Date: Wed, 14 Apr 2004 10:48:31 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Two Gentlemen And A Slave

TWO GENTLEMEN AND A SLAVE, 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   )

Two Gentlemen And A Slave, Part One

The information pack duly arrived. The covering letter
was bright and welcoming - made it sound like I was
joining a club.

'Hi, and a big welcome from all the team at Grants
Bank Human Resources Division. You have elected to
partake in our Lease Service Debt Repayment Plan and
we are pleased to enclose the documents required to
finalise the contract that has been customized to suit
your needs. Please read the enclosed contract and
statement of terms and conditions before signing both
copies and returning them to this office. We enclose
our FAQs. We share your confidence that this is the
right plan for you and your circumstances. We look
forward to meeting you in person.'

I faxed a copy through to my lawyer for any comments.
It came back five minutes later with a message
scrawled across it - 'seems standard - good luck.'  I
signed. The lady downstairs witnessed it. She was
curious, but I just said I was going away for a while.
She made some remark about being dead by the time I
got back. I wondered what my chances of survival were.
I put the contract in its envelope and posted it
straight away. No point in delay.

After hearing nothing for a couple of days, a woman
called to say that my appointment was for the
following Tuesday at 11.30am at my local Slave
Registration Centre. Would I please ensure I arrived
in good time with my birth certificate, driving
license, national insurance number, and proof of
current address. Nothing else and I should leave my
watch, mobile, jewellery and any other valuables at
home.

Five days to go. I called my friend Rob who was an
expert on slavery. It was his hobby and only topic of
conversation. He knew nothing of my plans and when I
blurted them out there was a silence. Then he said,
'but that's fantastic. I mean if it's your sort of
thing. Great!'

When I told him it was to pay off debts and give my
kid a decent start, and myself another one, he was
silent again.

Finally he said, 'we must meet.'

The pub was quiet and we sat in a corner. Rob kept
looking at me as if I had just said something deeply
shocking. I kept asking him questions and getting no
answers. But in the end he did tell me what I needed
to know. I couldn't believe I hadn't discussed it with
him before. Maybe I had been afraid of what he would
say.  He knew all about lease service debt repayment
plans. With the current shortage of stock in the slave
trade, and prices sky high, they were all the rage. No
wonder they had offered me fifty thousand pounds for a
two year contract. No doubt they had offered all sorts
of promises about being leased to top-notch clients
who would want me only for my business skills, and
would look after me with kid gloves and house me in
some nice hostel. Well maybe, but maybe not. It was
all a matter of luck. And how the market was moving.

I would be put on show at a slave auction house,
probably one of the big ones located in suburban
business parks, and my details would be circulated. I
might be bid for individually, or as part of a group.
Either way there was no telling the outcome. If there
were no takers after a week I would be sent for public
auction, and if I still didn't sell they'd cut their
losses and flog me off on the wholesale market. That
meant Grants would be washing their hands of me.
Although they would remain the head-lease holder, and
technically it was up to them to see that the terms of
my contract were complied with, in practice they would
let me sink or swim.

Recent cases where a slave had been lost and not
produced in court at the contract's termination date
had resulted in nothing more than small fines and
orders to keep looking for the missing slave. But even
bounty hunters had problems tracing slaves traded
through the smaller auctions and exchanges. It was no
secret many volunteer slaves were still in ownership
long after their contracts should have expired.  The
whole system, it seemed, was geared towards maximising
the number of slaves coming to the market, and
allowing as much freedom to the trade as possible.

The trouble with volunteer slaves was the steep drop
in their asset value as their time for release drew
near. It was tempting for owners to sell such slaves
onto the 'shadow market' (i.e. without documents)
where a good price could be obtained from dealers who
could forge a permanent enslavement order, or even
send the slave abroad to be re-registered as a
permanent slave. With prices so high for healthy
lifetime slaves such corrupt practices were hard to
stop.

By this time I was thoroughly depressed. Either way my
future was intolerable. Either live with a mountain of
debts and never see my kid, or pay everyone off, put
by something for the kid, and then disappear into the
oblivion of free-market slavery.  So thank heaven for
Rob.

His idea of a weekend break was traveling round small
slave auctions in country towns, or slave events at
county fairs. He studied the published lists of
enslavements and liberations, knew all about slave
law, prices at auction on the primary and wholesale
markets, and was an avid reader of the technical
press.  So it was no surprise when he pulled a copy of
'Slavery Today' from his back pocket. He leafed
through it and began studying the classified ads. I
told him I had already signed and everything was
settled. My fate was sealed. Rob said nothing but kept
reading and then with a small sigh of satisfaction
handed me the magazine. He pointed to a small ad. 'How
does that sound?'

'Two gentlemen will purchase educated reliable slave
to supplement households London/Sussex. Lease
agreements considered. Private offers only.'

Rob offered to contact them on my behalf. He said it
would be better than being sold to a brothel, or
trained to fight, or worked to death in some sweat
shop. I told him I was already owned by Grants. But
Rob shook his head. He said that if I found another
owner who would match or surpass Grant's offer, it was
very likely a Slave Court would annul an unenfored
contract and enforce a new one.

'How long have we got?' Rob asked. I told him five
days.

'Long enough,' he said and took out his mobile. 'No
time to waste. Two civilized gentlemen - just the
owners you need.'

He punched in the number and winked at me as he began
to speak. He made me sound like a combination of a sex
boy, university professor, and Jeeves. Before long it
was clear the gentlemen in question had taken the bit.



Two Gentlemen And A Salve, Part Two

Rob came with me. He said he would do the negotiating
because silent slaves sold better than chattering
hagglers.  We went to an address in a fashionable part
of the city. The apartment building was as imposing as
it was gloomy, with a snooty liveried old slave as
doorman who told us we were expected on the fifth
floor. The door was opened by a middle aged slave
wearing a standard slave uniform - blue shirt and
trousers trimmed in yellow. His collar was embossed
with the name of a large slave rental company.

Until recently I wouldn't have given such a slave a
second look, but now I studied him looking for clues
about his life. With his shaved head, trim figure,
blank expression and evasive eyes, he was a totally
unremarkable slave. He had about him an air of weary
servitude. Would I end up like him?

The slave led us down a corridor and into a large
sitting room where two men were sitting, one
middle-aged and reading, the other much younger and
watching television. The furnishings were sumptuous,
with Turkish rugs, paintings, antiques, a grand piano,
and fine old glass-fronted book cases. These gentlemen
were certainly not poor. The younger immediately
jumped up and came over to greet Rob. He introduced
himself to Rob as Boy Harry but took no notice of me.
The older man also came over and shook hands with Rob.
He said his name was Colonel Underhill and offered Rob
a drink and led him over to the fire and invited him
to sit on a large Chesterfield.

The slave went to fetch Rob a drink while Boy Harry
stayed and looked me up and down. 'Not a bad piece of
goods,' he said as he reached out to remove my jacket.
'A bit flabby perhaps, but we'll soon clear that up.
Nice eyes, nice butt....'

He turned and walked back to sit beside Underhill.
The two men could not have been more different.
Underhill was every inch a gentleman of the old
school. With his bristling mustache, pot belly, rather
wild gray hair, and powerful build, he stood over six
foot and exuded authority. His clothes only served to
enhance the effect - gray slacks, a plaid shirt,
elegant cravat, well-tailored tweed jacket and
dangling pocket handkerchief, polished and well worn
brown brogues.  Boy Harry on the other hand was not
only half the age, he must have been half the weight
and mass of the Colonel. But he was a handsome young
man with black hair and pale skin, and a neatly made
torso and a bottom that sat easily on a pair of good
legs. He wore smart chino shorts to just above the
knee that showed off his rump, a checked shirt with
short sleeves, and a pair of boots with long socks. If
it weren't for the absence of a collar and tag, I
might have taken him for a favored slave.

No doubt about it, they were an intriguing couple, but
that did not alter the fact that I felt affronted at
being left standing alone and looking stupid. Didn't
they realize I wasn't a slave yet? So as not to look a
complete idiot I wandered over to look at one of the
paintings, only to hear a voice tell me to take my
hands from my pockets and stand over by the piano. I
turned and saw Boy Harry scowling at me. I don't think
I had been spoken to like that since leaving school
and I had to control an urge to tell him to watch his
tongue and tone, but managed to control myself. I did
as instructed and walked over to the piano. I heard
Boy Harry say, 'he needs training... that's for sure.'


I watched the three of them. Rob was sipping his drink
and smirking. He was clearly enjoying every minute of
this. The other two were chatting to him while the
slave made up the fire before bowing and leaving. It
was a peaceful scene that might be reproduced in
millions of homes across the land. Slaves made home
life both comfortable and elegant. Life was good for
the free.

Rob began to sing my praises. 'I think he'll make an
excellent domestic slave. He's intelligent, smart
even, and once you get him settled I'm sure he'll give
you no trouble.'

Boy Harry stretched himself and snuggled against the
Colonel wo said in a matter-of-fact tone, 'We don't
take trouble from slaves.'  He began to ask questions
about me.

Rob answered as if I weren't present. Yes I was in
debt and therefore a volunteer slave. No, I wasn't
gay, but in slaves such things were neither here nor
there. No, I hadn't a criminal record, and yes I was a
virgin up my ass. Yes I had made a mess of my freedom
and was better suited to slavery.  My head was
spinning and I could hardly hear what was going on.
But then I heard Rob's order to strip.

The idea of Rob ordering me around would have been
absurd even an hour before - now I obeyed, but
evidently not quickly enough. Boy Harry was on his
feet and came over to give me a hard smack on the seat
of my pants. It didn't hurt, but no one had done that
to me since my dad when I was twelve. He told me to
hurry up, and when I was naked he took hold of my cock
and pulled it, and then grabbed my balls, and fingered
them and squeezed them apart. 'He needs shaving,
fucking, training and to be put in shape. He's flabby
and slow, and has no idea of what he's doing. Apart
from that....'

Boy Harry laughed and took my right nipple between his
finger and thumb and rolled it. A shaft of pure
sensation shot through me and I gulped. When he let go
he gave me another hearty whack on the backside and
wandered back to sit down. 'Not bad though. A fuckable
bottom, a decent cock, a nice face.'

He turned to the Colonel, ' What do you think Sir?'

The Colonel shrugged. 'We'll have him. We can always
sell him if he doesn't settle.'

After that there was a lot of haggling over price, and
legal fees, and which court to apply to for change of
contract. I stood where I was, feeling daft, but also
mildly excited. Why did being stripped, priced and
sold, and the threat of bring fucked and sent for
training, cause my cock to stir? I couldn't fathom it.
Of course male slaves were fucked regularly - I had
fucked plenty myself - but I had never thought about
it before.

After a while Rob came over. He said they had agreed
terms and that he was pretty sure the court would
agree to transfer ownership to the gentlemen.
Furthermore it had been decided that I would be
treated as a slave from then on. When I tried to
remonstrate, saying I was free for another five days,
Rob stopped me and said it was better to dive in and
not delay. I had much to learn, and for that reason
would be spending the five days at a slave training
center. He would call a round-the-clock slave
transport company and have me taken immediately. So
saying he made a call on his mobile, asking for a
collection and whether there was a vacancy on their
five day basic training program. He added that the
slave was not registered but would be enslaved
immediately after training. That seemed not to be a
problem.

He then told me that I was being sent to a private
slave training center, and that the next few days
would be 'pretty hectic' but all for the best.  I
decided enough was enough. I was still a free man, and
was starting to think the Grants Bank program might
not be so bad after all. But when I began to speak Rob
- my old friend - leaned close and said, 'I'm doing
this for you, so shut the fuck up. Do you want to feel
a cane across your hide?'

This was too much. I told him to shut the fuck up. My
future owners must have heard this because they
stopped talking and turned to look. Rob quickly
apologized for me and said the tension and stress was
getting to me, but that such an outburst would not
happen again. He then went on, with no change of tone,
to ask if he could borrow a cane for a few minutes.
The Colonel replied that there was one over by the
writing desk, and Rob was welcome to use, but would he
please do so in the room across the hall. He added
that he hoped the slave would be better behaved when
returned from training.

Rob gave me a dark look and assured the Colonel I
would have an entirely different attitude and outlook
on life by then. He went over, took hold of the cane
and waved it in the direction of the door. 'Outside
old friend. Time to learn your first lesson.'

I went out and into a smaller room across the hall. It
too was furnished with antiques, but was clearly
designed to be used chiefly for its current purpose. A
flogging horse stood in the center of the room. It's
back was covered in fine red leather, and the rest of
it was made of fine oak. Rob told me to adjust its
height to suit mine, and began to take some practice
strokes with the cane. It didn't take me long to
adjust the horse, but while doing so I tried again to
bring us back to sanity. I told Rob I wished to go
home, and would not be caned. If he wished to
demonstrate his skills why not cane Boy Harry, or the
house slave. My backside wasn't available.

But as I spoke Rob caught hold of me and pushed me
over the horse. Before I could get up he laid three
savage strokes across my buttocks. I yelled, and that
brought Boy Harry running and the slave, and together
they over-powered me and laid me face down on the
floor. A few more cuts with the cane and Rob asked if
I were ready to stand up and obey. He apologized again
for my indiscipline. I could see no alternative to
obeying.  I knew Rob enjoyed caning slaves. And he was
skilled with the whip. He had often told me about the
whore houses he went to that specialized in punishment
and torture, and also his visits to slave training
centers where recalcitrant slaves were being
retrained. So it was no surprise when he told me the
thrashing was going to hurt, and that it would mark
the end of our friendship until I was free again.

His voice was cold and amused, as if he were pleased
with the way things were going, and that dealing with
me would be the icing on the cake. He told me get over
the horse. I did as he said, and Boy Harry quickly
tied my hands and then my legs so that they were far
apart. He then arranged me so that my buttocks were
raised right up, and made a proper target. This took a
while as he and Rob were perfectionist and kept
altering my position. More than once I felt his hand
resting on my soon-to-be-flogged hide. I couldn't
believe this was happening to me.  The Colonel's
appearance was the signal that all was ready. He stood
looking down at me with his hands in his pockets,
grinning as if watching something quietly amusing.

Rob caned me with vigor and skill. He gave me a dozen
cuts, and each landed just below the mark left by the
previous one. He seemed to be using a minimum of
effort - he took no run, did not break sweat - but
such was his skill that even when using only moderate
force the cane landed with sufficient impact to make
me cry out. After a couple of strokes Rob asked Boy
Harry to gag me, and he quickly pulled a handkerchief
from his hip pocket and stuffed it in my mouth. After
that my noises were muffled. The pain was more than
excruciating, because it was overlaid with a fierce
sense of humiliation. Here was a good friend thrashing
me as a common slave - it was as unbearable as the
blows searing my backside.

When Rob had given me the dozen he put the cane under
his arm and came up close to whisper in my ear. 'This
is just the start. I've half mind to fuck you.'

A hand was searching in my arse-crack and because my
feet were so far apart it was not hard to find my
hole. Boy Harry was probing my entrance, and he told
me to relax and let him in unless I wanted Rob to give
me another dozen cuts. I tried to relax but it wasn't
easy, but the thumb did slip inside. 'You'd better get
used to it. Your fuck meat now.'

The door-bell rang. I could hear the slave answering
it. The Colonel said, 'that will be the transport.'

I managed to spit out the gag and Rob and Boy Harry
released me. As soon as I was free I stood up. I was
dizzy and my sight bleary with tears and my backside
was burning hot, but my sanity was returning. The
spell Rob had cast on me was fading. Why had I let him
beat me? I was still as free as he was. All I wanted
was to get my clothes on and get the fuck out of that
apartment. If Rob thought I was going to a slave
training camp, or anywhere else except straight home,
he had another think coming.

I was just about to tell him I was leaving when I
heard the Colonel say, 'Good evening gentlemen...this
is the property. He'll need shackles - just been
thrashed and is uppity.'

Two uniformed guards entered the room. Both carried
metal tool boxes and both were the type of thick-set,
fit and mean looking, shaven headed cockneys that so
often found employment in the slave guarding and
punishment business. I'd been grateful for their quick
intervention in the past. Once when I was accosted in
the street by a demented slave, two just like these
had appeared from nowhere, over-powered the man, and
used their whips on his back as the man lay face down
on the pavement. No one had taken any notice. After
all public chastisement was a necessary part of a
slave owning society.

So I was not surprised when these guards grabbed my
arms and bent them up behind me against my shoulder
blades and snapped on cuffs and straps. They were
experts; there was no point in struggling, but I did
ask to dress first. That earned me a cuff on the ear
and a squeeze on my balls. A voice said slaves in
transit didn't need clothes. My legs were put together
and shackled.

I decided to play along... when I had them alone
outside I could reason with them. They wouldn't want
to take a free man to a slave training center.  When
the guards had me ready and trussed they asked Rob to
sign for me and said they would deliver me safely to
court five days later. 'He'll be in a better frame of
mind by then sir,' one said and they all laughed.

The Colonel said something about army techniques of
training still being the best, and one of the guards
replied earnestly that he sincerely believed their
training program was second to none. 'Don't you worry
sir, we'll make him jump through some hoops.'

The other guard placed a gloved hand on my hot
backside. 'If I may say so sir, this bottom has been
very well caned. I'm a dab hand with the stick myself,
but I'm not sure I could match a dozen marks like
that.'

There was a good deal of shaking hands and thanking
going on, and then I was dragged off, pulled long by a
chain attached at one end to a metal collar round my
neck and at the other to a guard's belt. With my feet
shackled I couldn't keep my balance and fell forwards.
The guard did not stop but pulled hard on the chain so
that I stumbled as I tried to scramble to my feet. A
metal toe-capped boot kicked me between my legs,
jolting my balls, and sending a shaft of pain through
my groin....enough to make me get to my feet. By the
time we were at the door I was stumbling along like
any other slave.

I looked back and saw Rob standing between Boy Harry
and the Colonel. They were sharing a joke. The door
closed.


Two Gentlemen And A Slave, Part Three

The guards put me in the back of a van and chained me
to an iron bar running along one side. It wasn't
comfortable, but they told me not to complain unless I
wanted more stripes across my backside. We drove east
across the city and then under the river towards the
southern outer suburbs. There had been discussion by
radio with a control centre about which depot to take
me to. It seemed the nearest was full and another had
closed for the night. The only solution was the big
receiving facility at Swanley.

By chance I knew the place because my work had often
taken me past it - a smart office block and compound
set back from the main road. On the front lawn there
was a large poster showing a cheerful family group of
complete with a dog, and a young male slave in
attendance. While all the family were smiling and
casually dressed, the slave looked alert and ready to
serve in a natty blue and gold uniform of
high-collared tunic, nicely cut shorts, slave-sandals
and cap. The caption read 'Completing Today's Family
Unit - Mann's Human Resource Services.'

I recalled with a shudder how I had more than once
told myself as I drove by that it might be a good idea
to stop off and check out the stock on offer. It had
not occurred to me that I would ever be a stock item
myself. In the event the driver turned off the highway
and took a service road to a rear entrance. Heavy
metal doors opened and we drove into a brightly-lit
yard and pulled up outside a single storey building
with a sign 'Goods Inward' over the door.

Without a word both guards got out and went inside. I
sat feeling nervous, and in need of something to ease
the dryness in my mouth. A man in jeans and a T-shirt
came out of the building but walked straight past. A
car drove into the compound and two young men got out.
They stood for a while chatting as they put on uniform
jackets and fixed their ID tags. It was just like any
other workplace - a shift changing, staff arriving and
leaving, the artificial light of night giving way to
grey dawn.

The van door opened and a guard in shirtsleeves I'd
not seen before leaned in and released me from the
iron bar. He was fair-haired and chubby and gave off
an air of impatience. 'Right you, move.'

He stood back as I crawled out, stiff from the cold,
and stood up in the cool morning air. The guard pulled
a stick from a pocket in the side of his trousers and
thwacked it across my backside. 'Inside, and keep your
mouth shut.'

As I walked he grabbed me by the forearm. Something
about his grip told me he was used to handling men and
that he would not hesitate to punish disobedience.

Once inside the reception area he led me over to a
desk where another guard, also in shirtsleeves, sat
slumped with his feet up watching television. The
rattle of my shackles announced my arrival. He glanced
up. 'Is this the voluntary case from Kensington?' My
guard nodded. 'Sign him in...five days...needs to be
assessed.'

The man yawned and began tapping at his computer. 'No
one on duty yet. Put him in a holding cell and give
him some mush.'

With that I was led through the empty reception area
and double doors. Ahead there was a long corridor such
as might be found in any institution, with doors off
and overhead signs indicating 'medical inspection,'
'records,' 'induction,' 'toilets,' and 'holding
cells.' I was guided through the last door and into a
dimly-lit, windowless, low-ceilinged room lined on all
sides with metal barred cages. The guard opened the
nearest and pushed me in. I fell forwards as the door
clanged shut.

I swore and heard a laugh. I looked round and saw that
some other cages were occupied. A voice asked if I'd
been picked up at Waterloo. When I said I hadn't there
was a groan of disappointment. Had there been a raid,
I asked, remembering a newspaper article about
opportunistic press gangs rounding up down and outs at
railway termini and handing them on to slave agencies.
Another voice swore and started to say something, but
a guard appeared.

There was silence, but too late. The guard was a slim
grey-haired man with a narrow face and jutting chin.
He walked with the stiff gait of a born disciplinarian
and wore the shirtsleeves uniform. He took out a stick
and used it to stab the offender sharply in the gut.
The man let out a groan and doubled up. With a skilful
flick of his wrist the guard freed the stick, raised
it and brought it down across the man's shoulders with
a crisp crack. The force was enough to make the man
drop to his knees. He knelt motionless with his head
bowed while the guard swore at him and circled the
cage. When he got behind the crouching figure he
stopped, took a step back, cocked his head to take
aim, and used the end of the stick to ram it up the
man's backside. There was a scream and then another as
the guard wrenched the stick free from the hole. His
work done he strode out without another word but with
a self-satisfied grin on his face. After that nobody
said a word.

A slave wearing nothing but a collar and T-shirt with
the words 'service' printed back and front brought me
a plate of slave-mush and a cup of tepid water. I
remembered how at school we had sometimes forced
unpopular boys to eat slave-mush. It was considered
worse filth than cat food. And yet I ate it hungrily.
It tasted of nothing.

Some other captives were brought in. These were a
rough looking lot and clearly runaways as they had
slave tattoos on their forearms and telltale whip
marks on their backs. They looked utterly dejected as
they stood in shackles with bent shoulders and bowed
heads. How many times had I seen groups of slaves like
them standing in line for a public whipping or a
session in the pillory? Finally a guard came and
unlocked my cage and hauled me out and off down the
corridor to a room marked 'Assessment.'

Before I could take a look round I was thrown against
the wall and told to press my nose against it until
the snot dribbled. My shackles were removed and my
hands cuffed. A hand reached in between my legs and
slipped a ring round my cock and balls. It was
tightened and a weight was attached that hung heavily
between my thighs. A paper hat was put on my head.
Then I was told to turn round. I was in an interview
room that was furnished only with a desk and chair. On
the linoleum floor yellow marks had been painted. I
knew these were where slaves had to put their feet. On
the walls there were various small notices giving
information about numbers to call to pass on
information about runaways, health hints for slaves,
an increase in registration fees for new born slaves,
specialist training courses, breeding techniques, etc.
One poster struck me because I'd seen it in the
evening paper. It was a photo of man taken from behind
with a defiant looking slave facing him. The man is
reaching into his back pocket for a small whip. The
caption read 'Domestic Control - Handy-sized Rhino
Whips from only £20.'

A whack across my backside from the guard's stick
alerted me to the door opening. A young man came in
and placed a brief case on the desk. He nodded to the
guard who withdrew. He removed his jacket and placed
it carefully on a hanger before clipping a plastic ID
tag to his shirt pocket. Only then did he look at me.
'Right young man, let's get you sorted.'

He came round and reached down to tug the weight
attached to my balls. Then he ran his thumb and
forefinger over my left nipple. 'Not bad material. A
bit flabby.'

He looked me in the eye, sniffed and slapped me
lightly across the cheek. Then we went back round the
desk and opened the briefcase. He took out a file and
sat down and began to read. Despite everything there
was something about him that appealed. Perhaps because
he was so like me. He had trim dark hair, dark eyes, a
firm jaw, broad but slender shoulders, and looked as
if he kept himself fit. His pale blue shirt was
freshly laundered and ironed, his tie neatly knotted,
and his trousers had a loose fit that showed off a
nicely shaped sportsman's butt. He could have been a
middle manager in any large corporation, with good
career prospects. No doubt there was a wife and kids
at home, and a slave, most likely a young female who
would adore him and dream of stealing him away from
his wife. Usually I would have treated him as an
equal, shared a joke and talked about sports. As it
was I felt only a sense of apprehension.

'You're a two year volunteer.'

'Not yet. I'm still a free man.'

He glanced up. 'That's not how I see it. And use Sir
if you value the skin on your back.' His tone was mild
and businesslike.

'According to my notes you surrendered to Colonel
Underhill five days early in order to facilitate a
short period of training.'

'I didn't surrender sir. A friend took me along.'

'It says here that Mr Robert Smith was acting for you
and he agreed you should be sent on a five-day
training course ahead of your court appearance. It is
hoped your enthusiasm will help your application for a
transfer of ownership from Grant's Bank to Colonel
Underhill?'

I was about to answer when he held up a hand. 'Before
you say things you may regret.... you have applied to
be enslaved to settle your debts. Slavery is a serious
business. Here we can give you a taste in controlled
conditions so that you can get the hang of it and gain
confidence. It's a leg up before you dive in. And
don't forget Grant's Bank has you by the short and
curlies. Contest the enslavement order now and they
will apply for compulsory enslavement for ten years.
And they'll get it. So this deal with Underhill sounds
the best option for you.'

He looked at me to respond. There was no denying the
logic. I was in shit up to my neck. No point in
drowning in the stuff. I nodded.

'Sign here.' He held out a pen. I indicated the cuffs
on my hands. He smiled. 'A mark will do. Slaves don't
have signatures.'

I made the mark where his finger pointed. 'Good boy.
Now there's just a couple of things you need to know
and then we'll get you started. First, we've applied
for advance slave registration and a number.'

He reached into his briefcase and took out a cheap
plastic and wire slave-collar with an ID tag attached.
He stood up and came round the desk. 'Hold you head
up... my you've got a large Adam's Apple... keep still
now... these things are always buggers to fix.'

He spoke softly, almost soothingly. I felt the plastic
against my neck, and then heard a faint click. 'Got
it. There now... you're a slave.'

He patted my butt and smiled and then reached up and
flicked the paper hat off my head. He showed it to me.
It had 'slave in training' printed on it. 'That's
nothing but the truth boy. Don't look so sad. This is
a big moment in your life.'

He ruffled my hair and then used both hands to secure
the absurd hat on my head. He went back behind the
desk and stood looking at me for a moment with his
hands on his hips. It was as if he were deciding on
something. Then he shrugged and let his hands slip
deep into his pockets. 'You need training, that's for
sure.'

Our eyes met, and he frowned. 'Only look at me when
you're answering a question. There's a lot you'll
learn, and a lot you'll need to learn.' He sighed.
'And that brings me to my other point.' He sat down
and looked through the file for another piece of
paper. 'Here it is. We're recommending to Colonel
Underhill that he apply to have your order of
enslavement extended from two to five years. This is
on the grounds of getting money's worth from a
domestic slave. You might be worth fifty thousand over
two years for a commercial enterprise that could use
your professional talents. But for a domestic slave,
doing the chores, running the errands, chauffeuring
and valeting, fifty thousand seems way too much. You
may have a fine fuck-hole, but that's not a matter of
concern to the court. We're confident the judge will
agree with us, but you'll have a chance to have your
say.'

He stood up and pressed a bell on the desk. The door
opened and a heavily built black guard came in. I was
too stunned to know what to say but began to mumble.
The man behind the desk nodded to the guard who
grabbed the weight between my legs and pulled hard. A
spiral of pain rain through my groin.

'Five day training. Start him now. No favors. No
special conditions. Carry on.'

Two Gentlemen And A Salve, Part Four

Five days: call that a hundred and twenty hours. No
need to describe the pain and exhaustion. No days and
no nights. No mealtimes, no regular sleep. I pissed
only three times and shat where I stood. The sadists
came three in a row, and then a nice guy or lady to
show me to how to tie a master's shoe laces, or open
his letters with a knife.

The black guard took me down to 'induction' where he
handed me over to a slim young man with a ready smile,
metal-rimmed spectacles, neat haircut, an educated
voice and a reasonable manner. He marched me off to a
'interview room' the size and height of a squash
court. There he looked me up and down and took a pair
of leather gloves from the back trouser pocket of his
nicely cut beige uniform. As he pulled them on he
explained that a slave's first training was a pretty
intense business. And then still smiling he made a
neat fist of his gloved hand and landed me a rabbit
punch just below my rib-cage. I went down on my knees
and as my vision cleared I saw the sole a
well-polished black shoe half an inch from my face.
Slowly it pressed into my face, forcing me back on my
haunches until I was about to topple over.

Then the pleasant voice told me it was time to learn
how to kiss a master's butt. 'First things first,' he
said mildly. 'and as with all things, there's a right
way and a wrong way. Let's try you.'

He turned so that his well-shaped buttocks loomed over
me. I managed to sit up and leaned forwards and
planted my lips on the central crease that ran between
the arse-cheeks. I heard a sigh and then a footstep
behind me. The black guard was still in the room.
There was a swishing sound and a terrible thud. It was
like being hit by a rock. For a second there was no
further sensation, and then the pain kicked in.

The cut of a whip is unmistakable even if you have
never felt it before. It echoes in the caverns of the
soul like a tribal memory. It is man's most brutal
gift to his fellows, and the only one that will break
us all. Until then I had felt myself a freeman. The
cruel lick of the whip taught me in an instant what it
is to be a slave. Fear of the whip, and the knowledge
that sooner or later it will be used, perhaps to teach
you a lesson, or as a joke, or on a drunken whim... no
matter... it is the fate of slaves to spend their
lives cringing under the threat of the lash. And now I
had felt it I knew I was like all the rest.

I remember a slave at my office who had sneezed over
me. I'd sent him for a whipping and drunk my
midmorning coffee while watching him receive his
licks. And then there was my father's faithful old
slave who had sometimes spanked me when I was naughty
as a young boy. I'd sent him for flogging the day
after my sixteenth birthday just to get even. All my
friends had done the same. And now I was a slave.

The correct method of kissing a master's butt is
gently to press parted lips first against the left
buttock, then the right, and finally into the crack.
This is the procedure whether the master is clothed or
not. First lesson learned - first whip mark on my
back.

An hour later I was still in the same room and on my
knees again, this time before a willowy Frenchman in a
designer suit talking on a mobile phone. I had just
opened his fly and carefully pulled out his cock. The
same black guard stood behind me with the peak of his
cap pulled down over his eyes and his whip at the
ready. Slaves learn to interpret the sound a whip
makes as it is drawn back or furled or shaken loose,
and hearing a leathery squeak I realised I had to do
something with the cock or receive another lick.

So I took the long, still flabby cock in my mouth and
began to suck and lick while reaching for the scrotum.
This was enough to remove the threat of the whip, but
it did not satisfy the Frenchman who pulled my head
back off his expanding cock and slapped me hard across
my face. I saw stars and then plunged my mouth back
round the cock and let it slide deep into my mouth
until I gagged. Still not good enough. My head was
pulled back for another hard slap, and then another,
and after that I began to make some headway. A rhythm
developed.

I'd never sucked a man's cock in my life (unless a
school friend with a nice body odour counts) but I was
learning fast. The cock stiffened and the Frenchman
groaned with pleasure. Who says corporal punishment
isn't an educational aid? When the man came I
swallowed as willingly as any well-paid tart and was
grateful when I got nothing worse as a reward than
another slap and a boot up my backside.

The third sadist led me to a small windowless room to
teach me how to approach a master without permission.
It seemed a good slave will know how to light a cigar,
change a handkerchief, refill a wallet, or slip the
car keys into a trouser pocket without seeking
permission. But it has to be done swiftly, and with a
bowed head, and without causing the master the
slightest inconvenience. To demonstrate I had to
approach the guard who was an overweight Northerner in
an over-tight uniform with a wheeze in his breathing
and heavy boots on his feet. Each time I would make
some small error and be sent back. I had five lives
and then would have to jog down the corridor and
respectfully request my black tormentor to use his
whip. I got three licks and a boot up my backside
before I mastered the art of slithering my hand into a
pocket, or persuading a lighter to light first flick,
and not to rattle change, or tickle a buttock.

After that I was sent to a sunny bedroom used by a
bachelor guard where a very nice lady showed me how to
clean the room and change the bed. She was motherly,
patient, and full of good advice. So great was the
contrast with the three sadists my voice trembled with
emotion. She did not mind and said that a slave's life
was not all pain, and that I should develop fortitude
and gritty endurance. But when I asked for water to
quench my thirst she acted as if she had not heard,
and when I repeated the request she sighed and pressed
a little bell on a chain round her neck. A guard
appeared and took hold of me by the scruff of my neck.
He frog-marched me from the room along to a common
room full of off-duty staff where and had me kneel
with my hands on my head in the middle of room. He
took aim with his whip. It flattened me, but did not
seem to surprise those watching and within seconds I
was back on my feet being led back into the room where
the nice lady was waiting to explain the art of
hospital corners.

Next up; report to the gym where a thickset young man
in shorts and T-shirt was waiting. He explained
patiently that I was a flabby son of a bitch not fit
to be a whore's maid and he would make it his mission
to turn me into a whip-sharp fit slave. To help him he
had a small electric prod and a useful little whip he
called Paddy. The sooner I got to know Paddy the
better, he said, and laid into me with enthusiasm
until he had worked up a sweat. Then it was time to
get down to business. Push-ups, lifting, running,
climbing ropes, interspersed with rimming his butt and
sucking his cock. And episodes with Paddy.

After a couple of hours I was dizzy with thirst and
was sent to be hosed down and watered. Then jog to the
training ground where the young man who had assessed
me on arrival appeared with a piece of paper. He told
me I was ready to join a team undergoing training. He
glanced at the marks on my body and said cheerfully
that it seemed I was getting well stuck in. 'It's all
about attitude,' he added and then turned to the
instructor and told him that Colonel Underhill, my
owner to be, had requested that I not be fucked or
raped. 'He asks if we'd be good enough to ease his
back passage. The Colonel says he's too old to deal
with a tight hole.'

Both men laughed and then my assessor walked off and I
was made to run over to join five other slaves who
were being prepared for a whipping. A cockney with a
twisted smile and bad teeth told us that we would be
wrapped in bath towels to be whipped. That way we
wouldn't be marked. We all laughed at this because we
were already covered in marks, but we stopped when
slave-orderlies appeared and wrapped us so tightly in
thin damp towels I thought my circulation would be cut
off. Then without warning we were whipped where we
stood. Those who fell to their knees were told to get
up and receive extra licks and those who shouted out
were quickly gagged.

I counted a dozen licks before giving up, and although
the licks were not as painful as those the black guard
had laid on me, they were so numerous and so
relentless I understood that I was being broken.
Afterwards I'd forever be a willing slave, an
accomplice in betraying other slaves, in betraying
myself, anything to avoid the whip and the master's
scorn. Like any broken slave I would take my master's
side against my own. By the time it was over we were
all lying in a heap. Blood oozed through the towels
and our bodies were wracked by fevers and cramps. The
orderly slaves stripped the towels and poured cold
salt water over us.

A slave transporter arrived and we were thrown in the
back and taken off to a small building where medical
orderlies carrying small dog-whips lined us up and
examined us. Various tags on chains were hung round
our necks and we were taken through into a communal
shower room to be hosed down and bend over and have
our arse-cheeks spread to receive an enema. Then we
shat before being hosed down again. After that we were
rubbed down with soothing lotions by slaves, given
linen loincloths and shirts, and sent to receive
injections before being fed.

The food tasted good despite our being made to eat
with our fingers and being forbidden to sit. But then
the mood changed. A mild-mannered elderly gentleman
appeared in our midst and courteously led us into a
lecture theatre. He invited everyone to sit and asked
whether we had any questions so far. There being none
he ordered the lights lowered and we were shown a
movie about the honourable condition of slavery, with
examples from history of noble slaves who had acted
selflessly out of love and loyalty to their masters.
When this was over we were allowed into a small
reception room with chairs and told to rest. Within a
minute we were all asleep.

Whip cracks woke us and the sadists returned. And so
it continued for a hundred and twenty hours. Only
right at the end did things change. The guards who had
been so attentive with their whips disappeared to be
replaced by young men in smart suits carrying
clipboards. We were sat down and asked questions about
our training. Did we feel we had been fairly treated?
(Answer: YES SIR!!! - unless you wanted a visit to the
whipping room). Were we looking forward to serving our
masters? (Answer: YES SIR!!!). Did we have any
complaints? (Answer: NO SIR!!!).

I was told to report to Room 70 to have my back
passage eased as per the Colonel's instructions. When
I arrived the room was empty except for a flogging
stool with straps attached. After a short wait a young
guy with an American accent appeared. Everything about
him was neat and elegant, from his fresh sneakers, his
long thick sports socks, chino shorts that hung to
above the knee and were just tight enough around the
butt, to his crisp polo shirt and perfect complexion
and fresh haircut. He said affably that he saw no
reason to use 'ugly instruments' and that his own cock
would serve just as well.

By then I knew how to open a master's fly and service
his cock, and having done so I dropped my loincloth
and settled over the flogging stool with my legs
apart. The American produced some rubber gloves from
his pocket and slipped them on. Then he eased two
fingers up my back passage, fiddled about, found my
pleasure spot and went to work, reducing my to a
quivering mass of pleasurable sensation. After so much
pain and fear, the change was too great and I cried
out.

This amused the American who called me a sissy and
spanked my butt a little. Then he moved closer and
guided his cock up my passage. It went in smoothly
because I welcomed it. I was being fucked by an
expert, and I could not only feel his cock stiff and
strong inside me, but my nostrils were flooded with
the fresh scent of his skin and the warmth of his
breath on the back of my neck. He did not pleasure me
for long, but withdrew and slapped my butt and told me
that I was fine and no more training in fucking would
be necessary. As I turned and presented myself to him
and bowed I found myself wishing he could be my
master, and thinking how good and faithful a slave I
would be.

Without warning I was taken to the reception areas,
handed a company slave uniform, told to put it on and
report back in five minutes. An hour later I was in
the slave court waiting for my case to be heard. When
my name was called I marched smartly into the
courtroom bowed to the judge and turned to stand with
my toes on the yellow floor markings. My application
for voluntary slavery was read out by an official, a
representative of Grant's Bank expressed no objection
to having me assigned to Colonel Underhill for the sum
of fifty five thousand pounds. At that point my
assessor stood up and put forward an application to
extend my servitude from two to five years on the
grounds of domestic service being less valuable than
professional services. The judge asked me if I agreed
with the application. (Answer: YES SIR!!!) and whether
I was freely and of my own volition entering into
slavery (Answer: YES SIR!!!). He stamped the
application, thanked everyone, wished me well and
complimented me on my smart appearance and respectful
and alert attitude. I would be a credit to my master.

A hand on my shoulder and I turned on my heel and
walked out of the exit marked 'slaves only.' Glancing
up I saw Colonel Underhill smiling down at me from the
public gallery. He looked every inch the modern
gentleman, from his well-cut tweed suit, his crisp
plaid shirt, pocket handkerchief and club tie, to the
elegant angle at which he had tucked a small domestic
whip into the top of his trousers. He was my master,
and I was his slave.


END