Date: Thu, 29 Jul 2004 13:33:50 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: You Can't Be Friends With A Slave, Parts 29-30 (concludes)

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part twenty nine

Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

OLD ACQUAINTANCES

Those of you who follow the Gladiator Games will of
course know exactly what master Rafe had planned for
the slaves.  And I suppose most of you have watched it
at some time or another, even if you're not true
aficionados - although it's estimated that over three
quarters of the American male population do watch it
at least ten times a year.  We've never been off the
air since that first season. I think it's that unique
combination of things that makes it so immediately
appealing to the audience:   the men are all good
looking, young, and fit.  Even the ugly, old, fat and
out of condition like to dream that they could have
bodies like that.  They fight naked, of course -
officially it's so that you can replay the motion
slowly, and see the skill of the moves (we simulcast
on ten channels, each one from a different angle, so
that whether you like butts, dicks, faces, pecs, or
whatever, you can always find just the scene you want)
- but I think it's because of the appeal at some deep
level to that primeval part of every man who likes to
believe that totally alone, unaided, without any fancy
props or anything, he could take on the world and win.
 And then it's the excitement of seeing the end of the
contest, especially when it's a "new boy" who hasn't
fought before.  No one can doubt that these fights are
for real, not faked, when they see the look of anguish
on the loser's face as his vanquisher forces his dick
up the guy's ass.

At first the Christians violently opposed it, and
petitioned the stations, and held vigils outside
Congress... All the stuff they always try to do to
stop people enjoying themselves. But we won through -
the amount of money involved was just so huge.

That first day, though, with our small band of slaves,
all of this was still in the future.  After breakfast,
I drilled them, until master Rafe came out and
inspected them briefly, then told me to put them
through the showers and get them all properly trimmed
and shaved.  "You know how well enough, Steve!  The
same look as you - cropped hair, neatly trimmed pits,
just a nice pubic bar, shaved ass and balls.... You
can  leave hair on their bellies and chests, but no
hair on their backs."  They'd none of them done this,
and the easiest way for me to teach them what was
required was to strip off and get in the shower with
them, and then do the first slave myself.  I insisted
they did each other after that, though, as it's really
important for team building that men get to really
experience their fellows, isn't it?

They were all looking much more presentable, like
proper slaves, by the time the doctor arrived.  The
local blacksmith appeared shortly afterwards, and
master Rafe came out and told me to cuff the slaves.
He whispered, so they couldn't hear me, "We can't risk
them revolting, Steve, and they're not going to like
this..."

I lined them up and cuffed their hands behind their
backs.  The first slave we'd bought - I never asked
his name, as it's best not to personalise the slaves
you've got to sometimes punish harshly, I think -
didn't seem too happy about it and his body was stiff
with tension as I snapped the cuffs closed.  I stroked
his dick, put my mouth near his ear, and said quietly
"Look, this is going to be tough.  But you can take
it.  You're a tough guy.  Just hang in there."

He was one of the ones who had to be 'skinned, along
with two of the others, and after they'd heard the
first one scream as the doctor cut into him, I had to
be quite forceful in getting the other two onto the
table and holding them down.  I suppose I agree with
master Rafe that a slave needs to remember special
occasions like that in his life - I certainly still
remember when they took my 'skin - so, as in "the old
days" (actually only a few years ago, when I was
done), the doctor was told to do it without
anaesthetic.

It was the branding that caused the biggest problem,
though.  They none of them expected to be branded, and
when I held the first one down as the "S" for slave
went on his arm above his SIN tattoo, his screams sent
a shock wave through the others.  The blacksmith had
set up a small portable coke hearth, and I had to
really threaten the slaves to make them take it in
turns to pump the bellows that made the coke glow
white hot, and heat the iron to the high temperature
you need.

We did all the arms before we started on their butts.
Actually, if you think about it, it's easier to do
butts - it's really hard to hold the arm of a
struggling slave perfectly still so that the brand
gets a good, crisp edge.  But it's much easier with
the butt - you just lay him on a standard flogging
horse, spread his legs and cuff them to the rear legs,
then jump astride him and sit yourself down in the
small of his back - he really can't move his butt at
all then, and the blacksmith could do a really great
job in holding the iron in so that it seared through
into the deeper layers of muscle for a really
long-lasting brand.  Mind you, I got a badly scratched
back as some of them feebly scrabbled with their
cuffed hands against me, as if that would make any
difference.

Even I was shocked, though, when I found out what was
going to make out fortunes.  As we all watched, the
blacksmith got a heavy iron anvil out of the back of
his truck - I saw his muscles heaving with the strain
of lifting it down.  It was a warm day, and with the
heat of the coke forge and everything, he was just
wearing a leather apron that covered his chest, belly
and thighs - from the back he was entirely naked, and
it was somehow very erotic to see his big strong butt
and back muscles straining like that, as a contrast to
his completely covered front.  It turned out the anvil
needed to be so heavy as there was an attachment that
bolted onto it, using huge, industrial sized bolts
that he strained to tighten very securely.

"Sir, I'm ready for the first one", he told me, and as
it didn't matter which, as all of them were being
processed the same, I just took the first slave
standing there, who happened to be the first slave
we'd bought. He was shaking, unable to control the
spasms running through his muscles, but was silent.
"See", I said, to encourage him as we walked over to
the blacksmith.  "You've survived so far, as I told
you you would.  Hang in there, bud, you know you can
take it..."   I really don't think I'd have been as
optimistic if I'd known what was coming!

The blacksmith almost threw the lad to the ground and
opened the attachment on the anvil and forced his head
in.  He turned a handle, and the slave's head was, I
realised, held in a giant vice.  He fiddled around a
bit - you needed it so tight that the slave couldn't
move his head at all - but not so tight that the jaws
of the vice left a permanent mark on the side of the
head (or, as happened to one unfortunate slave some
seasons later, crushed the skull completely).

The blacksmith got out a battery-powered saw, and
stood there, sawing off the slave's collar.  I was
astonished, as I knew that all slaves needed a collar
as a permanent mark of their slavedom -  you could
after all always tell a free man from a slave, just by
looking at his throat.

"Master, what's going on?", I asked Rafe.  Well, I was
allowed to ask questions now, wasn't I?  I want a real
slave any longer, even though I knew he was my master.


"They're going to be fighting, Steve.  They can't be
collared - it would be too dangerous.  An opponent
could hook his fingers in, and start to strangle the
guy.  So no collars, in their own best interests."

"But master, the slaves need to be collared - that's
how you tell a slave."

"No, Steve.  The law just says that a slave must be
recognisably such, even when fully clothed.  Most
people think that's done with the collar - but watch!
I've had my lawyers go over it, and this is equally
good... And you know I have very good lawyers.... Look
at what they did for you."

At that moment the blacksmith called "Sir, we're
ready.  Could I ask you to sit on the slave's legs,
sir?  Although his head is completely immobile, I
don't want to risk a muscle spasm causing him to twist
so violently that he breaks his neck."

I squatted down on the nicely-muscled thighs of the
young slave, and patted his dick encouragingly.

Well, you know all about the famous "GG" brand, don't
you?  Actually, if you look closely, you'll see that
each "G" is enclosed in the open loop of the more
usual "S" of a traditional slave brand.  It's a
registered trade mark of ours, of course, and that's
master Rafe's real genius - the public expect that all
slaves who fight on Gladiator Games will be burned
with the GG on the left sides of their faces, but we
own the trademark!  So all the slaves who fight come
from our establishments, or other places have to pay
us a hefty fee to use it.  We were the first, we
innovated, we set the public's expectations, and we've
continued to reap the rewards of our innovation.

Still, it's not pleasant to be there, up close, when
the whit-hot brand is pushed into the slave's cheek.
I've never got used to it, not after all this time.
In fact, I try to be out of the office on the days
when a new batch of slaves is being branded.  That
day, though, there was no avoiding it - the smell of
burning, charring, singed flesh, like meat that's been
left too long on the barbecue.  The terrible scream of
the slave - even the two brands he'd already taken
have not prepared him for this.  I can't speak from
personal experience as my face has not been done, but
I know how the shoulder and butt brand hurt:  having
watched it so many times, I can attest to the fact
that every slave I've seen it done to finds the cheek
branding far, far worse, though.

I don't think master Rafe really knew the risk we were
running, either - or perhaps we were just lucky, or
perhaps he did know, and decided to go ahead knowing
that another slave could always be bought for a few
thousand dollars.  You see, if the brand isn't done
just right, there's the risk of spitting into the
slave's eyes, that can cause loss of sight.  Or you
might burn out the jaw nerves, so the slave is left
with his lower jaw permanently down, and he drools
constantly - not a nice sight for the TV viewers.  Or
if you're too vigorous, you can burn right through as
the cheeks is relatively thin, not like the big
muscles of the arm and the butt, and that spoils the
whole effect.

We got through all of them without mishap, though -
still, luck often does favour those who are prepared
to take risks, doesn't it?  And master Rafe told me to
lock the slaves in for the rest of the day, as it
wasn't  fair to expect them  to do more exercises
until they'd recovered a bit.

Most of them were in a pretty bad way, of course,
twitching uncontrollably, crying and sobbing, and some
had been unable to control their bowels and were
streaked with their own shit.  It was only kind to
clean them up a bit, even though the shock of the
water on their brands caused them to cry out again.

Look, I've never condoned cruelty to slaves.  I'd
never employ an Officer Hughes to take his own
pleasure out on slaves who were not there for that
reason. I'm never cruel or violent to a slave who's
serving me, just for the fun of it - it gives me no
pleasure to hit a slave without good reason, or to
order a whipping, or whatever (unlike some masters!).
I felt pretty badly about how we'd treated these guys,
and it took all of master Rafe's powers to remind me
it was in their own best interests - now they could be
totally naked, without even a collar, and still be
proper legal slaves:  no one seeing the brands on
their cheeks could ever now mistake them for free men.

Actually, it's been part of our success.  As I've
said, we always pick pretty handsome young guys.  And
from one side, they retain those virile good looks.
But from the other side... Well, a brand on the face
somehow turns even the mildest looking slave into a
harsh criminal type.  No one seeing one of our
fighters from his branded side could possibly doubt
that he's a cruel, vicious fighter, who wants to rip
his opponent's ass open!  I think it's this Jekyl and
Hyde disposition of these two facets of the slave -
the boy next door, and the hardened cruel miscreant -
that so fascinates people.  I saw some statistics
recently of the numbers watching the simulcast
channels, and there are almost as many folks tuned to
the face cameras as there are to those focussing on
the dicks - even when the final fucks are in progress.

I was really uneasy as we talked that night, but
master Rafe was reassuring and told me not to worry,
as they'd soon get over it.  "You, most of all, Steve,
should understand that any physical pain like that
soon dies away - you have, after all, been branded
yourself."  And he was right, as usual - two days
later, even though they looked terrible and were not
nearly as capable as they'd been on the first morning,
I had them out running  to start them on a proper
programme to build their fitness.  Mind you, the
physical pain goes, but the emotional scarring of
having your flesh marked at the command of your owner
can last a lifetime:  but, I suppose, that's why we do
it.  I certainly only really began to understand
slavedom fully when my own 'skin was cut, and I was
marked.

Master Rafe and I divided the taking of their cherries
between us - in fact, we still like to do as many as
we can, as we think it does the slaves good to know
that the owners of the business really care about the
type of slave we're buying, even if we haven't been
able to oversee their selection personally as we're a
big organisation now.  We still do it the same way -
both of us together, each with a slave under us.  We
don't compete or anything, well, I don't, but master
Rafe is of course very competitive and if I'm going
for a long, slow burn, he tries to cum after me.  And
if I'm just doing a quick, workman-like fuck, he tries
to cum before me!

I don't know much about fighting, so master Rafe hired
in an ex-marines sergeant, who'd been made to resign
for some reason or another.  He certainly knew how to
fight, though, and his method was brutally simple:  he
went into the training pit with a slave, and beat the
shit out of him.  And it went on day after day, always
the same moves, until the slave learned by experience
how to counter them.  He's still with us, and he's not
a sadist or anything - he just likes to use his body
for fighting, much as I like to use mine for
gymnastics and running.  And he takes big risks, of
course - sometimes we get ex-marines as trainees, guys
who've offended an officer in some way and have been
court-martialled:  then it might be him that gets the
shit beaten out of him, but he doesn't mind.  "All
that's important, Steve, is that the slaves learn to
fight, and entertain the public.  I don't mind the
occasional black eye, or broken rib:  it means I'm
doing my job properly", he once told me.

Our pilot programme - how amateur it all now looks -
convinced our backers that they had a runaway success
on their hands, and they pumped more money in.  We
expanded, built more dorms, hired more instructors,
and bought more slaves.  Master Rafe kept telling me
how well it was all going - our company owned the
basic rights, and the Gladiator Games brand.  We were
going to be rich.

As the operation grew, I got more and more
dissatisfied, though.  I wasn't a deal-maker, like
master Rafe, who thrilled to be shouting down the
phone all the time.  And although I worked in a big
corporation after graduating from college, my life as
a slave had shown me that I was more interested in
using my body than in driving a desk.  I worked at
first as the chief physical training instructor for
the slaves, but master Rafe didn't really like it:  he
wanted me near him.  He was still absolutely the
"hands on" manager, and liked to be all over the
place, watching everything, correcting everything,
changing things that weren't right...  He wanted me to
ride around with him, but I've never really liked
horses.  Well, it didn't take a genius to find the
ideal solution, did it?  I went back to pulling him in
his rickshaw.

It's a really great way to get around, as the driver,
sitting high, can see everything that's going on.  And
with an intelligent puller like me, all master Rafe
had to do was to say where he wanted to go, and I did
the rest.  A lot of the new employees, and almost all
the slaves, never knew I was a free man - somehow not
having a collar was almost "normal" on our place, and
when they saw the huge words "Slave Steve" tattooed on
me when I pulled off my T in the warm weather, they
naturally just assumed I was a slave, especially as I
called Rafe "master" all the time.

I never thought I got enough exercise, though, and
when master Rafe needed to go it to the bank to sign
some mortgage papers or something, I insisted that I
pull him in the rickshaw as I needed a good long run.
As fate would have it, that was also the day that
Billy-Joe was parading up and down the main street
showing off his latest fad - he was being carried on a
palanquin carried on the shoulders of eight huge
muscled blacks.  Even Billy-Joe hadn't been able to
find eight clones, but he'd done his best:  they were
as alike as its possible to get men to be, especially
if you strip them of all their hair totally, polish
their bodies so that the glint of sun of them almost
hurts the eyes, and then give them huge gold rings in
their ears, noses, and nips;  then you cinch their
dicks and balls out as far as they can go (and it
almost looked painful), and finish the whole thing off
with heavy Prince Albert rings protruding from the
piss slit!

Even the townsfolk who were now used to Billy-Joe's
infantile displays of his wealth seemed to be
impressed, as he was, I believe, the first to consider
using a litter instead of a rickshaw.  And certainly
none of the slaves in town usually had PA piercings.
But their stares all were directed at master Rafe and
me as I jogged steadily and unfussily down the main
street towards the bank.

Look, I suppose it's obvious now - but they all knew I
was a free man as it had been in all the newspapers.
And they could all see that I wasn't collared, so even
if there had been any doubt, they could at once
recognise that I wasn't a slave.  But  I was pulling a
rickshaw!  The thought of a free man doing a slave's
job was just so amazing that the at first couldn't
adjust to it - then whilst master Rafe was in the
bank, I heard them whispering and talking about how
rich and powerful he must be to be able to make a free
 man act like a slave.  They started laughing at
Billy-Joe who squandered money on slaves and rings and
stuff in a pathetic display of gauche vulgarity,
whereas master Rafe's exercise of wealth and power was
so much more subtle, so understated, so "totally now",
as I heard one kid say.  Billy-Joe heard this, too,
and commanded his litter home, without even calling in
at the club.  Master Rafe wanted me to join him for a
drink, of course, but I didn't want to go in - I mean,
I was hardly dressed for it, was I, as I'd just
grabbed a pair of slave shorts to run in as we'd left
home.  And, anyway, it was a nice balmy evening, and I
wanted to relive old memories, and didn't mind
standing there patiently, waiting for him as I had
done before.  This only increased his reputation, of
course, as the members arrived and left for an after
work cocktail, and saw me standing there patiently.
As if by reflex, I'd clasped my hands neatly behind my
back, and bowed my head.

It hadn't been totally satisfactory for me, though, as
I just hadn't worked hard enough.  I ran fast on the
way home, and at the dreaded hills I tried to keep up
the pace, but of course my body betrayed me.  I felt
so frustrated, as I just wasn't getting the
satisfaction from my muscles that I wanted.  Then I
knew what I had to do.  I stopped, walked back and
looked up at master Rafe, and took the whip out of its
holster.  I handed it to him, dropped my shorts,
folded them neatly, and put them in the luggage
holder.  Bowing my head, I aid "Please, master...
Please make me run properly, as a slave should... I
can't do it myself, master, I need you firm hand to
make me."

"Cut it out, will you, Steve!  Look, run bollock naked
if you like, you know I like looking at your ass.  But
none of this whip stuff."

"Please, master Rafe..."

"No, Steve!"

"Well, master, then I'm afraid we're stuck.  I can't
make myself move without feeling the touch of the
whip.  And I believe those new boots you were so proud
of this morning are a bit tight... Do you want to walk
five miles home, master?"

"Manipulative bastard, Steve!  I could use my cell,
and call my car..."  He was laughing now, and so was
I.

I stroked my dick, so I was erect, and said "Whilst we
wait for the car, master, shall I fuck you?  Fuck you
hard?  Pull you down off there and fuck your brains
out?  Take you on the grass at the side of the road,
take you without any preparation, take you so you
squeal with pain as I force my way in?"

"Oh Steve, please don't... I'm scared, Steve, scared
of your dick, please don't fuck me now, Steve. Do it
properly later tonight, after you've lubed me with my
cum..."

We were both smiling as we joked like this, so I went
on "You'd better whip me, master, to prevent me from
fucking you... To make me stop thinking about
ravishing you... You'd better whip me master, even if
only lightly, to get me moving along the road again,
master..."

So he did.  And I knew that once he'd started, he
wouldn't be able to stop.  His light blows to my
shoulders soon became sharper ones to my butt, then
harder ones to my thighs, then slashing, curling,
vicious swipes to my butt again.  And every time the
whip hit I surged forward, I gave more power, I ran
faster, my heart speeded up even more, my stride
lengthened as if that could stop the punishment.  I
fell into almost a trance of ecstasy as I experienced
the road flying under my feet.

When we got home and I took the whip from his hand and
helped him down, he looked at my panting, sweating
body, with the red lines of the whip marks
criss-crossing my back, butt and things, and looked
shocked at what he had done.  Then the look of shock
turned to lust, pure simple naked lust, the desire to
possess me, to dominate and control me in bed as he
had just done on the road.

Did he tear his own clothes off in his desire to fuck
me, or did I tear them off him?  How did we make if
from the front door to the bedroom? And who fucked who
first?  Who first sank his teeth into the delicate
flesh of the others throat and shoulders?  Who shouted
and screamed the loudest in the frenzy of their
passion?  I don't remember, and, actually, I don't
think we even knew, or cared, at the time.  As we lay
gasping in each others arms after all our passions
were spent, though, we agreed it was the best session
we'd ever had in bed.   Master Rafe was very worried
later though, when I'd rolled over onto my belly in
order to get to sleep.  He turned on the light, ran
his hand lightly down my back, and whispered "Steve, I
didn't mean it... I didn't want to do this to you..."


"Yes, you do, master.  Once the whip was in your hand,
you wanted to use it.  And I wanted you to use it,
master.  I want to use my body, to give you everything
I have, to give you that extra part of me that my body
holds back against my will, until you drive it out.
Please, master, don't deny me the satisfaction of
giving you everything I have.  I'm your slave, master,
you know that, in spite of not having a collar, and I
want to serve you completely."

"No you're not, Steve."  He'd gone deathly serious
now, and I lay there, scared of what he might say. Had
I gone too far in revealing things about himself that
he might prefer not to know?

"No, you're not my slave, Steve.  You're my friend.
We're buddies, remember? And you can't be friends with
a slave, Steve.  So you'd better choose, buddy...
Which is it to be?"

Tears were rolling down my face as I rolled over, sat
up, and gently took his face between my hands. I bent
forward to kiss him, and he felt my tears.  At once,
he brushed at them lightly with the tips of his
fingers, then with the tip of his tongue.  Then he
kissed me, and took my head in his hands as I had his.
 Looking into my eyes, and fixing me with his
uncompromising gaze that occasionally felt as if I was
looking directly into his brain, he whispered  "Oh
Steve, I'm sorry... I've really hurt you... A real
friend wouldn't force you to make that choice..."

We made love again, and it was completely different -
slow, sensual, touching, caring. It was as if our
bodies were fused into one.  And I did not have to
tell him my answer.  Was he making it easy for me to
avoid the answer? And was it as a true friend, or as a
a wise master?  Or did he even know that I would have
told him had he let me get around to speaking when I
first held him so gently? Or did he know, and did not
think he'd like what he heard, so I needed to be
silenced before irrevocable truths were told?  You
never know with human relationships, do you?  These
questions are impossible to answer, really, so is it
perhaps best just to move on, knowing that they seemed
vitally important at the time, but that as the years
passed and as our relationship, complex as it was,
deepened and strengthened, it would not matter anyway?


________________

That first year we were so busy in starting our
business and in making it successful that we hardly
had time to care about events in our own locality.
They were happy times, doing things together, and
knowing that what we did was for our mutual benefit.
So I was shocked when, on the way back from the city
where we had been to sign a new sponsorship deal for
the second season of Gladiator Games, we went past the
Colonel's estate (I still thought of it as that, even
though he had of course been dead for some time) and
saw big "For Sale" boards at the roadside, and that
the estate, usually so totally immaculate, was looking
rather rundown - there were even weeds sprouting
through the gravel of the long, sweeping driveway.  I
commented to master Rafe as our limo swept past that I
never thought that Billy-Joe would sell up - his place
in our local society, such as it was, depended so much
on his owning that beautiful house and vast estate.

Master Rafe always took a more lively interest in
local business, though, and explained it to me. "I
think you told me, Steve, that the Colonel was always
complaining about costs, and was always keeping
Billy-Joe short of cash, and asking him to curb his
extravagant habits...?"

"Yes, but I assumed that he wanted his son to give up
his dissolute ways...."

"Well, it turns out there was a real cash problem.
The estate was only just profitable, and that was when
Straughan ran things really efficiently, and the
Colonel's tastes were modest.  Even then they relied
on 'good old fashioned Southern ways' to scrape by -
they could delay paying bills for a month or so,
wheedle discounts from suppliers, and so on.  It takes
a lot of money to support all those slaves - about
seventy, didn't you say?  And they were mostly
non-productive as they were waiters, gardeners, that
kind of thing... You didn't actually produce
anything?"

"Well, the vegetables were sold..."

"...and I guess they paid for the local taxes, just
about.  I think the Colonel was mostly living on his
inherited wealth, drawing on his savings all the time.
 And that's disaster, you know - the more you take out
from your savings the less there is to generate
income, so the more you have to take out the next
year....  I guess having Billy-Joe squander money all
the time did no good, either, although it was kept in
check when the Colonel was alive as he kept a tight
rein on the purse strings."

Master Rafe settled himself more comfortably in the
luxurious seat, and I rested my thigh against his, to
feel him close to me.  He paused, and went on "So I
guess the bubble has burst - Billy-Joe just can't
afford it any longer.  I suppose there would have been
taxes to pay on the Colonel's death, and with his
extravagance unchecked.... I mean, how much do you
think those identical twins cost him - tens of
thousands, I'd think - and then those eight useless
blacks carrying his litter....  Anyway, I read in the
paper last week that he was being sued for debt, and
it was such a tragedy, as I hate to see those old
places broken up, and over something so trivial, as
well."

"How do you mean?"

"As I said, the estate always relied on paying bills
late, that sort of thing.  There was something really
stupid - the cable fee, I think, just a few dollars -
that Billy-Joe just tossed to one side to pay later.
Then, as he was so chaotically disorganised and was
occupied with his latest toy, he forgot.  They wrote
to ask for the money and he ignored it, then they said
they'd take action in the courts, and I heard him say
at the club that they were just a load of ignorant
Yankee pen-pushers and didn't understand the ways of a
gentleman...   Anyway, their computers automatically
spat out a court order for payment, and then the sky
fell in:   once that was registered with the court, it
was "seen" by all the other big companies the estate
did business with:  the electricity company, the gas
company, water, slave chow suppliers, everyone in
'modern' business.  And their computers, fearing their
bills would not get paid, automatically applied for
court orders for payment, too.  If only he'd just
acted normally and paid the cable company, he might
have carried on for a few more years.  As it was, he's
having to sell up:  prices are low at the moment, and
there's not much call for ornamental slaves, or
gardeners, or waiters...."

"What's he going to do, do you know?"

"He seems to have dropped from sight.  He hasn't been
around the club since it all blew up in his face - I
suppose it's not the done thing, for a 'Southern
Gentleman' not to pay his debts."

As I said, we were frantically busy, and Billy-Joe's
problems quite slipped my mind.  I caught a glimpse of
him one day a couple of weeks later when I'd just
pulled master Rafe into town - he looked dishevelled,
was now driving himself in a small, old car, without
even a single slave as chauffeur.  He was coming out
of the liquor store with a huge package.  I thought he
looked even more unfit than usual - he seemed to have
ballooned in weight, and his face was an unhealthy,
pasty white.

A week later we were just leaving the main auction
rooms after successfully looking through the stock
destined for the mines, pleased with our purchase of a
young Slav who had been enslaved for entering the USA
illegally.  He was actually a real beauty:  naturally
hairless, except for a tight black bush around his big
dick, and with deep black eyes that seemed to cry out
"fuck me."  As master Rafe said, once we'd branded
him, and he looked more dangerous and thuggish from
one side, he'd be completely irresistible; and guys
would be creaming themselves over the sight of his
wonderfully muscled, rounded butt.

I heard "Steve please.... Help me!"

I looked around, as I thought we were the only men in
the viewing room as the auction wasn't until the next
day, and most people leave off inspecting the goods
until the morning of the sale.  Then I heard it again,
but the room still seemed still to be empty.  I put my
hand on master Rafe's arm to stop him, and looked
around again: no, we were alone, and  it didn't seem
possible that one of the thirty or so slaves arrayed
for pre-sale inspections would have dared to speak.
But then I saw him, about five slaves along:
Billy-Joe.  But a Billy-Joe I hardly recognised.

Gone was his usual neatly combed hair, and now he had
a standard slave crop.  He'd been collared, and, as
was customary, his wrists were shackled to the back of
the collar so that he was available for display.  It
was no longer the fashion to exhibit stock totally
unclothed, and so he had the standard tiny loin cloth
hanging down in front, but his flabby body was
otherwise there for me to see:  the bulging gut, the
pecs run to fat so that they looked like embryo
breasts, the heavy thighs veined and creased as he
stood there.  He didn't hold himself tall and proud,
like some of the other slaves, but kind of slouched
with his shoulders drooping and his whole posture
saying "loser".

I turned and went up to him.  He smiled, that
ingratiating smile he used so often socially, and said
"Steve.... Please... Help me...."

"Billy-Joe... What happened?"

"Those Yankee vultures, Steve.  Applied for payment of
all their debts.  I had to sell the estate, and all
the slaves, and still they wanted more.  So they made
me bankrupt, and I'm being sold, as just about he only
asset left..."

Master Rafe came up now, and looked at Billy-Joe
standing there in abject misery.  But Billy-Joe
ignored him and carried on "So please, Steve, help
me... Buy me, or something... They say I won't sell so
I'll be shipped out to the mines... Please, Steve,
help me..."

"Forget it, Steve!", master Rafe said. "He's not worth
it.  Look at him - fat, unfit... He's right, I don't
expect he'll sell.  Folks want energetic, good-looking
slaves, and there's lots to choose from here."  As he
spoke master Rafe pulled aside the tiny loin cloth,
and grasped Billy-Joe's dick.  He continued "This is
about his only asset... You were always complaining it
was so long and thick that it really hurt you.  Pity
about the rest of him..."

"He used to be like me, master", I explained.  "When I
was captain of the football team, he was just about
the second best looking guy in the squad."

"You mean, after you?"

"Of course!"

"Well, that shows you, doesn't it, what a good healthy
life as a slave can do for you, Steve?  Come on, we're
late, forget it...."

"Steve, please!"  Billy-Joe sounded desperate now, and
pulled forward to the edge of the platform, until the
shackle around his ankle restrained him.  "Please..
Help me!  We were roomies, buddies...  You're my last
chance... Please help out a friend, Steve."

"Hey, Billy-Joe... You were always telling me 'You
can't be friends with a slave'."  I put my arm around
master Rafe's shoulder, and we walked out together,
companionably.

End Of Part Twenty Nine.

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part Thirty

Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

PONY SLAVE

I was tossing and turning in bed that night,
unusually, finding it difficult to get to sleep.
Master Rafe threw one leg over my butt and one arm
over my shoulder and pulled himself close to me.
Pushing his face close to my ear, which was just about
uncovered by my arms as I lay there, he murmured
"Steve, he upset you today, didn't he?"

"Who?"

"Billy-Joe.  He upset you.  You didn't like seeing him
like that.  I can always tell when you're upset, a you
don't drop into that sleep of the dead you always
have, and lie there keeping me awake!  Now, come on,
what's the problem?"

"Well, Billy-Joe and me... We were roomies at college.
 He was in my football team.  He and the Colonel were
good to me - invited me down here in vacations, showed
me a life I didn't know.  He was my buddy, a friend.
And I don't like seeing him like that today, as a
naked slave, up for auction..."

"You can't be friends with a slave, Steve, you know
that.  Look, just forget him, right?  He was a bastard
to you later - reneged on the voluntary enslavement,
raped you, used you as a naked pony, studded you for
money, and then sold you off when he was tired of
you..."

"Yes, but I think he meant well... He did think that
the voluntary enslavement thing was the way out for
me, but when it went a bit wrong, well, he just didn't
work to correct it.  And at every turn it seems as if
he would have done the right thing if it wasn't for
the money, or whatever... He's one of those guys with
masses of good intentions, but who can't follow
through, I guess.  And, anyway, we shouldn't think too
harshly of him:  we wouldn't be together now, and I'd
be sitting in my office, with my 2.4 kids...."

"...instead of the fuck knows how many 'breeds you
sired!", master Rafe cut in.  "So you're feeling
guilt, or gratitude, or something, are you?  And I
suppose you want to buy him?"

"Well, yes.  And I knew you wouldn't agree. And I hate
arguing with you, master..."

"Look, Steve, he'd be useless around here.  He's fat,
unfit, he's arrogant, and thinks the world owes him a
living...."

"But he wasn't always like that... He was a really
good football player, a real team member..."

"You mean he needs direction, a strong hand to tell
him what to do."

"I suppose so."

"Well, I can't stand you thrashing around all night.
Look, we'll buy him, if that makes you feel better -
it will only be a few hundred bucks at most.  But I
want you to train him, and train him properly:  no
favours, no 'Steve, old buddy, this...' and 'Steve,
old buddy, that....', you understand?"

"Master, do you think I'm totally stupid?  Look, I owe
Billy-Joe something, and I'm paying him back by saving
him from the mines.  But that bastard used me very
badly, and I am going to get my revenge... I sometimes
think you don't know how tough I can be..."

He smiled, and kissed my ear, something I find
incredibly sexy.  "Oh yes I do, Steve.  I know exactly
how tough you can be when you want to...  I've found
out often enough, when you're in the mood to really
fuck me whether I want it or not...."

___________________

I didn't go to the auction myself, as we were busy, so
placed my bid on the phone.  As master Rafe had
predicted, he was cheap - two hundred and fifty, I
think (plus taxes and commission).   They shipped him
to our place along with two other bucks we'd bought
for our real business, and as the three of them were
unloaded and stood there naked, looking around, you
couldn't help but see the contrast between their sleek
fitness and his bloated body.

We branded all three of them the next morning - but
Billy-Joe only got the one on his shoulder and the
other on his butt, as I decided to leave his face
clear:  he was too old to take part in Gladiator
Games, how ever much his fitness improved. And, of
course, I had him circumcised, like all slaves,
reminding the doctor that it was unnecessary to
anaesthetise him.  I was a bit ashamed for him,
actually:  the two other slaves bore it all with
fortitude, understanding that it was their lot to be
marked and 'skinned, but Billy-Joe blubbered and
cursed and shouted and cried all the time.

I deliberately stayed out of sight all that day, but
the next morning I went on my usual tour of inspection
(although he thinks he's a good hands-on manager,
there are things master Rafe just never sees, and I
make sure that they're covered!).  When I'd finished,
I stood in the training yard and told one of the
guards to bring Billy-Joe out.

He shambled out from the dorm building, then saw me
and looked totally astonished.  "Steve...", he called
out, and came over.

"It's master Steve, Billy-Joe.  Surely you know how to
address a free man - haven't you heard enough slaves
in your life...?"

"But Steve, I'm your buddy..."

I nodded, and the guard touched him lightly with a
discipliner.  He fell to the ground, crying.  I waited
a few moments and  then looked down at him as he lay
there.

"Listen to me, slave, and listen well, as I'm going to
tell you this only once.  You're not my buddy - a free
men can't be a friend with a slave, as you often told
me  But I feel I owe you something, and I'm going to
do one thing for you that you need:  I'm going to give
you back your body."

He squinted up at me.  "So Steve... Master Steve....
You're going to free me?"

"No, Billy-Joe.  You're my slave now, and will be for
as long as I choose to keep you, and then I may sell
you.  No, I'm going to give you back your body.  You
drink too much, and that has stopped.  You're
overweight, and we'll soon starve that off you.  And
you're unfit - but our trainers here are used to
getting the best out of slave muscle.  You used to be
a tough, fit, football player, with pride in his body,
and you are going to get that pride back.  I'm going
to give you back your body, a proper man's body, one a
guy can be proud of."

"But master.. The brands, and the 'skinning..."

"There's nothing to be ashamed of there, Billy-Joe.  A
good body is enhanced by brands, and a skinned dick
looks better when it's flaccid, in my opinion.  Now,
this is the first day of the rest of your life....
I'll see you again in a month."

As I said, we have good trainers!  And a month later,
when I told them to bring Billy-Joe to me, I was truly
impressed - there was that football player again, but
older, of course.  He stood there, in the proper
"rest" position, his head bowed and his eyes cast
respectfully down.  His muscles looked good under his
tanned hide, and when I told him to shrug his shorts,
I was pleased to see that there were no tan lines.

"You know what's next, don't you, Billy-Joe?"

"No, master."

"Traditionally, this is the time I'd take your cherry
- have you strapped across a flogging horse, and fuck
your hole.  But I've fucked you often enough,
Billy-Joe, and I'm going to skip that step.  So it's
straight to work.  Follow me..."

He went to pick up his shorts, but I snapped "Leave
those!", and we went outside.

I didn't want Billy-Joe using "my" rickshaw, the one I
pulled master Rafe in, so I'd ordered a new one in the
latest style.  He stood there, looking at it, and I
snapped "In between the shafts, and close the wrist
restraints!"

"Please, master... I'm naked.  Please don't make me
run like this..."

"Billy-Joe... you're not naked!  Don't you remember? A
slave is never naked as he's always collared.  A
collar is all the clothing a slave needs , Billy-Joe."

And, of course, later that morning I had to remind him
that he did need to be whipped, as otherwise I
couldn't ensure he returned to me those extra percent
of his effort that a slave's body involuntarily holds
back.

I don't usually go to the club in town, but I did that
day.  As I shackled the rickshaw to the hitching post
outside, ensuring Billy-Joe couldn't move as he was
manacled to the rickshaw, I patted his butt as one
does an animal, to say "well done."

"That was a good pull into town", I told him.  "But
when I come out you're going to find it a little
harder, as it's uphill almost all the way back, and I
do like you to keep an even pace.  So I'll need to
encourage you, just a bit, with the carriage whip - I
was just sizing up your butt to see how much I think
you can take.  But perhaps we'll find that out as we
go along..."

I went up the steps, turned, and looked at him.  "Oh,
and by the way, the doctor is coming tomorrow.  It
will be easier to tether you here next week, once your
nose ring has been fitted."

______________________

As I write this memoir, those events of almost thirty
years ago seem almost real, as real to me today as
they were then.  But perhaps that's because the
experience of slavery, and the branding, and whipping
, do burn indelibly into your brain.

I didn't write this for publication, but to please
master Rafe, the master I still love and respect.
Since he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's five years ago
his grasp on our current times has steadily weakened,
and he spends more and more of his time living in the
past;  a past that, as I now recall it in my writing,
now seems so simple, so innocent, somehow.

We have pressed together in bed talking softly into
the early hours of the morning about each chapter as I
finished it, and it seems to comfort him: perhaps by
expressing my own recollections of those times it
shows him once more that he's not alone;  he has a
companion as he once again spends his time treading
those past highways and bye-ways that are now all his
brain remembers.  He's started on a journey from which
there's no return, but I know he understands that his
faithful Steve, his pony, will always be there by his
side to help him along.

Even with our enormous wealth there is still, sadly,
no cure for this dreadful affliction.  Other than a
few small bequests to close business associates, when
my time comes my fortune will pass to the charity that
still struggles to find a cure for this condition that
is cruelly, little by little, taking the master I know
and love away from me.  I am totally in charge now,
both of the empire we built arising from Gladiator
Games, and of course of master Rafe's life.  But then,
as perhaps readers may not always appreciate, I always
was, even if in the eyes of the world I was a slave,
and then the junior partner in our venture.

In the complex interplay of relationships that govern
how two people think and act, there is no simple way
of understanding who is "master" and who is "slave".
The "slave" subtly manipulates the "master"  to do the
things the "slave" wants, and the "master" modifies
his behaviour, even if he doesn't realise it, to
satisfy the "slave".  I think master Rafe and I came
close to understanding this after he had "set me free"
(in the sense that legally I was again a "free man"),
when I once more started to pull his rickshaw.  Who
was in charge?  Who was really controlling who?
Master Rafe, cracking the whip, or me, giving him the
whip to crack?  I don't now know, if I ever did, and
it no longer matters:  master Rafe and I had a
relationship, a lifestyle that suited us both.  I
usually deferred to him, but there were areas where he
prudently did not go.

So there we have it.  Once day, when I have more time,
when, as I know must happen one day soon,  I will be
truly alone, I will tell you more. Late at night, with
an empty space in the bed beside me, I will write
again. About how master Rafe's brilliant innovation in
creating Gladiator Games fundamentally changed our
world.  In giving disaffected youth an outlet for
their energies, he removed most of the causes of that
discontent and desire to destroy that sweep over many
men in their late teens and early twenties. Both of us
were astonished when the first free men started to
apply to appear in "the Games", and I think we were
wise to insist that the only route to entry was
enslavement.  The "GG" brand on the cheek has become a
mark of honour, and men are proud for the world to
know that they were courageous enough to give up
everything;  to bear the agony of branding and the
loss of their freedom  to be able to do what man
always has needed to do:  to fight, to conquer, and to
win.  And how better to do it, that totally naked,
stripped of all artificial devices and aids, just two
men, pitted against each other in primeval combat?

But all that is, as I say, for another day.  I need to
go to master Rafe, to slip again into those days of
our youth, and to help him believe that the world he
now inhabits is the real one.

One day, I will write the further history of Billy-Joe
and me, and of how many of my sons have fared (yes,
the desire to discover that was too strong:  there's
something fundamental in the human condition that
requires a man to understand what happened to that
seed he planted, even when the planting was
unwilling).  But, as I have said, that must come
later.  Please, readers, do not write and ask me for
details.  I need to focus on the present, to conserve
my great strength for the corporate battles, and the
more personal one which I fight daily with the failing
mind of my beloved master.

Steve Harris.


________________________


>From "The Times", electronic edition,  7 June, 2XXX

"Friendship", By Steve Harris

It is perhaps not surprising that Mr Harris's book has
stormed to the top of the best seller lists in every
continent, and has been translated into over eighty
other languages within a month of its first
publication.  Readers might have been drawn to it
expecting to hear of the epic battles fought in the
boardroom and the courts that turned a simple TV
programme into the dominant force in today's society.
But after the first page they will have discovered
that this intensely personal memoir is not about that
at all, but about the love of one man for another, a
love that transcended all kinds of obstacles in early
twenty first century society.

Mr Harris has no clear answer to those issues that
still confront modern man:  what is "friendship", what
is "love";  who is a "master" and who is a "slave"?
His unrelenting honesty in telling us of his feelings
and revealing to us his innermost thoughts is simply
astonishing:  few other major public figures would, we
suggest, dare to expose themselves to the spotlight of
public scrutiny in this way.  We are used to
autobiographies of politicians and so-called
"celebrities" where the difficulties are glossed over,
and where we hear little of the protagonist's true
feelings: not so for Mr Harris, who seems unashamed of
any facet of his personality.  Perhaps Mr Harris's
experiences in running naked through the streets as a
slave have given him an inner strength, and lack of
concern about the opinions of others, that we can all
envy.

This book is one of the classics of the English
language, and, we suggest, it will be read long after
"Gladiator Games" is forgotten (although that seems
unlikely to happen).  Mr Harris has already been
nominated for the Nobel prize for literature, and we
earnestly commend this book to the distinguished
judging panel, and to those of our readers (probably
very few), who have not yet read it.


THE END
Pete Brown, petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
London,  and various European cities, April-June,
2004.