Date: Sat, 3 Sep 2005 02:21:45 GMT
From: "anonymous4371@juno.com" <anonymous4371@juno.com>
Subject: Colonel Beddington (Authoritarian) - Part 1

COLONEL CHARLES BEDDINGTON

Part I

 by Bill Smith

[Please let me if it is worth the time and effort to post this story as
well as let me know what you think of this story by contacting me at
anonymous4371@juno.com.  Thanks, Bill Smith]

********

PRELUDE

[This story takes place on an estate and accompanying manufacturing /
agribusiness complex well hidden in the remote back country of Namibia,
owned by a well-known international entrepreneur.  Colonel Charles
Beddington was, like many of his colleagues, fantastically wealthy from
extensive business investments throughout the world and could easily afford
the vast estate and the huge staff needed to operate it.]

***************************************************************************

CHAPTER 1

     The private jet trip over from Cleveland had been uneventful.  Clint
Morgan was the only passenger and, other than talking a little with the
charming stewardess, most of the trip time had been spent studying various
reports from his managers.

     Colonel Charles Beddington, a long time friend and business associate,
had invited him over to his home in Namibia, backing up the invitation with
his private jet and well trained crew placed at Clint's disposal.  When one
got an invitation from someone as important in world markets as Colonel
Beddington, one did not turn it down for any reason.  Therefore, Clint was
stepping off the LearJet on a private runway at Colonel Beddington's estate
less than ten hours from the time of his invitation.

     Colonel Beddington, ever the charming host, met his young friend
personally at the airstrip located on his estate, the airstrip being just a
few miles from the main mansion.  A Rolls limousine had delivered the
colonel to the airstrip and was now pulled beside the jet, ready to take
the two men back to the mansion.  The limousine's chauffeur, an
exceptionally handsome black in a skin tight livery, ushered the two men
into the spacious rear compartment of the car with a polite bow and then
started the short journey back to the mansion.

     "Jesus, Charlie," the 30-year-old handsome blond exclaimed to his host
, "I can't imagine how I got in this mess.  I'm facing bankruptcy
proceedings within the next few weeks unless I can get things turned
around."  Wringing his hands, he continued, "It's hard to believe just two
years ago, I was on the cover of TIME magazine as one of America's most
promising young stars in the business world.  Then I was making big bucks -
now each day is dragging me closer and closer to a sheriff's sale."  Tears
welled up in the young man's eyes as he reflected on the shame and
humiliation facing him with the collapse of his huge manufacturing
operations.

     "I suspected as much, Clint.  The danger signs have been there all
along - you just didn't see them like some of us a little more experienced
did.  That's why I sent my jet over to bring you to my little abode here.
I think I can see a little light at the end of the tunnel, Clint, whether
you can or not right now.  It's a good thing we've been friends for the
past few years.  I'm not one to forget past favors and you have certainly
helped me out over the years."

     "I have?" Clint asked, obviously surprised.

     "Of course, Clint," Col. Beddington replied.  "For example, you sold
me an initial offering of 200,000 shares of your company's stock at $10 a
share. Two years later, seeing the clouds on the horizon, I sold it for $40
a share.  That's what I call a favor."

     "But the shares are practically worthless now," Clint said soberly.

     "Yes, but I made 400% on them," Col. Beddington smiled.  "And I
haven't forgotten that you tipped me off that your friend's business was in
trouble long before it hit the press.  I was able to unload all of that
stock with no loss whatsoever long before the panic hit."

     "Well, it was the least I could do.  You've been such a good friend
right from the very beginning.  I feel like I've let you down with the
current dilemma.  Besides, once you started buying up my initial offering
of stock, it caught fire and sold out in no time at all.  I'm the one who
should be thanking you - not the other way around."

     "What's the bottom line, Clint?" Col. Beddington asked Clint straight
out.  "Labor costs too high to be competitive?"

     "You're amazing," Clint replied, absolutely stunned by the insight
displayed by the colonel's question.  "That's exactly the problem.  I can't
compete paying union wages, medical insurance, pension contributions, and
workman's compensation.  Hell, labor is running me $36 an hour on the
average when you figure in all the fringes.  How to you make air-
conditioners that can sell for $220 each when you're paying wages like
that?"

     "You can't," the colonel responded with finality.  "No way.  But,
Clint, there is a way you can cut your labor costs dramatically, but it
takes a fertile and inventive mind to see the solution.  Plus quite a bit
of capital up front."  The colonel smiled as if whatever he was talking
about was self-evident.

     "I've tried to cut costs every way I know how," Clint responded
exasperated, "but you can only go so far - labor accounts for 60% of the
market price on each unit no matter what I do."

     "You can cut that dramatically, Clint," Col. Beddington stated
resolutely.

     "How?" Clint pleaded.

     "You'll see soon enough," the Colonel replied as the Rolls arrived at
the entrance to his mansion and the handsome black chauffeur leaped to the
rear door and promptly knelt by the opened door with his head bowed.

     Clint stared at the black on his knees.  "Wow!  That's some chauffeur.
He's laying it on kind of thick, isn't he?  I've never known a chauffeur to
kneel.  Most of them seem to even resent opening the door anymore, let
alone bow and sure as hell not kneeling.  Where did you find him?"

     "At the market in Otjiwrongo," Colonel Beddington answered
mysteriously.

     Just as Clint was preparing to ask "what market?," he encountered a
scene that left him speechless.  To the side of the mansion's entrance,
there stood a light aluminum two-wheeled rig complete with bicycle tires,
steps leading up to a wide upholstered seat for two behind a curved
dash-dust protector, a whip-holder at the right edge of the dash,
rein-holders toward the center of the dash, and a large sunshade fitted
high over the seat, the same color as the upholstery on the seat. But it
was what the chariot-like gurney was attached to that galvanized Clint.
Fastened in leather harnesses over their head, shoulders and chest by a
tight fitting head and body harness were two huge blacks, completely naked
saved their harnesses and fittings.  Each black was standing perfectly
still, sweat making their black hides glisten in the Namibian heat. The
"human ponies," in addition to their leather chest harnesses, each wore a
thick brass collar around their neck as well as brass rings through their
noses, their tits, and around their genitals (forcing them to protrude from
their body obscenely). The body harness was attached to an aluminum "T"
pulling bar in front of the carriage by thick leather straps, while a
separate nylon rein was fastened to each black's nose ring.  It was a sight
right out of the most exotic fantasy.

     "My God, Colonel, what the hell?"  Clint exclaimed, his eyes never
leaving the sight in front of him.

     "I thought you'd be surprised at the 'local transportation' I dreamed
up one day," the Colonel laughed.  "Actually, it works out quite well for
those short hops around the estate.  Not much good for runs into town,
however - they never seem to develop the wind necessary for much over 10
miles at a time."

     "You can hire men to do this?" Clint asked in astonishment.

     "Not really," the Colonel answered, "but you can buy them to do it."

     Clint stared at him uncomprehendingly.

     "That's why I wanted you to visit me here in Namibia, Clint.  The
answer to your labor problems stands right in front of you, not counting
that boy kneeling by the door of the car."

     Clint was still uncomprehending.

     "Clint, here, as in many other places in the world, slavery never
really ceased.  In fact, it's probably at an all time high in terms of
scope and number, but it's not talked about much anymore and most of the
basic operations are underground, so to speak.  It's a matter now of
knowing the right people and being at the right places at the right time.
But if you know the dealers and if they trust you pretty well not to reveal
your sources, most anything you ever dreamed up is available if you're
willing to pay the price.  My handsome chauffeur there wears a thick collar
around his neck, has rings on his tits and around his genitals, and my
brand on his butt.  He cost me about $US 18,000 at a huge market in Tsumeb
where the variety of stock offered is excellent.  It took me about a month
of rigorous training to get him totally acclimated to his new life here and
his upkeep is minimal: all my stock eats a simple dry slave chow sold by
Purina - cheap but nutritious.  There's few if any clothing costs, no
health insurance or pension costs, no workman's compensation, and the stock
sleeps on a pallet in his cage in a barn which has adequate toilet and
douching facilities, some cold-water showers, and a couple of ventilation
fans so they can sleep in this awful heat. Total upkeep costs on a slave
like you see kneeling before you: around $300 a year, including food,
shaving his body, douching his insides, depreciation on his sleeping cage,
and the electricity cost for the ventilation fan.  He'll be productive for
at least 30 years if you buy them in their teens or early twenties, so
that's $600 a year depreciation.  Figure in the $100 I get per body for
their organs once they are no longer productive - that's cutting labor
costs to a bone.  Even here in Namibia, hiring a boy like the chauffeur
here, to do exactly the same thing, would cost me $60 a month in wages, and
I'd still have to house and feed him.  But, if I hired him, he'd want time
off to visit his family, he'd want to get married and raise a family, he'd
want me to care for his sick mother, and he'd probably quit the first time
anyone else offered him any more money.  More likely, he'd just disappear
the first time he got bored with his work.  His wages would run me over
$21,000 over 30 years and I'd have to put up with all the rest.  This boy
here only cost $18,000 up front - he comes to me with no family
responsibilities, his sex life is at my discretion, and he's available to
me as long as he lives, no matter what he thinks or feels about it.  If he
doesn't do his duties satisfactorily, I can discipline him any way I see
fit.  If he runs away, the police will quickly return him as my property.
And if I want to use him in my bed, or breed him with my other stock, or
loan his body for use by my friends, or switch him over to serving as a
'human pony' or a farm worker - those are all options available to me at
any time and, most importantly, he knows it.  So you don't get much sass
from a slave, believe me.  One good disciplinary punishment and 'demands'
from a slave are past history.  From then on, it's how can he serve me
better."

     "So you simply own your labor," Clint responded, his eyes wide in
amazement.

     "Exactly, it's the answer to your labor problems if you want my
opinion.  Besides," he added, "there's a certain satisfaction in owning
your staff that you just can't get in hiring them."  He rubbed his hand
through the hair of the kneeling chauffeur as if petting a favorite dog.
"That feeling really comes home to you when you bed them down for your
enjoyment.  I'll show you what I mean."

     "Strip and display," the Colonel barked at the kneeling slave.

     Instantly, the handsome black leaped to his feet and quickly took off
the chauffeur's jacket, removed the black leather boots, and then peeled
out of the incredibly tight trousers.  That was all the clothes he had on.
As he assumed the commanded 'display' position, his beautifully muscled
body was fully revealed as his hands were placed in back of his neck, his
muscles placed in tension for best definition, and his pelvis thrust out to
best display his genitals - extra-large by any standards, but appearing
horse-like due to the thick genital band welded around the base of his
balls. Each tit sported a large brass ring permanently pierced through the
nipples and a small, but prominent brand marked his right pectoral and his
left hip.  An identifying number was tattooed onto each upper arm.

     "It's hard to get regular employees to display themselves like this,"
the Colonel chuckled as he reached over and, placing his hand around the
huge penis of the chauffeur, became stroking it to full erection.

     The chauffeur never flinched or moved from his 'display' position as
his owner brought him to arousal. Indeed, if anything, he seemed to push
his pelvis out a little more for his master's convenience in stoking
him. The penis began enlarging almost instantly from the fondling and
within a minute the staff was fully erect and dripping.  The two 'human
ponies' licked their lips as they eyed the display, their own pricks
beginning to swell from the sight alone, even harnessed as they were, made
even more evident by their own genital banding.

     Clint felt his own organ begin to swell from the erotic display in
front of him and he broke out in a light sweat or arousal.  Never, in his
wildest imagination, had he ever envisioned a naked male being wantonly
stroked to full erection right in public simply at the whim of an "owner.
Let alone, two other naked males, muscular wonders themselves, harnessed to
a cart for human transport, their own swollen organs dripping now in full
need.

     "I severely restrict my slave's sexual outlets so that they are always
quick to arouse and eager to please," the Colonel said pleasantly as he
continued stroking the slave before him, now softly moaning in his need to
discharge.

     "Please, master," the chauffeur moaned, "I think I'm going to shoot."

     Colonel Beddington slapped the slave on his cheek instantly with a
blow that almost knocked the slave to the ground.

     "No speaking without permission, slave!" the Colonel said sharply.
"And you won't shoot off until I give you permission to shoot off - is that
understood, slave?"

     "Yes, master.  Yes, master," the slave quickly gasped out, his cheek
bright red where he had been struck.  But the blow had diminished his need
to orgasm and he quickly regained control of himself, despite the fact the
Colonel had never relinquished his pumping of the slave's orgasm.

     He continued pumping the chauffeur until the boy gritted his teeth and
broke out in a sweat that covered his entire body as he struggled to retain
the impending orgasm.  As quickly as he had started, the Colonel let loose
of the boy's shaft and wiped his hand, sticky with pre-cum, off in the
boy's hair.

     "It's good to keep them on edge and in constant need," the Colonel
explained as he turned to his cart.  The chauffeur shivered as a tear ran
down his cheek.  Again, he was not going to be allowed to relieve the
pressure in his balls, a need that was almost continual over the past few
months.

     "Perhaps you'd like the use of the boy in your bed tonight?" the
Colonel asked Clint pleasantly.  "After a busy day, it's always healthy to
seek out a little relaxation But don't decide now.  Before the day is over,
I'm sure you'll see some others that you might find more attractive."

     Again, Clint was speechless.

     "Let's take a little ride, Clint, before you start all your questions.
I think I can answer most of your questions by simply showing you some of
my operations here!"


                           CHAPTER 2

__________________________________________________

     "Fold your uniform and then place it back in the truck of the Rolls
where it belongs.  Then put the Rolls back in the garage after you've
washed and polished it to perfection.  When you're finished with that,
report to the main overseer for your assigned duties," the Colonel said as
he dismissed the chauffeur, still standing in his commanded display
position with his shaft dripping in need.  "Slaves behave better if they
always know what is expected of them," the Colonel explained as he motioned
for me to step up into the rig behind the two harnessed blacks.

      The seat of the ultra-light aluminum contraption was upholstered in a
fine woven wool, dyed a rich red highlighted by matching pillows.  But most
breathtaking were the two extraordinarily handsome 'ponies', both carefully
matched to be of the same height and weight, both possessing amazingly
muscular, beautifully-defined hairless physiques, each sporting a wide
heavy collar of brass around their necks (which contrasted beautifully with
their shiny black skin), and each leashed by their wide brass nose rings to
the rig itself, lending the impression the blacks were just another part of
the overall conveyance.

     Rigorously trained, each human pony stood with their heads held
rigidly erect from their tall neck collars but their eyes properly lowered,
their butts tensed and their legs spread wide apart due to the insertion of
a large dildo in each of the ponies' asses (once inserted, the only
evidence of the dildos was a a large 'pull ring' sticking prominently out
of each asshole), and with their massively developed chests thrust
out. Each pony also featured large ringed tits, huge banded genitals, and
large owner brands front and rear which only highlighted the best features
of the ponies' magnificent bodies.

     "They're relatively new," the Colonel explained as strolled in front
to better view the harnessed team.  "Just finished their training last
week."

     Turning to the slave hitched to the left of the rig, he asked, "Bred
or bought?"

     "Master?", the 'pony' gasped out humbly, reflecting he didn't
understand the question.

     "Were you spawned on one of my breeding farms, or did I buy you
somewhere?" Col.  Beddington irritably shot back.

     "You bought me, Master," the slave answered respectfully.

     "Where?" Col. Beddington shot back.

     "At the slave market in Keetman-shoop in the far South, Master," the
slave answered.

     "Then where were you raised?" Col. Beddington asked.

     "I think it was called Sierre Leone, Master," the slave answered
without emotion, clearly now unable to remember much of anything about his
life in a nearby country before his position now as owned property.

     "A wretched place.  How grateful you must be to now enjoy Namibia's
civilizing system of slavery which offers you a clearly defined purpose to
your life," Col. Beddington responded.

     "Yes, Master. Thank you, Master," the slave answered. in a strained
voice, reflecting the stretching of his insides from the huge imbedded
dildo, but Col. Beddington had lost interest in that 'pony' and was
studying the large ringed tits and immense banded genitals of the other
'pony' hitched to the rig by his nose-ring.

     "Are you from the markets in Sierre Leone too, or were you bred here
in Namibia?" the Colonel asked the other 'pony' hitched to the right of the
rig.

     "Neither, master," the 'pony' answered, shivering from the strain of
the large dildo forced up his ass.

     "Permission to speak," the Colonel prompted.

     "Yes, master.  Thank you, master," the 'pony' responded.  "I'm from a
market in Benin, master.  I was bred and raised on a slave farm there until
I was fully developed.  Then I was shipped to the market there and sold to
your agent, Master."

     "How fortunate for you on two counts.  First, being bred makes
acceptance of a slave's life easy and, second, getting sold to me was a
stroke of good luck.  Some masters don't let their slaves know what is
expected of them.  I always do.  Makes your life a whole lot easier.  Skips
all the trial-and-error mistakes that lead to a lot of unnecessary
discipline."

     "Yes, master. Thank you, master," the 'pony' responded humbly, his ass
shifting slightly as he struggled to adjust to the huge dildo in him.

     Sitting on my seat in the rig, I was absolutely incredulous that
humans could accept being bought property, let alone allow themselves to be
turned into nothing more or less than draft animals.  Surely, this was just
a wild pantomime to shock my sensibilities.

     "Colonel," I stammered.  "This elaborate joke is over.  I'm on to
you!" I winked at my gracious host.

     "On to what, Clint?  And this is hardly a joke," he frowned.  "These
blacks costs me plenty at the auction and their training has taken months.
I'm disappointed you don't appreciate them.  You seemed taken enough with
my chauffeur."

     "No, no, Colonel.  It's not that I'm not appreciative.  Just the
oppositive, if the truth were known.  But, Colonel, I simply can't believe
people like these blacks would consent to such usage - no one I know would
ever allow themselves to be displayed and used like this!"

     The Colonel reared back and laughed heartily before answering.  "For
all your reputation as an astute businessman, I must say, Clint, you're
astonishingly naive."  He laughed again.  "First off, slaves don't
'consent' to anything - they do anything they're told to do simply because
they are slaves - just property of their owner.  Secondly, slaves don't
have the right to allow or not allow any use of their bodies whatsoever.
These blacks here, for example, wouldn't even know what you are talking
about.  They know, better than you or I, that as slaves they have to allow
any usage of their bodies demanded by their masters.  If they didn't -
they're either experienced themselves or witnessed it on plenty of other
slaves like them - they would have to pay the consequences."

     "What consequences," Clint asked innocently.

     "Like starving to death, going without water for days on end, being
beat until they're unconscious and then having salt rubbed into their whip
weals for added pain, being fucked until their insides bleed, being shocked
until their skin is burnt where the electrodes are placed - I could go on
and on.  Slaves quickly learn to do exactly what is demanded of them.  You
would too, Clint, under those circumstances.  After all, humans aren't
stupid.  They're at the top of the evolutionary scale - that's why slaves
are often so much more useful than other animals."

     Clint stared at the Colonel and then blushed.  "You're right, Colonel.
I have been incredibly ignorant about slavery.  More ignorant than naive, I
suspect.  I just never knew slavery was practiced much anymore and really
hadn't given it much thought, as my remarks so clearly indicated.  But now
that you explained things, it all makes sense.  You're right, Colonel,
given the alternatives to doing what's asked of a slave, anybody with half
a mind would simply comply.  Even," Clint laughed, "serving as a harnessed
pony stark naked with a ring through your nose."

     "You're beginning to understand, Clint, but you don't know the half of
it.  Once a free person is placed in slavery, he has all of his former
social ties cut.  He had no family anymore, no friends, no neighbors, no
nothing.  He's dead as far as his society is concerned.  That means he has
no support from those sources either and so conversion to the life of a
slave is made a lot easier.  Ideally, a new slave is placed in situations
where they don't even know the language and where he or she knows no one.
Once cut off from all sources that once nourished them, and once they
understand their whole sustenance is controlled by their new owners - their
food, their water, their rest, their sexual outlets, their medical care,
their relief from pain - slaves shape up amazingly fast to what their owner
wants.  These ponies here are just a modest example of what can be done
with a good training program in place.  Even you, Clint," the Colonel
chuckled, "could be trained to pulling this rig in a matter of weeks just
about as well as these blacks here."

     The colonel ran his hand through one of the slave-pony's hair, moved
his hand down to the protruding dildo ring, jerked on it a few times until
the slave moaned as he churned his ass muscles, and then moved around to
the rig, quickly lifting himself up to the richly upholstered seat.


     Clint shivered at the realization that what the Colonel said was
absolutely true.  He wasn't a coward, but he wasn't stupid either, and
faced with survival, he too could be standing there leashed by a nose-ring
with an 'owner' plowing a dildo in and out of his ass to amuse himself.

     "I'm afraid you're right, Colonel," Clint laughed nervously.
"Although I'm not as pretty as this pair of blacks, I'm afraid."

     "Oh, you never know," Colonel Beddington smiled.  "Get your body
shaved smooth, get you ringed properly, get some muscle on you, get your
genitals banded, and get a right harness on you - you just might be as
attractive as these boys here.  Although, I prefer blacks for my ponies for
some reason or another."

     Clint could only shiver apprehensively at the Colonel's humor.

     As soon as he had settled himself in beside me, the Colonel took the
reins in his hands (connected to the ponies' nose-rings), and lifted the
whip out of its holder.  With a light crack of the whip over the ponies'
heads and a slight tug on the reins, the rig almost fluidly moved forward,
accelerating at a rapid pace, the ponies moving together in one coordinated
movement accompanied by well muffled groans as their bodies acclimated to
the heavy load of two passengers.  Every muscle in their massive backs
displayed the tension of pulling the rig while their muscular asses
literally churned around the huge dildos embedded in them.  Their bulging
pectoral and shoulder muscles, encased in the tight leather harness showed
the strain of their task, as did their rigid abdominal muscles, and well
defined, muscular thighs.

     "Forward, pace at 40," Col. Beddington commanded. The 'ponies' glided
into the exhausting pace commanded, i.e., 40 long steps per minute, each of
the two ponies in exact synchronization.  Col. Beddington glanced over at
the last slave he had been looking at - the boy, now breathing heavily, was
totally focused on keeping the exacting pace commanded.  Col. Beddington
smiled that his command has been honored and tugged slightly on the reins
connected to the slave's nose-rings, followed by a sharp gasp as the pain
of the tug on this tender fitting racked through their bodies.

     "Pace, 50," Col. Beddington commanded.  The rig lurched ahead and the
panting slaves' breathing took on audible gasps as the sweat streamed into
their eyes, down past their collars into every valley and crevice in their
body, including their muscled rumps.

     Col. Beddington brought my attention to the 'ponies' in their
struggles: their straining backs, shoulder muscles well outlined in tension
from the heavy load, their gasping lungs, and the riverlets of sweat
coating their naked bodies. The matched, extremely muscular physiques and
the abundant manhood prominently outlined by the tight genital bands
pleased him, he noted, in that it once again reminded him of his absolute
power over their bodies.

     "Pace, 60," he snapped with another tug on the nose-reins, and the
'ponies' once again increased the pace dramatically.  But after only a
short while at this horrific pace, the gasping turned to desperation and
the slaves' eyes, blinded with sweat, took on a wild, panicked look that
pleased him.

     The Colonel explained that he would have to take the whip to the
'ponies' if the pace was to be continued and normally that is just what he
would do, but that would require giving up engaging in uninterrupted
conversation with me. So be it, this time anyway.  He explained he could
always have his slave overseer whip the 'ponies' later if they dared slow
the pace.  Happily, his overseer's beatings were always so severe they
became rather permanent instruments of instruction - the type slaves never
forgot.

     But, he smiled, it took away the fun of beating the slaves personally
- and slaves always seemed to respond best to their owner beating them,
even if it wasn't as thorough and memorable as their overseer's.
Reflecting on this thought, Col. Beddington couldn't resist taking up his
whip, at least for a moment.

     "Faster, you lazy bastards," Col. Beddington shouted as the 'ponies'
struggled to maintain the intense pace. He lashed out at any part of their
body he could reach.  It seemed to help - the pace, if anything, increased,
despite the moaning now mixed in with sharp gasps as they responded to
their shoulders and rumps being bruised and torn by their master's dreaded
riding whip. Satisfied for awhile, Col. Beddington leaned back in the
comfortable sit and commented he could hardly wait to show me at least some
of his operations here in Namibia.  He was sure I would find them
instructive.

     In a few minutes, they arrived at the main processing center for
Col. Beddington's farm operations, one of the huge agribusinesses so
competitive in today's global markets.  Here, the colonel explained, the
labor force was wholly purchased, mainly bought at markets plentifully
located throughout all of Africa (as well as the rest of the world if you
knew who ran them and where they were).  All the workers were stark naked
but collared and tit-ringed with their feet manacled together by an 18"
chain, labored under the close scrutiny of numerous, perhaps overzealous
overseers, slaves themselves who knew the slightest leniency on their part
would lead to instant reassignment to the heavy labor ranks.  Since this
was an African operation, a good number of the slaves were blacks, although
a sizeable minority were obviously from brown Arab or Ethiopian stock, many
were obviously mulattos of one type of another, and there were a surprising
number of Caucasians, although it was hard to tell since they had been
exposed to the sun for so long their skin was hardly white any more. Even
through this agribusiness was far from Asia, some of the slaves were
obviously from Oriental backgrounds. The unmistakable mixture of color
quickly put to rest any notion that contemporary slavery had anything to do
with skin color or the antiquated concept of race.  Slavery nowadays was
obviously based on availability regardless of country of origin, skin or
hair color, or any other human variation.  Even slaves bred for the market
were usually mixtures of desirable human characteristics that would big top
dollar at auction.

     Each overseer carried a long steel-tipped whip which seemed to be in
constant motion, and the screams and groans of the chained workers were
never ceasing as they were "motivated" to give everything they had for the
profit of their owner.  Upon seeing their owner's smart-looking rig hitched
to the 'human ponies', all slaves, overseers included, fell to their knees
and bowed in total subservience.

     Col. Beddington invited his guest Clint to accompany him in his exit
from the 'pony' powered rig.

     "You'll find this operation very interesting, even if the venture is
farming primarily.  Nevertheless, the means of production can easily be
transferred to manufacturing enterprises - even," he winked, "to the
production of air-conditioners."

     One of the more knowledgeable overseers quickly ordered two nearby
slaves, both large and powerfully built, to their hands and knees to serve
as a "human chair" for the master and his guest.  He then placed a clean
towel on their sweaty backs as a covering.

     "Just use that towel to wipe all that sweat off them, overseer," the
Colonel commanded.  "I like the feel of well tanned leather."

     The overseer quickly whisked the towel off the first slave's back and
wiped his back dry.  He caught my eye to see whether I wanted the towel
covering or not before proceeding with the second slave chosen to serve as
a chair.

     "Leave the towel on him," I said.

     "You can't finger-fuck the chair with a towel in the way," the Colonel
laughed.  "But each to their own."

      Seated comfortably on the back of a sweating slave who had promptly
offered his body to serve as his chair, Clint joined his host, but not
before looking back at the gasping, sweating 'ponies', now rigidly upright,
the only position allowed by their short nose-ring leashes attached to the
rig itself.  He was astonished that even this short respite was leading to
a rapid swelling of their manhood, so prominent in the forced display
caused by their genital bands.  The slave beneath him grunted slightly from
the huge load on his back, but never dared move.

     "Colonel," Clint asked. "Why are the 'ponies' showing hard?"

     The colonel reared back on his human chair and roared in laughter as
the slave beneath him struggled to accommodate himself to the rollicking
body weighting down his back and the long finger working its way up his
asshole and then rubbing his prostate. The 'chair' shuddered from both the
load and the stimulation of the sensitive organ within him which caused his
penis to swell to a full erection and then drip cum steadily.

     "Clint, you'd show hard to, despite the heavy run, if you hadn't been
allowed to drain your balls in over a month.  It's good for slaves to know
their owner controls all of their body - including the privilege of
emptying your balls."

     "I wouldn't have thought of that, Colonel, but now that you mention
it, it certainly makes good sense," Clint replied.

     "I knew you were smart," the Colonel mused.

     Turning back to the slave overseers kneeling in front of him, he said
rather pointedly, "Don't let my presence interfere with the work at hand,
or you'll soon find yourself manacled in their place," nodding to the work
slaves all with their foreheads pressed into the dirt.

     "Up, slaves," the overseers said almost in unison, "and get back to
work."  The whips lashed across the closest backs and a few woeful screams
correlated with raw rump fresh being lacerated.  Leg chains rattled above
the moans as more whips cracked over the slaves' heads. It was like a whole
machine grinding into action.

     Bales of hay were lifted into storage on sweating backs and straining
legs; others, yoked like oxen to turnstiles, were powering the grinding of
corn; still others, harnessed to farm wagons four and sometimes eight to a
team, struggled to pull the heavily loaded wagons; while hundreds of others
were moving huge rocks out of newly developed fields while still others dug
foundations for the construction of additional buildings. All were working
"under the whip," i.e., under constant surveillance of overseers who never
hesitated to lash into their hide to extract more work.  As time wore on
throughout the long days, whip usage increased to compensate for the
exhausted bodies that tended to slow down until prompted to renewed effort
with ever more pain.

     No slave present thought his life would ever be much different under
any other ownership and, for most, all memories of a previous life had long
been removed by the whip.  But those pain-wracked eyes enjoyed anything to
break the monotony of their unceasing work.  The sight of their owner
casually sitting on the backs of two of their colleagues only added to the
awe and respect of he who owned them body and soul. And all enjoyed the
pure spectacle of his arrival: the smart light-weight two-passenger rig
with the beautifully muscled, matched human ponies, both of whom were still
struggling for air after their heavy run.  The 'ponies' had obviously been
body shaved in they had not a hair on their bodies, their huge erect organs
were forced into prominent display by their tightly fitted genital rings;
their heaving chests highlighted by the costly brass rings piercing their
prominent nipples; their nose rings held taut by the leashes fitted to the
rig itself.  To own and command such a conveyance was beyond their wildest
imagination and the awe and respect of their owner soared even greater. Not
a farm slave present didn't dream of being chosen to serve their master in
such a fashion - it would be an even greater honor than being chosen to be
a slave overseer in that you could be close to such a force - a power
beyond their comprehension, once they had been broken to the realities of
slavery within a multinational capitalistic world of economic competition.
Dimly, they realized it was their slavery that allowed their owners to
"win" such competition.

     Col. Beddington chatted briefly with his chief overseer, who knelt
before the human chair holding his master. "Production quotas being met?"
Col. Beddington asked.

     "Yes, master, and better," the chief overseer responded.  "But with
some cost," he added cautiously.

     "What cost?" Col. Beddington demanded with a frown.

     "Forty three slaves failed to respond properly to the whip," the chief
overseer ventured, "and had to sold to the organ banks. Mainly those
nearing the end of their productive lives, but a few young ones with
perhaps overzealous drivers," the overseer continued.  "Most were well past
their forties, but three just starting manhood were whipped to an early
death, I fear, thus cheating you out of full value from your property.
I've taken the proper steps, master, and those overseers are now back in
the ranks, of course.  I 've given them a special "Z" brand on their
forehead so I wouldn't forget their error and inadvertently reassign them
someday to an overseer's role.  After a thorough beating, of course, to
punish them for such a waste of their master's property. With the special
brand to mark them, I've told their overseers to work them so hard they
will make up for the loss they have incurred.  Once their faces are
disfigured like that, it would be hard to sell them for much of anything,
so they owe their loss of value to you as well, master."

     "Yes, they should be made to make up the cost of their negligence,"
Col. Beddington said. "They may die a quick death themselves in the process
but, if so, it serves them right, of course, for cheating me. And what
replacements are at hand, Overseer?"

     "We have about 140 a month reaching working age at the breeding farm,"
the chief overseer continued. "We'll pick out the sturdy but ugly as
replacements here and try to market the best looking and best equipped to
the slave dealers at the big markets either in Tsumeb or Otjiwarongo.  No
use wasting a good looking boy on the work around here," he laughed,
"although, Master, some of the major dealers seem to be getting more and
more selective in the stock they are handling as the market expands.  Just
last month, their regional procuring agent told me only the real cream of
the crop, maybe one out of 50, would meet the most prestigious dealer's
body quality standards.  Most of the breeding farm's output, despite their
attempts to selectively bred the stock, is a long way from that, I'm
afraid," the overseer concluded.

      When Col. Beddington appeared to accept his report, he looked at his
owner cautiously before venturing further, trying to ascertain his owner's
mood of the moment.

     "Even a lowly slave overseer like myself tires of trying to find
satisfaction with the ugly brutes left on this farm," looking hungrily at
Col. Beddington's 'ponies,' still standing completely rigid to avoid their
leash tugging at their nose-rings.

     Col. Beddington laughed briefly before warning, "Even a chief overseer
is lucky to have any satisfaction at all.  Remember those under you can
never hope for any satisfaction of their manly needs other than their right
hand or, if they've got the strength, the body chained next to them.  At
least, you can pick and choose among these animals when you want to.  It's
a privilege few masters would grant unless they were a lenient fool like
myself. I don't want you touching any boys sent to market - you stick with
the brutes available to you here, or you'll find yourself as barren as
those under you are. I'll not warn you again."

     "Yes, Master," the chief overseer responded humbly.  "I'm most
grateful to be allowed to use the men here on the farm.  Don't worry about
the home-grown boys being sent to market - they're your property and I
fully understand that.  It's most generous of you to let me use your other
property as you do - it's a privilege allowed few slaves and I'll not risk
losing that privilege, master."

     "Even with the losses we need to replace, that still gives us a good
crop for market, no matter how fussy the major slave dealers are getting,"
Col. Beddington reflected. "In fact, the breeding operations are growing
each year.  That means you've got to produce more and more food to feed the
growing slave crop."

     "Yes, master," the chief overseer responded, "and with proper
supervision and some loss, I grant you, that can be accomplished. Your
prosperity is my prosperity and I'm well aware of that simple fact, master,
as are all the slaves you own. If they don't understand that, my whip will
teach them the underlying truth, rest assured, master."

     Col. Beddington looked around again over the thousands of 'properties'
visible as far as the eye could see before addressing the chief overseer.
Whips continued to crack, moans escaped the lips of those singled out for
"motivation," and sweating bodies strained ever harder to please the
overseers' demands.  In the far distance, a struggling slave had been
whipped to the ground and his bleeding back and rump, accompanied by
screams of anguish, meant he would either have to find the strength to get
to his feet and resume work or face being sold off to the organ bank dealer
who visited the farm regularly.  The choice was up to him at this
point. Either way, he would serve as a good example to the other slaves:
work to capacity or serve society through the sale of your bodily organs.
Either way, your owner made a nice profit on his investment.

     Clint watched the farm operation before him as if he were witnessing a
scene from Hell itself or, at least, another world he never dreamed
existed.  He focused on a team of eight slaves pulling a heavily loaded
wagon, the team almost prone in their harnesses struggling to pull the huge
load while an overseer lacerated their backs and butts with a 12-prong
metal tipped whip.  As they screamed in agony from the whip, one of the
slave's eyes bulged out as his face turned bright red. His efforts to pull
the load was displayed in every muscle in his body and his veins visibly
protruded as he continued to struggle as the whip continued to tear into
his hide. Suddenly the huge brown slave slumped to the ground with froth
and blood gurgling out of his mouth.

     "Up, dog," the overseer screamed as his whip continued to lacerate the
slave's back.

     "Forty-four, master," the chief overseer said to the Colonel with a
sigh.

     "Forty-four what?" Col. Beddington spat out.

     "That slave's dead, master. That overseer is just wasting his energy
tearing all the flesh off that slave's back. His body just gave out.  We'll
need to replace him too."

     "Well, Chief Overseer, I'm glad I was here to see it myself.  Was the
slave shirking his duty, was the overseer too zealous, or was the slave
sick? Certainly the discipline I saw seemed to be appropriate."

     "That slave wasn't too sick to work, master, and the brute's generally
been a hard worker despite his old age.  He looks to be in his late forties
so his time was about up anyway.  Nevertheless, my guess is the overseer
has overworked him judging from the looks of the others in his team. I'll
brand that overseer and make sure he makes up for the work loss as soon as
we get him properly marked and back in harness."

     "How wise you are, Chief Overseer, " Col. Beddington said.  "The whip,
while always essential to a slave's well being, can be overused I fear in
the hands of an amateur. However, judging from his advanced age for a farm
slave, we've no doubt got our money's worth out of him, that is, if we even
bought the animal to start with. Especially when you can, no doubt, harvest
many of his organs promptly and put them under refrigeration until the
organ dealer arrives.  But, even there, I fear we can't harvest his hearts
and lungs - they're probably completely worn out by now.  But his kidneys,
liver, some bone marrow, eyes, ears, genitals, and skin are probably worth
the taking."

     Turning to Clint, the Colonel added with obvious satisfaction, "Even a
dead slave is worth around $1000 if we harvest their good organs and get
them refrigerated quickly."

     I must have looked uncomfortable because the Colonel added, "Clint,
you're still thinking slaves are just like you and me.  They're not!
They're just slaves - animals really - and have to be treated exactly like
the livestock they are.  Otherwise, you'd soon go broke in this competitive
world.  Like," he added pointedly, "the air-conditioner business you're
having trouble with now. My advice, Clint, is to - bluntly - grow up!  It's
a competitive world out there and sentimentality has little place in the
business world."

     "It's difficult to not think of them as human," I mumbled.

     "Well, they're not, Clint!  They're slaves - and a slave's sole
purpose is to make their owner money, alive or dead!" the Colonel retorted.

     "Do you wish to stay for the branding?" the chief overseer injected.
"The slaves always enjoy seeing an overseer getting his comeuppance."

     "No, thank you, Chief Overseer.  My responsibilities elsewhere
preclude the pleasure.  I've got to visit the manufacturing complex next
now that the 'ponies' have regained their breath."

     Col. Beddington rose from his human chair, motioned for me to follow
him, and, again ushered me back to the 'pony'-drawn rig.

     "You're going to relate to the manufacturing complex, Clint.  It's
very similar to your assembling air-conditioners, but with considerably
lower labor costs," the Colonel chuckled as his eyes sparkled.


                           CHAPTER 3

     "Forward, Pace 40, to the manufacturing complex," the Colonel
commanded as he tugged sharply on the leash connected to the pony-slaves'
nose-rings. A gasp of raw pain came from the 'ponies' as their nose fitting
once again dug into their sensitive nerve endings.  Regardless, the
two-wheeled rig accelerated swiftly to the commanded pace on its way to its
next destination, the 'ponies'' rumps once again smoothly churning around
their deeply imbedded dildos. Both 'ponies' quickly coordinated to the
other's exact movements and within minutes, the usual heavy breathing
became audible, sweat once again coated the ponies' bodies, and every
muscle in the pony-slaves' bodies showed the strain of the load imposed
upon. One of the pony's had burst into tears - whether from the sharp pain
from his nose-ring, the heavy demands placed upon his body by the task at
hand, the predicament of being made into a beast of burden, or from a sense
of relief he wasn't assigned to the farming operations could not be
ascertained. At any rate, no one noticed and, if they had, no one would
have cared.  In less than a minute, his inaudible sobbing stopped, probably
due to the fact he didn't have the air for this personal extravagance.
After that, he was as stoic as his partner, concentrating all his energies
on surviving his duties as a human horse.

     "Well, Clint, what did you think of my farming operation?" the Colonel
asked as he took out the rig's whip and cracked it lightly over the rumps
of the speeding 'ponies.'

     Clint hesitated, studying the angry red marks on the slaves' churning
rumps as a response to their light whipping.  "Colonel," he paused, "I
could see where the labor costs would be rock-bottom.  The way I figured
it, going by what you told me slaves like that cost at the auctions and
figuring in what your overseer said about a slave lasting about seven years
on the average, and taking into account the $1000 you get on their body
parts at the end of their productive cycle, there is no way anyone paying
for their labor could possible compete - at least not at even the lowest
wages I've heard of any place in the world.  The big advantage is they can
be worked at least 12 to 15 hours a day, seven days a week, and there are
no fringe benefits to worry about.  There's just no way anyone, no matter
how efficient, can compete with that.  I'm guessing your labor costs,
counting in the initial cost, their feed, the cages for sleeping,
depreciation over seven years, and the cost of supervision is running you
less than $3000 a year when you figure in the rebate for their body parts
at the end.  You get 4368 hours of labor a year out of them under the whip
- that runs to about $0.68 an hour for total labor costs. A regular
agribusiness's labor costs, including medical insurance, pension
contributions, workman's compensation, vacation time, and all the rest runs
about $36 an hour. There's no way anyone can compete with you, Colonel!"

     "Your mind works like a computer," the Colonel responded with genuine
admiration.  "I always said you were smart.  Your figures are very close to
our own."

     The panting from the 'ponies' was beginning to get a little raspy and
Clint noticed blood seeping out of one of the 'pony's' rectum as the
slave's ass continued to work itself around the huge dildo impaled in him.

     "Colonel, one of these boys is beginning to bleed," Clint said in
alarm.

     "Yes," the Colonel laughed, glancing at the slave Clint was pointing
to.  "They start to do that after about 15 miles or so.  Never fails.
Don't worry about it, Clint.  Those big dildos tear their anal linings a
little now and then, but it will stop after awhile.  I told you these
'ponies' are new to the harness.  After a little more practice, they'll
toughen up.  Their anal linings callous eventually and then there is no
more problem.  They all go through this stage initially," he smiled as he
again cracked the whip, this time over the 'ponies' shoulders.

     "But, Colonel," Clint continued his conversation after the bleeding
had been explained, "the 'disciple', as you called it, at the farming
operation seemed somewhat harsh.  Is it really necessary to work them under
the overseers' whips continually?  I don't know much about it, of course,
but my hunch is the slaves might last a lot longer than seven years if they
weren't beaten all the time - especially with those vicious steel-tipped
whips which tend to just tear their bodies to shreds over time.  Those
overseers could lighten up considerably in my opinion."

     "I like your openness, Clint," the Colonel laughed as he continued
smacking the 'ponies' with the carriage whip.  "It's obvious you know
little to nothing about slaves.  First, let me tell you, there is nothing
more dreaded by a slave than having another slave as an overseer.  Slave
overseers tend to take out their frustrations on those under them, I'm
afraid, so, in general, it would be hard to get any of those overseers to
lighten up without replacing them with free overseers who don't have a
sadistic streak to them - whose wages, I might add, would cut into my
profits considerably.  Second, work at the farm is hard - it takes a whip
to keep up the pace when the slave begins to tire.  That's why a steady
whip throughout the day is necessary, but especially toward the end of the
day when the slaves are exhausted and only fear of the whip keeps them
going.  Third, Clint, slaves like you just saw are basically lazy - since
they can see no benefit to working any harder than they can get by with,
it's the whip that provides the motivation to work long and hard.  All that
crap from the overseer about slaves seeing 'my prosperity as their
prosperity' is just pure bullshit. Slaves don't work for my prosperity -
why should they?  They work because it's easier to work hard than suffer
the pain of the whip tearing the flesh off their back and there is nothing
like a slave overseer to make sure that happens.  It's as simple as that!"

     "Perhaps," Clint responded.

     "Perhaps, my eye," the Colonel snapped.  "Take these ponies in front
of us, sweating in every pore of their body and with their lungs screaming
for air.  Why, you ask?  What if they absolutely refused to pull my rig?
What would happen?"

     "I don't know," Clint mumbled, searching for a convincing
argument. "You'd sell them off?"

     "Hardly," the Colonel laughed. "They'd be beaten until they wished
they were dead the pain would be so bad; they would have all water and food
withheld until they were convinced they were dying; and, if they lived
through that, they would be reassigned to the toughest assignments at my
farming operation where pulling my rig would seem like a dream job by
comparison.  The important thing it, Clint, both those slaves in front of
you know that's exactly what would happen and so refusing to do anything
they are told is simply not an option to them or any other slave I own.
That's the secret of successful slave management!  No viable options!  With
your sharp mind, I'm simply amazed at your naivete."

     The lecture lead to a strained silence as the rig continued its rapid
pace down the road toward its next destination, the silence broken only by
the heavy panting and gasping of the 'ponies' laboring away.

     "Do you think you could be turned into a 'pony' under proper
management, Clint?"  the Colonel broke the lull in conversation.

     "No, Colonel, I don't," Clint flared back at his long-time friend.
"You forget I'm from an entirely different background that those blacks in
front of us.  I'm educated, I've enjoyed freedom all my life free of want,
and I have lifelong habits of self-determination.  All of those factors
would mitigate against ever submitting to being turned into a draft animal
displayed stark naked with a ring in my nose, a band around my privates,
and a collar around my neck."  Clint's eyes flashed in defiance.  "Maybe
you can do that to these poor black bastards from impoverished backgrounds
that don't know anything different, but, let me assure you, Colonel, it
could never happen to this man here sitting right beside you."

     "Whow!  Clint, I never knew you could get so worked up!  It's
delightful to see you so defensive.  It's a side of you I've never
witnessed, but I would guess it has served you well in the business world."
The Colonel smiled to ease the tension.  "Perhaps you're right, Clint, but
I still think you are incredibly naive when it comes to slavery.  And say
what you will, Clint, and I have no doubt you sincerely believe every word
of what you just said, I still can envision you, or me, or anyone like us,
hitched up that harness prancing away - just like those two in front of us.
You can't imagine how adaptable the human is when placed in option-less
environments."

     "Christ, Colonel.  You never give up, do you?  You're so stubborn it's
no wonder you're the billionaire many times over everyone claims you are,"
Clint answered rather pleasantly, his anger having passed for the moment..

     "People exaggerate my good fortune," the Colonel smiled.

     "Ah, Hell.  They're just jealous, that's all!" Clint laughed.  "If
they only knew where all that wealth was coming from, they'd be surprised."

     "How so?" the Colonel asked.

     "Whoever would dream you must be profiting to the tune of a billion a
year from slave-labor alone," Clint chuckled.

     "I always admired your quickness with the figures," the Colonel cooed,
"but I still think you could be turned into a 'pony' in just a matter of
months." Clint caught him staring at him, as if he were evaluating a prize
bull at a county fair.

     "No way, Colonel.  No way!" Clint replied rather insouciantly, but his
face furrowed a little as he anxiously wondered why the Colonel wouldn't
leave the nasty little image and the evaluative stare he'd just noticed
bothered him even more.

     But Clint had little time to dwell on this as a huge set of buildings
loomed before them.  Within a minute, the speeding rig had arrived at the
front entrance to the huge factory complex, the 'ponies' desperately
gasping for air as their chests heaved and the sweat rolled off their
steaming black bodies.  The Colonel leaped out of the rig, followed swiftly
by Clint, and they entered the building immediately.

     "We've had a contract to assemble automatic washers and driers for the
biggest appliance maker in Europe for over the past two years, Clint.  They
ship in all the parts and we assemble the damn things and then ship them
back completely packaged as a final product under their brand name.  You'll
be especially interested in this in that we could have just as easily have
contracted to produce air conditioners, Clint.  Good thing we didn't, or we
would have run you out of business long before your current financial
troubles," he laughed.

     "How so, Colonel?" Clint replied, already troubled by the Colonel's
implications.

     "You'll see, Clint."

     With that, he led Clint into the plant manager's office for
introductions and a progress report, similar to the one he had received at
the farming complex.

     "Colonel, you going to be pleased with this quarter's report.
Production is up by 23% and defects have been cut to practically zero.
Output per man-hour is up 5% this quarter but it would have been higher if
we hadn't had to train a whole new bunch when we added the drier line," the
plant manager summarized.

     Clint was immediately taken with the plant manager: he was
to-the-point, blunt, and obviously knew exactly what he was talking
about. He didn't seem threatened by his boss' new friend, and, although
respectful, not intimidated by the fabulously wealthy titan of industry,
the Colonel himself.

     "Your guest want a look-see at the operation, Colonel?" the plant
manager asked.

     "Indeed he does, Jess.  He's about to go bankrupt assembling air
conditioners in the United States.  Claims his labor costs are
out-of-hand," the Colonel said almost mockingly.

     "Well, he WILL be interested then, Colonel," the plant manager
chortled.

     "Jess, as the Colonel said, I've got to find a way to cut my labor
costs if I'm to stay in business much longer," Clint admitted.  "If you can
help me out with some new angles on controlling labor costs, I'd certainly
appreciate it.  The Colonel just showed me his farming operations - that's
certainly one way to cut labor costs to the bone, but farming is so
different from manufacturing."

     "Totally different, Clint.  You're absolutely right on that.  What
works on a farm doesn't mean squat when it comes to manufacturing
appliances.  I think a little tour might give you some fresh ideas."

     Clint liked the plant manager even more since he didn't rub in Clint's
present business difficulties as the Colonel had seemed to enjoy doing.

     "Right this way, Clint, for a vision of the future," Jess said as he
ushered Clint and the Colonel into a huge, noisy area right outside his
office that was bigger than any aircraft hanger Clint had ever seen. The
vast space was not airconditioned and the heat was stifling.

     "Excuse the heat, but you'll get use to it eventually.  Saves the
expense of air conditioning," Jesse explained as a group of naked males
passed them pushing a huge bin of parts to the assembly line.

     "Those are parts suppliers," Jesse explained.  We generally use males
for that because of their strength.  Their job is to make sure the parts
bins never run out.  We generally pick big muscular guys for that job -
doesn't take much smarts other than making sure the right parts are put in
the right bins, but they're all color coded so that part of it is fairly
easy - but its does take real strength."

     Clint looked the workers being described over carefully.  They
averaged about 6 feet, weighed around 230 without an ounce of fat on them,
and looked to be anywhere from 18 to 60 in age.  Other than a thick collar
around their left ankle, they were totally unadorned.

     Jess saw Clint sizing up the workers.  "That band around their ankle
is unremovable and contains a global positioning device so we always know
where they're at.. If they ever try to leave the complex, it sounds an
alarm automatically as well as temporarily paralyzes them with a powerful
and incredibly painful electric shock, so we don't have the added expense
of guards or anything.  Once they're here, they're generally here for life
unless someone decides to sell them off.  That cuts training costs
drastically.  We only have to train a worker once and then a little
refresher course now and then if we reassign them to a new assignment.  We
leave off all the other crap you saw on the farm workers or even the
Colonel's team of 'ponies' - you know, the neck collars, the tit rings, the
banded genitals, the nose rings, etc.  Not necessary here in the plant and
we're worried it might get caught in the machinery or interfere with their
work.  No, we keep them clean and simple here - all those control devices
aren't needed in this work environment.  Besides, it saves down time from
accidents and all the expense of fitting them with those pretty little
gee-gaws to start with.  Simply not needed in manufacturing operations, no
siree."

     It was obvious the plant manager was proud of his smooth operation.

     "We've found, Clint, that good looks and big pricks has nothing to do
with long-term productivity, so we can buy up the workers at a cheaper rate
than those handsome well- equipped studs you see sold for pleasure slaves
or," looking at the Colonel with a smirk on his face, "as ponies and
chauffeurs at fantastic prices. And women can do a lot of the assembling
that doesn't require heavy lifting.  Actually, they're better than the men
at detail work, like fitting the timers into the washers and driers.  Since
ugly women are a drag on the market generally, we can buy them up cheap and
use them profitably here.  They tend to like it, because they know if they
work out well, we're not going to sell them off right away.  Women seem to
especially value stability in their lives."

     "The actual assembly lines are down this way," Jess said as he
continued his brisk pace. Clint saw hundreds of naked workers sitting
gingerly on what appeared to be bicycle seats while the assembly line moved
bench-height in front of them.  All of the workers looked alert, but
slightly on edge as they busily worked away to keep up with the assembly
line's pace.

     "These new seats are working out well, Colonel," the plant manager
addressed his boss. "That was a great idea you had.  I think it has upped
productivity considerably and you don't see anyone nodding off in the late
afternoon anymore."

     Turning to me, Jess explained.  "Each of those seats cradles their ass
which is spread over a moderate sized butt plug up their hole.  The workers
are flushed out thoroughly right before we chain their ankle collar to the
pedestal of the seat so they don't get any ideas of getting off that butt
plug during the day and once they're fitted in the seat, we hook up that
catheter you see coming out from between their legs which drains into that
pipe you see on the floor there goes directly to a storage tank outside.
Piss makes the best tanning agent in the world, you know, so we sell it to
a local leather works.  Every little bit of extra profit counts, you know.
But, back to what I was talking about. With the plugs and the catherers, no
one needs to take a toilet break throughout the entire 12 hour day so they
can be productive the entire time.  We feed them slave chow right before
they're caged for the night and first thing in the morning so no time is
wasted taking breaks for feeding.  With no clothes covering them up, they
don't mind the heat in the plant nearly as much as you or I
would. Especially since they are all body shaved once every other day to
maximize their natural cooling processes. Even there, we've figured how to
cut our labor costs to the bone.  They shower each other every morning so
they don't stink, body shave each other every other day, and give each
other sexual relief once a day right before caging so they don't get too
pent up.  They are forbidden to ever touch their own bodies so each slave
is assigned a 'buddy' and the two take care of each other: soaping,
rinsing, douching, shaving, and sucking or jerking or fucking - whatever
the two work out between them - just so both of them get their balls
drained once a day.  Makes them a hell of a lot less frustrated and much
more amiable to what we really want them to do here - work their butts off
putting washing machines together!  As they say, Clint, a happy worker is a
productive worker!"

     "What about the women workers?" I asked.

     "Same thing except it's co-ed generally.  That way they eventually get
knocked up.  They can work right up until the last two weeks usually; then
pop their pup; and back to work in a month or so.  That pup is shipped out
to one of Mr. Beddington's nurseries and, in 16 years or so, makes a very
nice addition to our overall profits when they're sold off at auction."

     "Seems like you have more men than women workers, is that right?" I
asked.

     "Yes, about three to one due to the nature of the work. So two out of
every three males has to take a male buddy whether he wants to or not.  The
other third gets a female buddy until he knocks her up.  But we rotate.  If
you have a female buddy, you're assigned a male buddy and placed on a
waiting list for another female.  That way, you're screwing pussy about
one-third of the time and poking butt or sucking your heart out the rest of
the time.  Works real well.  No matter what your persuasion, there's
something for everyone if you just have a little patience.  After a while,
no one really seems to care as long as they're getting off regularly.  I
think males are so horny they'd fuck a horse if that was what available!"
he laughed.

     "I haven't explained our incentive system yet," he continued.
"Obviously, you have to meet the assembly line's pace.  If you don't, you
get half-rations the first day, and if you don't keep up the next day, even
that is cut off until you get your act together.  If you get to a third day
and your still a laggard, we add some electric jolts (which are quite
memorable) right up your butt via those metal butt plugs.  After two or
three of those, you either are up to pace or you've passed out.  That's
about all it takes to keep the workers at a good production rate.  On the
other hand, it your assembly group asks to speed up the line by a stated
amount, say 5%, and is able to keep pace, you earn the right eventually to
work without the butt plug in you and, at a 10% increase, earn the right to
choose your buddy, which, of course, gives you the privilege of choosing
who you are bedding down with each night. A 15% increase gives you the
right to eat half slave chow, half table scraps from the security guards
tables; a 20% increase adds water on call and an afternoon snack.  I'm
happy to report, that about 15% of our entire working staff is now on at
least the 5% bonus rate and only about 2% are on any sort of negative
incentive on any given day.  The whole system works like a charm.  It gives
the workers a clear-cut avenue to a better, more comfortable life."

     "We're a long way from the farming operation with the steel-tipped
whips," I said admiringly.

     "Exactly," Jess beamed.  "And you don't see any of our workers' bodies
all torn up and bleeding either.  The average life span here in the plant
is actually considerably higher than blue-collar workers in the States,
Clint!  A good diet, lots of exercise, a clear-cut system that gives you
some control over your comfort level, and a wholly predictable environment.
We hardly ever have anyway die of a heart attack here!  Besides," he added
proudly.  "As you can see, we have workers here clear up until their late
70s.  Oh, they're not on the fast-paced assembly lines anymore, but you'll
see them in janitorial tasks, cleaning out the workers cages, maintenance
tasks, that sort of thing.  Why, just last week, a group of 70-year-olds
just finished painting the entire complex along with re-roofing some of the
buildings.  A little less sprightly than when they were first bought, but
still up there singing and whistling, working away at a pretty good clip."

     "Jess, I'm doomed," Clint said soberly.  "There's no way I can ever
compete with this system.  All I can say is, can I hire you today, and, if
so, can you get find the type of workers that fit into this system so
well."

     "Naw!  I'm happy right here.  But the Colonel here is just your man.
He can find you all the workers you want if you're real sweet to him and
have lots of money and I'm sure he can find a willing manager or two if
you're really interested.  Of course, Clint, people like me don't come
cheap!" he laughed.

     "That's the least of my worries, Jess.  What I'm worried about is the
money it's going to take to buy the workers I need.  That's a lot of money
up front, even at the cut rate price of $18000 a head."

     "Hate to disappoint you, Clint, but that's probably too low.  Eighteen
grand for a sturdy farm worker, more like $20000 on today's market for an
ugly, but durable factory worker.  But, Clint, they last for years and
years with the system we've got in place.  Hell, 20 grand is nothing if
you're talking about 50 years of work, seven days a week, twelve hours a
day.  What does that come to?"

     "A little over 9 cents an hour," Clint answered without hesitation.

     "Jesus, Clint, you're quick!  No wonder Colonel Beddington likes you."

     "Jess, my workers are costing me $38 an hour.  You're building
practically the same thing as I am for 9 cents an hour.  No wonder I'm
going broke."

     "Clint, the handwritings on the wall.  You're simply going to have to
change your means of production," Jess said soberly.

     "That's what I've been trying to tell him, but the stubborn fool keeps
yapping about morality issues."

     "Clint, get over it," Jess advised.  "My workers are happy once
they're settled in.  It's not fun to get yourself sold, but once you accept
the fact, you can make the most of it.  Look at these guys here - do you
really think your workers at home are any happier?  I doubt it.  Probably
bitching right now about how you don't pay them enough and how they should
go on strike and what a mean bastard you are.  Aren't I right, Clint?"

     "Dead right, Jess," Clint answered.  "You couldn't be more on target."

     "Well, Clint, you know what has to be done.  Now get off your ass and
do it.  There's a good market at Tsumeb and a couple more at Keetman-shoop
and Otjiwarongo.  And I'm sure Colonel Beddington knows of a hundred more
tucked here and there - probably some right close to your own plant back in
the states if you knew the right people to contact. "

                           CHAPTER 4

     The Colonel indicated it was time to leave and Clint thanked Jess, the
general manager for the excellent and informative tour of the manufacturing
complex, as well as his frank advice. The manager accompanied the two men
to the front entrance to see them off.

     The team of 'ponies' were exactly where they had left them, again
fully aroused - a fact that didn't escape the general manager.

     "I see you're still keeping them hard up all the time," the manager
laughed as he reached over and hefted the swollen balls of the black 'pony'
nearest him.  "If you ever let these boys get some relief, I wouldn't want
to be standing in front of them!"

     "I'm saving them for my house guest," the Colonel chuckled.  "I'm sure
Clint here likes a bed partner that's hot to trot."

     Clint Morgan blushed bright red and stared at the Colonel.

     "Colonel, I don't want.....  I never said...  where did you get the
idea that I would.......  Ah. Hell.....  I'm too upset to even respond to
that," Clint spit out. "Go peddle your wares somewhere else, Charles.
That's just absurd."

     "Just a joke, Clint.  Calm down.  You're losing your sense of humor
lately, what with your financial difficulties and all.  I thought you could
still take a little joke.  I'm sorry you've lost your excellent sense of
humor over all of this!"

     "Yeah, sure..." Clint said, still upset by the Colonel's constant
needling and the endless references to his financial difficulties.

     "I was going to suggest we visit the bauxite mines next, but Clint,
it's obvious you're getting tired.  I suppose the long flight over has
taken its toll.  Let's put off the mine visit until tomorrow and go back to
the house and rest up," the Colonel replied as he lifted the reins and
jerked sharply on the nose-rings with the command, "Pace 40, to the
mansion."

     Clint turned back and waved to Jess as the rig zoomed ahead, the
familiar sound of strained, but regular panting once again audible as the
'ponies' settled into the long ride back to the Colonel's impressive
domicile.

     "Once we're back at the house and get comfortable, I've got a
proposition for you I think will solve a lot of your problems," the Colonel
said softly.

     "Does it involve some the ideas Jess wanted me to consider?" Clint
responded, eager the Colonel's interests were now back in the area of
business.

     "That, and more," the Colonel promised. "You still interested, Clint?"

     "I don't think I can afford not to be at this point, Colonel," Clint
answered soberly.

     "Well, then, good enough.  Tell you what, Clint. It's about four
o'clock now, so when we get back, I need some time to look over some
business reports and other matters.  Why don't you take a nice refreshing
swim, have a good drink, and I'll send that black chauffeur you met this
morning up to your suite for a good relaxing massage - the boy has fingers
like magic.  We'll meet for supper around eight o'clock and then talk a
little business, if that's alright with you.  That way, we can both get to
bed relatively early for a busy day tomorrow."

     "Sounds great, Colonel.  You're right. I am beginning to wind down a
little - what with the flight over and all."

     The Colonel pulled slightly on the nose-rings as he shouted, "Pace 50"
to the 'ponies' as he brought the whip out of its holders and smacked both
of the 'ponies' hard on their butts.  The rig sped ahead as they gasp out a
groan from the recent smacks.

     "No use wasting time getting back," the Colonel muttered, as he
ordered, "Pace 60" accompanied by a fresh round of lashings with the
carriage whip that frayed over the shoulders, back, butts, and thighs of
the sweating 'ponies" who, despite their wheezing lungs, wailed in agony.

     Within 15 minutes, the rig was at the front entrance to the mansion as
the two 'ponies' struggled to stay upright until the two passengers were
out of the rig.  At that point, they simply collapsed toward the ground as
far as their nose leashes would allow, wheezing and gasping for breath as
their tortured legs quivered before cramping completely up.

     The Colonel ignored them, but when I went to help, the Colonel took my
arm and wisked me away.  "They'll be fine, Clint.  They always put on a
show after a long brisk run like that, but remember, they're fresh from
their training.  In another month or so, this will seem as nothing to them
and they will be embarrassed at their bad manners now."

     Colonel Beddington's steward was quickly at the front entrance
awaiting instructions.

     "Show Mr. Morgan to the guest suite closest to the pool.  Make sure he
is afforded complete privacy, that you arrange a bartender for him at the
pool, and that my black chauffeur is completely cleaned and sent to his
suite as soon as possible.  Then tell the chef we will be dining around
eight in the main dining room, featuring American-style dishes since our
guest has enough to adjust to without handling an exotic menu.  We'll be
retiring around 11 with plans to be on our way fairly early tomorrow, say
with breakfast at 8:30, this time poolside and again American-style.  We'll
each need a body servant to attend us overnight, but I'll discuss those
arrangements with you later in my quarters."

     "Yes, master," the steward said with a low bow and then quiet waited
with his head bowed until the Colonel's guest deigned to follow him to the
designated guest quarters.

     "Is he a.... you know.... a..?" Clint asked.

     "Slave?"  Colonel Beddington's eyes sparkled as he enjoyed Clint's
obvious uneasiness being around owned people.  "Of course, Clint.  You can
say it - it won't hurt you.  S-L-A-V-E.  It's a common word in this
household, believe me."

     With that, Clint followed the steward some distance to an absolutely
beautiful suite of rooms which was located poolside.  After showing him the
airconditioning control, the steward bowed and quickly left.  Clint
immediately investigated his new surroundings. The suite included a huge
bedroom featuring a king-size bed, tall Arabian style ceilings, a gorgeous
mosaic tile floor covered partially with beautiful handmade Persian rugs, a
huge bath with Jacuzzi, an sitting room with a plasma type TV covering one
wall, a DVD/VHS/CD stereo player, and all leather furniture.  Strangely,
off to one side of the master bedroom, almost like another closet, was as a
tiny adjoining room with a small pallet on the floor, a manacle fastened to
the wall, and a tiny adjoining bathroom featuring a douche nozzle attached
to a bidet, a simple shower, and a small drain hole in the floor with a
water faucet , obviously meant to serve as a toilet of sorts. On a wall
shelf in this tiny room, Clint could see razors, bottles of lotion, soaps,
shampoos, and oils, as well as tubes of lubricant. Thinking of the steward
who had just left, Clint suspected it was an attendant's room.

     Since no one else seemed to be staying in any of the other guest
suites and since the pool was completely private, Clint stripped and dove
into the pool in the buff - he hadn't thought to bring one on such short
notice and he couldn't find one in any of the wardrobes in the room.
Compared to what he had seen today, his private little dip in a totally
secluded pool seemed like nothing. As the swim continued, he noticed a
servant, probably the commanded bartender, take a position behind a bar,
discretely keeping his eyes averted from the Colonel's guest in the
pool. As he emerging from the refreshing water after taking a number of
laps, Clint wrapped a fluffy white towel around his torso, ordered up a gin
and tonic, and sauntered back to his suite drink in hand.  Inside, standing
quietly next to the bed, was the black chauffeur, as naked as Clint had
last seen him in "display" early this morning when he had first arrived.
Clint stared before catching himself, startled again at how incredibly
handsome the black actually was and fascinated with the black's blatant
brass body fittings, let alone his body brands.

     "Master would like a relaxing massage?" the black asked in passable
English, almost beseechingly.

     "Sounds good," Clint responded as he flopped down on the bed back side
up, carefully keeping the towel wrapped around his middle since he felt his
own organ beginning to swell just from the sight of the young man placed at
his disposal.

     The black swiftly poured some exotically scented oil on Clint's
exposed back from a nearby table, climbed onto the bed so he could staddle
the body beneath him and rested his balls on Clint's rump as he proceeded
to gently probe and massage every muscle in Clint's back.  It was clearly
the best massage Clint had ever experienced and he was lulled into a
semi-sleep, hardly noticing when the black very quietly slid down his body
and removed the towel so as to massage his butt and lower legs as well as
his back and shoulders.

     Clint responded with a sensuousness he hadn't felt in years and was
only dimly aware of his huge erection, matched only by the feel of the
black's balls and rampant prick, now touching his butt and thighs as little
drops of the black's pre-cum dripped onto his skin to be mixed with the
massage oils.

     Clint was hardly aware when the black gently rolled him onto his back
and again slid his body up to massage Clint's shoulders, pecs, and abs.
The masseuse's huge genitals, now fully erect and dripping and appearing
even bigger than they were due to the thick genital banding, were dangled
right in front of Clint as the black turned around to face Clint's thighs,
just inches from his mouth.  As Clint squirmed from this new eroticism, he
felt the black's mouth close over his own erect organ and slide down to the
root.

     "Oh!" Clint moaned. "No, stop, stop..Oh!"

     But the black didn't seem to understand and Clint did nothing to stop
his actions.  In seconds following such intense stimulation, Clint shot
volley after volley of pent-up cum into the black's eager mouth.

     After he had fully discharged into the black's open throat, Clint
jumped from the bed and grabbed his towel for cover.

     "That's enough of that, boy," he snapped as he pointed to the door.

     "Sorry, master.  Sorry, master," the black pleaded as he quickly
headed for the door. "I always suck a master off when finishing up a
massage, master.  That's the way I was taught, master.  I'm sorry if I
overstepped my bounds, master. It won't happen again, master, if you not
want it.  Please don't report me to the steward for a whipping, master!"

     "Get out of here, you little whore, or I will report you to someone or
other," Clint shouted, more angry at letting himself get seduced by the
black than being angry at the poor black slave himself who probably was
ordered to suck people off routinely.

     Supper at exactly as scheduled and the food was delicious, although
Clint was a little distracted by bevy of stark naked waiters attending
them, changing plates and silverware at each course and standing in the
prescribed 'display' position when not in direct service.  Each waiter was
fully body shaved, outfitted with a heavy brass collar, tit rings, and
genitally banded.

     "Colonel, why are all these guys kept naked all the time?" Clint
asked, wanting to convey to the Colonel this constant parade of nudity made
him uncomfortable as he waved to the waiters standing around the edge of
the table, ready in an instance to offer any service.

     "Keeps them humble," the Colonel laughed.  "Besides, I like to look at
their bodies.  Pretty, aren't they?  Actually, Clint, almost all slaves are
kept naked.  Cuts out the clothing costs, they can't hide anything from you
that way, it reminds them of their status in life, you can pretty well
judge their emotions of the moment (pointing to a nearby waiter with a huge
erection), and most of them have damn nice bodies - no need to hide a good
body.  If it makes you uncomfortable, maybe you should ask yourself why?"
the Colonel added with a piecing look.

     "Well, these guys really bother me, Colonel.  They're all white guys
that remind me too much of myself, I guess.  Jesus, Colonel, they could
just as easily be you or me standing there," Clint said somewhat
apprehensively.

     "Are you built that well?" the Colonel asked nonchalantly.

     "Jesus, Colonel, lighten up, will you?  You know this slavery stuff is
kind of hard for me to get used to."

     "Oh, you'll get used to it soon enough," the Colonel assured Clint
with a big smile.  "Meanwhile, relax and enjoy the meal and - " he paused
meaningfully - "the service, even if it is in the buff."

     Clint relaxed some, never having answered the impertinent question
about his own bodily characteristics, but still felt about half way through
the dinner that he was cast in some weird porn movie, but the Colonel was
all business.

     "Clint, I've figured it all out.  You sell your manufacturing business
to me for $28 a share.  That's $3 more than the highest that stock has ever
been.  I, as the new owner, will close your plant in the states and move
all operations over here.  We can put your airconditioners together here at
such a savings that we can lower the price of the damn things to $170
instead of the $225 you're charging and up the quality to boot and still
make profits like you could only dream about.  We can underbid every one of
your competitors and, within two years, can probably corner the market.
Hell, we can sell them under a variety of brand names, depending on who
offers us the best contract.  Selling out the company now will end you up
with enough money to last a lifetime, Clint!"

     "What's my role in all this, other than taking all your money?" Clint
responded, somewhat leery.

     "That's the best part, Clint.  I'm going to make you a junior partner
in my own corporation.  You'll have a very active role in the new
operation."

     "Really?  Would I have to move over here to Namibia?" Clint asked,
perking up a little.

     "Sure would, but you could build your own mansion and live like a
king.  Hell, Clint, you don't have a family to worry about anyway.  You can
do what you want.  In essence, you are all alone in this world, aren't you,
now that your parents have passed on.  No brothers or sisters, no children,
no aunts or uncles - you're totally independent according to that TIME
magazine article on you."

     "That's right, Colonel.  But, moving over here would be quite an
adjustment for me."

     "Think of telling that union that's plaguing you to lump it - that
should be some satisfaction to you as you see all those whiners losing
their jobs when we board up your plant with an "Out of Business" sign on
it.  And that President of yours will probably give you a national award
for union-busting, the way he seems to despise labor, despite the fact that
thousands more will be out of work in your country.  You'll end up with a
barrel of money, the air conditioner will still have your name on it, and
those fuckers that drove you out of business with their unreasonable wage
demands will starve to death.  Furthermore, the business editor of TIME
magazine will call you a genius for coming out of this right side up."

     Clint instinctually realized that Colonel Beddington had worked out
the the very best solution to his problem: he saved face; he made a huge
profit for all his time and effort; and he would have an important role in
one of the most successful multinational business organizations in the
world.  Preserving his reputation was important, he thought, especially
after TIME magazine had blown his 'genius' all out of proportion two years
ago. He would end up a multimillionaire, preserving his capitol for future
ventures; and would have something to do, although his role in Colonel
Beddington's organization seemed rather vague at this point. He then
reviewed his options.  Try as he might, he couldn't see many alternatives
to the Beddington offer than bankruptcy, public humiliation, and looking
for a job.

     "Colonel, meet your new junior partner!" Clint smiled.

     "I knew you'd see the wisdom of moving forward rather than moping
around about past problems.  I never thought for a moment you were dumb, so
I've taken the liberty of having my lawyers prepare the buy-out contract
for your airconditioning business, plus a contract for personal employment
within my organization, as well as a press release announcing the
transition.  The buy-out contract gives you the $28 a share I mentioned;
the employment contract is listed as $1 because I intend to pay you in
stock in the newly formed airconditioning manufacturing company which will
be far more advantageous to you in the long-term, and the press release is
one of those routine things my public relations department is good at
handling.  Just sign off on these contractual details and we're in
business."  The Colonel motioned for one of the waiters to take the slew of
legal papers over for Clint's signature.

     "Tomorrow morning, if it's alright with you, Clint, I was hoping to
take you out to see my mining operations here on the estate.  It's run
somewhat differently than the manufacturing and farming operations, as
would be expected.  Nevertheless, it's another model of labor management
that's worth looking at.  Do you think we could breakfast together around
10 and then ride out to the mines?"

     "I don't see why not, Colonel, especially now that I'm to be a junior
partner in charge of the airconditioning manufacturing.  I suppose I should
bone up on all the corporate models you have around here."

     "Exactly, Clint," the Colonel answered enthusiastically as Clint
quickly signed the documents placed in front of him rather cursively.  "I
see my judgment of you is dead right, Clint," the Colonel said as the
waiter brought the papers back to him.  "You're bold and decisive - once
you've made a decision, you act upon it without hesitancy.  I like that
trait - it's common in the top tier of executive material.  Let me tell
you, Clint, now that the decision has been made, that if you had stalled at
this point - you know, said you had to have your lawyers go over the
contracts; you needed time to study the documents; you needed more time to
think it over - I would have withdrawn my offer.  I can't work effectively
with indecisive people."

     "That's a compliment, I suppose, Colonel," Clint said brightly.  "Some
of my critics call it impulsive, not decisive," he laughed.

     Both men quickly finished the meal and watched the handsome tanned
whites quickly clear the table. Clint noticed three were blue-eyed blonds,
one was a green-eyed red head, and the remaining two were black haired with
blue eyes.

     "Where did these waiters come from originally?" Clint asked his host.

     The Colonel quickly scanned the lot of waiters.  "As I recall, one of
the blonds and the red head were bought at the Amsterdam market; one of the
black haired fellows we bought locally - how he got there I'll never know -
and the other two, the blond and the black haired, are home-bred."

     "Home bred?" Clint asked, his eyes arching quizzically.

     "Yes, home bred from our own breeding operations here on the estate.
When the pups come of age, we keep the best of the lot and market the rest
- we're marketing about 100 a year on the average now, despite the fact
we're keeping another hundred for our own needs.  That black haired boy is
probably a product of someone else's local breeding operations - it's hard
to believe he got himself shipped all the way down here from Europe or
America just to end up in a local market."

     Clint noticed the Colonel never deigned to ask the waiters themselves
where they came from nor did any of them offer any information
spontaneously.

     "I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you a bed partner for the
night," the Colonel said casually.  I could see you were taken with my
black chauffeur, so I've arranged for him to return to your room for the
night."

     "No thanks, Colonel.  He took too many liberties in the massage he
gave me this afternoon.  I had to send him away."

     "I'm sorry to hear that, Clint.  He had been told to offer his body to
you any way you wanted, but the absolute minimum would be a good blow job
or he would face immediate and severe punishment."

     "My God, Colonel.  So that's it.  No wonder he was crawling all over
me, pretending it was a massage.  He gave a good massage, all right, but he
didn't stop at that."

     "Good," the Colonel replied pleasantly.  "We won't have to punish him
after all. Didn't you enjoy the pleasure he offered you?"

     "Colonel!  It's none of your business, but I'm not gay," Clint said
adamantly.

     "Clint, drop the act, will you?  Do you think I'm stupid.  First, the
minute you laid eyes on the chauffeur's naked body, you sprang a boner so
big it would have been impossible to hide it.  Second, what about those
charges racked up seven days a week to 'Paradise Modeling' back in the
states - always with the request for a handsome, very muscular well- hung
black stud."

     Clint turned white in raw shock.  "Colonel - how did you know?  How
could you find that out?  That's impossible - How long have you known about
this?  You never said a word," he sputtered and then blushed deeply.

     "Clint," the Colonel replied calmly.  "Don't take me for a fool.  Do
you think for a minute I would do business with anyone I didn't know
without a thorough background check.  The fact you have a weakness for good
looking black studs doesn't bother me in the slightest.  I myself find them
quite stimulating in bed.  But thinking you could keep your proclivities
secret from me is something else.  Were you so naive that you thought
renting those bed bucks every single night through a discrete modeling
agency would keep the truth from me?"

     Clint blushed even more and furtively looked around before saying,
"Colonel, what else have you found out in your 'background check?'"

     "Clint, we have your complete medical history and records, a list of
all the DVDs you bothered to buy for your own collection; the books you
kept hidden back at your home; complete bank records on every transaction
you ever made; your tax records for the past 10 years; your appointment
calendar for the past three years - shall I go on?"

     "No," Clint said quietly.  "And what's your conclusion?"

     "You're quite healthy with no diseases; you're bi-sexual, but mainly
homosexual in your activities; you got a good healthy sex drive that needs
a constant source of relief; you're basically honest in your business
dealings; your financial condition is about what you say it is; and you're
a hard, well-motivated and very bright man whose main interest is your own
public image and reputation.  My black chauffeur has added that your prick
is a good thick 11 inches long when fully aroused, that your balls are
large and well shaped; that you have a very nice looking, well muscled body
yourself, and that your discharges are copious and fresh tasting.  That's
about it."

     "Jesus," was all Clint could say as he tried to absorb the impact of
the Colonel's casual report.

     "Anything I missed?" the Colonel said brightly.

     "No, I think you've covered it all," Clint said bitterly.  "Not that
most of that stuff is any of your business."

     "Oh, but it is my business, Clint.  But I did leave out you have a
long history of being a quick learner."

     "What now?" Clint said resentfully. "Now that you know how many times
I jacked off since I was 12."

     "What now? Clint, don't be so bitter.  That's the way the business
world works.  You don't think for a minute I got to where I'm at operating
on a bunch of hunches and guesses, do you?  Information is power, Clint.
You, of all people, should know that by now.  But for right now, if that's
what you meant, you're going to go back to your room and really enjoy that
black chauffeur I've put at your disposal without some silly guilt
complexes - I mean put that boy through his paces tonight just like you did
all those thousands of black studs you rented night after night.  And I'm
going to plow the ass of one of my ponies tonight until his ass is so sore
I imagine his ass will be bleeding before we even start our little ride
tomorrow morning to the mines.  Think of tonight as a black ass riding
academy in that we'll both we riding handsome black mounts," the Colonel
laughed as he arose and the steward led me back to the guest suite where,
sure enough, the black chauffeur was kneeling beside the bed.

     After I'd enjoyed the black's body to my complete satisfaction, I laid
back and wondered what the hell I was doing?  Had I acted too impulsively?
Could I adjust to living so decadently here in Namibia, using slave labor
to produce my airconditioners at their new low price?  Could I really
accept using slaves, who had no say-so in the matter, for my own pleasure
as I had just done with the black chauffeur who simply said "Thank you,
master," after I had forcefully screwed him the umpteeth time. At least,
the whores I had hired got paid extremely well for their cooperation in
meeting my needs. Could I trust the Colonel, who always keep me on edge
somehow, and who now knew EVERYTHING about me, things I had always
considered totally private?

     Meanwhile, the Colonel, having finished his enjoyment of one of the
black 'ponies' bodies once again, checked the notarized signatures on the
legal papers his guest had signed once again and chuckled.  Tomorrow, the
eager young Clint was in for a surprise!

                           CHAPTER 5

     The next morning, Clint awoke to find the black chauffeur's ass still
nestled next to him.

     "Does the master want to fuck me again?" the black asked politely, "or
perhaps a nice sucking?"

     Groggy from the previous night's activities but fully aware of his
morning erection, Clint could only mumble "Suck," whereupon the black slave
quickly shifted his body around and performed as commanded.  The black had
developed amazing oral skills and, within a minute or so, Clint was
unloading copiously once again, this time down the slave's throat.

     "That's it," Clint said, abruptly dismissing the slave, whereupon the
slave quickly got off the bed and assumed a kneeling position near the
bath.

     Clint took a quick shower (accepting the slave's help in the matter)
and then let the slave dress him in the light-weight, casual clothes
appropriate for the heat of the region. As soon as he was dressed and
groomed, Clint dismissed the slave.

     "Go back to wherever you came from," he pointed to the door with his
finger.  Realizing how harsh that sounded, he added, "You're quite good in
bed, boy."

     "Thank you, master," the slave said, sincerely pleased by the
unexpected praise, "Thank you, master, for using this slave's body" as he
quickly left the room to report back to the steward on the night's events.

     The breakfast pool-side was American-style, as promised, and was
served by the same bevy of nude white waiters that Clint experienced at
dinner the night before. He wondered if they ever got time off and then
realized how ridiculous such a notion must seem in this part of the world.

     "I was hoping to show you the bauxite mines this morning, Clint," the
Colonel said cheerily as he downed a huge breakfast of pancakes, ham and
eggs. "We can get there in the rig in about 20 minutes. I'm sure you're
find the visit interesting."

     "You're the boss, now, I suppose, Charles.  I don't know when all
those papers I signed last night take effect, but, I suppose it really
doesn't matter.  I'm effectively working for you now, or soon will be. So I
suppose I should start learning everything I can about your operations over
here!"

     "That's the spirit, Clint.  For all practical purposes, your contract
goes into effect as of today, although I don't want to rush you or
anything.  You can come onboard whenever you feel ready for the challenge -
at your level, we don't really go by what's on paper, do we?"

     "Well, let's get out to your mines while it's still reasonably cool,
although I suspect, Colonel, that you just want the excuse to drive your
rig around today," I smiled.

     "That too," the Colonel laughed as he reached to one of the nearby
waiters who was showing a huge erection and began vigorously stroking him.
"Ever had cum syrup on your pancakes, Clint?" he chuckled as he continued
to stroke the hapless slave until, with the Colonel's firm grip on his
penis, the slave erupted onto the hot pancakes with gobs of steaming white
cum. "Delicious!" he commented as he quickly downed the newly garnished
pancake. "Fresh cum from a young stud is supposed to have anti-aging
qualities to it, but I don't think anyone has ever really scientifically
proved it yet.  Me, I just like the taste.  Help yourself, Clint, if you
want.  These waiters look forward to being milked this time of day - it's
one of the few opportunities they get to have their balls drained."

     Clint was again literally speechless, shocked at the Colonel's
callousness toward the estate's staff as well as his obvious decadent
lifestyle.  He mused whether other internationally acclaimed titans were
equally debased.  At least, his use of the hundreds of male whores he
employed from the 'modeling agency' for his own pleasure over the years had
been with young men who volunteered to do it and were certainly well paid
for their efforts. These young men of the Colonel's had no choice in the
matter and were paid nothing for their cooperation.  Their reward,
probably, was escaping yet another beating.

     "Not right now, Colonel," Clint hedged.

     "That black boy wear you out?" the Colonel laughed.  "He looked all
tuckered out when I saw him checking in with the steward a while ago.  You
must have plowed his ass good the way he was walking."

     As Clint blushed, he realized the Colonel took delight in embarrassing
and humiliating him every chance he got.  He supposed there was a purpose
to it other than raw sadism.  Perhaps the Colonel was gently introducing
him to the realities of a life filled with slaves - a life he would need to
adjust to in the near future. Or, perhaps, he thought with genuine
admonition, the Colonel really was a sadist who enjoyed humiliating not
just his bought human property, but everyone who worked for him also.

     When Clint didn't reply, the Colonel abruptly stood up, announcing
"Well, Clint, we might as well get on our way, hadn't we?"

     With that, the Colonel and Clint swiftly walked to the main entrance
of the estate where the light-weight rig, with the same two sleek black
'ponies' as yesterday, was stationed in readiness.
     As soon as the two men were aboard, the Colonel jerked the reins to
the connecting nose-rings and commanded, "Pace 40, to the mines."

     The rig swiftly gained speed as Clint marveled at the ponies'
magnificent physiques and their churning butts working around the huge
dildo embedded once again in them.  Within minutes, the usual heavy
breathing became audible, sweat once again coated the ponies' bodies, and
every muscle in the black slave's bodies showed the strain of the load
imposed upon. Despite their exertions, the sex-starved ponies, tightly
clinched by their genital banding, were displaying full erections even as
they pranced down the road, a phenomenon the Colonel was quick to point
out.

     "Apparently, bedding the ponies down last night has got them all
worked up," the Colonel said delightedly. "Those plugs up their butts had
loosened them up nicely, but, surprisingly, they squirmed around a lot when
I fucked them - I suppose they were still sore from the dildos causing a
little bleeding yesterday afternoon.  But all that squirming and moaning
sure lets you know they're feeling the fuck - kind of adds, if you ask me.
It's quite a ways, so I think we'll just go at a normal pace this morning.
I'm not sure I've got the strength this early in the morning to properly
motivate them to a pace of 60 or so," he sighed as he again jerked sharply
on the ponies' nose-rings.

     They rode on for some time, just listening to the rhythmic panting and
gasping for breath of the laboring ponies.  The air was warm but crisp and
the countryside was alive with birds singing and small animals scurrying
around the harsh environment. Before long, the rig arrived at a huge hole
in the ground, and again the two ponies were greeted by the sight of
hundreds and hundreds of heavily muscled slaves manacled at both hands and
feet as well as, of course, collared, but this time with choke collars.

     All of these mine slaves were stark nude - the master, here as
elsewhere, wasted no money in clothing them since they were out of sight
anyway and clothing would only get in the way of their work. Their wrist
chains allowed them to lift and carry, swing the heavy picks and hammers,
while the leg chains were only long enough to allow hobbled movement. These
slaves were obviously viewed as strictly draft stock - even more so than
the farm stock.  Although considerably larger and even more muscular than
the farm slaves, they had never been bathed or shaved, their hair was
matted into dread locks, and the lack of any rest breaks throughout the day
meant their only choice was to eliminate as they worked.  Hence they were
generally coated across their backside with their own excrement. The stench
from their bodies reached even the rig the Colonel and Clint were seated
in, some hundreds of feet away and the 'ponies' hitched to the rigs almost
retched from the ghastly smell of years of accumulated human sweat,
excrement, and even spent semen as the desperate slaves ejaculated
spontaneously at the slightest provocation after years of enforced
abstinence.

     Overseers' whips cracked unceasingly over the backs of the slaves,
while hot branding irons and electric prods stood ready to "motivate" the
more recalcitrant slaves.  Most of the slaves worked in gangs, leashed
together by leg manacles as well as by the choke collars around their
necks, forcing them to work as a unit.  Some work units loosened the
bauxite-rich soil with their heavy picks; other work units, following
behind, loaded the large capacity ore wheelbarrows with large shovels;
other units hauled the heavy loads in the huge wheelbarrows to a smelter
pit; where other units separated the bauxite from the ore, an extremely
risky job exposing them to intense heat, sparking arcs of electricity used
in separating the aluminum from the bauxite, and suffocating, poisonous
fumes. Finally, another group of work units hauled the raw aluminum ingots
into slave-drawn wagons for the long haul to a shipping port.  Despite
whatever color they may have once been, all the workers were solid gray,
their bodies covered by the mineral laden dust of the mining activities and
most of their eyes, mouths, and any open wounds were red from the constant
irritation of the bauxite powder.  The gang system, the Colonel explained,
was used by many owners of road and building construction, farm, and mine
slaves and generally meant fewer supervisors were needed, work efforts were
kept coordinated relatively easy, and it kept any individual insurrections
to a minimum.  You either did as the others did or strangled to death as
the pressure on the choke collar around your neck cut off your wind pipe.

     The Chief Mining Overseer spotted his master and ran as quickly as
possible to kneel and bow before him in the unexpected visit.

     "Everything in order?" Col. Beddington queried.

     "Yes, master," the Chief Overseer responded with his eyes to the
ground.

     "Production?" Col. Beddington snapped.

     "At record levels, Master," the overseer humbly replied.  "And, I'm
happy to report, with less than normal death rate among the stock."

     "Sturdier stock or are you getting slack in your discipline?"
Col. Beddington shot back.

     "Neither, Master," the overseer responded.  "Discipline standards are
kept high here, Master, and the stock is probably as surly as ever,
although they are a little bigger and more muscular than the last lots
we've had.  But your choke collars and leg leashing suggestions seem to be
inspired, master," the overseer beamed.  "Since we started the technique,
production has gone up over 10 percent and slave replacement needs have
dropped considerably.  We should see sharply increased profits in ingot
production this year," he boasted.

     "And the downside?" Col. Beddington coached.

     "Nothing serious, master," the overseer continued.  "A few of the more
recalcitrant have suffered considerable damage to their throats and ankles,
but, master, they now seem to work just as hard as the others, Nothing like
some simple pain to teach these brutes what's expected of them, seems
like," the overseer mused. "That, and cutting their air off the minute they
don't cooperate."

     "Keep the good work up, Chief Overseer," Col. Beddington said as he
shifted position in the rig's beautifully upholstered seat while fiddling
with the nose-ring leashes of the 'ponies' who stood rigidly erect in their
harnesses to prevent the huge intruding dildo from moving within them.

     "Thank you, Master," the overseer said in an obvious, almost reverent,
awe at the magnificent display of the ponies, once again fully erect, in
front of him.  As he eyed the handsome 'ponies,' his own erection also
became obvious as he too was kept nude.

     "Like those boys, do you?" Col. Beddington teased, as he pointed to
his 'ponies.'

     "Yes, Master," the Chief Overseer said with lust in his eyes.

     "Would you like to bed down one of them, Chief Overseer?"

     "Of course, Master, who wouldn't?," the Chief Overseer replied.

     "What's their appeal to you, Chief Overseer?  After all, you can fuck
any of the slaves under you at any time, as I'm sure you do at every
opportunity.  That gives you a choice of thousands, literally of any race,
any color, any hair or eye color imaginable, any possible peculiar physique
characteristics."

     "Yes, master.  While your 'pony' boys are muscular like the slaves
under my lash, they're also extremely handsome and so clean, especially
with their bodies shaved clean of all hair, and they don't smell and there
are no bugs crawling through the hair on their head, and their manhood, so
proudly displayed with that ring around their balls, is just magnificent,
especially since it's not hidden behind some mound of filthy hair.  They
would be the envy of any master in the world, I'd wager."

     "That's why they're bred regularly, Chief Overseer, and the animals
here aren't.  But I could see where you would eventually tire of using the
stock here for your own pleasures, Overseer.  Next time you report to my
mansion, we've give you a bath to clean you up and I'll let you use one of
my ponies here as a little bonus for exceeding your quotas in the quarry."

     [With that announcement, both of the 'ponies' under discussion
shuddered in utter revulsion, but made every effort to hide their own
reaction to the invitation, knowing any response other than eager
acceptance would lead to unbelievable new tortures.]

     "Thank you, Master, but are you sure you want to let a mere slave use
another slave of their caliber and quality just because he was doing his
master's bidding?"

     "You're right, Overseer, it is a generous offer, but I feel you
deserve it, and it won't hurt any of the boys here at all - they're used to
regular use, I'm sure you know."

     "Yes, Master.  I'll forever be grateful."

     "Just make sure you clean thoroughly before using them," Colonel
Beddington warned.

     "Keep the good work up, Chief Overseer," Col. Beddington said,
dismissing the supervisory slave, "and don't hesitate to use those choke
collars - this may be the best method we've come up with yet to motivate
this type of draft animal."

     "Pace 30 back to the mansion," Col. Beddington ordered as the rig
smoothly started up again in response to his jerk on the slave's
nose-rings.

     Clint, who hadn't said a word the entire time they were at the mining
operation, once again found himself in a state of shock.  The scene he had
just witnessed was a demonstration in absolute power over other humans that
was unfathomable in any world he knew of up to that point.  Not only could
a internationally-acclaimed titan such as Colonel Beddington own thousands
and thousands of bodies all for the sole purpose of multiplying his wealth
and prosperity, but now, in addition, the handsome, the heavily endowed,
the extremely well built, were bent to the task of yielding every pleasure
their body could offer their master for his personal use and
enjoyment. . And, Clint noticed, the slaves he had seen this morning (or
any yesterday as far as that went) seemed to think that their condition
would ever change or that their world would ever be different from what it
was. He was shocked at how quickly humans adopted to the most horrid
conditions and that human perception of both themselves as permanent slaves
with no rights whatsoever and their masters as gods entitled to all their
bodies had to offer quickly took root if the conditions were right.
Colonel Beddington had made sure the conditions were right, of course, or
he couldn't have pulled this off.  That perhaps was the real genius of the
man.

     "We're giving Alcoa and Reynolds a real run for their money," the
Colonel said proudly as the rig progressed forward smoothly. "Another few
years and there is no way they can meet our price per ton of aluminum
ingots.  All that fancy equipment they use in their mining operations cost
big bucks, let me tell you, and maintenance costs are terrible even after
you buy it.  Besides, they have to pay their operators of all that high
technology about $45 an hour after you figure in the fringes. As you can
see, here we just keep it simple.  A few picks and shovels for extracting
the ore, those big wheelbarrows and wagons for transporting the stuff, and
a manual smelter. It's slower, I grant you, but the costs of production are
minimal.  Even figuring in the initial cost, feeding, and depreciation on
the workers, our electricity costs at the smelter run higher each day than
our labor costs.  There's no way Alcoa and their ilk can ever compete in
the long haul."

     "How long does a worker last there?" was all Clint could think to ask.

     "Longer than you think, Clint, if you buy them young and sturdy to
start with.  Last I heard, we're depreciating them over a 15-year period
now.  When we first started out, Clint," he ruminated, "they weren't
lasting longer than about 8 years.  But with a good diet that the slave
chow affords them nowadays, some antibiotics to ward off disease, and
cutting the work day to 15 hours seven days a week, we've managed to almost
double the payoff from our investment," the Colonel replied proudly.

     "What do they cost to start with generally?" Clint asked, his sense of
reality stepping outside his grasp.

     "Oh, $15,000 to $17,000 a head at current prices. Of course, we're
talking about 18 year olds normally that are fully developed and have
muscled out already.  Younger ones costs a lot less, as do those much older
than 20 or so in that some of their work life is already used up.
Remember, though, Clint, we're talking about big and sturdy stock with not
much else going for.  We're not talking about educated stock, good looking
bucks, well hung studs, or anything like that - just ordinary draft slaves.
Generally buy them in wholesale lots of 50 - they run a lot cheaper that
way."

     "That's a little over $1000 a year depreciation per head.  That
wouldn't even pay for the coffee at break time at my plant!" Clint said
bitterly.

     "Welcome to the new economy!" the Colonel said brightly.  "See what I
mean about driving the traditional mining companies out of business before
they know what happened - and them with all that fancy equipment always
breaking down," he snorted.

     The Colonel was glad Clint seemed to be coming around to his way of
thinking.  In the life he had planned for Clint's future, such a change in
cognition was absolutely necessary if Clint was going to adjust to his new
life without too much trouble.  As he idly pulled and tugged on the ponies'
nose-rings, enjoying their little groans of raw pain as he did so, he
reflected that his own destiny as an acclaimed leader of men was to own, to
rule, to enjoy, and to be pleasured.  His slaves were destined to be
nothing more than owned property, their lives directed solely toward
meeting his needs as their owner, and contributing to their owner's
material prosperity and sense of ultimate power. Such was the structure of
a successful multinational corporate world : a world which had redefined,
restructured, and now marketed to those who could afford to materially
indulge themselves in a consumer economy.  Clint would soon be a part of
this.

     Meanwhile, back at Colonel Beddington's mansion, the steward was busy
finalizing the preparations for Clint's return along with the slave
outfitter, who had just arrived from one of the nearby auction centers.  As
he checked over his preparations, he and the outfitter laid out a 17" x 3"
slave collar and a 1" x 6" genital band, an assortment of coordinated tit
rings, and a suitable matching nose ring.  The sizes laid out were based on
estimates given him by the black chauffeur who had been taking some
measurements when his temporary master had finally fallen asleep last
night.

     "Is the master going to let you break him in, Owondo?" the steward
asked the black chauffeur.

     "Probably, Sir," the black chauffeur replied, "when the time comes."
Looking shyly at his supervisor, he added, "Only seems fitting since the
white man fucked me last night so long and hard I could hardly walk this
morning."

     "Won't be long until he will find himself being sent to one of the
master's guests and getting himself fucked until he's raw," the steward
chortled.

     At that same time, the Colonel's public relations department was
celebrating their coup d'etat in manipulating the press.  One of their
staff was a look-alike of Clint Morgan if you didn't get up too close.
That staff member had been sent to Clint Morgan's own estate in the
U.S. early this morning.  There, the look-alike had shut off all services
(as if he were going on a long vacation) and then had taken a cab to the
private airport where Mr. Morgan kept his own private turboprop plane,
leaving the Morgan car in the home garage.  At the airport, he had the
Morgan plane filled with fuel, paid for it using Clint Morgan's own credit
card (taken while Clint was busily screwing the black chauffeur) signing
"Clint F. Morgan" as he had practiced over and over from previous contracts
and letter signatures filed in the P.R.  department, and filed a flight
plan for Central America, telling everyone at the airport within hearing
distance he was going deep sea fishing at a very secluded private resort
for a long needed and extensive vacation since he had just concluded a
fabulous business deal.  He had flown the plane to the Baja Peninsula and,
after parachuting out to a waiting boat arranged by the P.R. department,
ditched the plane in one of the deepest known areas of the Pacific Ocean.
Simultaneously, the Beddington Public Relations Department announced the
Colonel's buy- out of the Morgan airconditioning enterprise in the United
States with the startling buy-out price of $28 a share.  They also
announced Mr. Morgan.would be assuming a new position within Beddington
Enterprises upon completion of a lengthy vacation at a location he would
not reveal.

     Within 24 hours, the Morgan plane was reported as missing by the
F.A.A, somewhere off the coast of Lower California and an extensive search
was planned but never executed due to the extreme depth of the waters where
the plane was reportedly seen going down by 'reliable' witnesses.  No
foul-play was assumed since Mr. Morgan himself was known to be piloting the
plane solo and was in a jovial holiday mood before taking off according to
numerous airport employees who saw him right before take-off.

     As it became clear to the world community that a major American
industrialist had met a tragic accidental death early in a most promising
career, especially in view of his highly successful sale of his
manufacturing complex to Beddington Enterprises and, as part of that sale,
had signed a contract to become one of Colonel Beddington's new
manufacturing presidents, a shock went through the international business
community.

     Within 36 hours following the air plane crash, the Public Relations
Department of Beddington Enterprises issued the following statement at a
well-attended press conference in London:

     "Colonel Charles Beddington is saddened beyond description by the
tragic
     death of his dear friend and new business associate, Mr. Clint
Morgan. Only
     two years ago, TIME MAGAZINE rightfully named Mr. Morgan "Businessman
     of the Year" and pointed out the promise of this outstanding world
leader to
     international commerce.  Colonel Beddington felt he would be remiss if
he did
     not personally conduct a memorial service here in London for all those
who
     had the privilege of dealing with this warm human being and
entrepreneurial
     genius, a young man the Colonel always thought of as his son. Since
Mr.
     Morgan had no family, Colonel Beddington was always pleased that Clint
     Morgan had thought of him as a surrogate father and an embracing
family, a
     fact driven home to Mr. Beddington again only this morning, when Mr.
     Morgan's attorneys advised the Colonel that he had been named as the
sole
     beneficiary of the Morgan estate in a will Mr. Morgan had apparently
made out
     a number of years ago shortly after the Colonel and Mr. Morgan had
first
     become acquainted and became the closest of friends over these past
many
     years.  The service will be held tomorrow at St. Paul's Cathedral at 3
P.M. with
     full press coverage."

     The rig with the gasping 'ponies' was nearing the steps of the
Colonel's mansion.  Within a week, Colonel Beddington would be delivering
the eulogy of his dear friend Clint Morgan in London.  And by that time, a
brand new slave of the Colonel's would be fully fitted with a slave collar,
tit rings, nose-ring, and a genital band, and he would be getting used to
being naked at all times, feeling even more naked because the only hair
left on his body was on top of his head, thanks to a thorough body shave.
By then, it would be made imminently clear that he would also be 'broken
in' by a black slave he already had met who had a huge erect organ and who
was now intent on getting that organ all the way up the new slave's
backside.