
see...."

He held it in front of me, and I could see the plate
attached at right angles to the bit itself, designed
to keep my tongue immobile once everything was fitted.
 Marc turned it over and went on  "...and because
you're new to this, I'm going to use the spiked side
down:  you'll soon learn to keep your tongue still, as
these spikes are sharp and, I'm told, they really hurt
as they bite into your tongue.  Now, open wide...."

I did as he ordered, still fearing the prod, and for
the first time had that strange metallic taste of the
bit that I was to experience so many times in the
future.  Marc pushed and pulled at it, but seemed
dissatisfied with the fitting, and after a few minutes
of effort gave up.  He left me there kneeling, and
went over to the Sheikh, who had now climbed aboard
the trap pulled by Jason, and said a few words.  I saw
the Sheikh nod in agreement, then there was a "hiss"
as the Sheikh's carriage whip went through the air,
and I saw Jason start into a brisk trop, bearing the
Sheikh away  (those unfamiliar with the use of human
ponies should remember that a general carriage whip
like the Sheikh's, and as I had used so many times
myself, is not designed to produce permanent damage
and complete agony in the subject as does, say, a bull
whip used for punishment.  It is deliberately made
light and thin so that as it strikes the back,
buttocks and thighs of the pony it stings, and
"encourages" him to work hard, leaving no permanent
mark on his valuable hide).

Marc strode off, and I was left kneeling there in the
hot sun, wondering what was going on.  I went to stand
up, but the guard snapped "Fucking stay where your
master left you, boy!", and so I did although, as you
probably know, having to kneel on a hard surface for
any length of time soon starts to become very painful
on the knees.    When Marc reappeared, though, he was
accompanied by one of the huge burly nigggas who work
in the blacksmith's shop, and this giant slipped
behind me in the shafts, then moved forward and stood
over me, grasping my head between his powerful thighs.
 I could smell his male scent, that particular smell
that shrieks "male" that you get excreted from the
glands around the genitals, and I could feel his dick
and balls sliding across the shaved parts of my head.

He reached down and his huge black hand grasped my
chin, and as his thumb and finger pressed in
painfully, I was forced to open my mouth.  I saw Marc
nod at him, and the next moment something metallic was
in my mouth.... And then I was in agony.  I tried to
break free, struggling as hard as I could, but the
nigga's thighs were so strong gripping my head that I
simply had no chance from a kneeling position, with my
wrists manacled to the cart's shafts.

I don't suppose any of you have ever had a tooth
extracted without a modern anaesthetic.  Especially
not one of the powerful teeth at the back of your jaw.
 So you probably don't know that before you can pull
it out you have to press it hard, very hard, down into
the jaw to break the "cement" that holds the tooth
into the bone.  Then and only then can you exert
upward pressure to yank it out... Evidently the nigga
knew this as he did it perfectly - well, if that's how
you can describe it!  It's absolute agony, as the
nerves in the jaw and the tooth are ripped apart as
the tooth goes down, and is then wrenched out.

The nigga held my tooth - a beautiful, white tooth,
with a long, long root stained with my blood, in front
of my eyes for me to see.  I heard him laugh a bit as
he was pleased with his work, but I was in no
condition to notice it - I was shouting with the pain,
although this stopped as I began to choke with my
blood running down my throat.

I almost couldn't believe it as the nigga squeezed my
jaw again and I was once more forced to open my mouth,
and again his pliers went it.  And then that same
agony, that same terrible sensation as a tooth from
the other side of my lower jaw was brutally torn out.
 He let me go then, and I knelt there on the sand,
tears pouring form my eyes, snot gushing out of my
nose, and trickles of blood coming out of my mouth
where I had failed to swallow it.  I knew I was
sobbing uncontrollably, and was ashamed of it, showing
such weakness in front of the watching slaves.  But I
simply couldn't help it - the pain in my jaw and from
my frazzled nerves was worse even that when I'd been
branded and 'skinned, and my body was no longer under
my total conscious control.

Marc was standing there again, and said quietly "I
think your bit will fit better now, Steve - open
wide".  And then, when he saw me hesitating, he went
on "Open up, fucker, or you'll be screaming with the
prod, too."

I opened my mouth and spat to clear the blood and
stuff, and Marc came and pushed the bit home, settling
the steel bar in the gap where my teeth had been
pulled.  It hurt, of course, as it pushed into the
soft gum, but this new pain was as nothing to that
which I was already experiencing, and I could bear it.
 I felt his strong young fingers tying the leather
straps under my chin that held the bit down and in
place, and could then feel as he attached the ends of
the reins to the bit.  I tried to move the bit but of
course once it's held down tight like that your tongue
can't shift it - and especially not, I discovered, as
the cruel spikes from the suppresser plate bit into my
tongue and I got a fresh taste of blood flooding my
mouth.

Marc got into the trap, and snapped "On your feet!",
and I somehow managed to stand up.

We spent the next few minutes with Marc telling me the
familiar pony control words "When I say 'Wall on', you
start.  'Trot'  means you jog, and 'Whoa' means stop.
But then you know all this, don't you, Steve, as
you've driven a pony yourself often enough.  I won't
normally give you too much guidance as you know all
the places we need to go on the estate, and normally
I'll just say 'Home' or 'The upper fields' or 'The
quarry', or whatever.  You'll trot nice and briskly or
else you'll feel the whip - I've often looked at your
butt as you stood there talking to the Sheikh, or when
you fucked me, and now I've got it nice and naked in
front of me, it will be good to see it flinch as I
stripe you a bit!  Now, let's try out the reins, in
case I ever do want to guide you...."

Having another guy "guide" you with leather reins
attached to a bit in your mouth was yet another step
on the downwards path of my degradation and
humiliation.  I had thought that being manacled naked
to the cart was terrible;  but now even the last
vestiges of my freedom were removed from me - my jaw
was so tender that even the slightest pull on the
reins moved my bit and caused waves of pain to race
through me, so I had no choice but to move my head as
directed.  In later days I was to learn that even with
my jaw healed I had no choice but to obey the reins -
a guy pulling on them is so much stronger than your
own neck muscles, that you are simply forced to do as
he wants.  And of course they're not just to guide you
- if your driver wants you to stop quickly, if he's in
conversation and doesn't want to take the trouble to
break off and tell you to "Whoa!", he simply hauls
back hard on both reins!

All that day Marc "trained" me, making me walk, trot,
and sometimes even run flat-out, goaded on by his
carriage whip, and with the ever-present tug of the
reins directing and controlling me. I was utterly
exhausted, and, not only that, my feet were extremely
painful - I'd always spent a lot of time in my spare
time barefoot, but now having to run over concrete,
tarmac, and stuff without any protection at all was a
very different matter.  The very worst think of course
was when Marc deliberately "drove" me off the hard
surfaces and on to the ever-present sand:  not only is
it much, much harder work to pull the trap through
sand, but it's agony on your calf and thigh muscles as
you can' get a proper purchase in the loose stuff.
And my balls ached too - I'd always done a lot of
exercise, but of course except when I  was in the
pool, I always wore shorts - not because of modesty,
as in the palace surrounded by slaves I had nothing to
be concerned about being very well hung;  no, I wore
shorts to give me some support, but now my balls were
swaying around, crashing into my thighs as I ran or
stumbled along.

When Marc went back in to the palace at lunch time I
still didn't get any respite - I'd kind of thought
that when he went in to eat I could at least sink to
the ground and rest my weary body.   But no - at the
entrance to the palace he casually looped my reins
around one of the ornamental pillars, pulling my face
quite close  to them and leaving no slack - I realised
I was going to have to stand there until he came back
out.  It really shows one guy's power over you when he
can leave you tethered and helpless like that, and I
suppose I'm not really certain whether it was this I
hated most, or the sheer pain and agony coming at me
from all parts of my body.   At least the palace
slaves had some sense, though:  they knew that after
exercising like that for hours I'd be very dehydrated
(you must remember that in the desert the air is very,
very dry so that although you don't appear to be
sweating you are indeed evaporating away gallons of
sweat, especially in the fierce sunshine), and so they
brought me water. A big bucket of it was placed at my
feet with a thin rubber hose leading into my mouth -
provided I was careful not to let the hose slip out
from between my lips (not easy, when I couldn't close
them properly with the bit), I could suck as much of
it down as I wanted, when I wanted:  this was the only
decision I'd been allowed to make for myself all day,
and for this reason the water seemed especially
precious to me.

Mind you, there was some leakage - as there had been
all morning of my saliva - even with the bit pressed
right down to my jaw line in  the gap where my teeth
had been pulled, there was a problem:  where it
protruded from my mouth was still below the "natural"
saliva level in my mouth, and so there was constant
drooling from the corners of my mouth.  I suppose I'd
noticed this before with other ponies, but I'd never
given it much though.  Now I knew just how miserable
it was to have your upper body flecked with your own
spit as you ran along, drying on you in the desert
air.  Well now I suppose I was a bit grateful for the
water that leaked from my mouth as I sucked it up - by
tilting my head back it fell onto my body and trickled
down, helping to cool me a bit.

Of course the inevitable happened - after drinking
what seemed like several litres of water, I needed to
piss.  And what options do you have when you're
tethered by your reins? You can't move away into the
shrubbery, or anything:  no, you just have to do it
right there, where you're standing.  And if your hands
are immobile as they're shackled to the shafts of the
cart, you can't even direct the flow away from you!
Once the pressure in my bladder had become unbearable
I simply had to just let the piss flow out of me, and
even though I moved my feet apart, I could feel them
and my ankles being splattered with it as it hosed
down.  I was still at that point, I suppose, when I
felt shame at having to do this - especially when I
looked down and saw a small rivulet of my piss running
down the palace steps behind me, for all to see.  Yes,
I know it's silly - it wasn't my fault, and there was
nothing I could do about it, but that still didn't
prevent intense feelings of shame and humiliation once
more welling through me.  As I stood there, my
buttocks clenched almost involuntarily as the terrible
thought came to me that I might have to crap in
public, too!

Marc took his time over lunch, and I suppose I was
glad about that as even though I had to stand, that
was easier than running pulling the cart.  But when he
did appear,  he was accompanied by the Sheikh.  The
two men stood there and I saw Marc point out the
rapidly drying stream of my piss to the Sheikh, and
they both smiled.  The Sheikh had his arm around
Marc's shoulders in his usual proprietorial way (well,
that is the right word, I suppose, as the Sheikh did
indeed own Marc, just as he owned me!) - and to my
horror they both climbed into the cart.  If trotting
and running with  Marc had been hard work, with the
Sheikh on board too the job was almost impossible:  it
was all right on the splendid drive sweeping up to the
palace as it was level and the cart did make use of
modern technology:  the big rubber-tyred wheels were
mounted on proper bearings on their shaft, so once you
had got the thing moving it wasn't all that difficult
to keep going.  But at the slightest gradient I was in
effect lifting both of them, and the weight of the
cart, upwards!  The sweat was pouring off me, and in
order to keep me trotting along Marc (or was it the
Sheikh - I couldn't turn around to see as I was so
focussed on what  I was doing), constantly
"encouraged" me with the carriage whip.   At the
slightest slowing down, I'd hear the hiss of it flying
through the air and the next instant it's vicious,
sharp stinging pain on my shoulders, or butt.  It
really does make you put that additional effort into
it actually - I'd sometimes done this to Jason when I
was in a particular hurry, and now I found out just
how effective it is as a means of getting the maximum
effort out of your pony.

That evening when Marc had finally tired of "training"
me  (or was he really torturing me, amusing himself,
as I had seen no evidence during the day of him paying
any attention at all to affairs on the estate as he
ran me hither and thither with no real purpose in
mind) he drove me back to the stables.   As he got out
of the trap said to the slaves casually "Keep him in
his own stall tonight, as I don't want him playing
sexually.  And keep his bit in - I want his jaw to
heal in a way that will make it easy to keep him with
a bit in the future."

The slaves led me to my stall, manacled me to the
tethering chain by my ankle, and I just lay in the
straw utterly exhausted, too tired even to acknowledge
the greetings of the drays as they came back from work
- they always seemed to be so cheerful, even though I
knew they were made to work extremely hard indeed.
Perhaps that's the way of living life as a slave,  I
thought - try to make the best of it!

There was one further terrible indignity heaped on me
that night, though - as I lay there, I never imagined
that things could get worse.  But they did!

When they brought the food to our stalls in their
plastic bowls, I was of course totally unable to eat
mine as there was no way I could chew the slave chow
with the bit and tongue restraint in my mouth.  When
they came to collect the bowls and found mine full,
the slaves called the overseer who looked at me and
remarked "Well, we've got a bit of a problem here -
I've been told to keep the bit in you, and yet you
can't eat....."

I shook my head, and made gestures saying I didn't
care.  In fact, I thought that if  I starved myself,
that might be the best thing, as then I'd soon be out
of my misery.   Bu the overseer shook his head.  "No,
boy, you've got to eat.  A big slave like you, working
hard in the shafts, uses thousands of calories.  And
I'd lose my job if one of the ponies here wasn't up to
it because he hadn't been fed properly."   He turned
to the slaves, and snapped "Bring me a feeder!"

Now I was desperate, as I'd seen slaves "fed" before,
and knew what was in store for me.  I began to shake
my head violently and attempted to say "No,
please....", even though all the sounds I made were so
muffled that they were indistinguishable.  But I knew
it was hopeless - chained up as I was, there was no
way that I was going to avoid this.

The feeder was one of the standard ones used on
recalcitrant slaves generally - a large funnel-like
hopper into which the slave chow, or any liquid or
whatever, can be put, attached to a thick, flexible
hose.  The overseer held the end of the hose to my
mouth and commanded "Open wide, boy....".

I did nothing, and he now seemed to be at least a
little kind to me.  He said calmly "Now, Steve, you
know what this is and how it works.  You yourself
ordered slaves to be fed often enough.... So come on,
boy - open wide......  You know I've got to get the
pipe far enough down your throat to avoid your
windpipe.  You're going to gag and choke as it slides
down, but I've greased the end to make it as easy as
possible...."

I still shook my head, even more violently now, and he
looked sorrowful, rather than angry, as he went on
"You know it's useless, Steve.  Now co-operate, and it
will be unpleasant at first, but once the pipe's well
down....."   Then on seeing that I continued to defy
him, he simply shrugged and called out to the drays,
who were watching from their stall across the aisle,
"Two of you boys - over here - Now!"

I guess the niggas must have been used for this
before, as they knew what to do.  Acting in that
smooth unison that drays learn from working so
constantly together, the two of them simply threw me
to the straw, and one at once sprang and sat astride
my chest, his knees forcing my upper arms down.  I
could feel his hot, moist ass against the bare skin of
my chest as he knelt there, and with his huge weight I
knew I was pinioned down totally helplessly.  I did
try to thrash and kick with my legs, but seeing this,
the overseer called over a third nigga who simply sat
astride my thighs.  I lay there looking helplessly at
the first nigga's cock and balls as they waggled in
front of my face, but then the second one came and
knelt at my head, and I felt his immensely strong
knees press into the sides of my head, holding it
absolutely immobile.

"Right, you boys.... Hold him totally still", the
overseer commanded the niggas, and then to me he added
"So come on, Steve - you're helpless, as you can
see.... Make it easy on yourself.... Open wide....."

When I still refused, he nodded to the nigga who was
sitting astride my thighs and the next moment I let
out a great shout as he grabbed my balls and squeezed
them, hard!  The overseer was clearly used to this, as
the moment my jaws parted he thrust a wooden wedge
between them, and I lay there futilely attempting to
close my mouth.

Look, have you ever had anything pushed down your
throat?  I suppose it's a bit like learning to suck
cock properly - most guys never take a whole cock in
(well, not a really big one, anyway), and it's only a
very few who train themselves to be able to let a hot,
hard cock slide down their throats.   There's an awful
lot of gagging and choking and spluttering as you have
to learn to suppress your choking reflexes, but it can
be done.  I've never learned, of course, as I am by
nature a "top" and I like my cock up guys' asses, or
down their throats as I fuck them.  But as a kind of
courtesy, almost, and to relax the other guy if he's a
bit nervous when he first gets to see me naked with my
huge cock thrusting out from me, I do sometimes take
part in a little foreplay and I do then suck his cock
and so on... But generally just the head and an inch
or so of the shaft so it fits comfortably in my mouth.
 I've never taken a cock right down my throat and so
never learned how to do it.

Well, I got an instant lesson now!  It didn't matter
how much I tried to thrash and break free, three huge
niggas holding me down made it utterly futile.  The
overseer knelt beside me and fed the tube into my
mouth, and then as it hit the back of my throat and I
started to gag, he murmured, not unkindly, "Try to
relax, Steve.... It will soon be over....."

It was useless advice, of course, as you can't turn
off your gag reflex voluntarily without a lot of
practice, and I felt as if I was choking,
suffocating.... I could feel my chest muscles
spasming, and tears were streaming from my eyes and
snot from my nose.... But, mercifully, it was over.
Once the thick pipe was a certain way down me, I
seemed to be able to regain control of my reflexes and
could just lie there and listen as the slave chow was
poured into the funnel and it slithered down into my
guts.  When it was over and the pipe had been pulled
out (causing me to wretch again), I looked at the dray
nigga who was sitting astride me.  His huge cock was
rigidly erect and a small slime of pre-cum was beading
out of his piss slit and dripping onto my chest.  I
couldn't decide whether he was aroused because he
could imagine his cock replacing the feeding pipe in
my throat, or whether it was because he could see that
he had me pinned down and helpless - and I had been
someone who previously had had him under my control.
I began to worry that as soon as the overseer left
he'd attack me and try to fuck me, for whichever
reason.  But fortunately the overseer ordered the
three niggas back to their stall, and I was allowed to
lie there in my stall and to try to sleep.  Mind you I
felt dreadful - not only was I now a naked slave
totally under the control of Marc when he was driving
me, but now I couldn't even say whether I would eat or
not - it was as if I was a car or truck that had been
pulled up to a filling station, had the nozzle
inserted into me, and had fuel pumped in.

The following morning the overseer decided that my bit
could be removed, and so I wasn't subject to the same
humiliating force feeding, but I was cleaned and oiled
by the slaves before being shackled into the trap and
led across to the palace to be tethered by my reins to
await Marc.

The next to days weren't so bad, I suppose - my pain
subsided from my jaw and I'd almost forgotten the
skinning and branding, so all I had to contend with
was my hurting feet and my aching limbs - Marc
continued to drive me hard, and each night all I
wanted to do was lie there in the straw and try to
recover.  On the third night, though, just after I had
been shackled into my stall, Marc appeared with the
overseer, leading Jason.

"Put them in together", Marc told the overseer, and
his shackle chain was attached to the same loop in the
floor that mine was.  I saw a terrible look in Jason's
eyes - one of pure savage lust, and he didn't even
wait for Marc and the overseer  to leave before he
attacked me.  Look, I've told you how occasionally I
used to enjoy fucking Jason as his big, strong ass was
a real delight, and how it added to my excitement when
he resisted and I needed to grapple him to the floor
and overcome him - but this was something that I could
only do  when I'd ordered one wrist to be manacled to
his collar because, in spite of my good physical shape
and strength, he was actually "working" his muscles
constantly, and the five years he had on me had also
begun to count.   Now, of course, this didn't apply:
we were both there totally naked, and both only
chained by one ankle to the floor.

Although I fought, there was just no way that with my
extreme fatigue I could prevent Marc from totally
overpowering me, and those five years really count
when you're fighting for real. I couldn't prevent him
pushing me down onto my belly, and then almost choking
me as one of his arms went around my throat.  With his
other hand I could feel him pulling my ass cheeks
apart, and there was the sensation of his rock-hard
cock thrusting at me.  I was screaming and shouting,
and the overseer asked Marc if he should stop Jason
from raping me.
"No", Marc said.  "These two stallions are going to
live together in the same stall from now on, and it's
easier to let them sort out who is going to fuck
whom."

End Of  Part Nine