Date: Sun, 30 Jan 2005 00:37:56 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Enslaved, Part 2

ENSLAVED, By Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

  Part 2

So there I was. Mostly content, bowling along behind
Blackie and just enjoying the agreeable sensation of a
beautiful muscular body totally under my control and
totally dedicated to my needs. I was running a little
late, though, and I ordered the pace up to a fast
trot, and needed to "encourage" Blackie just a little
to maintain that as we went up Half-Mile Hill on the
way to my tea party.

The family met me on the steps of their gracious
mansion as we drove up, and I think I scored points
when I paused briefly to tell their slaves how Blackie
was to be taken care of (slow drinks of water, but as
much as he wanted, but no food, and no removal of his
harness). Consideration for your slaves was considered
to be a sign of a gentlemen in those parts.

It was ghastly. We sat through tiny scones, thin
cucumber sandwiches, tiny cups of tea in paper-thin
china cups, all followed by slices of a rich home made
fruit cake that Marie-Louise's mother proudly told me
Marie-Louise had made herself. As if I cared: that's
why you have kitchen slaves, after all! All the time
the parents kept up a barrage of questions about my
education, my thoughts on a future career, my views on
this and that.... whilst staring almost fixedly at my
dick and balls, clearly outlined through the sheer
fabric of my tight hose.

When I asked for the men's room, as I thought that at
any moment I might have an erection and that perhaps I
should go and seek relief, Marie-Louise's father
accompanied me. You can only pee in these ridiculous
hose by rolling them right down as there's no fly, and
he stood there staring in admiration at my butt, as
the duty slave then helped me pull them back up again.
 "Look, son", he said, putting an arm around my
shoulder and letting his palm rest on my tit,
stretching awkwardly through the thin silk of my dress
shirt, "...I think I can call you that. My wife and I
have been very pleased with what we've heard - and
seen (he grinned at me conspiratorially) - of you
today. I will speak to your uncle this evening, and
provided we can agree on the financial terms, you and
Marie-Louise can wed. We're looking for the
traditional 'heir and a spare' - two sons for you both
- and then you can both do as you please, provided
there's no scandal."

I was struck dumb! As if it wasn't bad enough having
he and his wife staring at my dick during tea, had he
really needed to take a closer look at my butt, and
finger my tit, before selecting me as a sire for his
grandchildren? And now he was going to talk "terms"
with my uncle - was I some sort of fucking slave, did
he think? It was as much as I could do to remain
silent, except for mumbling "Thank you, sir", whilst
making a mental note that this had got to be stopped.


I let Blackie jog home at his own pace, so I could do
some serious thinking. As we neared the house, I heard
shouting and tugged on the reins lightly so that
Blackie halted. There was a gang of our slaves at work
picking the peach harvest in the adjacent field - it's
one of our specialities, as we do premium fruit only
for the connoisseur's market, and proudly claim that
it's totally untouched by machines. Of course this
means a lot of manual labour, and without slaves it
just wouldn't be viable at all, but we do pretty well
out of it and it's an important source of profit for
the estate.

Straughan was there in front of some of the picking
crew, and seemed to be almost apoplectic with rage.
"I distinctly saw you", he was screaming at four of
the slaves clustered around one tree. "Eating your
owner's fruit is theft: you're stealing from him! He
feeds you properly on slave chow, and enough of it,
too, not like some places where slaves are half-
starved, and you abuse him by stealing extra food from
him, food that you don't need, and which affects his
profits!"

"Please, sir", one of the four interjected when
Straughan stopped his rant for a moment. "I'm sorry,
sir. But it was only one, sir, with a weevil in it,
and it wasn't any use as part of the crop...."

"Theft is theft, slave, and it's not up to you to
judge 'usefulness'. If everyone claimed to be eating
weevilly fruit, we could never tell who was lying and
eating the most choice. Four strokes of the bull whip
tonight."

The slave started to sob, and I shuddered inwardly.
That was such a harsh punishment - the sheer weight of
the bullwhip and the speed it moves at knocks the
slave sideways as the whip master applies it, and the
flesh is of course invariably deeply lacerated and the
slave is scarred for life. But of course I could not
interfere - Straughan ran a tight ship, and I assumed
he knew what he was doing.  Turning to the other three
he said "And you three... Did you eat the fruit too,
weevils or not?"

One of them, I guessed some sort of quasi-leader,
looked Straughan defiantly in the eye and said "No,
sir."  Straughan strode over to the kneeling slave,
whipped off his belt from his jodhpurs and pulled it
tight around the slave's neck. He straddled the
slave's shoulders, then used the open end of the belt
to haul the slave's head tight up into his crotch. I
could see the slave almost starting to choke as
Straughan tightened his grip, then, as the slave
started to gasp for air, Straughan thrust the butt end
of the light whip he always carried deep into the
slave's mouth and throat. The slave's belly and chest
heaved as the butt triggered his gag reflex, and quick
as a flash Straughan withdrew it so that the slave
could vomit, spewing the contents of his gullet onto
the ground in front of him.  As the slave knelt there,
rubbing his bruised neck and trying to recover from
his ordeal, Straughan repeated the process on the
other two slaves. Then, walking up and down in front
of them and toeing the heaps of vomit with his
immaculately polished boot, he said "Liars, all of
you. And there's the proof - pieces of your owner's
fruit in front of you. Eight lashes for each of you
tonight, four for theft, and four for daring to lie to
me!"

The slaves look thunderstruck at the awful fate
awaiting them, but Straughan was not finished with
them. "Now, to avoid a doubling of that punishment, I
want to see no more waste. The slave chow your master
so generously allowed you to feed on this morning is
lying there, and you're not being properly nourished.
Pick up that mess in front of you and ingest it down!"


The slaves looked for an instant as if they might
disobey, but bent over, and with much gagging and
choking, began to eat up their own vomit. It cannot
have been at all pleasant, as in addition to the vile
nature of the stuff itself, it was by now mixed with
the dust and loose twigs on the ground of the peach
orchard.  Straughan saw me watching, and came over.
"You can't be too careful with slaves, Mister Jon. I
know you think you've trained that pony of yours, but
working slaves need watching all the time if
discipline is to be maintained."

Lowering my voice so that the slaves might not hear, I
muttered "But Straughan - eight lashes... They'll be
ruined..."

"Maybe so, Mister Jon. They'll never look a pretty
sight again, but then, they're only field slaves. And
one of them might not survive at all. But that's a
small price to pay for discipline in your uncle's
entire herd - I can guarantee there will be no more
theft of fruit as soon as the word of this spreads..."


He was right, of course, and there was no point in
arguing, or even asking for clemency for the slaves -
after all, once a master has spoken, he has to follow
through, doesn't he, or else the slaves will lose all
respect for him?

As I bathed before dinner that night with Sam washing
my hair, I wondered what I was going to say to my
uncle about that afternoon. Dinner was always a rather
formal affair and so I had to wear a jacket and tie,
and my uncle did not like to talk "business" as the
slaves served us our meal. I could tell that my uncle
was excited, though, and when we were settled in the
study afterwards and the slave had poured our
brandies, he leaned forward to me and said "Thank you,
Jon, I'm proud of you..."

"Uncle?"

"I've had a long conversation with Marie-Louise's
father and have negotiated a most satisfactory
settlement for your marriage. We'll contract you for
two sons, and then they'll make the full payment..."

"Uncle Jed, it makes me sound like a slave stud.... "


"Oh don't be ridiculous, Jon. It's just a marriage
contract - you marry, you sire two sons, then you can
start playing again.... "

"No, uncle, I won't do it. I've been thinking hard,
and I don't believe I'll ever be happy here, running
this place... I'm going to go back North, and make my
own way...."

Well, that did it! The argument raged. He called me
ungrateful, for having spurned all his care since my
parents' death. He told me I was stupid, in that with
the wealth of the plantation and Marie- Louise's
money, I'd have more money than I could make even as a
lawyer. But when he asked me why I couldn't run the
place, and I told him I didn't agree with whipping
slaves to death as Straughan might well have done that
night, he became apoplectic and said that it was my
parents' woolly liberalism coming out.  I stormed out,
telling him that I was leaving in the morning, and
that was final.

Once I'd said it, it seemed easy, as so many major
decisions are: you worry about making them, but once
you've set on some course of action, things seem to
fall into place. I decided not to start looking for a
job immediately, but to go "on the road" and see a bit
of our great country as I'd never really travelled. I
might look up some of my frat brothers who lived on
the west coast, I thought, or spend the winter as a
ski bum in the Rockies... The possibilities seemed
endless. I didn't have much actual money, though, so
it was not going to be jet planes and fine hotels,
more hitching a ride and cheap motels, and so I told
Sam only to pack a few easy-to-wash things in a
backpack for me.

The next morning my uncle met me for breakfast, but
neither of us were in a mood for compromise, and I
wished him a cordial farewell. It's hard to leave home
at the best of times, but under these circumstances of
family strife, it's awful. At the last moment I turned
to my uncle and said "Look, I have to find my own way.
If I come back in six months time, perhaps things will
look different. Would I be welcome then?"

"This will always be your home, Jon, but you know that
I must be obeyed in this...."

Before we said any more things that might make us
totally irreconcilable, I shook his hands, and went to
leave. To my astonishment, there was Blackie in my
rickshaw, and my uncle said that I could take him to
the Interstate as it would take me a long time to walk
there to get my first lift. I was pleased at this
gesture on my uncle's part, but, strictly speaking, I
suppose Blackie was actually mine and I really should
have driven him to the nearest dealer and cashed him
in - my journey of discovery would then be properly
funded!

Blackie's good for about nine or ten miles at a steady
trot, and that's the normal limits of our social
engagements, but the Interstate's fifteen miles from
the house, so half way there I pulled him up off the
road in a small wood, to give him time to rest. He was
sweating profusely, to the extent that there was
almost a fine mist of it coming off him and blowing
back on to me as we bowled along , and as there was a
small pond in the wood, I told Blackie he could cool
off if he wanted to. Watching him frolicking around in
the cool water looked so tempting, and so I stripped
off and joined him - as I said, being naked with
slaves is not a particular problem for me as I'm kind
of used to it, but it was interesting to see the
contrast between Blackie's really hard muscularity and
my good, fit, but not hardworking body.

We lay side by side on the grass drying in the sun,
just like two buddies might, and it was with a heavy
heart that I fastened his bridle back afterwards and
tightened the strap to force him to keep his head
properly upright as he ran: I'd found this slave,
trained him myself, and now I was going to have to
give him up.  At the Interstate I patted his rump
affectionately in farewell and told him to take his
time getting back as he should not exhaust himself as
there would be no more work for him that day, I felt
certain, then stood there, hitching a lift.

Well, it's hard, if you're not used to it - making
conversation with truckers, staying in cheap motels
which are barely clean, eating in hamburger joints and
downmarket diners, and then having to clean your own
clothes and wash yourself - I didn't want to spend the
money on slave service, even at the cheapest rates in
the vilest motels: the general rise in slave prices
was having an effect even here, and made it seem very
expensive for what I suspected you'd get from the old,
broken-down slaves they probably used. Still, it was
kind of interesting to see a side of life I'd not
experienced before, and on the whole I was enjoying
it.

I was deep in Kentucky and the rides seemed to have
almost totally dried up, when a pickup with a couple
of guys in it stopped. I didn't care where they were
going, actually, as anywhere was better than staying
on the lonely stretch of road where I was. They seemed
friendly enough, and as we chatted away I told them
about my "journey", how I'd been on the road for a
month now, and how the earliest I was even expected
back was in five more months. We stopped at a diner
for coffee, and they were on the phone almost
constantly. Afterwards, as we were moving along again,
they turned off the main highway and went along
successively smaller roads, telling me that they'd
heard there was a big hold-up ahead, and that this was
a rat- run around it.

We stopped in some deep woods "for a piss", they said,
and then I heard a click: one of them was pointing a
gun at me, cocked.  "OK, boy, strip off!", he said.

"Look, I haven't got anything you want. Just under a
hundred in cash, that's all..."

"Boy, I said to strip off - you have got something we
want, something we want very much..."

"No, honest, I was just hitching... I fell out with my
family... I...."

I fell to the ground, as the second guy had come up
behind me and simply hit me with a big piece of dried
branch he must have found on the floor. They both then
set about pulling off my walking boots and jeans as I
lay there struggling to come around properly, then
roughly jerked me to my feet, pulled off my hiking
jacket and shirt, so I stood there in my boxers.

"My, isn't that a pretty sight?", one said to the
other. "Makes you feel really horny just looking at
him, doesn't it? Shall we....?"

"No, best not! We told them we thought he was a
virgin, and if we take him in running with spunk,
they'll give us a lower price...."

Turning to me he said "Come on, boy... Up into the
back", and, still groggy, I was "helped" up into the
back of the pickup where there was a large animal
cage. They pushed me in, and locked the gate, then
laughing at their success, they rifled through my
belongings, took my wallet, and threw the rest deep
into the woods.

We drove for what seemed like hours along county
roads, highways, a stretch of Interstate... I tried
signalling, waving and shouting at the truckers who
passed us and who could see me, half naked, in the
cage on the open back of the truck, but no one was
interested - I suppose seeing two guys transporting a
slave is not uncommon, and there was no way of telling
that I was a free man.

It was late afternoon when we pulled into some really
small hick town in the middle of nowhere, the kind of
place that has seen all its industries close down and
all the stores move off to the shopping mall a few
miles away. We pulled up at the rear of a semi-
derelict industrial building, and the driver went and
rang a bell, which caused a metal shutter to start to
roll up with a lot of squeaking and noise, to let us
drive in, whereupon it closed again. The men got out
of the pickup and disappeared through a door, and I
was left there in the half darkness, wondering what
the fuck was going to happen to me - they'd already
robbed me, surely they weren't going to kill me now?

The two men came back with two others, big
strong-looking men in tight Jeans, neat work shirts,
and tough-looking work boots. The four of them
clustered around the cage, opened it, and almost
hauled me out. Before I could do or say anything, one
of the tough guys had grabbed my arms and twisted them
up behind my back, a collar was snapped around my
neck, and I felt my wrists being jostled up to be
cuffed to the back of the collar.

"There", one of the toughs said. "Now he's safe. He
can't get out of here without hands, and so we thank
you gentlemen, and we'll let you out...."

All four men shook hands, my two captors got into
their pickup, the shutter opened and they drove out. I
tried to make a break for it, to run across the gap
and throw myself through the opening in a desperate
attempt to escape, but one of those big work boots
reached out casually and tripped me, so I went flying
down onto the hard concrete floor - very painful,
without arms to break my fall. Both guys stood over me
as I lay there gasping, and they were chuckling to
each other. "They always try that, don't they? Don't
know what they'd hope to achieve even if they did get
out - this town is solidly behind the slavery laws,
and anyone finding them would soon send them back to
us...."

"Look, I'm not a slave", I shouted. "I'm a free man,
just like you. Those two goons robbed me, stripped me,
and abducted me... Just let me got to the police or
sheriff, and this will soon get sorted out..."

The men just laughed, picked me up onto my feet, and
half dragged, half carried me through into the
building, where we went along a number of dark
corridors, and into a brightly lit room that was,
shall we say, functional rather than comfortable.
Behind a large desk sat a third man, strong looking,
and about my uncle's age, and perhaps equally
distinguished looking.  "Well, excellent!", he said to
the other two. "Those two rednecks usually turn up
with something special, so it's worth paying them what
they ask for - if they knew the profit margin I work
to, they'd be horrified at how little they get for
being at the start of the chain!"

"Look, stop this, and stop this now!", I almost
screamed at him. "I'm a free man, and if you let me go
now, I swear I won't tell anyone.... Let's just go to
the Sheriff, and you can establish who I am..."

He smiled at me. "You're a slave. We don't know who
yet, but we soon will."

"No, I'm free... You can check..."

"You're a slave. I don't care what you were earlier
today, now you're a slave. And in my presence I like
slaves to be naked, so I think we can dispense with
those boxers...."  He nodded to one of the two strong
men, who went behind me and simply pulled my boxers
down, then stooped to catch them from around my feet
and casually dropped them into a waste bin.

I've told you I don't mind being naked in front of
slaves, but this was totally different - now I was
naked, and helpless with my hands cuffed, in front of
three clothed guys. I hated it.

"There!", the chief said. "A slave. Properly naked. Of
course you don't fully look like a slave - yet!".

As he spoke, he got up and came and stood beside me.
He ruffled my hair, and went on "An expensive haircut,
I suspect. But once you're shorn down to a regular
slave trim, you'll look more authentic."

His hands roamed down over my chest and belly, and his
fingers twined around in my pubes. I tried to move
away from him, but his other hand was behind me,
pushing at my butt. It wasn't enough to stop me
moving, as I'm a pretty strong guy, but somehow the
presence of the hand was sufficient. "And once a lot
of this is removed, we'll be able to see that handsome
dick of yours much better, and, of course, most owners
keep their slaves' pubes neatly trimmed."

I thought of how I insisted that Blackie kept himself
neat, how the pool boy Jason and the other house
slaves had to shave themselves down there every week,
and knew that he was telling the truth.

"Of course", he continued, it's helpful that you
haven't got those tell-tale shorts marks around your
ass - are you some sort of exhibitionist?"

"No - I just like lying in the sun, but...."

"Silence! Speak when you're spoken to. The only
interest I have in your tan line is how long we're
having to spend to get rid of it - sun beds are really
slow. Your little hobby has saved us a week at
least.... And we need to push you through quite
quickly..."

"Please... I don't understand...."

"You don't need to. But I'll tell you anyway - we
process slaves here, turn out nice shiny new slaves
for the auction market. There's a huge demand for new
slaves at the moment, and the more we can push through
here, the more money I make..."

"But I'm not a slave, I keep telling you..."

The man struck me a stinging blow across the left side
of my face, full force with his open hand. I staggered
sideways, and through the ringing in my ears heard him
say "And I keep telling you to remain silent unless
spoken to. Now understand this - you're worth a lot of
money to me, as a slave. A good-looking, young, toned
slave. As a free man you're worth precisely nothing,
so my obvious course of action is to turn you into a
slave. Simple, isn't it?"

"But only the courts can order enslavement..."

Another stinging blow, to my right side. It hurt,
believe me. He continued calmly "Courts order
enslavement, but people take as they find. If you look
like a slave, you'll be a slave. When we've finished
with you here you'll look like any other slave, and
behave like one; so as you look like one, especially
as we'll auction you through a reputable auction
house, buyers will consider you to be one. And even if
someone subsequently has some doubts, they'll have
paid so much for you that they'll stifle them."

"Of course", he went on, "We provide some paperwork,
too... Now, let me see...."

He went over to a filing cabinet and riffled through
it, returning some minutes later with one of the
standard slave dossiers with which most of us are
familiar - you know the sort of thing: copy of the
enslavement order, full front, full back and full side
photos of the nude slave, head shot, dick shot, and a
sheet of vital statistics like height, weight, eye
colour. I'd seen hundreds of them in my uncle's study
for the estate slaves, and worked my way through
scores when I was at various dealers, searching for my
pony.

"Look", he said opening it and holding it in front of
me. "Steve Masters. Enslaved for life at the age of
twenty three for gross impropriety... Let me read it
out to you.... Found in bed with a mother and her
fifteen year old daughter, with both mother and
daughter pregnant by the slave.. Six foot two, two
thirty pounds, dark blue eyes, blond hair... Need I go
on?.... Sounds just like you. And he looks a lot like
you - or how you will be when we've finished with you.
So we will be able to give your buyers a proper
dossier...."

"But the real Steve Masters..."  "Oh, the mother and
daughter both petitioned the court saying they didn't
want their kids to be fathered by a slave, so he was
let off... And it says here that the last that was
heard was that all five are living happily together.
So his slave file is officially closed, as he's a free
man again - except that a small present to the court
clerk actually kept it open, so there's even a
properly registered slave identification number.....
So welcome to slavedom, Steve."

"You can't do this... And I'm Jon...."

"No. You're Steve now, slave. That's your slave name."


I remembered how "You and your slave" had said that it
was usually easier to rename slaves to help them
adjust, and how I'd callously discarded Blackie's real
name, unpronounceable as it was!

"Anyway, we may as well begin your journey into
slavedom. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.
Up on the horse, please."

He indicated one of the standard flogging horses,
standing in the corner. We had one in my Uncle's study
- an antique one, of course, but the same basic
design: four sturdy legs, a platform for the slave to
lie on, places to fasten him down, and the
all-important height adjustment mechanism for
positioning the slave properly.  I went to refuse, but
a naked, cuffed guy is no match for two big strong
free ones, and the two Jeans-clad men almost picked me
up and half carried me over to the horse.

"NO! You fuckers can't do this to me...", I screamed.
"Let me go...."

But it was no use. They threw me face down onto the
leather pad, my legs dangling over the end, and pulled
Velcro bindings around under my shoulders and around
my waist, so my body was held there rigid. A couple of
further bindings held my ankles to the horse's legs,
and I was done. I felt the warm hand of one of the
guys stroking my butt, and he commented "Nice butt
here, sir.... Are we allowed to fuck it?"

As he spoke, I could feel his hand moving downward, to
reach for my balls between my spread legs. "Leave him
alone, Wayne! Time for that later, as we need to move
on... But no, you're not allowed to fuck him - he's
probably a virgin, or, at least, we can sell him as
one anyway, and a lot of owners pay a premium for
being able to take a slave's cherry!"

Whew! That was a relief. At least I wasn't going to be
fucked immediately. As I've told you, I don't fuck
male slaves, but a lot of guys do and there's no
particular shame attached to it - I mean, you're just
using your property, aren't you? I know a lot of
slaves are bought for sex, and I suppose it dawned on
me now that this might be my fate - to be the fuck toy
of some vile old man.

"Now, Steve", the head man was saying, "You were very
rude a few moments ago. It's not acceptable for a
slave to shout out, and to use epithets to free men.
So I'm going to punish you - only two strokes with the
cane, as this is your first time. Are you familiar
with caning?"

Of course I was! Many's the evening I've sat in my
Uncle's study and watched as he's had to paddle one or
more of the serving slaves for some infraction of his
strict rules of behaviour. And for particularly
serious cases - spilled wine, for example - he had to
strap the slave onto the antique punishment horse and
cane him. And now here I was, as helpless as those
slaves had been, and probably feeling as much
trepidation as they did at the though of the
punishment.

I heard the swish of the cane through the air just the
moment before the pain hit me - all consuming,
terrible harsh pain that might have started in my butt
but which spread its throbbing agony through my whole
body. Then another. I just couldn't help screaming,
but I quickly managed to stifle it into suppressed
sobbing as I didn't want these men to know I was
afraid of them.

"Now, Steve, that's what we do here. If you break the
rules, you get caned. And that was only me caning you
- if Wayne or Juilan here wield the cane, you'll be
simply amazed at how strong they are and how much more
it will hurt. Simple cause and effect: Steve breaks
the rules, Steve gets caned. Simple, isn't it?"

I just lay there, and he went on "You must have been
around slaves, and so I hardly need to tell you that a
slave always replies respectfully to his master. So
when I ask you a question, you reply. Do you
understand?"

Of course I did! Uncle Jed always insisted that the
house slaves were the very model of politeness, and
they'd certainly be punished for failing like that. So
I said "Yes."

The swish again, and a new shriek from me.

"Now Steve, that's what I meant... Steve doesn't obey
the rules, Steve gets punished. The proper reply to
your master's question is 'Yes, master. Now do you
understand?"

"Yes, master", I got out, through gritted teeth. It
was odious to have to call him "master", but what else
could I do? Tied down on the punishment horse, I was
totally in his power.

"Good, Steve. You've started well. Now I'm going to
get Julian and Wayne to take you to the holding area
and lock you safely in a cage overnight as we need to
do a little more work before we can really start on
you, and I suspect that anyway you are tired after
this rapid change in your life prospects!"

And that was it - the two men grabbed me again and
pulled me out, down a corridor, and through a door
into a bleak dark space, empty except for six cages
along one wall, four of which held naked guys, one
black, three white. They casually opened the fifth
cage, then undid my collar and released my hands, and
almost threw me into it.

I had to crouch there - I couldn't stand, and could
barely lie down. "Slaves maintain silence at all times
in the holding area", Wayne said, and the two men went
out.  I looked at the slave next to me, a guy about my
own age, and said "What the fuck's going on here?"

He looked terrified, and made "Shushing" gestures with
his finger on his lips, but I said again "Come on,
they've gone... What's going on...?"

All five of us jerked up and down and screamed, as a
shock raced through the bars of our cages, and a voice
from a loudspeaker said "Slaves will remain silent at
all times in the holding area, or the sound sensors
will trigger punishment."

My neighbour was making imploring gestures, so I kept
my mouth shut form then on and tried to get
comfortable - but if you've ever looked closely at one
of your slaves' cages you'll know it isn't easy - I
couldn't properly stand, lie or sit, and my body was
always pressed against the floor, walls and lid. The
bars were a few inches apart, and dug into my skin.
And it was cold in the room - well, I suppose not cold
exactly, but cold if you're naked and immobile.  There
was another problem, too - I needed to piss. I hadn't
done so for hours. I gestured to my neighbour, holding
my dick and miming my need, and he just pointed at the
floor ,and shrugged his shoulders at my look of
surprise. Then he casually pointed his dick down
through the bars, and just let go, his piss streaming
along the concrete floor to disappear into a channel
at the back. So I did the same - and felt better, I
suppose. But how the hell was I going to crap, as I
felt the need for that start to stir my bowels?

I got my answer the next "morning"- I had to assume it
was morning, as I woke up, stiff and aching - and saw
my neighbour crouching low in his cage, and then
releasing a turd that neatly dropped through the bars.
I suppose I'd registered that the cages were raised up
on short stubby legs, and perhaps this was to allow
that to happen. I couldn't hold myself much longer, so
did the same; and then I crouched there, smelling the
fetid smell of my turds as they lay there on the
concrete under me. Fortunately this must be what
happened in the "morning" as a guy in rubber boots and
a work overall came in through the door, turned the
lights on, shouted "Good morning, guys", then turned
on a hose and proceeded to sluice away all the piss
and crap from under our cages.

Then he turned the hose on us in turn - I almost
screamed when the icy cold water hit me, but I'd seen
that the others used the opportunity to clean
themselves from their shitting, and so I turned my ass
to face the icy blast hit me and scrabbled around with
my hands as best I could.  As we sat here shivering he
came back and placed stainless steel bowls outside
each cage, then went along again, filling them with
slave chow from a sack. He fiddled around with each
door in turn, and opened up a circular "hatch",
through which my companions stuck their heads and
stated to try to suck up the chow.

I've tried it, of course - what free man hasn't been
tempted just to try a mouthful of the stuff that
almost universally slaves are fed on? It's a very good
food, as we all know - balanced, full of vitamins and
minerals, unlikely to make the slave fat, and very
cheap, as it's manufactured from petroleum residues
and general garden waste. But it's so bland, and it's
like eating very chewy cardboard - the manufacturers
say that the texture encourages healthy jaws and gums,
and that there's no residue to stick between the
teeth, so eliminating the need for brushing! But that
morning I didn't want any - I don't eat slave chow, as
I'm a free man, and I wasn't going to start now.

"Bad doggy, not eating his breakfast", the janitor
crooned as he cleaned away my still-full dish. The
master wont like that...."

I lay there, my body aching and my stomach rumbling as
I was hungry, as one by one the two big guys came and
took the men out of the cages and away into the bowels
of the building. Then it was my turn, and as they
pulled me out, before I could even struggle as I was
trying to loosen my cramped limbs, they put one of the
restraint collars on me and fastened my wrists behind
my neck again. Then we were off again, down the
corridors, and back into the chief honcho's space I'd
been in the day before.

"Ah, Steve", he said when I entered. "Our little
lesson in obedience and manners yesterday doesn't seem
to have worked - you didn't eat your breakfast this
morning."

"I don't eat slave chow!", I muttered sullenly, then,
seeing his hand reaching for the cane, I added
"...master."

"Good boy, Steve! Perhaps the lessons do work, as you
seem to have remembered something of the 'respect' a
slave needs. But you're wrong about the slave chow -
you do eat it, as it's all that slaves get fed. It's
healthy, and good for you. And you have to remember
that you need to keep your strength up, as you need to
be able to fulfil your owner's purpose for you.
Refusing food just isn't on, Steve. We're kind of used
to it here, though, for stubborn new slaves like you,
and we have a little lesson.... Wayne, get him in
position, Julian, fetch the feeder...."

One of the two big guys simply put his leg behind mine
and kind of pushed, so I was sprawling at his feet. He
pulled out his belt from his Jeans, looped it around
my neck, and then, just as I'd seen Straughan do to
the slaves who stole the peaches, he tightened it, and
pulled my head down into his crotch whilst straddling
my shoulders and body with his powerful legs. I
couldn't fight back or anything as my wrists were
cuffed, and I half sat, half lay there between his
legs, half choking from the pressure of his belt
holding me tight to him.

The other guy now stood in front of me, holding a
square box in bright blue plastic with a handle on the
side, and a thick tube leading from its bottom.
"Right, slave, open your mouth!", he snapped, and when
I didn't comply, he reached forward and pinched my
nose closed, then dug his thumb and forefinger into
the sides of my jaw and started to push.

I had to open my mouth to breathe, of course, and the
moment it was open just a fraction, the pressure of
his fingers forced it wider. The thick blue tube was
pushed between my lips, then, as I began to
desperately wriggle and struggle and choke as my gag
reflexes were triggered, it was forced on into my
throat.  I was so intent on trying to breathe, trying
to stop the awful retching gagging in my stomach and
throat, that I hardly noticed as he started to turn
the handle on the side of the blue box and the tube
started to pulse with life.

Five minutes, five minutes it went on, but it seemed
like a lifetime. Then the tube was pulled out, and the
pressure on the belt around my neck eased. I collapsed
onto the floor, wheezing and spluttering, trying to
get myself under control.

"That's a feeder, Steve.", the chief honcho told me in
matter of fact tones. "When a slave refuses food here,
we need to feed him to keep him properly fit - it's in
his best interests, after all. Do you like it? Cute,
isn't it, in that nice cheerful blue colour? We saw it
on a trip to France, where they use it to force-feed
geese for foie gras, and it adapts quite well to
feeding slaves, I think. Now, if I were you, though, I
think I'd try to avoid being 'stuffed ' by the feeder
in future, and eat up my portions of slave chow when
they're presented. Another of those little lessons, I
believe... So you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good. Well, I'm afraid this isn't going to be a good
morning for you, though. Please go and ride the horse,
face down...." I saw the men move towards me
threateningly, and knew I had no choice. I went over
to the horse, lay down again, and simply waited as the
straps were fastened around me, holding me down. If
this was another fucking caning, I supposed I could
bear it.

"Now, Steve", the chief went on, "You know that you're
a 'lifer', don't you? And what do all 'lifers' have?"


"No hope, master.", I said, grimly.

"Very good, Steve. But beware - not all owners are
tolerant of slaves trying to be funny. No, Steve, all
'lifers' have the 'S' brand, to show that their owners
have the power to modify their bodies if they wish. So
if you're to be turned into Steve, you have to be
branded, don't you?"

"No, please, master, don't...."

"Oh, Steve! And I thought you were supposed to be an
intelligent guy with a fancy education! If you didn't
have the brand, no one would believe that you were a
'lifer'. And if you're not a 'lifer', you couldn't be
Steve Masters, could you? And that might lead to all
sorts of questioning....."

"Now, this is going to hurt", he said unnecessarily.
"I can't give you a pain killer as the American
Society For The Protection Of Cruelty To Slaves got
the new law last year that said that anaesthetics
could only be administered by qualified veterinarians
- the wanted to stamp out unauthorised operations, I
suppose, but all that it's really done, with their
meddling in slave management, is that a lot of slaves
like you now get a lot of things done to them entirely
without anything to dull the pain. I think it's called
the law of unintended consequences, or something....
Now, hold still...."

Nothing can prepare you for the pain from an electric
brander pressed into you and then held there as it
seers its way through the outer layers of your skin. I
know I screamed, I know I tried, without avail, to
tear myself free of the bindings holding me down. And
as I lost consciousness, I could smell the smoke from
my seared and charred flesh, and I was reminded of
those happy barbecues at the plantation, which now
seemed to be so very far away.

End Of Part 2