Date: Fri, 18 Jun 2004 23:12:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: You Can't Be Friends With A Slave, Parts 9-10

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

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

A NEW JOB

Charlie and Coon led me off, back towards my solitary
cage.  "Man, you've got a great ass", Charlie told me.


"Charlie gets all the luck", Coon added.  "Hey, Steve,
how about letting old Coon just give you a fuck when
we get back to your cage?  I don't want Charlie lying
with me all night, telling me how fantastic it was,
unless I know for myself..."

"No way!  Look,  I hated it, right?  I hated master
Billy-Joe fucking me, and I hated Charlie fucking me.
 And there's going to be no more.  "

"But I don't think you hated Grunt riding your dick",
Charlie said, breaking into a big smile, and he and
Coon slapped each other affectionately on the butt,
and broke into peals of laughter.

They kind of hung around back at my cage, as if they
were half serious about fucking.  Coon even stood
right next to me, put his hand on my butt and his head
close to mine, and whispered "Don't tell Charlie, as
he'd be even worse than he is already, but I don't
mind taking dick.  Come on, Steve, shall I just bend
over, and you can put that lovely big fuck pole up
me... It will make you sleep better, man!"

"NO!  Look, will you just get it into your head that I
don't fuck with other guys.  Master Billy-Joe made me,
and I had no choice.  But there's no way I'm going to
fuck guys voluntarily, right?"

"Suit yourself", Charlie added.  "But it can get
awfully lonely at night in the slave pens, you know,
and a nice body wrapped around you, a hard dick to
stroke, and then a little jiggity-jig, if you know
what I mean..."

Both blacks were grinning now, and were standing close
to each other.  To my amazement, totally without
shame, they started to fondle each others balls and
stroke their dicks.

"See what I mean?", Coon said.  "This Charlie man here
just wants a guy.  Come on... Let's leave Steve here
to jerk himself off, Charlie boy, and get back to our
quarters..."

Arm in arm, still giggling and whispering, the two
huge blacks made their way along the corridor, and out
of sight, and I lay down on the leather -covered pad
in my cell and tried to sleep.

I was covered in drying sweat, semen and ass-juice,
and the smell of it made sleep impossible - somehow my
body still wanted more.  I tried jerking off, and even
though I was instantly hard, it just wasn't as good,
somehow, as that sensation of Grunt sliding up and
down on me.  But what was I to make of being fucked by
Billy-Joe and then Charlie?  I was sore as hell, and
when I fingered my hole experimentally, it stung and
hurt.  I saw my fingers were covered in mucous, cum
and traces of blood when I held it up.  Oh, fuck, I
thought - what's happened?  Am I bleeding to death?  I
wondered what to do, as there was no way of summoning
help, and lay there in a panic, sweat breaking out all
over me.

The vomiting began shortly afterwards.  I was throwing
up from the very depths of my stomach.  I just had to
crawl over to the crap hole and lie there with my head
down it.  Over and over again my stomach heaved
convulsively and the bitter bile shot up and out,
leaving that awful stinging, burning sensation in my
throat.  Oh fuck, had they done something to my
digestive system with their dicks right up inside me?
I was terrified.  I thought I was going to die.  I
crawled over to the spigot and sucked desperately at
it to get water into me, to try to take away the vile
taste and burning sensation inside me, but it only
seemed to make it worse - I could take several
mouthsful of water, but then, when they got don into
my stomach, I spewed them up again, violently.

By morning, I was desperate.  My ass was still leaking
cum and blood and it hurt like hell.  I couldn't hold
even water down.   There was a cold, clammy sweat all
over me.  I felt completely nauseous, and I was
trebling and shaking all over.

The guard who came to unlock my cell called Straughan
at once.  He was immaculate, as usual, and as I lay
there, utterly wretched, dirty, stinking, trembling,
the contrast between the two of us could not have been
more complete.

"Please, Mr Straughan, sir... Something dreadful's
happened toto me.  I was raped.  They've messed up my
insides... Please, sir, take me to the doctors..."

Straughan gestured for me to come up to the bars. He
sad, calmly, "Let me examine you first.  That doctor
costs money, money the estate shouldn't have to spend
on slaves."  He reached in to feel my forehead.  Then
he put both hands in, cupped them around the top of my
neck above my collar, and probed for something with
his thumbs.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with you, Steve.
 Your temperature's about normal, but you've been
sweating a lot so  I expect you feel cool.  But
there's no sign of any infection in your glands or
anything.  When did you last eat or drink anything?"

"My slave chow last night, sir.  And then I suppose
the beer, that master Billy-Joe gave me..."

"The idiot!",. Straughan almost exploded.  His fists
were making little beating gestures against the side
of his clean, neat jodhpurs.  "Your master ought to
know better, Steve!  Anything other than water, and
slave chow, will cause you to vomit."

"Please sir?  Why?"

"It's to stop you slaves stealing stuff when you're
picking in the fields.  The slave chow has a powerful
emetic mixed in with it, together with a sensitive
enzye-contolled anti-emetic.  Normally the two are in
balance, so there's no problem and the slave chow
passes through you normally.   But if you eat - or, in
your case, drink - anything else, the enzyme is
destroyed, and the emetic is left all by itself inside
you... with the results you experienced.  Even a
single strawberry can set if off, and most slaves
usually have at least one experience like yours before
they know that everything that's grown on this place
belongs to the Colonel, as they themselves do, and
that the Colonel has ordained that slaves eat slave
chow, and that  the crops are for free men.  But
master Billy-Joe should have known better, plying you
with beer!  I know you probably drank together when
you were at college, but he really shouldn't have
given you beer last night!  He'd have known what was
going to happen to you."

I blushed slightly as I remembered how I had insisted
on having a beer, and how Billy-Joe had said that I'd
regret it  later!  The bastard - he could have told me
exactly what was going to happen, couldn't he?  I was
cross at him, and cross, too, at the system here that
used  chemicals like that to control us.  We were jut
like livestock, weren't we?  And all that crap about
the good healthy organic food that Billy-Joe was
always on about: evidently it wasn't for me!

"The best thing for you, Steve, is a good, hard
morning of work", Straughan was saying.  "You'll soon
forget all those stomach cramps when you get to work."

"Sir, it's not only that... It's..."  I was blushing
furiously now "...it's well, my ass, sir.  They
injured me somewhere 'up there' sir, and I'm leaking
blood."

"Let me see, Steve"

"Sir?"

"Let me see!  Are you stupid, or something?  You say
you're leaking blood from your ass - so let me see it.
 Bend over,  and pull your butt apart."

He stood there, waiting, and I knew I had no choice.
But I hated it.  It's one thing to let a doctor
examine you 'there', isn't it, but quite anther to
have some ordinary guy want to look at you?  But I
knew by now not to cross Straughan, so I bent over
from the waist.

"Spread them!", Sraughan snapped, and I reached
backwards and gingerly - as it was sore - pulled my
butt cheeks apart.  Straughan crouched down, and I
heard his knees "snap" as he did do.  His breath felt
hot against the skin of my butt, so I knew he must be
taking a very close look indeed.

"OK, stand up."   I did so, and he looked at me.
"You'll live!  There's absolutely no sign of tearing
of your anus - that's usually the problem when a man
really is raped.  Master Billy-Joe would know better -
weren't you stretched and lubed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, stop whining!  You're just sore.  It's to
be expected the first time, and sometimes even when
you're experienced if you take a big cock.  And I
expect he had one of the guards - up there too, didn't
he? Charlie, or Coon?"

"Charlie, sir."  I was blushing with embarrassment ow
at the matter of fact way Straughan was talking about
sex.  It had been pretty horrific, pretty intimate,
for me, but Straughan seemed to consider it normal.

"Well, don't worry... You'll be sore when you crap for
a day or so, but it will wear off, and some good hard
work today will take your mind off it.  So off you go,
go and join the others for the morning routine.  Oh,
and Steve..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Tonight you'll not be coming back here.  Now your
owner's taken your cherry, it will be OK for you to
mix with all the other slaves at night.  I could, I
suppose, give you another day or two here until you're
less sore... Oh, why, what the hell... You've got to
learn to take it.  No, you'll be in with the others
tonight, and we can start getting things back to
normal here.  Now, get off with you..."

As I moved off down the corridor I wondered what the
hell he was going on about - why should he need to
leave me here until I was less sore, if I was capable
of doing a day's work anyway?

News of my "loss" seemed to have spread already
through the other slaves, and somehow the atmosphere
seemed to be different.  As we waited for a space on
the bars over the crap pit, two of the guys patted me
affectionately on the butt.  As we were hosed down,
the others laughed and joked with me as the cold water
hit us, and they helped me wash, just as they helped
each other.   As we waited in the line for chow,
members of my team smiled and chatted to me in a way
they'd never done before.  It seemed that I was now
"fully accepted" as a normal slave, and, you know, I
liked the feeling.  No, not of being a slave, of
course, but of being accepted, of being part of the
team, a proper member of the pack.  Everyone likes to
belong, don't they?

In spite of my sore ass somehow the day seemed to fly
by - at the two break periods the whole team seemed so
much more relaxed, and I think it showed in our work,
too, as there were fewer uses of the light lash on our
shoulders to "encourage" us to work harder.  I was in
a really cheerful mood when we went back to the slave
quarters that night - dog tired as usual, but happy.

There were five slave dorms in the slave quarters,
each exactly alike.  They all opened off a wide
corridor, and on the corridor side there were the
usual cage bars and a barred gate so that any guard
who patrolled could easily see in - slaves have no
right to privacy, of course.  The other three walls
had narrow bunks, stacked three high - nine slaves
slept in bunks therefore, and the tenth guy had a
sleeping pad on the floor in the middle.  You just
went down the corridor, and the guard on duty counted
off ten of you, you went into the next dorm, and he
locked the gate.  It was possible to get into the same
dorm as your team mates, but things could go wrong if
you counted incorrectly.

As soon as the gate opened the guys made a dive for
the best spots - the top bunks were considered the
best, as there was more room between you and the
ceiling than there was between the layers of bunks
below - indeed, these were so close together than a
big, broad-shouldered guy like me could hardly sleep
on his side.  The bunks along the side walls were also
considered the best as you could look out through the
cage bars into the corridor - there wasn't anything
to see, but you didn't have a guy's feet in your face,
unlike the guys who slept on the cross bunks.

That first night they were really kind to me - one of
the guys who had grabbed a prime top bunk voluntarily
gave it up to me, and I lay there on the narrow pad,
listening to the others around me.  It's hard when a
group of guys has to sleep together in such close
confinement, I found, especially when there were no
blankets or anything to cover us - we just lay there
in our shorts.  For one thing, quite a lot of guys cry
out when they're sleeping as they dream; others snore;
 you can't help farting occasionally; and, of course,
there's that rhythmic slap, slap, slap sound of guys
jerking off before going to sleep.   I don't suppose
there was any real need to pack us in like this -
there  would have been plenty of space on the estate
to build a proper bunk house where, once you were in
bed, you could at least have had some modicum of
privacy.  Here, there was just no getting away from
the other nine slaves:  but maybe that was the idea,
to emphasise to us that we were all the same.  After
all, what did slaves need privacy for?

There was one use to which the narrow space on the
floor was put before the guy who was going to sleep
there finally bedded down - those who wanted to could
use it to fuck!  I had been trying to get to sleep and
had turned on my side in the hope of being able to
jerk off without anyone seeing, when I heard a lot of
noise from down below. I turned back over, and there
were two of the guys fucking away, with the others
watching!  It wasn't like when I'd been fucked the
previous night, as they seemed to be enjoying it - one
was on his back with his legs up on the other's
shoulders, and as his fellow pistoned away in and out
of him, instead of using his hands to fight off the
fucker, he was running them ecstatically up and down
the thighs and arms of his assailant, and he seemed to
be crying out not in pain, but in pleasure!

Two other guys fucked after the first pair, and when
they were done, one of my team mates - well, he
thought of himself as the leader of our team, as he
was a bit stronger than most of the others  - called
out "Come on, Steve,  Get your ass down here, and come
and join in the fun.  Now master Billy-Joe's taken
your cherry, you're allowed to fuck with your mates."

I tried to explain that I didn't do that, that being
raped with my owner was a one-off thing, but they
would have none of it. So little happened in the
slaves' lives that the arrival of a new ass to fuck
was an event, and one that they intended to fully take
part in.

Fortunately I'd done wrestling at High School, and had
tried a  little amateur boxing at College.  I wasn't
very good at it, and I soon gave it up (and I also
thought the homo-erotic atmosphere of those half naked
guys punching at each other was a bit much, and
off-putting).  But this training was sufficient for me
to be able to see off my would-be assailants.  I was
aided by the very small amount of space available,
which meant that no more than a couple of them at a
time could try to get at me and force me down.
Finally, they gave up.

The next morning Straughan was at the showers, and
looked at my black eye, and the scratches an bruises
all over my body.  "So, Steve , you put up a fight,
did you?   That must have made for interesting viewing
- I wish I'd thought to be there when you were used
again.  You're even more sore this morning, I
suppose?"

"No, sir.  My ass is getting better, thank you, sir!
Yes, these bruises are giving me a few twinges, but
there's no problem with my ass!"

Just at that moment the "team leader" came out of the
shower area, and Straughan seemed visibly surprised a
the state he was in.  He thought for a moment, then
clapped his hands for silence - everyone at once stood
still, and assumed the "rest" position.  I found
myself doing so, too, as somehow it seemed to be
"natural" to be doing what everyone else was.

"I will not tolerate this!", Straughan snapped.
"There is to be no more fighting in the dorms.  You
slaves are valuable properties, and I do not want you
damaged.  If there is any evidence that there has been
more fighting, those responsible will feel the weight
of my lash.  Is that clear?"

There was an instant chorus of "Yes, sir!"

We queued in the chow line then, although the mood of
the previous morning had evaporated.  Most of us were
silent, and almost sullen.  At the break period in the
morning the "leader" lay alongside me and said,
through his sore mouth - one very good punch had got
him on the jaw - "I'll have your ass yet, Steve!"

"And you'll have to fight me for it!  I've never felt
Straughan's lash myself, but you guys all look pretty
scared whenever he mentions it."

So a kind of truce prevailed  - most of the other guys
fucked regularly, and every night I could lie in my
bunk and watch them at it if I wanted to. But no
further attempt was made to force themselves on me.
I'm not sure I liked these displays put on right in
front of me - sometimes I was even  in the lower
bunks, and then I'd get sprayed with the drops of
sweat from the guys as they went at it.  But then,
there was no way I could stop it, and it was kind of
interesting to see how different guys did it - rather
like having a living porn movie play out right in
front of you, but with smell, too.  I think that was
the worst part - once you'd fucked, there was no way
of properly cleaning yourself up, and so the bunk room
had a perpetual faint smell of shit.

One other problem confronted me in the dorms - what
did I do with my cum?  In my "private cage" there had
been a crap hole in the corner and after I'd jerked
off I could kind of scrape it off the palm of my hand
and down the hole.  In the dorms, with our completely
regular, consistent feeding, there was no need of a
crap hole as we were expected to do our business
regularly, morning and afternoon, and our bodies
adjusted to this.  So lying there with a hand full of
cum, what could you do?  Wiping it on the shorts
wasn't an option, as you had to wear them for several
days and you wouldn't want them all covered in dried
cum, would you?  And letting it fall on the
leatherette covering of the bunk wasn't nice, either -
the "Californian potato chips" left on the surface as
the cum dried wouldn't be nice for the guy who next
slept in there.  So I had to do what all the others
did who jerked off - simply lick it off my hand, and
swallow it.

The first time I tried it I felt nauseous as the smell
assailed my nose, but then I realised it was almost
tasteless, and after my initial revulsion, it wasn't a
real problem.   In fact, if I ever got free I decided
that I'd keep on licking it up this way - so much
nicer and more hygienic than all those bits of toilet
tissue lying around; and no danger of you falling
asleep with your dick head still covered in tissue,
and finding it stuck all over you the following
morning!  In those sex guides they do for adolescents,
I wished they'd tell you that cum is one of those
things that doesn't taste like it smells, if you know
what I mean - it's not, for example, like strawberries
where the smell and the taste is the same, is it?  All
those years when I was growing up and I was terrified
mom might find a bit of tissue under the bed (or, even
worse, cum stains on my sheets!) could have been
avoided if anyone had ever told me that the simple
solution  was to eat it.

I suppose it wasn't a bad life, once you accepted that
you were a slave.  Straughan was firm, but fair - no
slave was punished gratuitously, and the light tawses
used on our backs and shoulders during the work day
left no visible marks - sure, it stung a bit and it
made you focus and get on with work properly, but
that's all.  We were well fed, in that the food,
although boring in the extreme gave us enough energy
to do our work, without us putting on weight; and we
were well housed - at least, in comparison with some
of those poor bastards I used to  see elsewhere on the
planet living in hovels.

The worst thing was the tedium of it all - nothing
much ever happened.  Just work and sleep, every day
the same, always the same routine.  I had been a
bright college-educated guy who was struggling his way
up the corporate ladder, used to thinking about
problems, and using my brain.  Now I was little more
than a beast: a set of muscles was all I needed to
bring to whatever was being done, and I was definitely
not expected to think.  Indeed, when I once suggested
to Straughan that there was a better way of using us
to cut up the firewood, arranging the gang
differently, he got very angry.  As the blows form his
tawse rained down on my back, shoulders, and thighs,
he muttered, over and over again, almost as if it was
a sacred mantra, "Slaves work, men think."

In a way, becoming a slave had been liberating,
though.  I'd been chasing promotion, worrying about my
prospects, trying to please my boss.  I'd needed to go
to bars and pick up women to "prove" I was a man, and
when I met Chantelle I'd then had to perform for her
every night - well, you know what I mean - however
tired you are, you can't say you just don't want sex
that night in case she thinks you're not able to get
it up, can you?  I'd been accumulating possessions,
and even borrowing to get a better car, a new hi-fi,
and that had been worrying, too.  And I'd had to find
time to get my hair cut, worry about the latest
fashions and buy new clothes, take Chantelle to
restaurants, plan vacations that I could hardly
afford....  All of this was swept away.  Now all I had
to do was work.  My clothes were provided. My food was
provided. There were no vacations, no possessions, no
loans.  I didn't have to worry about promotion, or
about getting my hair cut (I was clipped and shaved
every three days, like all the slaves on the estate).
Had I wanted it, sex was there just for the taking -
any of the blacks and Hispanics would have been
pleased to let me fuck them, or to fuck me, or to suck
me off, or to have me suck them off:  once I'd fought
off the guys in those first few days I was no longer
under any pressure to "perform", and, like most of the
slaves, I just jerked off whenever I wanted to.  There
was no shame in it, as we all knew we did it, and our
complete lack of privacy meant that we were totally
unconcerned by it.

After that initial night with Billy-Joe and Charlie,
I'd thought that he would take me again, and as I
worked through that day I kept thinking that I'd be
"cleaned out" again, and that there would be another
trip to Billy-Joe's dressing room and the punishment
horse.  But as I was working away, we heard a roaring
sound and Billy-Joe's Jaguar shot past - was it my
imagination, or was the bastard waving me a cheery
"goodbye" through the smoked glass window?  Still, at
least I had seen the car that was, in effect, keeping
me enslaved, if, I thought glumly, Billy-Joe could
still be trusted.

Later that day Straughan strode up, and signalled that
I could stop working for a moment.  "I was right,
wasn't I, slave?  Now you've got your muscles working,
that nausea has subsided.  And I bet you've almost
forgotten the pain in your ass."

"Yes, sir", I said.  I hated the shit, but he held all
the cards, didn't he?  And if Billy-Joe was right, it
might be Straughan's attitude that conditioned whether
I'd be sent off to be sold, or not.  As much as I
hated Billy-Joe's attitude to me, it still seemed to
be better to remain under his ownership so that he'd
free me soon.

"I've decided to give you a new job, Steve.  It occurs
to me that as master Billy-Joe might want to sell you,
I really should do all I can to make sure you're in
absolutely perfect condition.  So I've decided that
you're to take over the carting.  When your owner is
down here for the weekend, Bull can do it, as he does
now."

"Sir, master Billy-Joe isn't going to sell me, sir."

"Slave, don't even speculate about things like that!
Just answer me when I address, you as simply as
possible.  But for your information, your owner may
have to sell you!  The Colonel is getting increasingly
distressed by his son's behaviour and has already cut
off most of master Billy-Joe's allowance;  if he wants
to maintain that lifestyle of his he'll have to sell
you."

I shivered inwardly.  Had all this fucking been a
waste of time?  It sounded as if I should have
protested more, and let Billy-Joe sell me anyway.  But
Straughan was continuing "Anyway, that's no concern of
yours.  If an owner chooses to sell a slave, that's no
business of the slave.  Your only purpose in life is
to serve your owner obediently and completely, whoever
that owner is.  Now, let's take you over to the cart,
and give Bull the good news!"

He strode away, and I trotted after him.  It was good
not to have to run everywhere, the standard mode of
movement for slaves around the estate, and I had an
opportunity of  enjoying the crisp morning air.  Mind
you, I was a bit worried about this carting thing - it
was universally acknowledged amongst the slaves that
the guy who pulled the cart around the estate had one
of the worst jobs - he had to help with the loading
and unloading, and then jog with it, full, from place
to place.  Bull was a giant of a man - at least four
inches and fifty pounds more than me - and as we
worked away we often saw him really straining  to be
able to jog past  with the cart loaded down with
stuff.  When I'd been in the same dorm room as him
some nights he seemed to be even more worn out than I
was - and if a big guy like that found it hard going,
how would I manage?

One of the Colonel's other "ecological" themes was
that, where possible, trucks and stuff were not
allowed on the estate, to reduce the volume of
gasoline used.  Mind you, given the numbers we saw
speeding along the highways that surrounded us, I
wondered how much difference it really made - another
gallon or two whilst a delivery truck went up the
drive, or a  whilst a gasoline-driven lawn mower mowed
the huge lawns, or when one of those little gasoline
driven runabouts was used to transport stuff around
the estate, would surely have made no difference at
all on the world scale.  Indeed, having to keep slave
to mow the grass, cart stuff around, and generally do
work that machines could do almost certainly used more
resources.  Mind you, I suppose that if you do like to
see men work, and work hard, under your total control,
then having slaves is the only way to go, isn't it?
The Colonel liked exercising power, I suspected, and
what better way than to have half-naked men doing
utterly pointless tasks that would be better done by
machines?

Straughan signalled for the giant pulling the cart to
stop, and Bull looked really glad of the opportunity -
the cart was full of bags of fertiliser that had been
delivered at "goods inwards" on the far side of the
estate where outside trucks were required to halt,
and which I guessed he was taking to the gardener's
workshop just over the brow of the hill.  Sweat was
pouring off him.  The cart itself had four wheels with
rubber tyres, as it was only intended to run along the
roads on the estate.   The front two wheels were
mounted on a bogie from which a shaft extended towards
the front ; the shaft split into a wide "Y" shape
about four feet in front of the bogie, and the ends of
the two halves of the "Y" were joined by a crossbar.
Bull stood in-between this crossbar and the split
shaft, and pulled the cart along by pushing against
the crossbar.  Clearly, with this arrangement he also
provided steering, as the cart effectively followed
him.

"Out of there, Bull", Straughan ordered.  "Go and join
the gang working on the firewood preparation.  This
slave will be taking over the cart from now on."

Bull looked relieved, as a big smile broke out on his
face, and then, perhaps, puzzled.  "Sir, yes, sir!" he
replied, then jogged off before Straughan had the
opportunity to change his mind.

"He doesn't think you're up to it, Steve", Straughan
said.  "See how he scooted, as he thought I'd realise
you're not capable of this work?   So, slave, are you
man enough for it?  If you're not, say now, and I'll
call him back."

Bastard!  No guy likes to admit he can't do something,
especially when it's something physical, does he?
There was no way I could wimp out of this and keep
what little self respect I had.

"Sir, I can do it, sir."

"You better had, Steve, else you'll be feeling the
tawse even more often than when you were just
labouring.  Now, get in."

I ducked down and fed myself up to stand in front of
the cross bar.  As I put my hands on it I could feel
that it had been worn thinner in places, and
completely smooth, presumably by generations of slaves
holding it in the same place. It even felt slightly
damp where Bull's sweat had run down his arms and onto
the wood.

"Right!  Off you go.  That lot's destined for the
garden workshops - then return to the goods inwards
depot and see what they've got in store for you.  You
do all the deliveries now, and when you've finished
that, go to the work gangs and start shifting
firewood."

I pushed experimentally against the bar and the cart
moved forward.  Hey, this wasn't going to be so bad...
Until I remembered that, like all the slaves, I had to
jog not walk.  And the problem I was going to have
soon manifested itself - it was manageable on the
level as the wheels ran on bearings and so on and I
just had to overcome friction - once the cart was
rolling, it was relatively easy to keep it going.  But
the moment I got to a hill - and there were lots of
gentle undulations on the estate as we were in the
beautiful rolling countryside - the job became
horrendous as I was in effect having to raise the
weight of the cart and  it's load up the vertical
rise.  I had to really strain and pump my legs to keep
the cart moving, and soon I was sweating really hard,
straining for breath, and my heart was racing to
satisfy the demands of my tortured body.

Like being fucked for the first time, I think I'll
always remember that first cart load I pulled.  And
when I got to the garden workshop, that wasn't the end
of it:  I was desperately in need of a rest, but the
supervisor curtly ordered me to unload, and I had to
hump the 50 Kg - just over 100 lb - sacks out of the
cart and up into their storage space.  If the cart
pulling exercised my legs, butt muscles and heart and
lungs, my upper body was now getting its share, too.
There was no respite: finished unloading?  Then jog
back for another load (which, of course, I had to put
into the cart).

I didn't think I could make it through the day, but at
crucial moments Straughan would appear, that thin
smile on his lips.  I knew he wanted me to fail, as
then he could complain about me.  I was determined not
to fail not just because of these potential
complaints, but because I wanted to prove to him that
I was the biggest, toughest, most robust guy he'd ever
ordered around.  My male pride was at stake, and this
is all that I now had left.  I had to protect it, at
all costs.

That night there was universal admiration for me from
the other slaves, as Bull had gone around telling
everyone how glad he was just to be able to do a
"normal" hard job.  I was so exhausted I didn't even
have the energy to jerk myself off, and just fell
straight to sleep.

End Of Part Nine

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

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

SO YOU PREFER WOMEN, DO YOU?

It was tough, I tell you.  Every day seemed harder and
harder, as the never-ending job of dragging the cart
around the estate continued.  And always there was
Straughan, watching and waiting for me to fail.  My
fellow slaves did what they could - at either end of
my journeys the slaves would try to help with the
loading and unloading.  And knowing how utterly
exhausted I was at night, they'd try to get me to the
front of the chow line so I could force it down and
stumble off to a bunk.  There was little enough us
slaves could do for each other most of the time as we
had no resources of our own, no money, no way of
giving surprise presents, or of making those little
extra gestures that make all the difference in human
relations; but what they could do, they did.

I'd been doing the job for about eight days, and I
suppose I was as used to it as I was ever going to
get, when as I toiled along I heard two horses
approaching.  Straughan called out to me to stop, and
there were he and Billy-Joe mounted on two of the
Colonel's thoroughbreds.

"Steve, I've decided to give you a day off", Billy-Joe
said.  "I've come down here for a long weekend, and
I'm off to visit the neighbours and you're coming with
me for a change of routine, and to do something you
really enjoy.  Slip out from the shafts, and come
here."

Still covered in sweat and breathing very hard, I went
and stood by Billy-Joe, and he reached down from his
horse and clipped the end of a light chain trough the
links of my collar.  The other end was, I saw,
attached to the back of his saddle.  "Right, off we
go!", he said cheerily, and set his horse in motion at
a light trot.  I had to jog along to keep up - and I
needed to keep up,  as had I fallen I'd have been
dragged along by the neck, and probably injured.  The
chain was only long enough to allow me to run by the
side of Billy-Joe, and my head was at about the level
of his knees as he sat on the magnificent animal.  I
could just about see myself reflected in his highly
shined riding boots, and I idly wondered how much
effort poor Grunt had had to put in to achieve that.

After all my work in the shafts of the cart, the jog
wasn't too bad, actually - my heart and lungs had
ample capacity.  We went out of the south entrance of
the estate, and along the highway.  "OK, Steve?",
Billy-Joe enquired rather too cheerfully, perhaps.

"Yes, master.  But, master, why do I have to be
chained like this... It's fucking humiliating!  I'm
not going to run away, you know that."

"Sorry,  Steve, but it's the Colonel's rules.  On the
estate, where we can monitor you, you have a lot of
freedom.  But all slaves leaving the estate must be
restrained.  I didn't think you could run with your
wrists cuffed behind your back, so this leash is the
best solution."

"Please tell me where we're going, Billy-Joe."

He looked down at me, and said, rather reprovingly,
"Just because I've decided to give you a little
outing, Steve, a change from routine, doesn't mean you
can take liberties.  If Straughan heard you initiating
conversation like that, or failing to call me master,
you'd feel the tawse pretty fucking quickly!  So no
more, right?   But, as you ask, we're going to the
neighbours - they have a place about the same size as
the Colonel's.  I'm doing them a favour, and you're
going to get to enjoy yourself.  You kept telling me
when we had our little 'encounter' when I was last
here that you didn't fuck guys, only women.   So I've
arranged for you to fuck a woman this afternoon -
there's a maid on the neighbour's place who's in
season, and from whom they wish to breed.  So you're
going to stud her."

I'd heard all this talk about "studs", of course, and
knew that it was becoming the norm to breed slave
stock as the number of candidates for enslavement
coming through the courts was rapidly diminishing:
young guys just didn't take the risk now of speeding
too often, or getting drunk, or committing robberies:
the risks of a lifetime of servitude were just too
great.  But society had developed an appetite for
slaves, at least in the south, and with increasing
affluence, more and more families wanted to own one or
two.  In our great economy, where there's a demand, a
means of supply will arise, and a number of large
fortunes had been made by setting up operations to
breed new slaves - young Grunt was a product of such a
breeding farm, and the stock was generally well
received.

The sires used on the breeding farms were of course
carefully selected for their genetic make-up:  not
only did they have to be superb physical specimens
with no in-built genetic flaws, but they had to have
desirable characteristics when it came to things like
colouring (blacks had been the fashion for a long time
now), hair type (straight rather than crinkley), and
so on.  "Temperament" was also considered to be
important, and exhaustive psychological tests were
carried out to ensure that slaves selected as studs
were docile and subservient:  the argument as to
whether it was genetic inheritance or childhood
experience that determined the nature of the next
generation was thus neatly by-passed: what wasn't
inherited from the stud was trained into the young
slaves.

I'd read about all of this in a long article in The
Wall Street Journal just before my own enslavement,
and wondered where on earth I was going to fit in.  I
certainly didn't have the temperament, and Billy-Joe
had talked about me getting to fuck a woman, whereas
on the breeding farms the studs were generally milked,
and then the dams were inseminated artificially - it
was claimed to give more control of the process, to be
more "hygienic", and a lot less trouble.

As if he'd been reading my thoughts, Billy-Joe
suddenly said "I understand you're going to fuck a
Hispanic.  She's a particular favourite of the family,
and they've decided to breed from her to provide
continuity of service for the family's children.
Think you can do it?  I don't want any embarrassing
failures, you know.  You always said you were a stud,
and at college I saw you pick up and fuck enough
ladies.... Still capable of it, are you?"

Actually, I wasn't sure.  I've told you already that
I'd often wondered how it would be to just go and fuck
someone you'd never met before.  Gay guys did it all
the time, I knew (there had been a programme on TV
about the gay "pick-up" groups on the Internet where
you could just meet to fuck after a couple of
exchanges of messages).  But with women it's different
- the eye contact in the bar, the drinks, the chatting
up - I'd never succeeded in bedding a girl at college
on first meeting.  But I had had lots of women, I
liked the feel of women, the smell of women, the touch
of women... And I'd been so tired the last few nights
that I hadn't jerked off and so my balls were full.
At the thought of all this my dick stirred into life,
and began to tent the front of my shorts.  Feeling
better already I said "Master, yes!  Just put me
together with her, and I'll do the deed."

The more I thought about it the more I thought "hey,
stop being worried.  You've never had performance
problems in the past.  You've always liked black hair.
 And if she's a maid, she'll be pretty good looking as
no family would want a slave around the place who was
an absolute troll. So perhaps if Billy-Joe sees that I
really do like women, he'll stop all this idea of
forcing me to go with men."  As my thoughts went along
these paths, my dick got harder and harder, and the
rubbing of the coarse cotton of my shorts against my
dick head started to be, well, uncomfortable.  I
thought I must be leaking pre-cum and didn't want to
arrive with a big wet patch on the front of me
(although I was sweating so much that my shorts were
damp all over, so perhaps it wouldn't be noticed).
Worse, though, I thought I might get so stimulated
that I shot my load -  well, I had fucked twice, no
three times, one night, so perhaps it wouldn't matter.
 Nevertheless, as I jogged along I reached down and
tried to pull my shorts away to give my dick some
relief.

Billy-Joe saw me tugging at my shorts, and grinned
down at me.  "Excited already,  Steve?  You dog, you!
Even thinking about cunt is enough to get you turned
on!  Still, you always were one for the women, as we
know...."

I might have replied, but just then a car approached
us from the other direction.  It slowed when it saw
Billy-Joe on horseback, and, ever the gentleman,
Billy-Joe touched his riding cap politely in
acknowledgement and thanks.  He also moved over, as a
courtesy back to the driver, to give the car more room
- and that pushed me into the verge, where the nettles
and brambles at once stung and scratched my bare legs
and chest.

"See, Steve", Billy-Joe said as he resumed his normal
track. "Down here we're gentlemen - they show me a
courtesy, I return it.  That's real southern manners
for you."

"Master... Can we stop a moment, please...?"

"Don't be so stupid, Steve.  I don't want to be late.
It's not polite.  Why on earth do you want to stop?
If you need to pee, just fish your dick out and do it
as we go along."

"No, master...  I've got a thorn in my leg, and it
hurts..."

"Well, that will teach you to be more careful, Steve.
I'm not going to be impolite to my hosts this
afternoon just because you're snivelling about some
trivial thing.   Just show some consideration, will
you? And try to think like a well-mannered southern
gentleman, even though you're not!"

There didn't seem to be any point in arguing with the
arrogant bastard, so I did my best to locate the thorn
and pull it out whilst half running, half hopping
along by the side of Billy-Joe's horse - but even that
didn't please him, and he told me to start running
properly and to stop making ridiculous movements as he
didn't want to be seen as an object of fun by any more
passing motorists.

We arrived eventually at the neighbours' house -
another of the lovely colonial mansions with a deep
veranda and tall white pillars, and Billy-Joe, with me
in tow, rode up the drive.   At the front entrance he
casually slid off his horse, and the front door opened
and a man in his mid-fifties came out and greeted him
warmly.  Then, glancing at me, he said "Billy-Joe,
that sure is one fine looking slave.  Just what we
need for Maria!  It's a really neighbourly thing
you're doing, and I've told the Colonel so."

"Why thank you, sir", Billy-Joe replied.  "It's just
good out southern neighbourliness.  But I sure could
do with a drink - it's a thirsty ride over here."

He could do with a drink?  All he'd done was sit on
top of his fucking horse!  I'd been working all
morning, then had had to run here through the
afternoon heat, and in the humidity.   I was covered
in sweat, my shorts were soaked in it, and I could do
with a drink too.  But Billy-Joe never thought of
that.

At that moment another man came up - in his
mid-thirties, I judged.  He was only about five ten,
but looked lean and hard.  He wore a denim work shirt,
with the sleeves rolled up to reveal nice biceps, and
this was tucked into rather tight Jeans which showed
an impressive bulge at the front.  As he turned
around, I could see that he had a really trim waist,
and the Jeans accentuated his ass, and long,
strong-looking thighs.  His desert boots were scuffed
and dusty, as if he'd been working.

"Billy-Joe, this is Craig, my slave master.  Craig...
Billy-Joe, the Colonel's son, from next door."

The two men shook hands, and I saw that this Craig guy
was the equivalent of Straughan - although they were
completely different.  Craig had that air of manly
roughness that showed in everything from the way he
wore his hair through the casual but workman-like
style of dress he adopted; so unlike the pristine,
almost foppish nature of Straughan.  I somehow got the
impression that if our situations had been different,
and I'd met this guy in a bar, we might have got on
well together.

"Craig, this is the slave we were discussing, the one
who's going to cover Maria.  Will you see to it, with
your usual efficient way, please, whilst I take
Billy-Joe through for tea, and to meet the others?"

"Of course, sir", Craig replied, crisply, then moved
over towards me.  He looked me straight in the eyes,
and there was somehow an air of power about him, an
air that said he was used to being obeyed, and that if
he wasn't, there would be trouble.   Without saying a
word he took the bridle of Billy-Joe's horse, patted
it's muzzle, and almost whispered "Come on, old
fellow, you need a nice long drink, and a rest in the
shade..."  He hardly even looked at me, but I had to
follow, as I was still chained to the saddle, as he
led the animal off around to the back, to the stable
block.

A slave ran out to take care of the horse as soon as
we rounded the corner, then Craig came and undid the
chain from my collar.  "Right, fella... Done this
before, have you?"

"Yes, sir, I've fucked lots of women."  I wasn't being
boastful, I just wanted him to know he wasn't dealing
with an amateur.

"Are you the newly-enslaved guy that everyone's been
talking about, the one who raped his girlfriend?"

"Yes, sir, I mean no, sir... I'm newly enslaved, but
there was no rape.. It was a put-up job, I'm innocent
really..."

"Slave, I don't fucking well care!  All that matters
is that you are a slave, you've got some experience of
fucking women - although not of studding, I guess -
and you're here now.  Here under my control.  And
you'd better not make any mistakes, or you'll get the
discipliner.  You do know what that does, don't you?
I hear that old Straughan still relies on the tawse,
the cane and the lash, but I've no time for that:  a
quick burst of the discipliner and the slave's
compliant at once.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir."  I inwardly shuddered at the memory of the
discipliner at the court.

He looked me over, and went on "First, we'd better get
you cleaned up.  Can't have you looking like that for
your little tryst, all covered in sweat, and with
those disgusting shorts... The shower's over here...."

It was amazing!  Warm water!  And real soap!  As I
stood there and cleaned myself in this incredible
luxury Craig just stood and watched me.  I'd long ago
ceased to be embarrassed by the thought of another man
watching me as I soaped my dick, cleaned my ass, and
so on.  There was even a towel afterwards.  And then
Craig handed me a pair of shorts - not the typical
rough cotton slave shorts, but satin ones, still cut
very high on the thigh and low on the hips, and
leaving little to the imagination as they outlined my
dick and balls, but somehow sensual as I pulled them
on.  Maybe it was actually going to be fun, as I
undressed in front of this Maria;  maybe she'd slip
her hands down my shorts and stroke my dick as I
caressed her breasts... I began to get hard at the
thought, which didn't escape Craig's attention.

"Good!", he said, as he casually reached down and slid
his long, strong fingers over my dick on the outside
of the shorts.  "Good.  I like to see a man who's
ready for it.  So many of the slaves we get here on
their first stud are so terrified that they can't get
it up.  I won't have that problem with you, will I,
slave?"

"NO, sir!  I enjoy fucking..."

"Right, assume 'rest'."

I obediently spread my legs slightly, bowed my head,
and  clasped my hands behind my back.  Then I felt
something on my wrists, and heard a snap.

"Good, you're cuffed now.  They're padded, as we don't
like to see marks from the steel ones - some of you
slaves get excited during the studding process."

What the fuck did he mean?  What was the studding
process?   How was I going to make love to this woman
if I was cuffed?  Still, perhaps she was going to ride
me, as Grunt had done - that wouldn't be as good as
the real thing, but still, I'd have hot pussy around
me.

My dick was stiffening as I thought about it, and
Craig continued to stroke at me gently.  "Good boy!
Just keep it like that, and you'll do fine.  Now, come
on through..."

He led me into the main house, which I thought was a
bit strange, as I assumed my little liaison would be
in the slave quarters.  We went through the hallway
and into an elegant formal drawing room.  The man who
had greeted Billy-Joe, who I assumed to be the owner,
a woman who was evidently his wife, and Billy- Joe,
all sat on sofas around a low table set for a
traditional British tea - there were scones and jam in
elegant silver platters, small sandwiches arranged
delicately with garnishes of sculpted tomatoes, a
silver chafing dish over a spirit burner with hot
muffins, and a large antique silver teapot.  Fragile
bone china tea cups, saucers and plates stood at the
ready.

Craig coughed respectfully to interrupt the tinkle of
their conversation, then, when his boss recognised
him, said "He's ready as soon as you wish, sir."

"Fine, Craig, but stand him against the wall, and come
and join us for tea.  We're just waiting for another
guest."

Craig gestured to me to move back to the wall, and
hissed "Rest!", and I obeyed.  He looked out of place
sitting there on the elegant sofas in his work
clothes, when the other men were in formal suits,
crisp shirts and silk ties, and the lady of the house
had on a flowery, flowing, silk afternoon-tea gown.
Somehow he seemed so different from them, even more so
than I was, as it was almost as if it was expected
that a big, strong, half-naked slave was a proper
accompaniment to this elegant tea party.

My dick was still throbbing at the thought of what was
to come, and I heard the owner complementing Billy-Joe
on me.  "He really is magnificent - so unusual to get
a white man with a physique like his enslaved so
young.   And brains, too, I hear.  And he seems ready
for sex - I think I can see, from that damp patch on
the shorts, that he's ready for it - if you ask me,
he's leaking pre-cum already!"  His wife let out a
polite laugh, and all four turned to look at me.  I
knew they were probably right, and started to blush,
feeling the heat flush over my shoulders and rise over
my face.

Just at that moment the door opened and a slave
announced "Your guest, sir, madam."

All three men got to their feet - more of that
southern manners, I suppose - and in walked Chantelle!

"My dear...", the lady of the house said, and she and
Chantelle swapped kisses in the air in greeting.  She
shook hands with the men, then they all sat down.  The
small talk seemed to go on for ages, as they ate the
food and sipped tea, until finally the owner said "Has
everyone had enough?  We don't want to keep Billy-Joe
away from home for too long, as I understand he wants
to dine with the Colonel tonight, so shall we begin?"

There were murmurs of approval, and Craig got to his
feet and came over to me.  "Into the centre of the
room, boy", he whispered.

"No, please, I can't...."

"Do as you're fucking well told!  Remember, the
discipliner...."

He half led me, with his strong fingers gripping my
biceps, to stand in front  of the tea table.
Chantelle looked up and said "Why, Steve!  You're
looking good!  The life must suit you."  Then turning
to Billy-Joe she went on "So generous of you to take
such good care of Steve.  He seems to have bulked up a
bit, and really looks magnificent.  Your regime must
suit him."

"Thank you, ma'am.  He's a hard worker, I'll say that
for him.   And he's settling in well to the slave
life."

Chantelle coughed delicately, and went on "And...
and... and, you know, has he been completely inducted
into slavedom...? I see his collar, and I think that's
a brand on his arm.  But has he... has he... you
know.... has he lost it?"

Billy-Joe fluffed up with pride, as if dealing with
questions from ladies was what gentlemen were supposed
to do.  He patted her gently, if not condescendingly,
on the arm and replied  "Why my dear, of course, yes.
I took him myself, as any responsible owner would."

"I expect he didn't like it very much - he was always
very, very, shall we  say, 'sensitive' to any
suggestion of pleasure in that area..."

I hated hearing the woman I'd fucked talking about me
like this to the man who'd fucked me.  It was almost
as if they were playing a game.  Surely Chantelle knew
how Billy-Joe had agreed to have me as his slave to
avoid her law suit?  And now, here they were,
discussing their usage of me as a sex object. Had they
arranged all this in advance?  Surely not - they
couldn't want to play mind games with me, would they?


Chantelle giggled slightly, in the way that Southern
belles are supposed to if they think that gentlemen
think they  ought to be embarrassed.  "Why, Billy-Joe,
that's good news.  I think that's what he needed, to
teach him some manners, and to show him that it's
undesirable to force yourself onto other people."  As
she spoke,  her hand rested on Billy-Joe's forearm,
almost coquettishly.

"But my dear", Billy-Joe replied, now lowering his
voice, and hesitating as if he too was embarrassed
because he thought the others thought he ought to be,
"..won't it be very terrible for you to watch, given
the, the, er, history, shall we say?"

A chill ran through me.  Surely they weren't going to
watch me and this Maria.  And especially nor
Chantelle!

"Oh no.  He's a slave now, and what he did as a free
man is all of no concern.  No, I'll be interested to
watch him perform, and see if he's learned anything
about respect for women.  But would you do me a
favour?"

"Of course, ma'am, a gentleman is always willing to
oblige a lady."

"Well then, after he's 'performed', might we see how
well he's adapted to slave life?  Would you object if
Craig found one of the estate slaves here and had the
slave, er, 'perform' on Steve?"

The bitch!  She couldn't be serious!  Surely Billy-Joe
would never agree, even though he'd fucked me himself,
knowing of the history between Chantelle and me.  But
I heard him say "Of course not!  He's due for another
lesson in proper slave behaviour, and if it pleases
you...."

"NO!"  I yelled out.  I'd listened to all of this in
mounting horror and anger.  It was one thing to fuck
some woman I'd never met, another thing to do it in
front of an audience, even worse when that audience
included my former girlfriend, the woman responsible
for my enslavement.  But now she was going to have me
fucked for her amusement. "No way!"

The next moment I was  writhing on the floor, all my
limbs twitching in agony. Craig was standing over me,
his boot resting on my chest to prevent me from
rising, and he said, through gritted teeth, "Remember
your manners, boy.  You're in the presence of ladies
and gentlemen here.  If you say one more word, the
next slab of my little friend here will be at your
balls!"

I lay there, still, and I could hear Billy-Joe
apologising for "the unfortunate outburst", and that
"The slave was only properly inducted, by me,  a week
ago, he's probably still a little sore, and he hasn't
adapted fully to his new life yet."

Chantelle said "Oh, Billy-Joe, what a dreadful
nuisance he must be.  The sooner you get him properly
trained, the better.  We really must see him being
'taken' by another slave now, as it will be so good
for him to learn a valuable lesson like that."

There were murmurs of understanding, and the owner
said "I think we might as well proceed, Craig."

Craig gestured for me to get to my feet, then took
something out of his pocket and stood behind me.  He
wrapped a silk scarf around my eyes, and knotted it
behind my head.  I was blinded, of course, although
the whisper- softness of the fine silk was somehow
sensual - what was going on?

"I can't see...", I whispered.  "No", Craig hissed
back "Remember what I said.  Just do as I say, and
take directions from me.  It's the tradition here that
you don't see the woman - you're only here to
inseminate her, not to enjoy her."

As he spoke, Craig did something at my waistband, then
 whipped off my shorts, and I knew I was naked there
in front of the two women and three men.

"Oh Billy-Joe... You've had him modified!  He looks so
much... much sleeker, without that dreadful foreskin!
And without all that hair, you can see him so much
better..."

"Quite so, ma'am.  Do you approve?"

"Very much so."  Chantelle gave a little giggle again.
 "I think all gentlemen should appear like that... So
much nicer!"

"On with the show, Craig", the owner ordered, and I
heard a door open and the creaking of something being
wheeled in.

Craig now put his hand on my dick, and stroked the
shaft - quite hard - once or twice.  I'd gone a bit
soft at the thought of these people looking at me
naked, and now I couldn't help being erect again.
Then he tugged gently at my dick, and, blindfolded and
with my hands cuffed, I had no option but to follow
him across the room.

It's funny, but with one of your senses out of action
you seem to get heightened response from others.  I
was acutely aware of the cold tiles of the floor on my
feet, and of the warmth of Craig's hand on my dick.
Then, as we approached whatever had been wheeled in, I
could hear another person breathing - that quick,
raspy breathing that usually means excitement.  An
instant later my quivering nose picked up a faint
smell - the smell with which I used to be so familiar,
but which I hadn't smelled for so long:  the scent of
a woman, or, more specifically, the scent of a woman
ready for sex.

"Easy, boy", Craig said quietly in my ear.  "I'll
position you at her cunt, then just go ahead, OK?
Nice big thrusts, but be careful not to pull out, as I
don't like having to re-insert you."

Oh no, it couldn't be like this!  I was meant to have
proper sex with this Maria, not just be used like a
stallion covering a mare!  I wanted to get away, to
leave, but Craig was there next to  me with the
discipliner.  I wanted to lose my erection, to simply
refuse to carry out this lewd act - yes, that's what
it was, lewd:  being forced to have sex with an
audience watching.  But my body had other ideas -
urged on by the subtle aroma of a woman in heat, my
dick just refused to lie down.

Craig tugged at my dick  gently and moved me further
forward, urging me on by firm pressure to the base of
my spine with his other hand.  He felt cool and
professional, not all sweaty as Billy-Joe was.  Then
my dick head made contact, and the thrill of warm dick
touching hot cunt ran through me.  Craig's hand
dropped away from my dick, but he pushed me on with
his hand in my back.  I still wanted to stop, but
Craig was now behind me, and he was gripping me at the
hips, and pushing me forward. My dick slid inside the
woman, and I experienced that sensation I'd had so
many times before.  Craig tugged gently at me and I
moved backwards, and then I was almost out of control:
 my body took over, drawing from experience gained
through millions of years of human evolution, and I
simply fucked away.

It wasn't a spectacularly good fuck - I like to think
I know what I'm doing, and I like to try to give the
woman some pleasure.  But in all the pent-up
excitement and emotion of the moment all I could do
was simply thrust in and out, in and out, in and out.
I forgot all about those watching ,and all I wanted to
do was fuck, and cum.  The primeval urge to procreate
had taken over:  I was doing what a man was designed
for .  Then I did it - I thrust forward one more time,
arched my spine to push myself right in, and pumped
her full of my seed.

I stood there panting and gasping for air for an
instant, and came back to reality in an instant as a
little ripple of applause came from the audience:  a
couple of loud, hearty claps from the two men, and
little discrete, gentle slap, slaps from the ladies.
Oh, what had I done? What must I look like, standing
there all sweaty, with my dick pushed right up some
cunt?  So I went to pull out.  But Craig's firm hands
were now pressing my butt firmly forward, and he said,
quietly, in my ear "Hold it in there, Steve.
Statistically dicks that stay in for ten minutes after
intercourse have a twenty percent improved chance of
conception..."

So I had to stay there, my detumescing dick buried up
this woman I couldn't see, feeling the warmth of
Craig's hands on my butt, as the two men and two women
carried of with their tea party.  I could hear the
lady of the house asking if anyone would like their
tea cups refilled, the rattle of the china, the splash
of the tea, the "plop" as sugar lump went in, and then
the sounds of sandwiches being offered.  It all
sounded so normal, so proper, so gentile... It was
just as if there weren't two naked slaves there in
front of them, locked in a sexual embrace.

It went on and on, and my legs felt heavy and sore -
after all the running earlier, it was hard to stand
with my knees bent slightly forward as I had to in
order to be at the right height to fuck.  I was
heartily glad when Craig's insistent pressure on my
butt eased, and I was allowed to pull out and stand
upright.  I stood there then, not knowing what to do,
and I heard the faint noise of the wheels again and
sensed that the slave girl had been wheeled out.
Craig's hand was resting on my butt again, and me
moved me forward - from the delectable scent of the
hot butter and the jam that was reaching my nose, I
knew that I must be near the tea table.  This was
awful - I knew I'd have her juices and my semen all
over my dick, and that they'd all be looking at it.
And, no doubt, they could smell it, too, as I could:
the musky odour of sex overlaid the lavender of the
floor polish and the food odours of the tea.

"Thank you, Billy-Joe", I heard the owner say.  "That
surely is a fine slave.  We've had a number of our
maids covered by local studs, but I think we can say
without a shadow of doubt that this is the best - it
makes such a change to see a proper white ass pumping
away, as one gets so tired of the endless blacks. And
he really is magnificent - those long, strong thighs..
. Not to mention his genitals, which are almost the
handsomest I've seen in a slave."

Oh, fuck me - how could they talk about me like this,
just as if I wasn't there?  Or, if I was there, as if
I was a dumb animal, incapable of understanding their
words, or incapable of being wounded or ashamed.  It
didn't matter that they were praising me:  they
shouldn't be thinking of me like this as some sort of
object.

"Why thank you, sir", I heard Billy-Joe's normal voice
drop deeper into a southern twang, "Thank you.  I'm
always happy to oblige a neighbour."

"Oh, Billy-Joe, are you going to oblige me now, in
that other little matter?" - that fucking Chantelle
again.

"What's that, my dear?"  I heard the lady of the house
enquire.

"I thought it might be entertaining to see how the
slave is adapting to his new life, given that there
was all the talk of him in the papers, so I asked
Billy-Joe if we could see how well he's... well, how
well he's adapting to having the sort of sex these
brutes of slaves have."

"Very delicately put, Chantelle, dear" the owner
boomed out.  "What do you say, Billy-Joe?  Shall we
have another cup of tea whilst Craig here goes and
selects one of the bucks from the fields, and then see
how your boy reacts when it's him strapped to the
horse?"

"As you know, I'm always happy to oblige a
neighbour...."

I was going to protest again, but what was the point?
I couldn't see, but I felt certain Craig would have
his discipliner somewhere close to hand.

"Craig", the owner continued "Perhaps you'd better
take the slave outside and prepare him - they can
struggle as they're tied down, I know, until they're
properly broken, and we don't want to upset the ladies
or to have any damage in here.  Then go and get that
big African we bought last week - the absolutely jet
black one who's from that tribe form somewhere or
other who are always winning all the sporting events.
He's so impressively hung, and I'd like to see him in
action.  It should amuse us later."

"Certainly, sir".  Craig was right by my side.  Then
his hand was on my biceps, and another rested on my
butt, and he led me out of the room.  I heard the
polite conversation and the bell-like tinkle of
women's laughter continue as we left - this was all so
fucking unreal!

Back in the room where I'd showered, Craig removed my
blindfold.  "Better keep you cuffed, hadn't I", he
said in a not unkindly way.   "I expect you're still
not really used to taking it, and it's tough at first.
 But don't worry, I'm good at this sort of thing, and
I've never lost a slave yet!"

His attempt at humour was, at least, some spark of
humanity that had been sadly lacking in all the folk
earlier.  But how was I going to find taking dick now?

End Of Part Ten