Date: Sun, 28 Dec 2003 12:34:10 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Willing Slave, Parts 3&4 (MM NC BDSM FANT)

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 3

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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


It was fascinating to see the countryside, albeit from
low down near the road, and I could hardly take my
eyes off the landscape at the side of the Interstate
as we rolled along.  There wasn't much other traffic,
of course, except for the long road trains of trucks
and trailers carrying bulk goods, as the extraordinary
costs had long ago driven most other vehicles off the
roads.

Chet didn't seem at all interested, though, and lay
sprawled there and soon drifted off into a sleep.  As
he dozed, I watched with fascination as the front of
his shorts tented upwards - he must be like me,  I
thought: whenever I was on a bus I started to get an
erection, and my own cock was pushing forcefully
against the thin material that was constraining it.

It got hotter and hotter in our little compartment,
and I started to run with sweat.  Chet continued to
doze, and I could see the little rivulets of water
start to run across his handsome body, too.  As I
watched, he started to wake, and sit upright.  He
scratched at his right pit in a casual, relaxed sort
of way that only a guy supremely confident in his body
can do in front of another man.  He rubbed at his
shorts, looked across at me, and grinned.  "So we've
both got bus rider's knob!", he said, smiling.

"Bus rider's knob?"

"Yes - your knob - an old word for your dick.  Gets
affected by bus riding, like mine does.  Mind if I do
something about it?"

I shook my head, wondering what he meant.

Chet wriggled in his seat, and pulled off his shorts,
easing his ass up off the bench to slide them over his
thighs, and casually kicking them over his naked feet.
 His cock was in proportion to the rest of him - big
and solid - and jutted out in full erection from a
neatly trimmed pubic patch.  He had been 'skinned, and
there was a drop of something - pre-cum? - peeping out
of his piss slit.  I just sat there and stared in
astonishment - of course I'd seen other guys naked
before, but never a really fully mature, big, strong
virile man like this.

He stroked idly at his dick for a moment, then went on
"That's better.  It's so fucking hot in these places -
you'd think they could bleed a bit of cool air down to
us, wouldn't you, in spite of all the pious stuff
about saving energy?  You look as if you've got the
same problems as me - why don't you do something about
it, too?"

I shook my head.  It's not so much that I'd have
minded losing my shorts, as after all I'd been naked
at the slave centre, but that I didn't want him to see
me with an erection.

"Suit yourself.  Is this your first trip?  Just taken
from home, and being sent off to a training place
somewhere?"

I nodded again.

"So where are you going?"

"They say it's a ranch, near a place called Buffalo,
in Wyoming.  I'm going to be trained as a pony."

"You're lucky - there are some good pony training
places out there in the West.  And it's a good life
for a slave, if you've got to be a slave!  Lots of
fresh air, a bit of variety as you're not stuck on the
same plantation or in the same plant all day, and not
much chance of serious injury.  I've met a fair few
pony slaves in my time, and provided they have good
owners, they all seemed to like the life."

"Where are you off to, Chet?"

"Oh, Las Vegas, I think - I didn't really listen.
It's all much the same to me.  They'll route me
through the system and I'll end up where I'm supposed
to."

"So you travel a lot then?  I thought slaves didn't
travel much."

"They don't, normally.  Once you're a trained pony and
you've been sold to your owner, I don't suppose you'll
ever travel more than ten or fifteen miles from his
estate again.  It's just too expensive to ship slaves
around the place - you get them to where they're going
to be used, and there they stay, in general.  I always
pity the slaves who end up working in industrial
plants - they don't even see the other side of the
town, usually, as they work, eat and sleep all in the
confines of the one building."

"But you travel - does your owner like you so much he
wants you to accompany him everywhere?"  I grinned a
bit as  I said this, as you did hear stories of
masters becoming so attached to slaves that they
wanted them around all the time.  "Is he 'upstairs'?"

"Not fucking likely!  My owner just sits in New York,
and has me shipped all over the country - I don't
think I've spent more than three nights in the same
place for over five years.  The inside of these buses,
the inside of bus stations and transfer accommodation,
and the occasional couple of days at a transitory
slave camp, that's all I ever get.  I know slaves
don't have the right to expect 'homes', but every guy
likes a little spot to call his own, doesn't he, even
if it's only the same cot in a slave barracks?  All
I've got is the clothes they've given me today...."

"So what do you do?"

"I'm a fighter.  My owner hires me out to fight.
Well, wrestle, actually."

"You're a wrestler, like I've seen on TV?"

"No - not like you'd have seen on TV.  That's all
fake, harking back to the old days when it was the
tradition for TV wrestlers to ham it up and pretend to
fight.  They still don't show proper wrestling, the
kind slaves do, on TV.  You have to go along and
watch.  And that's why I'm shipped all around the
country constantly - I'm pretty good at it, and my
owner keeps arranging fights in all the big centres -
New York, Boston, Miami, Las Vegas, Phoenix, LA - it
has to be in a pretty big city so there's a big enough
local crowd that can get along."

"How long have you been doing that?"

"Four years, now.  I was enslaved at 16, just as you
have been.  I worked on a plantation in the South then
until I was twenty - the usual stuff on an
agricultural holding:  planting, hoeing, weeding,
picking - all pretty hard work, but not exceptional.
As you can see, though, I've got a pretty good body,
and on one of his regular reviews of his slaves my
owner decided that he could sell me at a good profit
to one of the road gangs.  That was fucking tough,
I'll tell you - all these Interstates have to be
maintained, and it's all gangs of slaves who do it.
Lots of work with picks and shovels, really tough, and
in all weathers.  Slaves on those gangs don't last
long, and I thought I'd be worn out by the time I was
thirty."

"The overseer on our gang was a right bastard, too -
very keen on the whip for the slightest sign of not
working hard enough.  And he liked to keep us short of
food - he'd deliberately hold back one of the ration
packs some days, and toss the rest into a heap for us
all to scrap for.  One of the slaves in my gang was an
evil fucker who, because of his sheer size, could grab
quite a lot of what was going.  He didn't care that it
made the rest of us even shorter of food and even more
hungry.  And one day, when I saw him grabbing two
packs, I went for him - I just lost it, and waded in
and attacked him."

"He almost beat me to a pulp, but I hung in and
managed to do some damage to him.  I was lucky - one
of these buses was held up at our roadworks, and my
current owner happened to look out of the window and
saw what happened.  He slipped the driver a few bucks
and got out, and arranged with my overseer to have my
details - and phoned my owner later that day and
bought me.  If he hadn't been there and seen me fight,
well.... You know... The penalty for one slave
attacking another...."

"No... What do they do?"

"Well, the overseer would have reported me to the
owner, and he would probably have decided I needed
calming down.  And there's a simple way of calming a
slave - you take one of his testicles out, or, often,
both!  But, anyway, here I am.  I shouldn't complain,
I suppose - I've been fighting for just over ten
years, and I'm still alive at thirty two, and thriving
on it, I think."

"So other than the travel, and having no place to call
your 'own', it's a pretty good life?"

"Well, I suppose so.  I meet a great lot of other
guys.  I get to use my body.  I get to fuck a lot.
And my owner takes real good care of me - I suppose
I'm really valuable as he could sell me for a very
high price with my record, and so I get the best
medical attention and so on.  And when I am at a fight
city for a couple of days, I get to use proper gyms,
swim a bit, all that sort of stuff."

"Your owner lets you fuck....?"  I was almost
incredulous.  Who did a slave fuck?

"Well, it's more part of the job, as you might say.
The kind of wrestling I do is called 'fight to the
fuck'.  We fight totally naked, of course, and you
have to subdue your opponent so thoroughly that you
can fuck him.  There's a very big following, as a lot
of free men like to see two completely naked good
looking bucks wrestling around until one gets force
fucked.  They pay a lot to see us, and that's s
reflected in the prize money my owner gets when I win.
 And, of course, well.... You know....  Some men like
to...."

He tailed off, and looked out of the window.

"What, Chet?  What else?"

"Well, some of the men in the audience are so turned
on by seeing a slave like me fighting to keep a dick
out of his ass that they pay to do it.  My owner
charges a lot, as he wants to keep me 'special', but
he'll hire me out to be fucked.  Or, of course, to
fuck a guy.  Usually I have some creep stick his dick
up me, and some of them are really turned on by having
me 'helpless' - chained up, so I can't avoid it.  And
the other sort want me to dick their fat, white asses:
 they want to fantasise they've got the guts to go
against me, and lose, so they get fucked."

"That's awful.... "

"Look, Steve, I don't suppose it will happen to you as
a pony slave as most guys are not turned on by having
sex with a man they regard as an 'animal'.  But there
are a lot of men who pay for sack time with handsome
slaves, and there are establishments in most towns to
cater for their needs.  Let's hope you don't ever get
sold as a sex slave into a brothel."

He'd become less happy as he talked on, but suddenly
his mood brightened.

"Look, Steve, all this stalk of sex - I'm not fighting
again for a couple of days, so I can afford to fuck.
Why don't you come and squat down over my dick,
and...."

"NO!  I don't do sex with guys...."

"Have you ever done sex with anyone?  When I was
growing up, none of the girls would let a guy who was
going to be enslaved anywhere near her."

"No, I haven't".  I was blushing furiously, even
thinking about it.

"So you've not had sex with a woman, and you probably
never will.  So what's wrong with a little
recreational fun with a fellow slave?  Most slaves do,
you know.  And you don't have to take my dick - you
can come and dick me, if you want."

"No... Look... I don't know.... It's just that...."

"Hey, no problem!  But one day you might remember that
you turned down a fuck with the famous Chet - as I
said, a lot of free men pay a heap of money to my
owner for that."

I got worried as he stood up, but it was to move to
the other side of our tiny compartment.  There was a
hole in the wall, and Chet knelt down and poked his
dick through it.  I looked at his wide shoulders and
muscular back tapering to his narrow waist, and saw
his ass muscles flaring as he did something.

He went and sat back, and said "Hey, I really needed a
piss.  Simple arrangement they have, don't they - just
that hole, leading down on to the road!"

I realised that I, too was pretty desperate.  I wanted
to piss, and I had been wondering what you did.  I
tried to hang on, but as the bus rolled on, even the
smallest bump in the Interstate seemed to cause me
pains in my bladder.  I could bear it no longer, and
moved over to where Chet had knelt.

My shorts had to be pushed right down to get my dick
out, as there was no fly or anything, and I felt I
could almost feel Chet's eyes looking at my ass as I
knelt there, just as I'd looked at his.
I massaged my cock and 'skinned myself to get the last
few drops clear, and went to pull my shorts back up.

But Chet leaned across the small compartment and
pulled me towards him, then pushed my shorts down the
rest of the way.  We sat close together, both entirely
naked.

"Hey, man, let me get my shorts back...."

"Don't be so stupid, Steve!  It's so fucking hot in
here, and they'll get covered in your sweat.  And that
dick of yours must have been uncomfortable, straining
to get out all the time.  Now, isn't it better to be
naked?"

I suppose it was, but I was worried about all this
talk of fucking.  "Now, relax", he went on.  I'm not
going to fuck you against your will - I'm not so old
that I can't remember what it was like to be a young
guy in his first full day of slavery, speeding away
from home.  If you don't want to fuck, you don't have
to.  And, I suppose, you don't want a bit of mutual
dick play either, do you?"

"No, I don't think I do...."

"Well, suit yourself.  But a bit of good old fashioned
recreational sex is often the only thing us slaves can
do to pass the time in the barracks...."

He sort of shrugged as he said this, then, as his hot,
sweaty body pressed against mine on the bench, he
reached down and started to jerk himself off!  It was
just as if I wasn't there, as he  spat on his hand,
then slid it up and down his big, hard shaft.  It
really didn't take him long until he started to give a
little moan, then reached up with his other hand to
catch the huge load of cum that shot out from him.
The smell of it assailed my nose, and I almost turned
away in disgust, especially when he moved his hand to
his face and slurped up the creamy white contents of
his palm.

"Wow, that's better", he said, completely casually,
just as if jerking of in front of another guy was
completely normal.  "You sure yo don't want relief,
too?"

After that I found it difficult to talk to Chet - I
wasn't used to sitting next to a big strong mature
man, with both of us completely naked except for the
yellow "routing tags" that hung around our necks, just
as if we were parcels.  But we did exchange a few
words about this and that, and as we spoke I began to
realise how radically different my life now was.

You know I had grown up expecting this, but the
reality was so different - I'd been exhibited naked,
had to jerk off in front of my new owners and lie
there listening to men having sex, then I was being
shipped away from everything I knew and loved - my
home, my family.... And for the first time I'd heard
firsthand from a slave about what at least one slave's
life was like.  We didn't have any personal slaves at
home as mom and dad couldn't afford them, but I had of
course seen lots of slave around in the town, pulling
delivery trucks, repairing the roads, cleaning our
pool... All that sort of stuff.  But you were never
really encouraged to stop and talk to these guys, and
so I suppose I'd never thought about the lives they
really led - the kind of life I was now heading for.
 I really missed my brothers and my parents, and I
could have cried.

Chet was looking at me, and reached around me with his
big, strong arm and pulled me towards him.

"Hey, Steve, I know it's tough.  No one likes to go
away from home for the first time, and however  well
you think you are prepared for slavery, the first few
days are so totally different from anything you could
ever have imagined.  It hits most guys hard.  But
you've got to be strong, and you'll come through it -
as I said, it sounds to me as if you've struck lucky,
being bought by one of the top-class professional
training outfits.  With luck, you'll have a good life,
as I do."

"But you said you hated being fucked..."

"Well, there's good and bad in everything, isn't
there?  If I hadn't been picked in the lottery, I'd be
sitting in some office now - free men don't do manual
work any longer, do they?  And at thirty two I'd
probably have a couple of whiny kids, a wife always
going on at me about money, a mortgage and bills to
pay, a thick waist,  sex once a week if I was
lucky.... But look at me:  in perfect physical shape,
as much sex as I want with other slaves, and
absolutely no worries or responsibilities.  Sure, I so
think about winning and losing the next fight, but I
don't rally care - at our level, we're all at about he
same standard, so even if I lose I've still got my
reputation.  In some ways, if you're a slave with a
good owner, life can be a whole lot better than if
you're a free man.  And, you know, there's something
about this life where I don't own anything, and where
it's my body that's important:  I kind of think a man
ought to be like this, unfettered, not weighed down by
possessions or family or stuff - everything I do is
down to me, and I've got no one else to blame if
things don't go well.  I don't own anything, even my
body, but I'm proud of what I can do with it, and
proud that other men want to see me.  Not many men can
say that about themselves."

I suppose I hadn't thought of it like that, but it did
make me feel a bit better.

We chatted on about this an that, and Chet told me
more about life as a fighter:  how the first time he
had to strip totally naked and go into a ring with
another slave he was terrified.  He said that he first
time you had to appear in front of a huge number of
spectators without even a shred of cloth to cover your
tackle it felt terrible - he knew that all the eyes
were on his dick, and he hated it.  But, he told me,
you get used to it, and now he felt nothing at all
about doing it - it was just part of his life, and he
was proud that other men wanted to look at him, and
proud of his magnificent body.

We drifted in and out of small dozes as you do when
you're travelling, I suppose, and time seemed to fly
by.  The "captain" announced that we were approaching
Pittsburgh, and Chet got to his feet, stretched
luxuriantly, and pulled his shorts and T on.  I did
the same, and we peered out of the tiny window to see
the immaculately manicured lawns of the expensive
suburbs passing by.

The bus depot was right in the downtown area, near the
river.  Chet kind of took me under his wing, and we
strode through the mass of disembarking passengers,
and slaves hauling luggage, to the offices of USS.
Inside, he pushed his routing slip into a slot, and a
TV display told him that he had a room in the transit
barracks, and that he was to be back at the bus
station at 09:00 the following morning.  There was a
"clunk", and, just like a normal vending machine, a
packet of slave chow dropped down underneath, followed
by a small parcel, both of which Chet took.  He
gestured for me to do the same thing, and I too was
told to be back there at 09:00, and instructions told
me where the slave waiting room was.

"Poor kid!", Chet said.  "The transit barracks aren't
much, but at least you get a bed to lie on.  You've
got to spend the night huddled on the benches in the
waiting room.  Still, you're young, you'll survive."

I could see that I had a packet of slave chow, too,
but wondered what was in the other parcel.  Chet told
me it was a replacement T and shorts - they just gave
you "one size fits all" ones when you were in transit,
and you were expected to drop the soiled ones into the
bin in the USS offices.

I was going to say goodbye, and go off and find the
waiting rooms, but Chet pointed out that it was only 6
p.m. and that there were still a few hours of daylight
left.  He suggested we took a look at the town, and I
readily agreed:  as I've told you, I didn't get to
travel much and this was all new and exciting.

There's nothing special about seeing slaves in the
street, so as we walked along passers by didn't
particularly notice us, except of course that we had
to keep dodging out of their way as they automatically
assumed they had the right to use the sidewalk as they
wanted.  And we couldn't take public transportation,
as we had no money.  But it was interesting to see the
river and the bluffs overlooking it from the other
shore, and Chet also took me and showed me the
wonderfully preserved Carnegie Library.  We sat in the
park outside the library and munched our slave chow,
and Chet mused on how different life must have been
then, with thousands of immigrants being able to
afford to travel to the country from Europe, and then
to travel around.  And how a man like that could make
a fortune during his own lifetime, basically from
exploiting the country's resources.  Chet seemed to
think that we were better off now, though - even as
slaves we could be assured of a long, healthy life and
wouldn't be struck down by diseases, and we certainly
wouldn't starve, as many of those immigrants had as
they made their way West.  "It's a difficult equation
to balance, I suppose", he went on.  "Then there were
one or two men like Carnegie who were fabulously rich,
and the mass of the population was basically in
poverty.  Now almost everyone has a standard of life
that's amazing, except for the ten percent of the
population who are, like us, slaves. And we don't do
too badly as a good owner makes sure we're well fed,
and generally looked after."

We walked back to the bus station, and Chet said that
he'd spend the night with me, rather than going to the
transit barracks.

"Won't they miss you, though?"

"No.  You can't get into the barracks unless your pass
shows your master has paid for it.  But the system
isn't designed to monitor and control slaves - if your
master allows you to travel around ,you're pretty
'free' to do what you want, as we have been this
evening.  They know you're going to arrive eventually,
as what other choice do you have?  I've got no money,
no clothes, no home - if I don't follow the itinerary
my owner's paid for, I'd soon be starving."

"So all these stories you hear about runaway slaves
aren't true?  On the TV at home they were always
running a story about a slave who had been found...."

"Look, Steve, about a fifth of the male population is
slaves, right.  So that's a LOT of slaves in the
country.  But the number of stories you hear about
runaways is minute - about one a week at most, right?
Think about it - if you're a slave, and you run away,
what's going to happen to you?  You've got no money,
you can't move around the country except on foot, and
you don't have any food.  No one is going to help you
- the penalty for a free man aiding an escaped slave
is enslavement himself.  So, sooner or later, you have
to crawl into a police station and give yourself up.
And then the penalty is castration!"

"So no slaves are going to run away", he went on.
"It's just too difficult.  You can't survive, except
as a renegade living like a wild thing up in the
mountains, trying to catch animals to eat, and so on.
There are some of those, but it's a grim life -
periodically the government organises hunts to capture
them - it's quite a sport, actually, and it costs a
lot of money to take part as the man who brings down
one of the 'prey' gets to keep its balls as a trophy.
I've been in several sporting clubs, taking part in
arranged fights, where the members were all keen
hunters, and the walls of the bar were covered in sets
of balls mounted in plastic, with the name and date of
the hunter who took the 'trophy'."

"So you don't think I should try to escape...?"

"Don't be such an idiot, Steve.  Why would you do
that?  You were selected by the Lottery, and you've
always known you were a slave, so why do you ask such
as stupid question?"

"Well, I don't know... I'd never thought of it before,
living at home and in our town, as everyone always
treated me as if I was going to be a slave.  But now
I've seen how much country there is, I just thought
that I could escape, go off and live life like my
brothers, have kids...."

"You idiot!  Without a citizen number you can't rent
an apartment, drive a car, open a bank account, get a
job, go to hospital....  Slaves just can't function
unless they're owned, except as renegades, and, as
I've pointed out, that's a harsh, short life."

We might have carried on with this discussion, but
Chet had seen a lot more of life than me and so I
really had to accept his word for it.   We'd got back
to the bus station now, that was almost deserted as
night was falling, and we made our way into the room
that said on the door "Slave waiting room.  Facilities
for citizens are on the other side of the main
concourse."

There were just plain wooden benches inside, but none
of them was occupied.  The only other difference
immediately apparent was that there was a lavatory in
the corner - not  shielded, or anything, as it was
only intended for slaves, and a tiled area next to it
with a shower head over it. Chet told me he was used
to this type of place - before he got 'famous' and
could command high fees, his master used to economise
by always shipping him around the country without
accommodation in the slave transit barracks.  He
showed me how it was more comfortable to try to sleep
on my stomach when there's no mattress or anything,
and we both lay along opposite benches, and tried to
sleep.

Well,  I'm just not used to sleeping on a hard wooden
bench, and I didn't get much sleep.  It was also odd
trying to sleep without anything on top of me - after
all, even when it's hot, you usually have at least a
light sheet, don't you?    By about five in the
morning I was wide awake, and kind of cold as there
was a n Autumnal chill in the air, and Chet stirred,
too.  He saw me looking at him as his magnificent body
lay sprawled there, then, almost like a panther, slid
to his feet in one smooth motion, yawned and
stretched, and came and sat next to me.

He put his arms around me and pulled me to him - I'd
never been this close to another guy before and I
could smell his slightly sour masculine odour after
his night's sleep.  "Here, come close to me", he said,
as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  "I
don't expect you're used to these slave clothes yet -
they're pretty thin, and don't really keep you warm.
Didn't you wear them around the house?"

"No.  Mom and dad let me dress just like my brothers."

"That's really stupid - from about fourteen, I think
all the guys who are to be slaves ought to get used to
wearing simple Ts and shorts.  Your body kind of
acclimatises, you know - it gets used to not having
several layers of stuff to keep you warm."

He pulled me closer, and I could feel the stubble on
his face against me.  I need to shave ,to, but Chet
had a very dark, strong "shadow", as he was fully
mature and had dark, wiry hair generally.

I could feel myself getting an erection as Chet's body
pressed against mine.  Even through the two sets of Ts
and shorts I was very "aware" of him, somehow.  There
was his breathing, the beat of his heart, the "man"
smell I've mentioned, and just his very presence.  I
don't know why I found this exciting, but, somehow, I
did.  Or perhaps it was just that as a horny sixteen
year old I was due for an erection anyway!

It was much warmer and better pressed close together
like this, and we dozed until about eight, when Chet
told me we'd better get ready.

Completely unselfconsciously he sat and crapped, then
pulled off his T and stood under the shower and
started to clean himself.  I needed to go desperately,
too, and began to realise that "privacy" was probably
a thing of the past for me - I'd had to use the
lavatory the previous night with the door open, with
Master Dave and Master Jay watching, and now Chet was
standing there, naked, showering, as I did my
business.  I showered, too, and then stood next to
Chet as he kind of "planed" the water off his body and
did a few exercises to warm up whilst the rest of the
water evaporated off his body - no towels were
provided for slaves, of course.

"You know, you've really got a good body, Steve", Chet
told me as he watched me standing there trying to get
dry.  "I thought it was quite good when I got a look
when we were on the bus, but now I see you stretched
out, I can see why they've selected you for special
training.  Not many lads of your age are so well
developed - you obviously took care of yourself, and I
guess it's going to pay off as you'll have a much
better life than you would have had if you were just
sold as a normal slave."

We undid our new Ts and shorts and pulled them on, and
we looked a bit like father and son, or elder and
younger brother, I suppose - both big, strong,
handsome guys, with cropped hair.  The "one size fits
all" stuff was good on us, too, as we were tall - I
wondered how some of the smaller guys would get on
dressed like this, though.

Chet led me back to the USS offices where we dumped
out old Ts and shorts into the bin, and we pushed our
routing slips into the machine again.  I'd kind of
assumed I'd be spending a lot more time with Chet, but
as walked out to where the buses were loading, he
shook my hand.

"So this is goodbye, Steve.  It's been nice knowing
you.  I hope you have a good life.  Take care now, and
don't have those silly ideas of escape.  Work hard,
and your owner will look after you."

"Hey, Chet... Well, thanks.  But let's not say goodbye
- more kind of 'see you around....'.:

"Steve, you don't think, do you?  Look, you're going
of to be trained as a pony slave.  Then you'll live
out your life on an owner's estate somewhere.  I am a
fighter, travelling around for a few more years, and
then... Well, who knows?  But we'll never meet again.
Free men could swap numbers or e-mail addresses, but
slaves meet, and then part, for ever.  Get used to it
- slaves don't have friends or acquaintances - think
about it!"

With that, he turned and walked away.  I was loaded
into the slave compartment of my bus, and there were
no other slaves in there on the next leg of my
journey.  But somehow now I really felt alone - it had
been bad enough leaving my home and my family, but the
way that Chet had told me that things were now so
different had really struck home.  I knew that it was
only me that could in future influence things - most
stuff would be outside my control as my owner ordered
my existence, but I had to work, to struggle, to make
the best of it.

End  Of Chapter 3

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 4


By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

I had a couple of other conversations with slaves
whilst I was in transit, and two more uncomfortable
nights in waiting rooms, but none of them was as
interesting or exciting as the time I'd spent with
Chet.  After all that travelling my ass was almost
sore, and I was really glad when I finally got off the
local bus which had been the last leg of my journey to
Buffalo.

It was hot as I stood there in the street, looking
around.  Dust swirled everywhere, and I wondered what
to do.  There was a USS office on the other side of
the street, and I went in and showed the clerk my
routing card.

"Yes, you were routed through to here.  And now you're
here.", he said.

"Sir, so what now, please sir?"  He was a citizen, and
so I thought I should be polite.

"Where are you going, boy?"

"Sir, I was bought by the Double J Ranch, sir.  They
had me shipped here."

"They're a few miles out of town.  Wait on the
sidewalk, and I expect they'll come and collect you."

 I sat there in the heat, wondering what was going to
happen, and was half dozing.  Suddenly a  hand grabbed
me, and hauled me to my feet.  The man standing there
was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans, and
had tough-looking black boots on.  He read my
shoulder, and snapped "Boy, you'd better learn to
stand up when a citizen approaches you!"

"I'm one of the overseers at Double J. Follow me."

We went around the corner, and there was a light pony
trap, with a pony slave obediently waiting between the
shafts.  Double J, I was to learn, specialised in
training perfectly obedient ponies, so there was no
need for the slave to be chained to the trap or
anything - he was just waiting patiently for his
driver to re-appear.  He had a loose T and shorts on,
but unlike the plain ones  I was wearing these had a
logo saying "JJ Ranch" on - this was how I was to be
dressed in future, all  the time I was there.

The overseer got into the trap, looked at me, and said
"We're seven miles out of town.  I'll only run my pony
Marc here at a jog, be sure to keep up."

He turned away, and said to the slave "Home, boy.
Light jog.", and the slave effortlessly pulled the
trap away from the kerb and set off down the street.
I realised I was just expected to follow, and set off
after them.

I'd jogged seven miles before, of course - but not
after three days without much exercise, not in very
hot sun, and not barefooted:  running shoes really do
make a difference!  I was soon covered in sweat, my
heart and lungs were straining away with the effort,
and my T and shorts were soaked in my sweat.  But the
pace never varied - we went up small hills, and down
into tiny valleys, but the pace seemed constant:  Marc
just pulled the light trap and the Overseer as if the
terrain made absolutely no difference to him.  If
you're a runner, you'll know that this is really
difficult - just going up slight inclines takes a lot
more out of you, and Marc wasn't just shifting his own
weight, but  that of the trap and the overseer too.

The overseer seemed to pay absolutely no attention to
me.  Once we'd left the town I'd pulled forward to jog
alongside the trap to avoid getting all the dust it
churned up blown in my face, and then, thinking it
would be easier to jog with another guy, had advanced
so that I was parallel with Marc.  I looked at him,
but he was staring straight ahead - the whole way I
never saw him look once to the left or right - it was
as if he'd been trained to pay no attention to what
was going on either side of the road.  A good pony, I
learned later, is so focused on his work that he has
no interest in the scenery or other happenings along
the way.

He too was sweating, but his breathing didn't seem to
be distressed, as mine was.  His long legs pounded
absolutely rhythmically up and down along the hot
asphalt of the road, and he might almost have been out
for a little recreational exercise, so unconcerned did
he seem to be.  I thought it would be easier if I
modelled myself on him, and tried to match him, stride
for stride, but soon saw that even though we were
about the same height, he was able to take much longer
strides than me - well, I could do it, but it just
wasn't comfortable as my balls were protesting a bit
as my legs stretched.  So I changed to make more,
shorter, paces, but this in turn tired me more.

I said that the overseer paid absolutely no attention
to me, but I guess he must have been aware at least
that I was struggling, because I heard him say "Stop
at the next water, Marc.", and a few minutes later the
pace slackened and we stopped at a stand pipe by the
side of the highway.

"OK, slaves.  You can take a couple of minutes, and
water.", the overseer said, and I sank gratefully to
the ground to sit there with my lungs heaving to try
to recover.  Marc slipped out from between the shafts
and went over, knelt down, and drank from the stand
pipe.  Then he came over to me and helped me to my
feet and took me over to it.  I drank the cold water
gratefully, and sucked more and more of it in.  But he
pulled me away gently, shaking his head as if in
warning.

The overseer saw this, and commented "Watch this,
Steve.  Marc's given you good advice - don't drink too
much all at once when you've been running.  Have
another one before we set off.  Is the run a problem
for you?"

I didn't want to appear to be weak, well, no guy likes
that, do they?  So I stammered "Sir, no, sir.  I ought
to be able to jog seven miles.  But I'm out of
condition after the travel, and it's very hot, sir."

"So you can run seven miles, can you?"

"Sir, yes, sir.  I keep in shape, and I play - well,
played, I guess - a lot of sport.  I've done several
half-marathons...."


"Have another drink, slaves, then back on the road",
he said, as if he wasn't at all interested in hearing
my comments.

Marc drank a little, I drank quuite a lot, Marc
slipped back between the shafts, and we set off again
- only this time the overseer called out "Medium trot
for the rest of the way, Marc - the new trainee says
he's a bit of a runner..."

Marc smoothly accelerated, just as if the trap didn't
exist, and I was now really running, rather than
jogging.   My lungs started to labour, I could feel
the sweat pouring off me, and the blood was pounding
along my veins - I could feel it in my temples.    I
should have done the sensible thing and dropped behind
- it was a straight road, and there was no way I could
get lost. But no one likes to give in, to be shown up
as a weakling, do they?  And I could see Marc was
coping effortlessly with the trap and the overseer, so
if he could do it, so could I!

I went through the pain barrier, and then I was almost
gliding along - I felt as if I could go on for ever.
I was dimly aware that we turned off the highway and
were bowling along up a long private drive, with neat
white picket fences framing the immaculately cut,
fresh green grass on either side.  We pulled up in
front of a long, low building, and then it hit me -
you can take and take from your body, but sooner or
later it wants repaying.  I couldn't stay on my feet -
after those three or four "fast" miles I was
completely done it, and just had to sink to the
ground.  I could feel my legs trembling and twitching
with the effects of the exercise, and my lungs gasped
for air.

The overseer looked down at me, and said "Well, good,
slave.  You've got the right spirit!  Some of the lads
just give up and tail in later on, but  I could see
you were determined to keep up with Marc.  Don't feel
bad about collapsing - he's a properly trained pony,
and you'll soon be able to do the same as him:  it's
all about practice, constant practice, and having all
the muscles in really first class condition.  Now, get
up, and follow Marc around to the slave entrance."

"Marc - leave the trap here.  Take Steve around the
back, and get him cleaned up."

The overseer left, and he pony came up and shook me by
the hand.  "Not bad for a beginner", he said, with a
friendly smile.  "Come on - you need a good shower.
The water will help you relax."

We set off around the building, and I said "Marc,
you're  a trained pony, right...."

"Yes.  They're just waiting for a suitable buyer for
me, and until then I take the owners and the overseers
into town if they want - it all helps to give me more
experience.  I've been here just over two years - I
arrived at sixteen, as I guess you are, and now I'm
ready for the big wide world."

"What's it like...?"

"Like?  Well, it's OK.  It's really tough at first -
you'll think your muscles are going to give up in the
first few weeks.  But the trainers here know all about
conditioning men as quickly as possible, and you'll
soon find it gets easier and easier.  The actual
running is not bad after a bit - I see you're in
pretty good shape anyway, so I guess you like sport
and so on...."

"Yes.  I used to do a lot of exercise..."

"Well, that bit is fun.  Most of the guys here enjoy
the exercise - not just the running ,but the general
conditioning stuff we all do to make sure we don't get
legs out of proportion to the rest of our bodies.  And
the other stuff - well, it's a job, I suppose."

"What other stuff?"

"Well, stuff like care and maintenance of the traps.
Most ponies are required to keep their owner's traps
sparkling clean, and it makes sense to have them in
perfect condition mechanically, so you need to know
how to grease the bearings and things like that - it
makes a big difference to the effort you have to put
in if the trap is running perfectly smoothly. And then
there's the etiquette stuff."

"Etiquette?"  I was truly astonished.

"Yes.  Like all the rules about not speaking unless
your driver asks you a question - I didn't speak to
you, did I, at the bus station or on the road?  And
how you must keep your eyes straight ahead when you're
running, and not look around and enjoy the scenery or
anything - you're a slave, after all, and not a
tourist. And stuff like how to behave when visiting
another owner's ranch.  There' a lot more to being a
trained pony than just being able to run, you know."

I wanted to ask him more, but at that point we entered
a door and there was a big kind of cleanup area - some
lavatories, and the usual completely open showers.
Marc hardly stopped as he pulled his T off and dropped
his shorts, and put them both into an open bin.  He
gestured to me to do the same, and we both went under
the showers.

There was plenty of room, and I took the shower head
two away from Marc.  I was going to turn it on, when
he called out "Over here, Steve  - come under this one
with me."

"No, I'm fine - this one's OK"

"Hey, Steve, this is part of the etiquette stuff I
talked about.  You're probably used to showering by
yourself, but when you're a slave, a properly trained
slave, that is, you need to think about your owner's
money.  It costs a lot to pump this water up here, and
to heat it.... Responsible slaves won't waste their
owner's money by using two shower heads when one will
do.  So get over here, and I'll turn it on and we can
shower together.  It's also quicker if we each wash
the other..."

I felt embarrassed as I moved my naked body next to
Marc.  Although he was only eighteen, those to years
of physical training made a huge difference - I was
fit but at sixteen was, I suppose, still a "youth".
But at eighteen, Marc was definitely a "man", with a
much thicker and more muscular body.  Everywhere I
looked I could see the changes that two years make in
a guy at that age - the thicker neck, the biceps
bulging as he moved, the ridged belly, and, perhaps
most of all, the manly hair over him.  Marc had a big
thatch of hair on his chest, and it extended down over
his belly to a veritable forest in his pubes.  His
dick and balls were in proportion to the rest of him,
and he looked like a proper "man".

He looked down at me and grinned  "They shaved you for
the slave auction, didn't they.... I remember that
when I was first sold.  It will itch like hell as it
grows back again - especially in your ass crack!
We're lucky here in that the ranch specialises in
'natural' ponies, so they let you keep all the hair on
your pubes, and here..."  As he said this, Marc ran
one of his big strong hands up from his dick to his
nips, so that all the hair on his body kind of stood
up."

He pulled the lever, and the shower came to life, and
without a trace of embarrassment he started to soap my
body, and was clearly expecting me to do the same to
him.  So I did, and this second time my hands ran all
over a man's body it began to feel almost normal.

Marc turned off the shower very quickly, and the soap
had only just rinsed off - I suppose that was another
way in which he saved the owner money, then stood
there "planing" the water off his body.  I did the
same, although in my past life I'd always just
towelled dry - but when you're with someone who "knows
the system" you like to try to do the right thing,
don't you?  Finally he picked up a small towel from a
pile on the side, and tossed it at me.  I wiped the
remaining damp off my skin, and was going to toss it
into the basket with the dirty Ts and shorts, when
Marc pulled it away and used the now very damp
material to dry himself.

"Steve, think!  A good slave saves his owner every
cent he can - and we don't need two towels."

There was a big pile of Ts and shorts on a table, and
Marc picked one of each and just pulled them on
casually.  I did the same, and realised that this was
how I was going to dress for the next two years - the
simple white shorts, cut quite high on the thigh but
with loose legs so as not to restrict movement, and
the T with the "JJ" logo on it that left my arms
totally bare and which hung slackly on me.

"I suppose I'd better take you to the vet's", Marc
said.  "The Overseer didn't say, but it's the rule to
check out all the new arrivals thoroughly.  Are you OK
now, recovered after that run?"

"Yes, fine."

We walked at a brisk pace through a number of
passages, seeing other slaves, all dressed as we were,
going about their business.  Everyone seemed to know
Marc and he to know them, but they didn't speak - just
nodded and smiled as they went past each other in the
corridors.  It was part of the training, I was to
learn, that slaves don't speak to each other  unless
it's necessary, or in the dorm at night - you're
taught not to chatter to each other as you go about
your work in case this noise is irritating to your
owner or other free men and women in the area.

He left me at a door marked "Veterinarian"., and
whispered "See you around, Steve - have fun!".  I
knocked, then went in.

There was a young man behind a desk, in a green smock
- the way I'd seen vets dressed when we took our pet
dogs to him for treatment.  He got up, came over to me
and gently pulled my arm towards him so he could read
my name and SIN.  Without saying a word he went back
to his desk and keyed stuff in, read the screen, then
spoke.  "So, Steve, first day here.  Less than a week
as a slave.  How's it going?"

"Sir, OK, I guess, sir...:

"Good.  Now, I've got to do your initial exam, and
until we get all the test results we can't start your
training properly.  Even though you look to be in good
health, we can't risk you spreading any contagious
disease or anything.  So let's get started - shuck
those clothes so I can carry out a proper inspection
of you."

He physically examined me minutely, going over every
part of my body and probing with his strong fingers.
"Can't be to careful - you're from up North, but some
of the lads we get here are from the South and they
spend a lot of time in the sun so I like to really
look for possible signs of skin problems.  We take a
lot of care here with that, as it's so sunny and we're
so high - you'll learn how to inspect other slaves for
possible trouble spots.  Now, bend double - use your
hands on the edge of my desk to stabilise
yourself...."

I felt something cool against my ass hole, and
flinched.  "Steady... That's just a bit of lubricant.
I'm going to do a brief anal inspection to see you
don't have any signs of piles or anything...."

His finger slipped up my hole, and I squirmed a little
at the totally new sensation that brought to me.

"Good.. OK, stand up and face me...."

Then there was the cupping of my balls and the rolling
around of each one in the palm of his hand - I really
did squirm a bit now, as it was fairly uncomfortable.
"Relax, Steve", he said. "It will soon be over.  But
it's in your own interest that I make sure there's no
sign of testicular cancer - even lads as young as you
ought to examine yourselves regularly, you know.  But
you seem to be OK."

"Now all we have to do is take samples for
analysis...."  He came over and drew blood from a vein
in my arm, then gave me a small clear plastic cylinder
and told me to pee into it.  Well, I've given urine
samples before for our family doctor, but  I was
always allowed to go off and do it in the men's room -
this guy just sat there and watched as I tried to pee
into the tiny thing.  And finally there was something
I'd never done before for a doctor - he handed me
another cylinder and said, quite matter of factly, "So
all that's left is the semen sample.... We need to
make sure that the vasectomy you'd have got is working
- they did do you at the slave centre, I assume...."

"Sir, yes, sir".

"Well we need to make sure it's working - I don't
suppose you'll ever get near a woman, as most women
don't like the thought of being fucked by a slave who
they regard as an animal.  But it would be
irresponsible of us to let a pony out of here who
might be fertile, 'just in case'.  So a nice big
sample of your sperm, please.... Although for a lusty
young lad like you, I don't suppose I need to say
'nice big sample' - you probably always shoot loads,
don't you?"

"Sir, I suppose so, sir...."

"Well, get jerking off - I haven't got all day."

I flushed with embarrassment, even though the guy was
a doctor, as I played with my dick and coaxed it into
an erection, then 'skinned my dick head desperately
trying to get into the mood to shoot.  I was really
hard to do - but I hadn't jerked off for about a day,
and I was ready - in spite of the unfavourable
conditions, I felt myself getting excited, and then my
balls contracted and I shot.  Have you ever tried to
direct your cum into a small specimen tube?  It's
fucking hard, I'll tell you, and having to manipulate
the tube to the end of my dick to catch the first
mighty spurt and the lesser '"after shocks" was really
difficult - quite apart from the fact that my mind
wasn't on it, my dick is very sensitive when it's shot
and I groaned several times as the glass bumped into
me.

"Good", the veterinarian said.  "Now all we need to do
is photograph you.  Up against that wall...."

He indicated the wall to his left, that I saw was
marked out in a grid of squares.  Taking a camera, he
photographed me from the front, then from the back,
and then the left side, and the right.  There was a
close-up of my face, and then he took one of my dick
and balls.

"Only one more, Steve.... We need you erect again,
please."

Well, I hated it - having to get an erection again
just so that he could take a photograph of me!  What
did they need a picture of my erect dick for?  And it
was worse because I still had a 'skin - he took shots
of me with my head covered, and with me 'skinned back.

"You can put your clothes back on now, Steve... I'm
all through."

One advantage of the slave "uniform" is that it
doesn't take long to undress and dress, I guess, and I
stood there in front of him.

"Right - you'll stay here overnight whilst I analyse
all these samples.  Then, assuming everything's OK, I
can hand you over to begin proper training tomorrow.

He led me towards a door on the opposite wall to the
one I'd come in by, and there was a corridor with
basically "cells" on either side of it - small
enclosures each of which contained a bed and a
lavatory.  The front of each "cell" barred, with a
barred door, and he opened the first one we came to
and I went in.

The vet pulled the door closed behind me, and locked
it.

"Don't worry - we don't usually lock slaves in here at
the Double J", he told me.  "We train slaves in
obedience at this place, but as you're new you haven't
been taught to stay where you're told yet.  And I
don't want to risk a new slave contaminating the
others, or, if I get any slaves in here who are sick
today, in getting you contaminated by them.  So you're
always locked into these holding cages if you have to
stay at the vet's.  Now, are you OK until the morning?
 There's an intercom on the wall as you can see, and
if you press it you'll be connected to the central
guard room..... But only use it in an emergency,
right?"

"Sir, yes, sir", was all I could say.

He went out, and I lay on the bed.  I was so tired, so
bone weary - not just from all the travel, but because
my life had been turned upside down.  None of the
sixteen years of preparation had really prepared me
for what being a total slave would really be like.

The following day I was, of course, found to be
perfectly fit, and I was called to the office of the
chief Trainer who told me what life would be like for
me.  He told me that at the Double J they didn't
believe in unnecessary physical punishment of slaves,
as we had to learn that we needed to take
responsibility for our own actions - no owner wanted
to keep whipping a pony slave, after all, and they
relied on the training we would receive at the Double
J to ensure we performed properly throughout our
working lives.

The Trainer then told me of the regime at Double J,
one that was to be the core of my life for the next
two years.

We got up at sunrise, and all the pony slaves, whether
being trained as sprinters, marathon ponies or hacks,
like me, did an hour and a half of general exercise
and callisthenics - they primarily focussed on
developing upper body strength and in encouraging good
cardiovascular practices,, as the work we did later in
the day exercised our legs sufficiently.  We wore the
"uniforms" from the previous day for this, and after
the session, we streamed through the showers, were
given fresh uniforms, and our first meal of slave
chow.

After that there was generally the morning run - you
may think that a pony slave only has to run, but it's
much more complicated than that:  as a "hack" I had to
learn how to pace myself so I could deliver the speed
my owner might want at one time in the day whilst
retaining some energy to be able to deliver later on,
as well.  And owners want to see their ponies running
proudly and confidently, so the correct posture and
carriage is important, too.  You never know when your
owner might have guests who bring their own ponies
with them, so our lessons covered running side by side
with another cart (you want to keep the two carts
close together, so your owners can converse easily,
but you have to be very careful not to bang one
against he other with consequent damage and
disturbance).  Alternatively, you might get to pull a
larger cart with the two of you in tandem, and then
your owners would of course want you to run perfectly
in step.  You also have to learn how to take your
owner's instructions, to know the different paces and
so on.

Some days these morning runs were with us in a close
formation as we jogged, sprinted and ran along, and
sometimes an individual trainer took us out in a cart
to see how we were developing.  I soon found out that
pulling a cart is more difficult than you imagine - on
level ground the additional load on you is not
enormous once you have the thing rolling, but the
moment you get to a hill - even quite a shallow
incline - it gets much, much harder as you are then
effectively dragging both the weight of the cart and
the owner up that hill.  We learned to keep the same
pace, irrespective of the ground conditions, and going
uphill was at first a terrible ordeal as the sheer
physical effort caused you to break out into a sweat
and for your heart and lungs to pound as if they were
about to burst.

We were allowed to rest from noon to three in the
hottest part of the day, and if you'd had a tiring
morning it was delightful just to do nothing, lying on
the grass with your fellows.  The Double J provided a
huge swimming pool in this rest area, too, and that
was good if your muscles were aching - being able to
float in the water and take all the weight off them
really helped.  You had to swim naked, of course, as
you didn't want your "uniform" damp for the afternoon,
but after I'd tried it, I wondered why guys would ever
want to swim any other way - having the water running
all over your naked body as you swim is so much better
than having your dick and balls confined in swimming
shorts or, even worse, Speedos!

I now saw why all the ponies had good tans - in
general everyone swam at some point ,and then you lay
in the sun to dry.  Over any reasonable period of time
even these few minutes, repeated every day, would give
you a smooth even tan over your entire body.  There
wasn't any problem with being naked there, as you were
with your fellow ponies who you saw in the showers
every day, and occasionally even trainers would come
over and take a dip, too.

The afternoons were given over to "lessons" - simple
mechanical maintenance of pony carts, the best ways to
clean them, proper "etiquette" for us, like not
speaking whilst working, and useful skills like simple
first-aid, and self-care:  we were told the signs we
should look out for  and alert our owners to if we got
muscle strain, or rashes, or small wounds, and needed
to go to the veterinarians.  And our day always
finished with another massive run - one that was
guaranteed to use up our remaining energy and strength
before we were allowed to shower again and got our
last meal of slave chow.

At the Double J we all slept in plain but simple
dormitories - twenty to a room.  You simply filed in
and filled the next available bed, as you were of
course not allowed any "private" space or personal
belongings of any kind.    The beds were very close
together, and so you always knew when the guys on
either side of you were jerking off, but the
"convention" was that you didn't refer to it -
everyone did it, after all, but no reference was made
to it.

The only problem I had was on my first night in a dorm
- I'd followed another pony in and, like him, got
under the single sheet still in my T and shorts.  When
I heard him jerking off after "lights out", I knew I
desperately wanted to do the same, so I pushed my
shorts down and soon shot a huge load.  The next
moment the sheet was ripped off and the two guys on
either side of me were standing there looking really
cross.

"You disgusting young fucker!", one snapped.  "Don't
you care about the guy who's going to sleep there
tomorrow?"

I was blushing with embarrassment, and hurriedly tried
to pull my shorts back up to cover my nakedness.

"Answer me!  Don't you care?"

"I'm sorry... I don't know what you mean"

"These sheets are only changed once a week.  We all
sleep in the next available bed.  So someone is going
to have to sleep tomorrow night on that undersheet
that's stiff with your cum!  Don't you care?"

I was red with embarrassment now, but managed to
mumble "I'm sorry, I though...."

"Well, what did you think?  That you're still in your
nice bed at home, where you can make the sheets as
stiff as you like and your mother will just wash them
anyway?  I bet you didn't make that disgusting mess
all over your bed at home, did you?"

"No... I always jerked off into a wad of tissue....."

"Well here we do what proper men do - you catch your
cum in hour hand, and swallow it.  Got that?"

They left me alone then and got back into their own
beds, and I pulled the sheet up over me and felt
really miserable.  How could I be so stupid?  They
must think I was some sort of idiot not to have
considered that but, actually, it had never occurred
to me that a slave might not even have his own bed.


I never made that mistake again, and soon got used to
swallowing my own cum - I hated it at first and tried
not to jerk off, but you can't avoid it, can you,
especially when you're sixteen and very fit, and very
horny?

I don't think my life varied at all for those two
years I was at Double J.  Every day was more or less
the same, as I have outlined, except for the mornings
about every three moths when I went to the vet's for a
complete physical check.  The training did wonders for
me, though - my muscles expanded and filled, and I had
a "man's" body rather than a "lad's" one.  I learned
to rely on myself, to know my body and what it was
capable of, and how to drive myself to give my all
when I needed to.  I became self reliant, and
confident in myself.

You don't make friends in pony training, really - you
live with all these other guys, but you soon realise
that there's nothing that makes for a real friendship
- no shared interests, nothing to talk about, no
sports or hobbies to do together.  Everything was so
much the same that we didn't have much to talk about
at all, and none of us wanted to talk about our former
lives.  So you really didn't get to know other ponies
well, even though you were with them all the time.

There was no prohibition on sex at all, and I guess
that if I'd been inclined I could have joined in with
some of the other lads when they jerked each other
off, or even fucked.  I was a bit surprised when I
first saw guys doing this around the swimming pool
during our midday break, but began to realised that
there was nothing wrong in it - it was just another
way of keeping yourself fit and healthy.  I just
didn't want to do it, though, and so I always lay on
the grass away from the two "areas" that seemed to be
"known" as the places where you went if you wanted
someone else to jerk off, or if you wanted "proper"
sex.  All the time I was at Double J I just jerked
myself off at night in my bed, and that, too, became
part of my normal routine.

You'd see Master Dave and Master Jay around from time
to time, but they seemed to be off the ranch -
probably on buying and selling trips - most of the
time.  They did take an interest in us, though, and
the first time I saw them after my arrival Master Jay
actually stopped and asked me if I was all right.

Some how the time seemed to slip by, and I was
actually happy, I suppose -  I wasn't in any pain, I
was well fed, I enjoyed the exercise, and I had
absolutely no worries.

Then, at the end of a regular vet's inspection, they
told me I was fit, and that I was ready for sale.

End Of Part 4