Date: Sun, 13 Jun 2004 00:52:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: You Can't Be Friends With A Slave, Parts 5-6

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

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


REALITY STRIKES!

On that first morning, when I woke up, I desperately
needed to piss and crap.  I looked at the hole in the
corner of my cage, but decided to try some other way.
I shouted through the bars of the cage, and even
resorted to shaking at them - impotently, as it turned
out, as they were so solid that they wouldn't move at
all.  I guess all that stuff you see in the movies
about prisoners rattling their cage bars is just
artistic licence.

When it was clear that no one was going to do
anything, I went to piss, but my bowels were telling
me they couldn't hold it much longer, so I tried
squatting down over the hole.  I went to France once
with my parents, and on the freeways there all the
public restrooms are these "squat down" types, so I
had done it before.  Actually, provided you keep your
balance, its' not that hard.  And there's a huge
advantage that it makes your butt open wide, so
there's a whole lot less mess to clear away - highly
relevant when there's no toilet tissue provided!  The
French always claim that it's better to crap this way,
more natural - I couldn't help wondering if this was
another of the Colonel's so-called "humane" things he
did for his slaves.

It must have been at least another hour before the
black slave came with my breakfast.  "Charlie....
When....?"

"Hey, man, I'm not Charlie!  I'm Coon."

I honestly couldn't tell them apart -  it seems
incredible, I know, that two black guys could have
been brought up in such different places and yet be so
alike.  It just shows you what shaving all a guy's
hair off can do (unlike me, who'd been allowed to keep
some pubic hair and the stuff on my legs and arms and
chest, and who'd been given a very short haircut on
top, both Charlie and Coon were completely hair-free.
It was almost as if their skin had been polished, it
glinted so under the lights.)

"Sorry, Coon... I couldn't tell you apart from
Charlie..."

"You're another of those white bastard who think all
black slaves look the same!  We have to put up with it
from the masters, but Charlie and I will show you
what's different about us the first time we get you
alone in the bunkhouse, with no one to save you."

"Hey, man, calm down.   I'm sorry, right.  I'm not
prejudiced or anything, it's just that you are so
alike...   Look, please tell me what's going on."

"Well, if you're like all the other new slaves, you
eat your chow now..."  He passed the bowl through the
bars of the cage.  "Then at some point we'll take you
out and wash you thoroughly, then Mr Straughan will
take you off to the doctor's office."

"Do you and Charlie work in the bath house all the
time?"

"No.  We're the indoor discipline slaves.  We're on
call in case any of the cooks, waiters or valets need
punishing.  Or, of course, if there's some special
display being laid on to amuse the masters, and
there's the possibility that there might be trouble.
There's not a lot to do, except keep ourselves fit, as
they're mostly a docile lot here, so when new slaves
arrive, we get called in to do their initial
processing, like we did with you yesterday.  It's OK
for slaves like me who were born to it, but when guys
come in here who are new to slavery, they can
sometimes try to cause trouble... Charlie and me like
that, as it gives us a chance to flex our muscles a
bit!"

I wondered what these "special displays" might be, but
I started to munch away at the chow, and as I crunched
it down I carried on talking to Coon.  I'd never
really spoken to a slave before, except to give the
few I came in contact with direct orders, and it
seemed odd at first.  "So I bet it's good to do your
job when the female slaves come in... All that
washing... And do you have to shave their pussies?"

"No way!  There are no female slaves here on the
Colonel's estate. He doesn't believe in them. I heard
him talking to a guest one day and he said that he
likes the flexibility males give - when the waiters
get to be that bit older and they're not so cute, he
can simply re-use them as general outdoor workers.  It
seems that you have to pay quite a lot for a boy
who'll be a good waiter - eighteen or so, with a wiry,
muscular, but slim, body.  Then when they're
twenty-something, the price has crashed:  rather like
buying a new automobile: after a few years the
depreciation's terrible.  So it's easier to send them
out into the estate gangs, and get them to put on a
bit of muscle doing real work.  He couldn't do that
with women, could he?"

"Well, yes... You do see women working in construction
and such like up north..."

"Yes, some women. But not most women.  So it's easier
to stick with all males.  And, as the Colonel told his
guest, even if he put women out to work, it would
cause all sorts of problems in the dormitories -
they'd be fucking around, having kids, causing
jealousy and rivalry amongst the males."

"Oh, so you don't get much fun, then..."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, with no women, there's no sex...."

"What do you mean?"

"You know - guys fucking women.  Feeling them up.
Fondling them.  All that sort of stuff."

"I was never taught anything about that.  In slave
school the lessons tell you that women are for
breeding.  Sex is what men do for fun, with each
other.  Your owner might stud you with a woman to
breed a new slave for him, I suppose."

"So you've never been with a woman, Coon?"

"Of course not.  No one needs to stud from me - if a
master wants a new black slave, there are lots and
lots of black studs around with proven pedigrees.
Mind you, there aren't a lot of white studs - I
wouldn't be surprised if master Billy-Joe didn't want
to stud you.  Could you do that?"

"Hey, I've been with lots of women.  That's what sex
is all about."   I was putting on an air of bravado,
but I wasn't sure I could "stud" as Coon called it -
if they wanted me to sleep with a woman I'd ever met
before, could I do it ?  Sure, I've had a lot of
one-night stands, but I usually got to pick the woman
from the crowd at the bar first.  How would it feel to
go into a bedroom and find that someone else had
chosen for me?

At that moment Charlie came up, and he was holding a
big key.  "'morning, Steve, man!  Big day for you.
The first day of the rest of your life, as they say.
Mr Straughan's entrusted me with the key, so Coon and
me can get you cleaned up.  Now, you're not going to
cause us any trouble, are you?"

Well, they couldn't be going to do any worse than they
had done yesterday, could they?  Once you've suffered
the indignity of having slaves wash you so intimately,
it couldn't get worse.  So I smiled at him, and said
"Sure, Charlie.  I'm looking forward to it, almost!
But you're wrong - it's not the first day of the rest
of my life... I'll be out of the slave quarters and in
the house proper as soon as master Billy-Joe gets here
at the weekend and sorts things out with Mr Straughan.
 And I'm not really a slave, either - I'm doing this
voluntarily, and I'll be free in five years, whatever
happens."

"Hey, Steve, man, you may not think you're a slave,
but you sure do look like one with that collar on,
that cropped hair of yours, and wearing those slave
shorts.  As the proverb goes 'If it looks like a duck,
walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably
is a duck!'"

Both he and Coon broke into laughter then, and they
unlocked the cage and led me off back down the
corridor to the room where I'd been showered and
clipped the day before.

I soon found out that it could be worse than
yesterday! And my bravado is saying I was almost
looking forward to it was very, very misplaced.
Before they started soaping me, Charlie told me to lie
over the stool, on my belly.  Coon then sat astride my
waist, so that I was effectively trapped there.  He'd
taken off his shorts, as had Charlie, because we were
in the shower area, and I guessed that the hot
moistness was feeling in the small of my back was
Coon's ass hole.  And that other thing , rubbing up
and down gently as he moved, must be his dick.

Now I've read about enemas, and I always thought they
were just figments of erotic fun.  Well I can tell
you, they aren't.  It's neither erotic, nor fun, and
it's fucking real not some imaginary twist in a story!
 Charlie spread my butt cheeks and I felt something
probing at my hole - it was a nozzle of some kind on
the end of the hose they used for washing.  I started
to shout and tried to kick out, and to buck around
where I lay.  Charlie shouted "Ride him, Coon, man!"
And "Hey, Steve, have you been to a rodeo? Coon's
riding you just like those cowboys ride the steers.
But you'd better keep still - I'm going to turn the
water on and I need to concentrate, and if you're
bucking around like that...."

Now the truth from the fiction.  Yes, you can feel
yourself filling up.  No, you can't really tell the
temperature, except where the nozzle isn't a good fit,
and it trickles out - then I knew the water was cold.
After a bit Charlie told Coon to get off me, and I
stood there feeling... feeling well, I don't know
what.  It was like I'd eaten the biggest meal in my
life, and I felt stuffed.  I clutched at my belly as a
vile cramping pain started, and to my horror felt it
all distended - normally it's flat as a pancake, and
now it was bulging out.  Just then, Charlie stood
behind me, put his arms around my body, and almost
shook me up and down.  Great cramping pains went
through me, like when you've got the world's worst
case of the runs after eating something bad.  And then
I knew I had to crap.

I tried to fight Charlie off, saying "Let me go, you
bastard... I've got to crap..."  But he carried on
jogging me up and down and even began massaging my
swollen belly.  "Easy, Steve... Let the water flush
you out...." But  he did let me go soon enough - I
assume he knew what he was doing and how long he could
risk holding me - and I couldn't even make it to the
crap hole:   the contents of my bowel erupted, almost
literally erupted, from me.  I've never had stuff
propelled out with such force.  Dirty juices were
forced out onto the floor, and splattered everywhere -
my feet and legs were covered, as were Charlie and
Coon's, and the smell was disgusting.

I tried to find the hose to get the stuff off me, but
Charlie and Coon didn't seem at all concerned - I
guess they were used to it.  Gently now, Charlie led
me back to the stool and I had to lie across it again
- all the fight, all the stuffing had gone for me
(literally, I suppose you might say!).  Then with
Charlie's hot ass pressing into my back now, Coon
pushed the nozzle into me again and I had another fill
of water.

It took four "flushes" until the two slaves seemed
satisfied, and then they went through the washing
process, as they had the day before.  I felt all weak
and trembly from my ordeal, and I was shivering from
the exertion of violently crapping all that stuff, and
from the cold water.  Very gently, very tenderly,
Charlie and Coon wrapped their arms around me, pulled
my body close to theirs, and Charlie whispered "Easy,
Steve - you'll get used to it.  We have to do it as
the doctor will want to inspect your ass, and the
Colonel prides himself on never sending a slave to him
'dirty' - the doctor can do a rectal exam on you
without the need for a rubber glove, as you've had the
crap cleaned out of you.  The Colonel considers it's
one of those extra little touches - consideration for
others, like the doctor -  that differentiate a real
southern gentleman from ordinary men."

"Yes, Charlie, but what about me?"

Charlie and Coon were rubbing their hands all over me
now, and I didn't care - the friction was warming me
up.  I'd even failed to notice that their dicks were
touching mine, and sometimes pressing into my flesh -
I was just glad to be getting warm.  "Steve, what
about you?  Don't you understand, yet?  You're a
fucking slave, man.  You don't matter at all, compared
to the needs of a free man, especially one who's a
'gentleman' like the Colonel, or master Billy-Joe, or
Mr Straughan."

Straughan came in at that moment, and saw us clustered
together.  As soon as Charlie and Coon were aware of
his presence they immediately assumed a respectful
"rest" position, heads down, hands neatly clasped
behind their backs.

Straughan looked at me and snapped "Get some shorts
on. Now!  Or come naked."

I hastily pulled on my shorts, and followed him as he
strode out of the door.  In the yard outside a pickup
was waiting, and on the back platform there was a
large barred cage, rather like the things you
transport dogs in.  Straughan opened the mesh door at
the front, and said, calmly, "Get in!"

When he saw me looking with astonishment at what he'd
asked, he snapped "Have you forgotten what happens
when you don't immediately obey orders?  My crop is
waiting...."

"Please, Mr Straughan, sir, can't I just sit in the
passenger's seat?"

"The Colonel likes all slaves leaving the estate to be
properly secured.  When you're here, we can keep an
eye on you.  But off the estate, slaves need chaining
or caging."

"But, sir, I'm not really a slave.  When master
Billy-Joe comes at the weekend, all this will be
cleared up.  I'm not going to try to escape, am I?"

"Oh, very well.  But strip off.  You'll be less likely
to run off if you're bare."

He couldn't be serious, could he?  Yes, he was.  I
weighed up the choices, and sitting in the passenger
seat without shorts seemed less unpleasant that being
crouched in the cage with them on.  So I dropped my
shorts, and climbed into the passenger seat.
Straughan got in the driver's side, started the
engine, and we drove off.

It was vaguely erotic, somehow, being driven along in
the nude.  When I was still a teenager and had just
learned to drive I sometimes used to drive along with
my dick out of my fly, just for the excitement - would
some trucker in a high cab stop by me at the lights
and look in?  Well, it was just the same now, only
more so.

Straughan said "Don't try to escape, boy.  The folks
around here don't take kindly to escaping slaves -
they tend to take the law into their own hands, and
not even bother to turn you in to the sheriff.  You
know, don't you, that the penalty for escaping is
castration?  Well, folks would take one look at you
with your collar and know you were a slave, even if
you managed to find some clothes.  Then they'd
probably string you up, as a warning to their own
slaves."

"String me up, sir?"

"Yes, you know... Like in the old movies.  Just toss a
rope over a branch of a big tree, then hang you.
Folks around here think that's a pretty good
demonstration to their slaves of what would happen if
they got restive.  It's a lot more immediate than
turning the slave in, then waiting until he comes back
without his balls."

"But surely, sir, they couldn't do either of those
things to me - I'm a volunteer, and mutilation and
permanent body modification isn't allowed."

Straughan gave me one of his thin smiles, as if not
wanting to contradict me, whilst at the same time not
wanting to agree with me. "Quite so.  Some things a
master might reasonably do to a slave are not allowed
for volunteers."   He remained  silent for the rest of
the journey, and I just sat there and watched the
gentle countryside role past.  It was pretty
uncomfortable, though - the pickup had those synthetic
leather seats, and as I sweated in the heat I
slithered and slid around, with nothing between the
fake leather and my skin to stop me.

The sign out side the doctor's office said "Jeff
Green, MD(S).  Slave medicine.  Slave surgery.
Regular maintenance contracts undertaken."  I guessed
that the "(S)" after the MD meant that he specialised
in slaves, and I wondered how this differed from the
medicine practised for free men - surely we got the
same diseases, and if we broke an arm or something,
you'd need to do the same things?

Straughan parked outside, manoeuvring the pickup to
take advantage of the shade cast by a solitary tree,
then commanded me to get out.  I must have been
getting used to nudity now, or something, as it didn't
even feel strange to be by the side of the highway
like that.  Still, perhaps it was because I was going
into a doctor's office - you get used to taking your
clothes off there, don't you?

We went in, and  was surprised to see that the
doctor's examination room opened directly off the
street.  Well, that was one change from an MD and an
MD(S) - no fancy receptionist, no waiting room, no
consulting room.  If another slave came in when I was
being examined, he'd see me - all of me!  I guessed
this was another example of how slaves were not meant
to be body conscious.

"Good afternoon, Mr Straughan", the doctor said rather
ingratiatingly. "Is this the slave we discussed?"

"Yes."  The reply from Straughan was quite curt.
There was none of the normal politeness that patients
show doctors.   It was quite clear that Straughan
considered the MD(S) to be some sort of servant, or
contractor.

The doctor came over to me and without even asking,
turned my slave collar around to read the numbers.
"Is this a permanent slave in the Colonel's household?
 Shall I open up a record for him and add him to the
general maintenance contract?  Or is this a "one off"
- you just want a simple examination and report, for a
one-off fee?

"No, he'll be part of the estate, so you may as well
add him to the contract.  Although he doesn't belong
to the Colonel, he'll be living there as if he does.
Proceed, doctor, I haven't got all day!"

It was astonishing how the doctor totally ignored me
and only dealt with Straughan.  I felt like telling
him that he was wasting his time, and that if I did
need a doctor whilst staying at the Colonel's, it
would be a proper MD and not some fucking MD(S) with
the manners of an oaf.  Straughan's riding crop was in
his hand as ever, though, so I decided to keep quiet -
after all, this would all be over at the weekend.

I'm used to having medicals, of course - at school, in
order to attend college, when I wanted to join the
football team, for my job... And, initially, this one
was no different, in fact it was more thorough.
Firstly, there was a complete "going over" of my body
by the doctor's cool hands - he felt all my major
muscle groups, twisted arms, legs, neck, shoulders
from side to side to make sure I was really flexible,
then made me bend over and grip my ankles whilst his
finger probed my anus as he examined my prostate.
"Thank god you prepare these slaves properly,
Straughan", I heard him say.  "Some owners bring them
in here totally unprepared, then fail to warn me - I
like to do rectal exams without gloves as it's so much
more sensitive, and I hate getting my fingers covered
in shit!"

The doctor listened to my chest, made me blow into a
meter that measured my lung capacity, took my pulse
when stationary, and then after he'd had me jog on the
spot for four minutes (embarrassing that - I could
feel my dick bobbing up and down, with the doctor and
Straughan watching), and then it got more
sophisticated:  he had an ECG machine whose electrodes
had to be stuck to my skin, for example.  And unlike
an ordinary doctor, this one then sat me down and gave
me a full dental exam, probing with those horrible
metal things into all the cracks and crevices in my
mouth.  This seemed to please him, though, as me
murmured to himself "Excellent, really good."

I was expecting a blood sample to be taken, which it
was.  But when he gave me the usual small vial to give
a urine smple in, I wasn't allowed to go to the
bathroom as you normally are:  I had to stand there in
front of him and Straughan and piss as they watched.
And then, to my utter amazement, he handed me one of
those round glass dishes with a top, and said, in a
way that implied that it was absolutely routine,
"semen in here, please."

It can be really difficult sometimes to get an
erection, can't it?  And with two men watching me, I
can assure you it was tough going.  I had to beat away
at my dick, all the time knowing that Straughan's
riding crop was twitching in his hands, as if he was
waiting for me to fail.  Enough manual effort will
always produce a result though, won't it? And even
though I was sweating all over from the effort (or the
embarrassment?), I finally shot a load into the dish.
I put the glass top over the bottom, and handed it to
the doctor.    I was expecting him to put it with the
blood and urine for later analysis, but instead he
took the top straight off again and dabbed his thumb
and forefinger into the white fluid.  He pulled out a
big strand, and sniffed at it.

"Good elastic texture, Straughan, and a good clean
healthy smell.  Now, let's just take a look through
the microscope..."  After a few moments manoeuvring
the dish under the barrel of the instrument, and
moving it around to get a better view, I suppose, he
went on "Yes, this is fine.  Really strong swimmers in
there.  If the boy always produces as much of this,
and they're in such good condition, he'll do well at
stud.   Do you intend to breed from him?"

"I have no idea what his owner has in mind for him",
Straughan replied.  "The slave seems to think he has
some arrangement with his owner, so perhaps they've
agreed it between them."  Turning to me, he snapped
"Have you and master Billy-Joe discussed your use as a
stud?"

Well of course we hadn't!  I wasn't some animal that
could be used like that:  I was Billy-Joe's friend.
But it didn't seem wise, somehow, to bring all that up
again a it seemed to annoy Straughan, so I just said
"No, sir.  But master Billy-Joe knows I like the
ladies, and it's women problems that led to my
voluntary enslavement...  But I don't think he'll
'stud' me, as you call it - it's hardly something a
friend does to you, is it?  I mean, picking up girls
together in a bar is one thing, but having to fuck,
because you're made to... Well...."

Straughan just shrugged, but the doctor had been
listening and said, suddenly "Mr Straughan, is this a
voluntary slave?  The things we discussed...  The
American Medical Association, slave section, would
strike me off if I operated on a voluntary slave.
It's specifically forbidden to make permanent
modifications to a voluntary slave who's going to
return to normal society."

What the fuck were they going on about - these
"permanent modifications"?  But Straughan was now
speaking.   "This slave thought he could evade the
rightful process of the law after he raped his girl
friend, by colluding with the Colonel's son in this
idea of voluntary enslavement - the Jackson manoeuvre,
or some such, it's called, I'm told.  I totally
disagree with the whole idea - a man should take his
punishment as a slave properly, if he's broken the
law.  Fortunately for justice, there was a lawyer in
the courtroom who this one had consulted about his
rape defence, and he told the judge once he was no
longer bound by attorney-client privilege after the
voluntary enslavement.  There wasn't much the judge
could do, but this idiot agreed to the period of
voluntary enslavement being increased to five years
and a day."

"Ah, I see...", the doctor cut in.  "So you applied
for the new powers under the recent amendment to the
state constitution?"

"Quite so!  I called the judge this morning, and he at
once agreed to the extension.  So the slave is no
longer a volunteer slave, but a slave, pure and
simple."

"What?"  I almost shrieked.

That terrible thin smile was playing around
Straughan's face again.  "Yes, slave.  If the period
of enslavement exceeds five years, an owner, or his
agent, which is what I am for master Billy-Joe, can
apply to the courts now for the enslavement to be made
permanent.  It passed a month ago through the state
legislature here.  It's thought to be kinder for the
slave - after all, when a man's been a slave for five
years, he's unlikely to be able to adapt to proper
society again, is he?  So best to get it all out in
the open, up front.  Enslaved for greater than five
years means enslaved for life, if the owner applies
and the court agrees.   I applied, and the court did
agree, so you're a permanent slave now."  He turned
away from me, and added "So, go ahead, doctor!"

"Righty-oh, old chap, pop back into the chair", the
doctor said, looking at me.  He'd adopted that
irritating habit a lot of doctors have of treating
even responsible adults as children.

"No, wait... Please...."

"Get in that chair, you fucking slave", Straughan had
gone menacingly angry now.  "Else I'll order you out
to be flogged.  There's no limit to what can be
ordered for a slave, you know."

I still made no move, and the doctor simply leaned
over to his desk and pressed a button.  Turning to
Straughan he commented "It's one of the problems in
specialising in slave medicine.  Some of the patients
are so uncooperative.  I have to keep security staff -
mostly they're not needed, so they're just an
unnecessary expense, so I have to find work for them;
and that means that when you do need them, they're not
here immediately."

The door to the street burst open, and four big,
sweating slaves cascaded into the room.  "Put this
slave in the chair", the doctor commanded, "and make
him secure."

The four big blacks approached me, each grabbed at one
of my limbs, and the next instant I was carried bodily
back to where the doctor had earlier done the dental
exam.  I was literally thrown into the chair, and the
sweating men pulled straps out of the arms, from
around the back, and from the leg rests, and I found
myself held there, immobile.

Even now I don't want to really think about my
circumcision.  It was horrific.  Of course it hurt,
hurt like hell, as Straughan told the doctor there was
no need of anaesthetic.  But added to that was the
sickening realisation that these men could do anything
to me that they wanted - as a "proper" slave there was
no end to the power that another man had over my body.
 Stripping naked in front of the court, being
collared, having Billy-Joe inspect me.... All these
were steps on the road to slavedom.  When the sheer
physical power of one man over another was shown to
me, shown to me in a way that affected that vital part
of me, my dick, I knew that something irreversible had
happened - I truly was no longer a man, but a slave.

Even the run-up to the process was dreadful - the
doctor sat between my legs and squeezed at my foreskin
to make my dick head appear.  I was too terrified to
get an erection, I suppose.  He actually discussed
with Straughan how much of my foreskin he should
remove!  I wasn't consulted.  It was as if I wasn't
even there, as the two men talked.  The doctor was all
in favour of just removing a little of my 'skin, so
that when "at rest" about half my dick head and my
piss slit would be exposed, leaving the meaty flange
decently covered.  But Straughan would have none of
it.  "My dear doctor", he said, in a kind of lazy way,
"I know you want to practice your plastic surgery
skills, but you'll need to do it on some other slave.
As you know, as you've done enough business with us,
the Colonel insists on the slave's head being fully
exposed.  He can't stand to see a part of the slave
concealed from sight.  And when the slave's dick is at
rest, we want no unsightly folds or flaps of skin - a
nice smooth shaft.  But, at the same time, there's to
be no restriction on his erection - leave enough so
that is totally unimpeded.  You know the house style -
now do it, as you always do."

"Yes, Mr Straughan.  Another boring 'high and tight'".
 He looked down at me, and I said "No, please..."

"Now, old man, don't be silly.  You've heard Mr
Straughan's order, on behalf of your owner.  You want
to please your owner, don't you?"

"But Billy-Joe would never order this.  I'm his
friend.  He wouldn't want me 'skinned..."

I screamed in pain then, as once again Straughan's
riding crop lashed out at my nipples.  My whole body
tensed, trying to arc up out of the chair as the pain
flowed through me, but I was secure.  "I warned you,
slave!  You always refer to your owner respectfully.
Now, if there's any more of this nonsense, I will
order you flogged."

"Perhaps he should be muzzled", the doctor added.  "If
he doesn't have enough proper self-control now, before
I start, he'll probably scream the place down.  And
I've had some complaints from the better business
bureau recently, saying that the noise coming out of
here sometimes is preventing shoppers from going about
their business normally."

So saying, he went to one of the wall cabinets and
came back with a standard plastic slave muzzle - the
kind that slides between the teeth, has a strong
dick-like protrusion to fill the mouth and hold down
the tongue, and a piece that completely covers the
lips to prevent sound escaping.  He held it up to me,
and I kept my mouth resolutely closed - no way were
they going to treat me like that.  Straughan, seeing
this, swiped at my dick with his riding crop, and as I
cried out in agony, the doctor simply pushed the
muzzle home and fastened the straps behind my head.

It's a terrible sensation.  Your tongue can't move.
You have to breathe through your nose - and mine was
now running with mucus, making it difficult.  And you
feel totally impotent as you try to form words and get
them out, but cannot.  Straughan told the doctor
"Dispense with the anaesthetic and get it over with
quickly - he's muzzled, so you won't disturb the
neighbours now, and we know the bindings will hold."

As I've said, I don't want to talk about it really.
The cutting sensation as the scalpel sliced through me
was bad enough.  But I actually fainted clean away
with the pain when the doctor painted an astringent
disinfectant onto the open wound afterwards to prevent
infection.  I just at there afterwards, sweat
trickling don my body, tears rolling down my cheeks,
and big drools of mucus hanging out of my nostrils and
trickling down over the muzzle.

"You know", Straughan said, "Whilst we've got him
here, and your slaves are in attendance, we may as
well mark him.  I was going to wait for his owner to
think about the logo he wanted to use, but for a slave
of this quality, who'll probably be sold several times
during his working life, that seems unnecessary - it
might reduce his sale price, as the new owner might
want to impose his own mark and find there was no
room.  So let's just go for the standard 'S' - do you
have time?"

"Always time for a good customer, Mr Straughan.  The
slaves can move him whilst the iron is heating up."

To my horror, I realised they were planning to brand
me!  I'd seen the big 'S' scarred into the butt on
Charlie and Coon, and had at first though it must be
some sort of tribal marking, until I heard the slaves'
history and knew they were not fresh imports from
Africa.   I shook my head vigorously from side to side
in protest, and tried to shout that Billy-Joe would
never agree to this, but the fucking muzzle totally
prevented me from making any sense.  In any case, I
don't think I could have influenced things - the
doctor was clearly completely subservient to
Straughan, who must be a very good customer.

With grim inevitability the four slaves undid the
straps holding me in the chair, the carried me over
and threw me onto what I now know is a punishment
horse - the same straps that hold you when a flogging
is planned do, of course, hold you just as securely
when you are about to be seared and scarred.

The doctor held the branding iron, with its electric
cord tailing down from the handle, up to his face and
spat at it.  "Not quite hot enough yet", he commented,
and waited a few minutes.  When his spit hit it the
next time, it spat back, and he turned to Straughan
and asked "You or me, Mr Straughan?"

"Oh, you do it this time, doctor.  Then I can tell his
owner that it was all done properly, by a professional
man.  Sometimes I think Billy-Joe believes I'm
gratuitously cruel to slaves, even though I just
employ the proper procedures, and I don't want to give
him any reason to complain to the Colonel about me."

Mercifully I passed out shortly after the white-hot
iron touched my left butt.  I now know they have to
hold it there several seconds, to make sure the iron
cuts right through the surface layers of skin - if you
don't do that, the brand is not sharp and crisp, and
can even partially heal over - now I know more about
it  can see that it's better to have it done right,
the first time, even though the pain is prolonged,
than have the possibility of the slave having to
endure a second attempt if the first is
unsatisfactory.  I came to and there was delicious
smell of barbecue - my mouth almost drooled at the
thought of seared meat.. Then I almost vomited, and
probably would have done so had it not been for the
muzzle, as the realisation came that that charred
smell was me - it was my flesh that had been burned.

If only that had been all.  Even as I watched, the
doctor unplugged the iron and laid it aside, warning
Straughan to be careful not to touch it as he didn't
want any accidents in his office!  He plugged in a
second one, with  a smaller end, and waited, and spat,
until pronouncing that it, too, was ready.  It was my
right arm that got the attention this time - right on
the side, so that the top of the "S" was almost level
with the top of the shoulder.  I didn't pass out this
time, but I could see what was happening - I watched
in horror as the white-hot metal approached, then felt
its heat as the doctor positioned it properly, then
saw the smoke curl up from my skin, and the flesh
start to erupt in an ugly writhing pile as he held it
firmly against me for at least five seconds.  I
thought I would be beyond feeling new pain at this
point - the ache from my dick was almost forgotten, as
the terrible pounding from my butt flooded my nerves
and my brain with desperate signals: but no, the
injury to my arm now took over as the thing that
clamoured for my attention.

The two men left me lying there strapped to the horse
for a few minutes, as the doctor offered Straughan
coffee, then they completed the paperwork and
Straughan signed to say he had incurred the doctor's
charges.  "Shall I give him a painkiller?", the doctor
asked as they worked away, but Straughan simply said
"No, he's only a slave, and I don't want to incur
unnecessary expense.  A little pain always does a new
slave good, to remind him of how the world now runs
for him."

When the slaves were then ordered to release me, I
could hardly stand.   I just kind of slouched there,
desperate to shout, to rage, to kick, to lash out at
my tormentors - but the muzzle kept me silent, and the
presence of the slaves, and Straughan's crop, kept me
from physical action.

Now I really knew I was a slave - there was no way
that this could be done to a free man.  The other
stages on my via  dolorosa were as now nothing
compared to this.  Some part of my brain was , though,
saying that there was now nothing more that could be
done to me, that there was no further indignity that
could be heaped on me if Billy-Joe truly intended to
treat me as a slave.  I still clung to the belief,
though,  that he would sort all this out at the
weekend;  and I even wondered if there was some
plastic surgery that could be done to restore my
'skin, or wipe away the brands.  If only I knew:
there were yet more steps on the road to total
slavedom, and that I would tread all of them.

End Of Part Five

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

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


AT LAST!  A REUNION WITH BILLY-JOE

I suppose Straughan was as kind to slaves as his
nature would allow. I was so weak, so totally unable
to act after being cut and branded that he didn't even
suggest that I got into the cage on the back of his
pickup.  Sitting in the front seat was clearly
impossible, too, because of my new brand. And so he
told me to lie in the back, on my belly.  It was a
mixed blessing, as the hot afternoon sun beat down on
my naked body, and if I wasn't already suffering such
agony from the branding, I'm sure that my white butt
would have been complaining about incipient sunburn.

Charlie and Coon had to almost carry me off the truck
when we were at the estate, and it was a relief to get
into the shady confines of my normal cell.  "Oh man",
Charlie whispered, "I told you that those visits to
the doctor were a bit of a problem.  Now, just rest."

I wasn't allowed to rest though, was I?  It seemed
that almost as soon as I had drifted off into a
merciful sleep, a sleep that brought an end, at least
temporarily, to my agonies, I was being shaken awake.
As soon as my eyes opened the pain started all over
again, and I could now distinguish for the first time
the different areas of my body that were injured -
prior to that, it was the latest one that had simply
assumed precedence.  Coon stood there looking down at
me, and said "Feeding time, Steve."

"No... I couldn't at anything... I'm dead...."

"Come on, Steve.  If Straughan finds out you're
refusing food, he'll punish you.  It's a requirement
here - you have to eat everything you're given, and no
more. They weight out the stuff carefully to make sure
you have just enough to keep your work rate up and to
maintain or grow your muscles, whichever they're after
at the time, but not so much that there's ever any
danger of you going to fat.  Come on, Steve.... Let me
help you up, and then you can eat."

Forcing that horrible, flat-tasting, hard-to-swallor
food down was one of the most difficult things I've
ever done.  But Coon stood there, and tried to help.
He even, slyly, and with obvious fear of the
consequences, tried to help me out by taking a piece
himself and eating it surreptitiously.  I offered him
another piece, but looking around nervously he said
"Sorry, Steve - I've risked enough already.  I've
tasted Mr Straughan's lash before.  Come on - only
four pieces to go - you can do it."

I later found out that pissing was just about OK, but
when I tried to crouch down to crap, all the scabs
that were forming over my butt brand cracked and
started to weep, and I was in fresh pain from it all.

They left me in there for two days, with just Charlie
or Coon coming to give me my slave chow.  Then, on the
third morning, Straughan appeared.   "I think you've
lain there for long enough, boy.  Time to get you
working.  A bit of hard work will soon make you forget
the odd residual pain."

Well, if Straughan thought that what I was still
experiencing was "residual", then god knows he must be
tougher than me.

"Follow me", he snapped, and I dragged myself up and
half walked, half shuffled, half limped down the
corridor into the washing area.  I hadn't showered or
anything since my "operations", and the dried sweat on
my body, and the traces of crap where I hadn't been
able to crouch properly, had left me with a fetid
stink, I realised.  Charlie and Coon were there, and I
couldn't believe that two guys could be so
considerate, so gentle.  As Straughan watched they
washed me all over, but they were so solicitous of my
brand, and the scars on my dick, that it was almost as
if they'd washed them with a feather.  I'd flinched as
soon as the water was turned on, but Charlie, whose
back was to Straughan at the time, had whispered to me
"Don't worry, Steve.  We've all been in this position.
 We won't hurt you - I promise."  I couldn't help
contrasting the kind, considerate behaviour of these
slaves, who'd only known me a couple of days, with
that of Billy-Joe, my old college chum, who'd got me
into all of this, and was now ignoring me.

Afterwards, Straughan handed me a pair of slave
shorts, and I slowly and very gingerly pulled them on.
 The cut was the problem - they stretched tight over
my butt, and over my dick, and the scars in both
places at once started to protest.  I winced and
moaned as the coarse fabric rasped against me, but
Straughan didn't seem to care.  "Stop being such a
wimp, boy!  Real men can take it.  You'll feel much
better after a couple of hours of hard work - the ache
in your muscles will help you forget these little
local difficulties with your brands and your dick."

"Mr Straughan, sir...."

"Yes, slave?"

"Is it worth making me work like this?  Isn't today
Friday?  Won't master Billy-Joe be here this evening,
after he's finished work in the city, and then...."

"The answers are yes, yes, and no.  It is worth it, it
is Friday - not that makes a difference as work here
is continuous, seven days a week, but Master Billy-Joe
will not be down here.  He telephoned today that the
friends he met last week have invited him to their
country place to continue the party, so he won't be
down.   The Colonel's a bit upset, I tell you, as he
thinks Master Billy-Joe parties too much."

Well, I thought, there's something the Colonel and I
can agree on!  How could Billy-Joe abandon me like
this, just to go to some dumb party where he'd drink
too much, eat too much, and then, utterly pigged out,
find he couldn't even shag any woman he'd managed to
pick up?

"So, slave", Straughan was saying, "Let's hear no more
of this.  Master Billy-Joe will get here in his own
good time, and until then I think you'd better work
for your keep, like the other slaves.  It will do you
good, too - out in the fresh air, exercising that body
of yours.  It will take your mind off things, stop you
brooding and fretting.  At night you'll be so tired
all you'll want to do is sleep, believe me."

He was right, too.  I was assigned to a gang of seven
other slaves, all blacks, who got the hardest, most
difficult work to do on the estate.  Need this
delivery truck unloading and the 50 Kg bags of slave
feed, or cement, or whatever, carried to the
warehouse?  We did it.  Want that fallen tree sawn and
chopped into proper-sized pieces for burning in the
fireplace?  We did it.  Want this hard, dry vegetable
patch turned over using forks and spades?  We did it.

We never knew what task was to be done next, but each
day had a totally similar pattern.  Up at dawn.  Troop
along the corridor to the communal wash area.  At the
entrance, two by two, side by side, crouch over the
open bars of the crap pit and do your business.  Then
into the showers, and, every third day, stand there
and shave your fellow, and have him shave you.  Line
up in the corridor and go past the scanner, and
receive your handful of slave chow (all the other
slaves had kind of barcodes tattooed onto them,
underneath their 'S' brand on their upper arms, and I
understood that I would have one too when my scar was
sufficiently healed.  The amount of chow they got was
thus automatically dispensed for each man.  I always
caused a hold-up, about which everyone complained, as
I wasn't yet properly "in the system").  Then pick up
a pair of shorts - three heaps, small, medium, and
large, and you just took the top pair, regardless of
how dirty they were), and then outside into the yard.

We always had an hour of vigorous callisthenics first.
 It was widely regarded that this "warmed you up"
properly so you could work hard all day, and also
ensure that every part of you got some exercise.  Then
on to the day's assignments - we jogged off as a group
of eight,  then worked watched by a supervisor or
trusty slave, who was always ready with a light lash
to strike us across our sweating backs if the pace
seemed to be wrong.  We had two fifteen minute breaks
during the day, but that was all - no more food until
we jogged back to the slave quarters in the evening
where we were allowed to crap again, were hosed down,
and fed.

The only difference between me and the rest of the
slaves was that at night they all slept together in
the rooms in the slave barracks, ten to a room,
whereas I was always put back into my individual
cage-like cell.  The other slaves in my gang seemed to
be really nice guys, though - we weren't allowed to
talk when we were working (it brought immediate
strikes across our backs with the lash if we tried
it).  But in the showers in the morning, in the line
as we waited for chow, and in the shower at night we
got the chance to talk a bit: not that there was all
that much to talk about as nothing much ever happened.
 We had no access to TV or anything, and slaves never
left the estate except to go to the doctor's office,
so there was no news of the outside world.  And most
of the time we were very tired, and so conversation
was kept to a minimum.

I've never worked as part of a real team before - at
my employers they were always going on about "teaming"
and working together, but no one really did it - I
mean, in an office environment, what does it really
mean?  But when all eight of us were working away we
were really working together - for one thing, in some
jobs, you truly do need to co-operate:  if you're
holding the logs as another guy swings the axe down,
you've got to trust him!

It really was tough working like this, though:  I'd
thought I was fit, but now I found I was using muscles
I'd never even dreamed I had, even when I'd been doing
serious football training at school and college.  The
pain from my brands and from by 'skinning was soon
forgotten as I worked away, and apart from the scabs
and a sudden twinge if I sat down on my butt, or if I
forgot and started to try to jerk off, it was really
this tremendous overall feeling of sheer weariness
that got me down.  I couldn't wait for Billy-Joe to
come and get me out of it - hey, it's good to work, I
know, but there are limits!

On Saturday morning that week I was waiting in my cell
to be taken off to the showers for another day's work,
when Straughan came down the corridor and said
"There's a visitor for you, slave, come along with
me!"

My heart leapt with joy.  Billy-Joe was here at last.
But when we got to the outer room, there was only a
rather sad looking guy standing there - he was in his
forties, I supposed, but he had long hair tied in a
ponytail, and generally looked pretty seedy.

"Mr Straughan, sir, please, sir.... Where's...."

"Haven't you learned yet not to speak until spoken to?
 But I'll let you off this last time.  I suppose you
are wondering where your owner is, as this is the
weekend?  Well, he's off on vacation, in St Thomas - a
friend has taken a house there.  He called me
yesterday and said he wasn't sure when he would be
coming down here - it depends on how much fun they
have.

My spirits, which had been soaring, crashed.  Fucking
Billy-Joe, I thought.  He was having fun, but what
about me?  Straughan had that terrible thin smile on
his face, and I thought I would risk another question.


"Please, Mr Straughan, sir, did he tell you to do
anything about me?"

"Yes, slave.  He asked how you were doing, and I told
him you were settling in well.  He had been thinking
of trying to squeeze a few hours here before leaving
for St Thomas, but it would be a big imposition for
him as he'd lose one day of vacation.  He was really
glad to hear that you were doing fine, and told me to
tell you to enjoy yourself, and said he'd see you as
soon as he could fit it in."

I felt utter dismay.  Had Straughan lied to Billy-Joe?
 Was Straughan lying about what Billy-Joe had said?
Or was Billy-Joe actually not concerned about me at
all?  In the old days I'd simply have flipped open my
cell, keyed his name, and asked him.   But using a
phone was of course unthinkable for a slave.  So I had
no real way of knowing what was happening, and I felt
another wave of frustration and impotence flow through
me.

"Sit on the stool, slave!", Straughan commanded, and I
suppose I was getting so used to obeying orders that I
just did as he said, being careful, though, to make
sure I didn't hurt the scar on my butt.

The little shrivelled guy had opened his case and got
out an instrument of some sort, and I started to get
scared - what was going to happen to me now?
Straughan saw my whole body tensing, and I almost got
up off the stool, and he snapped "Easy, slave.  Stay
where you are.  This won't hurt - much - not like
branding and 'skinning.  We're simply going to add
your bar-code to your arm, so that you don't keep
holding up the food line.  And lots of guys have
tattoos all the time, so stop worrying, it doesn't
hurt much."

I'd seen that when we were fed they just scanned the
slave's arm, and had taken a look at some of my team
underneath the "S" high on their arms was a set of
lines, just like those bar-codes you see all over
packaging in the supermarket.  They had one of those
little bar-code scanners, and it took almost no time
for a slave to be scanned and for his chow to fall
down the spout into his hands.  It always held things
up when I got to the front of the line as they had to
look up on a piece of paper how much chow I was
allowed, and enter in manually.

"Please, Mr Straughan -  not a tattoo!  I hate tattoos
on guys..."

"Who cares what you like or dislike, slave?  This is a
matter of operational efficiency - all the slaves are
bar-coded here, as it makes management and control so
much easier."

"But sir, I won't need it - it's only until master
Billy-Joe gets back from vacation... Surely we could
carry on as we are until then...?"

Straughan gave me another of those evil, pinched
smiles.  "We'll have to see about that, won't we.
Now, let's get you marked...."

Well, he was right.   It didn't hurt - much.  The
sharp pricking of the needle was uncomfortable at
first, but I soon got used to it and the whole thing
only took about twenty minutes.  The little man never
said a word, just twisted my collar to read my ID
number from it, then looked up stuff in his book - I
suppose to translate the numbers into the codes - and
then got to work.  When he'd finished he wiped the
blood away from his work, and proudly showed it to
Straughan.  Straughan in turn pulled out some sort of
pocket scanner - it was no bigger than a cell phone -
and pointed it at my arm.  The thing beeped, and
Straughan told the tattooist "That seems' to be
working.   Thank you.  Submit your bill as usual."

I don't know - was being marked with my slave number
worse than being branded?  It didn't hurt so much,
obviously, but there's something utterly degrading
about being made to wear a permanent identification
number.  Somehow, I'd always thought that once
Billy-Joe sorted things out, them my slave collar
could come off I'd forget all about being a slave.
But now, with these brands and my number permanently
inked into my flesh, it somehow seemed to be becoming
more and more permanent.  I didn't have time to brood,
though, as Straughan was tapping his crop on his hand,
and pointing me through the door to crap, shower, and
get my slave chow.

It was horrible, really - it's one thing to have a guy
give you slave chow, and a quite different experience
to have a machine scan your number, then dish out the
right amount automatically - I felt as if I was one of
those steers on some beef farm, where the farmer
accurately controls his feeding all automatically.  I
stood there, alone now as all the other slaves were
already out, and just munched the horrible dry stuff,
forcing it down.  Straughan was watching me, and said
"That's right, eat up.  You're on high rations at the
moment, and we're giving you the 'build up' chow,
rather than the regular 'maintenance diet'.  I've
decided you'd look better with about 30 pounds extra
of muscle, so I've authorised more food than usual,
and you're getting the variety with the steroids mixed
in.  You'll be surprised how quickly you'll build the
muscle, and then we'll put you on the standard diet,
and then lower your intake.  I don't like using the
steroids at all, really, but it does so speed up the
process of making a slave look really good - and we
always make sure it's not a high enough does to cause
your testicles to start to shrivel:  there'd be no
point having a magnificently muscled slave if he had
tiny balls, would it? I always think a slave needs to
be in good proportion, if he's to be truly desirable
for his owner."

Oh, fuck me!  Not only was I being made to work like a
slave, but Straughan was now feeding me up and
starting to manipulate my body as if I was a slave.  I
was going to protest, but Straughan looked impatient,
and I knew there wouldn't be much point and he might
turn nasty.  Resignedly, I went out of the door, and
jogged off to join my team, after Straughan told me
where we were working that day.

__________________

He must have been having a whole lot of fun, as it was
a month - well, about that much time - before
Billy-Joe did come to the estate.  When you're used to
seeing TV, having newspapers, a diary, a watch, you're
aware of the passing of the weeks.  But without any of
those things, and when every day is exactly the same,
it's really hard to keep exact track of the days.
There was no Sunday church for us, or a special dinner
on Friday night, or anything - just endless days the
same.  So it was a complete shock when, one day as we
were toiling away digging the rock-hard vegetable
patch, when two men on horseback rode up, and a voice
called "Hey, Steve!"

I'd have recognised it anywhere - it was Billy-Joe!  I
threw down my shovel, and ran over to him as he
towered above me.  "Billy-Joe, thank the fuck...."

I screamed out, as Straughan's crop landed extremely
hard across my shoulders.

"Hey, Straughan old man, that's a bit much..."
Billy-Joe said, in a normal sort of voice.

"My Billy-Joe, sir, please remember what we discussed
earlier about maintaining proper discipline amongst
the slaves.  I have fifty of them working out here on
the estate, you know, and another twenty indoors.  And
I only have four guards for the outdoor crew - making
sure the slaves work properly, and maintaining good
order, is a matter of great concern for us, and slaves
need to understand that there's a proper disciplinary
system involved.  Might I please therefore remind you,
sir, that slaves are not allowed to stop work without
permission;  they are not allowed to speak unless
spoken to; and that when they do speak, they must be
properly respectful, and call free men 'sir' and their
owner 'master'.  This slave has just broken all the
rules - and he's known for being generally hot-headed,
disobedient and disrespectful.  Now  that you've come,
perhaps you will assist by agreeing to the slave's
proper punishment, and by making sure, sir, that you
treat the slave properly.  It's a two-way thing - the
slave must obey and be respectful, and the owner, on
his part, must take control and must demand respect."

"Quite so, Straughan.  You're right,  as usual.  It
won't happen again."  Then turning to me, Billy-Joe
said "Well, Steve, you're looking fantastic!  You
always were in great shape, but you're different
somehow now - leaner, tougher looking, and you seem to
have got even more muscular.  Yes, a lot of changes...
 The life here on the estate must be suiting you...."

"Billy-Joe, please!  Yes, there have been changes!
Look at this fucking brand on my arm, and this
bar-code".  I turned my arm towards him, and pointed
at it, angrily.

Billy-Joe looked down at me from his horse - until
you're standing next to a man on horseback, you really
don't appreciate how they tower over you.  Billy-Joe
peered down, and said "And you've been 'skinned, too,
Straughan tells me... Let's see that...."

"Billy-Joe!  That's my dick you're talking about...."
My angry words were cut off as Straughan slashed out
at me viciously again, and I shouted out.

Straughan snapped at me "Do as your master commands,
slave, unless you want more of this.  Drop those
shorts, and let your owner see..."

"Come on, Steve", Billy-Joe added as if trying to make
light of it.  "It's not your dick, strictly speaking,
you know, it's mine now...."

Well, what else could I do?  I pushed my shorts down
over my hips, and stood there.  Billy-Joe peered down
at me again, and said "Hey, Steve, that's really nice
- I always thought that 'skin of yours was too long,
and I always wanted to see your dick head.... You
know, I think it improves you.  Go on, put those short
back on... Although you've got nothing to be ashamed
of, you know - that 'skinning and those shaved balls
really make you look a whole lot better when that
thing was poking out from that big thatch of hair you
had.  Anyway, come on, jog along behind us back to the
house..."

My spirits started to rise.  At last.  But Straughan
spoke.  "Please, Mr Billy-Joe.... Please don't disrupt
the normal operation here.  The slave is working. He's
part of a team.  Without him they all  have to work
harder.  And it's bad for discipline for a slave to be
given special treatment like this.  Please send him
back to join the crew, then you can take him into the
house after he's been properly cleaned up tonight...
You remember how we discussed that?  It really would
be a lot better, from every point of view."

"You're right, as ever, Straughan.  Steve - back to
work, buddy, and we'll get together later when you're
showered and fed."

I was so astonished that I didn't protest, and had no
chance to either, as Billy-Joe turned his horse's head
around and cantered off.  Straughan looked down at me
and said "You heard your master - now get back to
work!"

I don't know how I got through the rest of the
afternoon.  At one level, I was elated to think that
this was the last afternoon I'd spend toiling away
under the hot sun.  But I was worried, too - Billy-Joe
hadn't really treated me properly, had he?  You don't
order your buddy to strip, do you?  And he was the
Colonel's son - if he'd really cared about our
friendship, he'd have told Straughan to go and fuck
himself!  Jesus Christ, what the hell was going on?

When we'd jogged back to the slave quarters at the end
of the day I went with my fellows from the gang and
crapped, showered and was fed as usual.  I was in an
agony of suspense - what was going to happen?  As one
of the guards was leading me off towards my cage,
though, Charlie and Coon were standing in the corridor
in the "rest" position.  As we approached, Charlie,
keeping his head lowered respectfully, said
"Permission to speak, sir?"

The guard nodded, and Charlie said "Sir, Mr Straughan
has ordered us to wait here, and then take that slave
off to prepare him to meet his owner.  Mr Straughan
asked me to tell you, sir, that it was OK to release
the slave to Coon and me, sir."

"Suits me", the guard said.  "Off you go, boys."

I loped along the corridor after Charlie and Coon, and
soon we were in that room where I had been prepared on
the first day.  "Hey, Steve, man", Charlie said "Nice
to see you again!  Now, let's all get naked, and get
started."

I hadn't really seen Charlie and Coon since our
initial meetings, as I was an outdoor slave, and they
were indoor slaves.  "Hi, Charlie, Coon.... Nice to
see you again.  I think I'll be seeing more of you in
future now master Billy-Joe has arrived - I'll be in
the main house, with him."

"Oh yes", Coon chipped in, rather enigmatically,
"You'll certainly be seeing more of us if you belong
to master Billy-Joe!  Come on, man, strip off, and
let's get started."

"No need, guys... I showered a few minutes ago.
Billy-Joe and I are old buddies - I don't need any
special preparation to see him."

"Come on, man, please don't be awkward.  We're slaves
too, you know, and if Mr Straughan found out that we
were not obeying his orders....."  Charlie slapped his
ass a couple of times as he said this, and I knew what
he meant.

"OK, then..."  I slipped out of my shorts, and  I
expected us to get under the shower together as we had
before.   But Charlie pulled up the stool, that stool
where I'd first been cropped and shaved, and later
where I'd been forced to have an enema.

"Come on, Steve, you know the drill.  On your belly
now, so we can get you washed out..."

"No fucking way!  You're not doing that enema thing on
me again.  I'm just going to see master Billy-Joe...."

"Steve", Coon said, advancing on me rather
threateningly.  "Charlie and me don't want Mr
Straughan beating our hides.  He's said you're to be
cleaned out, and we're going to do it.  Now you can
either fucking well bend over the stood yourself, or
we'll put you there.  Or do you think that now you've
put that muscle on you can take on Charlie and me?"

"Come on, Steve, please...", Charlie chipped in.
"Look, you've had it done before, and we'll be as
gentle as possible.  You don't want us slaves to
suffer, do you?  You know what  Mr Straughan's
like..."

"Look, guys, I won't tell.  I'll be effectively a free
man tonight, but I won't tell anyone you didn't do it
- trust me."

"Sorry, Steve, but orders is orders.  We can't risk
it, even for a regular guy like you.  And if you're
going to be a free man, we certainly can't.  A slave
can sometimes trust another slave, but he can never
trust a free man.  So please, before Coon starts to
get nasty, just do as we ask..."

So what was I supposed to do?  I didn't doubt that
they could overpower me.  But I felt sorry for them,
being so scared of Straughan.  As soon as I'd talked
to Billy-Joe, I resolved to try to  do something about
the lives of the slaves like Charlie and Coon:  they
were decent enough guys, just like Billy-Joe and me,
and if things had been different it would be them who
were going free now.  I decided I ought to try to make
things easier for them until I could fix Straughan
properly - perhaps I'd get Billy-Joe to get he Colonel
to fire him, and employ someone else.  Until then....
well.... I went and lay down over the stool, feeling
it pressing into my belly.

I decided to try not to think about it at all, and
didn't look as Charlie and Coon finished their
preparation.  I don't know which of them it was who
gently pried my butt apart, or who inserted the cold
steel nozzle into me - I shivered as it touched the
delicate skin of my pucker.  Then I had to wait whilst
the water ran into me, until Charlie told me to get
up, and then, as he had before he stood behind me and
massaged my swollen belly.  I could feel his dick
stabbing at my buck, as if it was trying to burrow its
way into me.  "Great, Steve", Charlie was crooning
into my ear  "You're one lovely slave, man.  Now
you've bulked up a bit, you're one fucking great
slave.  Will you fuck with me when you're free?  This
boy would really like to get up your ass, and to have
that fuck-stick of yours up mine..."

"No, Charlie!  I don't fuck with guys.  And get your
dick out of my ass, OK?  Else when I am free, I'll
have you caned.  You can't treat a guy like that!"

"Steve, it's only what guys do...."

"No it isn't!  Guys fuck with women, Charlie - you
know that. You weren't enslaved until you were grown
up:  didn't you have girl friends in Jamaica?"

"Yes, Steve.  And I got kids, too.  That's why I had
to come to the USA, to try to  earn money.  But there
ai'nt no women here.... And a man needs to take sex
where he can find it.  And Coon here is great in bed.
Man, his ass is sweeter than any pussy I ever
fucked..."

"I don't want to hear about it, Charlie!  And get that
dick away from my butt, right?"

The foul stuff erupted from my ass, and, as they had
before, they took three more washings before they were
both satisfied that I was properly cleaned out.  We
did all shower together then, but Charlie and Coon
didn't seem to be enjoying it as much as they had
before - they did, as I expected they would, slide
their soapy hands all over me, but they seemed very
subdued. Perhaps they'd understood that doing your job
was one thing, but taking your pleasure from another
guy's ass, or dick, was another.

When we'd finished Coon dropped to his knees in front
of me and started to soap my balls again. "Cut that
out, Coon!", I snapped, getting angry now.

"Steve, I've got to shave your balls, and your ass.
And we've got to clip your hair neatly again, and
shave your chin..."

"There's no need for that, as I've said.  I'm going to
meet my old buddy, not go out of some date..."

"Steve, please...", Charlie cut in.  "Please don't
make it hard for us, man.  You've had your balls
shaved several time since you've been here - one more
time won't hurt, will it?"

Well, they were right, I suppose.  And, actually, I
liked having my balls silky-smooth, and had decided to
keep them that way when I was free.  When I fondled
them as I jerked off, they felt so much nicer without
their thick covering of long, wiry black hairs.  I
wasn't sure about having my ass shaved, though - I've
got really thick, luxuriant hair as I've told you, and
my beard grows at the sort of pace that means I've got
five o'clock shadow by about two!  And my body hair
grew like that, too, so when my ass was shaved after a
couple of days it got uncomfortable as the stubble
grew and started to push into the opposite cheek - I
guess when your ass hair's quite long, it doesn't
interfere, but when it's pushing it's way through
freshly and is about a tenth of an inch long, it's
fucking irritating.

It's not that bad, after all, once you're reconciled
to having another guy touching your most intimate
parts, and Charlie and Coon were experts.  I hardly
noticed them doing it, and it was only when the
electric clippers whirred into life that I protested
again.

"Oh, come on, Steve", Charlie said "We've got to trim
your head to make you really neat.  And whilst we're
at it, we're just going to take your pubes and pits
down to a respectable level again - man, you sure have
grown it quick."

"What's all this 'respectable'?  A man's pubes are his
business..."

"No, Steve.  Mr Straughan told us particularly to trim
you properly again.  Mr Billy-Joe apparently told you
how good you looked when you stripped for him earlier
on, and Mr Straughan wants to make sure that master
Billy-Joe knows you've been well looked after."

This was madness.  Here I was, about to be freed, but
I had to go through all this humiliating trimming of
my pubes to prove to the guy who was going to free me
that I was being properly looked after.  But there was
not much point in arguing with these dumb slaves, was
there?   I might as well let them get on with it, as
the quicker I got out of here, the quicker I would be
with Billy-Joe and free.  So I let them get on with
it.

But even more humiliations were to follow - they told
me to sit down on the stool again, and then they bent
over me and cleaned out my ears with a tiny cotton
thing.  Scissors were used to probe into my ears and
cut away any hairs down inside.  When I told them they
were wasting their time, Coon said "Haven't you ever
had a tongue in your ear, man?  It's so sexy...
Suppose master Billy-Joe wants to tongue you and then
there's all those wiry hairs there..."

"Master Billy-Joe isn't like that, Coon.... He likes
fucking women."

Both slaves kind of rolled their eyes and shrugged
their shoulders. What on earth could they mean?

When they then used the scissors to trim my nose
hairs, I protested again.  "Look, he's not going to
stick his tongue up my nose, is he?"

"No, man.  But when he's kissing you, he might look
and a lot of men like to see a nice empty nose..."

"I've told you, Charlie, that master Billy-Joe isn't
like that.  He isn't going to kiss me."  Both slaves
shrugged and rolled their eyes again, and I thought
they were just being stupid, so I ignored them.

It can hurt when a cotton-covered tooth pick is used
to clean out your navel!  As they probed into me, I
squirmed and wriggled as I always get that kind of
sick feeling when my navel is interfered with.  I
don't even use my little finger in the shower to clean
it out for that reason, and so I told Charlie to stop.
 "Sorry, Steve, but we want you nice and fresh, don't
we, in case master Billy-Joe's tongue goes in
there..."

This time it was me who just shrugged my shoulders, as
there clearly was no telling these slaves.

They must have finished then, I thought.  But no!
They told me to stand up, and then Coon started to
trim around my nipples.  Look, I've got big, dark
brown aureoles and so my tits are always very
prominent, especially now that my pecs were so
defined.  They'd always stood out well, even before
I'd come here and most of the pelt on my chest had
been shortened.  They made my thick, pink nubs stand
out well, too, and I'd always thought I looked good
without a shirt on:  I felt so sorry for those guys
who have little tiny, pink, insignificant nips.  But
now Coon was trimming so carefully right around the
edge of my aureoles, clearing away any of my chest
hairs that bent over them.

"Oh come on, Coon!", I almost snapped.  "This is
ridiculous!"

"Hey, man, we're bath slaves, right?", Charlie cut in.
"And we want our masters to know that we're doing the
job properly.  It's the little finishing touches like
this that make those important differences to the look
of a slave - you can always tell a slave that's been
properly prepared.  We're proud of the job we do, even
if you aren't proud of your body and don't appreciate
it."

What a load of rubbish!  Of course I was proud of my
body - I always had been, and now it was in so much
better shape, I felt really good about it.  I hated
losing my 'skin, of course, and having the disfiguring
brands and tattoo on me, but everything else was
great:  I'd hated the hard work, but the extra thirty
pounds of muscle I'd put on had, I considered, turned
me from the very good to the absolutely exceptional.
But I didn't intend to show it off in this detail to
Billy-Joe, did I?  He'd be lucky if he saw me without
a shirt on for some months as I re-established my
identity as a free man!

Coon finally handed me a pair of slave shorts, but the
moment I touched them I knew there was something
different about them.   Instead of the usual coarse
but tread-bare cotton, these felt silky-smooth:  they
were made of silk, or some artificial material like
that.  As I pulled them on I realised they were even
tighter than usual over my ass, and the legs were cut
even shorted, and the waistband came up even lower -
as hard as I tugged at them, there was no way that the
waistband concealed the top of my ass crack at the
back!  And even my trimmed pubic hair was peeking out
over it at the front.  The biggest difference of all,
though, was that these were fly-fronted, with no
fastening other than a small overlap of the two sides
of the opening.  My dick and balls were bulging
suggestively, and I felt that at any minute they might
just pop out through the opening.

"Hey, guys... Give me some regular shorts... These are
obscene."

"Sorry, man... Mr Straughan's orders.  You're to have
these play shorts, that the 'toy' slaves wear."

"Hey, you're some cool-looking slave... Don't worry
about the shorts, I expect you'll be out of them soon
enough."  As he said this, Coon slapped my ass, half
playfully, half in earnest.  "Stop worrying about it,
Steve, let's get you on up to master Billy-Joe's
suite."

Oh, what the fuck, I thought.  He was right - I would
soon be out of these shorts, as I intended to demand
proper clothes from Billy-Joe straight away:  I might
even wear some of his tonight.  Although I felt almost
naked dressed like this, it was only for a few more
minutes then Billy-Joe could find me some decent
clothes.

We went up the back stairs, not the grand staircase
I'd used when I'd last stayed at the house.  The bare
concrete treads hardly affected my feet now, as my
soles had really toughened up in the past weeks.
Charlie opened a door out from the staircase, and I
was back in familiar territory:  the wide corridor,
the antiques standing around, the beautifully shiny
floor, the lavender smell of polish, the scent of the
fresh flowers so artfully arranged in their big vases.
 Charlie led the way to a big polished oak door, then
he and Coon stood on one on either side of me and he
said "Rest position, Steve", as he and Coon assumed
that familiar stance, head bowed, hands neatly
clasped, and eyes focussed on the floor in front of
them.

"Don't be so fucking stupid... Is this master
Billy-Joe's suite?"

"Yes, Steve, but you're not allowed in until master
Billy-Joe invites you.  Now, calm down, and just stand
here properly like a good slave..."

No way, I thought, and pushed past an astonished
Charlie and opened the door and stepped in.

END OF PART SIX