Date: Sat, 29 Jul 2006 06:05:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Falsely Enslaved, Part Six

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  Six

Actually all the legal sorting out and the transfer of
titles and so on took a couple of months:  we could
try, find guilty and enslave someone in days, but
property transfers take longer.

I told them I did not want to own Walker Plantation as
it had too many unpleasant memories for me, so it went
into a government auction of surplus property, and I
ultimately received the cash (minus a lot more fees).
I thought of going "home", back north, but I k new
that then I would never be able to have Sam with me
all the time, as slaves were not allowed to leave the
south.  It was Stu, who, when we were saying goodbye
after our torrid few weeks together, took me aside and
told me he thought I needed time to "find myself"
again:  "Steve", he said, "Sometimes you're in there
thrusting, sorting things, making things happen;  and
some times you just roll over and give in.  Who are
you, really?  Mark, educated, free? Or Steve, a slave,
driven by the demands of his dick?"

The solution I found was to purchase a farm - I didn't
want the thousand acres, but the modest house with a
sweeping view down to the private lake, on a secluded
road outside a small town (I won't even hint where it
is, as it's still a favoured retreat of mine)  seemed
to be the ideal solution.  I went to the regional
slave market and bought a gardener to keep the
surroundings grounds in order - a big, strong, blond
Russian or native of Belarusse or somewhere like that
who was, as you might expect, enslaved for working
without a work permit as so many of them do.  I liked
his flashing blue eyes and his long legs, and thought
that if Sam and I ever had a serious falling out, he'd
be a good relief for my dick.  I decided to get a
cook, too, well, more of a chef, really, and was
fortunate in finding a soldier whose main duties had
been cooking for the officers' mess on is base until
he was found taking bribes from the suppliers:  his
body was still neat and trim and, in fact, rather on
the skinny side, but he was easy on the eye and a nice
contrast to my gardener who was so much more heavily
built. Finally, I had to have a valet.  Well, a man
living alone needs someone to launder his clothes,
make the beds, and all that sort of stuff, doesn't he?
 I bought a pleasing young nigga of eighteen, and sent
him off to a school where such men who had previously
only known a life of crime on the streets could
rapidly be turned into proper, responsible servants
(with rather a lot of physical instruction involved, I
rather imagined, judging by the state of his back, but
and thighs when he was finally delivered to me).  He
could also serve as a waiter and general cleaner, to
keep the whole place tidy.

Finally, when all the paperwork cleared, Sam came
"home".  I can't describe the joy of our meeting, and
how we fell on each other with such passion and frenzy
that my valet ran in, thinking that Sam had attacked
me!  Sam at one tried to take charge, as he often did,
and I agreed with him that we should at once call the
farrier to have his nose ring and cinch rings removed
(my own had gone as soon as he case was over, along
with my tit rings, and the holes ere now starting to
heal up).  Sam was surprised when I insisted he keep
this tit rings, though - I told him I thought they
were "sexy", and that cheered him up, but there was
method in this:  I've told you how we wrestled and
tussled to see who was going to fuck whom, and
generally it was me who lost out to Sam's superior
training. Now, provided I could get a finger into one
of those rings, the odds changed radically as Sam had
no choice but to give in to me or suffer the pain of a
sharp wrench to his nips.  All of a sudden it was me
who was fucking most of the time (which, if you think
about it, is only right,  as I was a free man and Sam
was my slave).

I wanted life to be simple, and so all the slaves
except Sam lived in a small slave house that I bought
at the local builders' merchants and had a team of
slaves erect almost overnight:  it wasn't elaborate,
as it had no need to be, so there was just a single
space for them to live in and a lavatory and shower
that was connected to the main house system.  I had a
bell installed, though, so that any of them could be
summoned over to the main house if I needed service.
T was out of sight of the main house, though, so that
when I was on my veranda at night looking at the lake,
I could forget all about the many problems a slave
owner has, if I wanted to.  "Out of sight, out of
mind", as they say.

The problem of the land was easily resolved, too. My
nearest neighbour was a really nice guy, married with
a couple of kids.  Dave and Sheila didn't have much
money and were trying to make a go of the place with
only a couple of slaves, but the prospect of renting
my spare land from me radically altered things:  the
slaves could now work much harder on the enhanced
acreage, and their profits took a leap.

Not wanting to flaunt my wealth (no one associated me
with the great false enslavement scandal, which local
folk thought "was all in Houston"), I decided against
buying a car as we were only a couple of miles from
town, where there was a train station, and I would
rely on the local taxi service, and a bicycle.  There
were some "rich folk" in town, lawyers and accountants
and the like, who mainly lived elsewhere but who liked
a "country place", and they did keep ponies, and  I
suppose I could have bought one for myself - perhaps
even one of the ponies I used to work with, who had
been sold off when Walker Plantation changed hands.
But I didn't, and the trap which came with the
property languished in one of he barns.  Deep down, I
didn't want to be reminded of how terrible it is to
change a man into an animal.

Sam and I were idyllically happy for a time.  I was
integrating into local society, giving generous prizes
for all the raffles and whist drives to support good
causes, attending the bake sales and stuff to support
the local schools, and turning up to cheer on our High
School footballers.  As a slave, Sam couldn't do most
of this of course, so he stayed at home, and it was
good to have him there after a day of "the social
round".  We could eat dinner together quietly, and
then go to bed to fuck.  You must remember that even
though we were getting older, we were both very fit
and very active, and I'm astonished when I hear of
some guys in their late twenties who don't fuck at
least once a night.

All was going well until the local pastor called on me
to try to persuade me to attend this church - a vain
hope, of course.  Still, I was polite and didn't tell
him his whole life was founded on a lie:   normally I
don't suffer fools gladly, or at all, and it was only
because he was a guest that I refrained from telling
him that there was as little likelihood of me
believing in his juju in the sky as there was in me
believing that the earth was flat.  He was about to
leave, having nevertheless wished me "the peace of our
lord", which I corrected to "your so-called lord",
somewhat to his surprise, when Sam strode in.

He'd jogged up from the lake where he'd been swimming,
so he looked magnificent:  his body glistened and
shone with the water still on him, and his muscles
were all pumped up from the exercise.  I'd not had him
collared when his cinch ring was removed, but, ever
careful now to obey the law in all things, I'd had a
very thin stainless steel band fixed around his right
ankle: it was so easy to overlook, and never
physically intruded in our love making as a cinch ring
did, and a proper collar certainly would ( especially
as I like to nuzzle and bite at the neck and shoulders
of a guy I'm fucking).  In his simple unaffected way,
Sam kissed me and I of course responded, and I
introduced Sam to the pastor then, saying something
which I now see was stupid, like he was my "partner".


The next day I cycled into town as I had an
appointment at the hairdressers (my Mohican stripe had
grown out, and I now had an all-over relatively short
crop, but that style does of course require a lot of
maintenance).  When I went in, the normal chatter of
the other patrons stopped, and the barber, of whom I
was a good customer as I generally had a trim once a
week and always tipped generously, looked in his book
and flatly denied I had an appointment.  I could
actually see his finger hovering over "Steve M" in the
eleven o'clock spot!  I remonstrated, but he was firm:
 no appointment, no hair cut.  Then, when I tried to
make an appointment for the next day, or next week, or
even next month, there was, politely but firmly, "no
available time slot".

Baffled, I went into the cafe for my usual double
expresso, and when the slave came over to take my
order and went back to the counter, the manageress
came over and announced that all l the tables were
reserved, and she was sorry but I would have to leave.
  In the empty place, even she must have felt foolish
telling me this.

I had similar baffling experiences in the feed store,
where they "couldn't find an account registered" and
so couldn't accept my order for more slave chow.  And
so it went on, all morning.

My social antennae were sensitive enough to know that
something was badly wrong, and that afternoon  I
cycled over to my tenants, Dave and Sheila, to ask
their advice.  You may think it foolish of me to care
about things like this, but I did after all have to
live near this small town.  Sheila seemed really
embarrassed and announced she'd "leave us men
together".  Dave asked me to sit, then sat opposite
me, and sat there for what seemed like ages, twisting
his hands together in nervous tension as he clearly
didn't know what to say in answer to my questions
about why the town had turned against me.  Finally, he
blurted out "The pastor saw you kissing a nigga....
And folks around here, well, they're uncomfortable
with that...."

It was so totally outrageous  that I spluttered in
indignation.  I mean, how long has it been since the
racial equality laws made it perfectly acceptable for
white guys to fuck black ones?  I told Dave I'd never
heard of such blatant discriminatory behaviour -  I
had a good mind to call the local TV station and
denounce the whole place as racist.

Dave still seemed to be in an agony of indecisiveness,
though, and finally muttered "Steve, this is
difficult...  I don't know quite what to say...  You
being such a good neighbour to Sheila and me and
all..... "

I glared at him, and  he went on "It's not that it was
a nigga, Steve.  Folks around here don't like... Don't
really think it's right to... Well, the bible says
it's wrong to.... Well, for one guy to kiss another.
I mean, we're all red-blooded men around here, and we
know that kissing invariable leads to... Well....."

"To fucking?   Of course it does!  So they're all
prejudiced because Sam and I are lovers?"

Dave nodded.  "Look, Steve, I don' mind, and neither
does Sheila.  But folk around here are powerfully in
fear of the lord, and the bible says it's wrong to
plant one man's seed in another man's furrow....."

"...and wrong to divorce, although quite a lot seem to
do so around here.  And OK to stone folk for adultery,
which would take out about a quarter of the town. And
I don't see too many people marrying their deceased
brother's wife.....   Who cares what the fuck the
bible says?  It's all rubbish anyway, and the ones who
pick and choose the stuff about one guy not going with
another blithely ignore the other bits, like those
I've cited...."

I was really warming to my subject now, and went on
"And , in any case, I know of lots of the guys around
here who fuck their slaves, their male slaves, that
is!  When I've been in the bar some evenings they're
all there bragging and boasting about how many inches
they can thrust in at one go...."

Dave looked puzzled, then shrugged.  "But the guys
around here fuck slave, Steve!  It's not the same as
fucking another guy."

"....except anatomically?  I reckon a slave's ass is
much the same as a free man's!"

Dave shrugged again.  "Steve, stop this northern
logic!  It's talk like that that caused the civil war
in the first place, and we don't want all that going
on again.  Sheila and me have kids, remember, and we
want them to grow up in peace, and we don't want the
whole place torn apart as it was fifty years ago in
the Second Civil War.  A lot of folk around here found
it hard to accept you in the first instance, as you're
a northerner, at least judging by your accent.  But
when we saw how you were blending in with the
community, and how you bought those slaves for
yourself, we accepted you.  But guys around here,
Steve, don't fuck other guys!  Of course an owner can
use a slave if and as he wants to, but that's totally
different."

I began to laugh.  "You southerners!  No wonder you
don't like Yankee logic.  It's OK to fuck another guy,
as long as he's a slave, but not otherwise, is that
it?"

Dave couldn't understand why I thought that odd.  "It
seems pretty clear to me.  Slaves are not really guys,
are they?   They're males, but slaves."

"Well I'm in the clear then, Dave - the 'guy' the
pastor saw me kissing - and I guess that is where all
this started - is actually a slave.  I own him, and,
yes, I do fuck him.  As you say, why not - he's only a
slave, after all!"

Dave seemed to be angry now.  "You lying Yankee!  The
reverend saw him buck naked, and he wasn't collared.
Just those homo tit rings, like the fancy men in New
York City wear...."

"...because his collar is around his ankle!  Come over
and see, if you don't believe me."

Well, I calmed down Dave, and, I suppose partly
because I was such a good neighbour, and his landlord,
he went away thinking that I was at least "normal".
But he warned me that folks in that town were
naturally a suspicious lot, and that I was going to
have a hard time convincing them that I was behaving
to their norms.

Thinking about it, I decided the only thing to do was
mount a totally spectacular demonstration that Sam was
indeed a slave, and therefore that there could be no
possible objection to having sex with him, and I
remembered the unused pony trap out in the barn.  When
I first told Sam of my plan, he flatly refused:  if he
hadn't been my buddy as well as my slave, I'd have had
him whipped for even thinking of such disobedience,
but you can't do that for someone you're fucking, can
you?  Instead I went through all the arguments one
after another, and then resorted to tweaking his nip
rings painfully so he knew I was serious.

We both worked away, just as we used to, at cleaning
the trap until it was gleaming and bright.  I also
insisted that Sam shaved himself properly - like me,
he'd wanted to grow it again but frankly I didn't like
it:  as on a lot of niggas it was very short and very
tightly curled, and I thought it looked a bit like
some sort of mould on him, and it spoiled my pleasure
in running my hands over his muscles.  I'd been
planning to get him to start shaving again anyway, and
this provided me with the ideal opportunity.

On Sunday morning Sam and I had quite a jolly time as
I massaged slave oil in all over him, even though he
was wearing pretty standard slave shorts, and we went
out together to the trap not quite I arm in arm, as I'
dressed up in a smart new white suit with a bright
blue cravat and I didn't want to get oil on it, but
the closest thing to it.

Sam was quite happy trying out the shafts again until
I casually snapped the manacles closed, holding his
hands onto the pulling bars,  as was customary:  that
was always the way we worked.  Sam began to protest,
but I pointed out that all the ponies I'd seen in the
town had been  shackled, and that as we were trying to
show that Sam really was a slave, he'd better be that
way, too.  He didn't like it when I slipped off his
training shoes, though - that was silly really, as the
soles of his feet were still perfectly tough from our
previous life, and his strong legs did not have any
need of that fancy "springing" the things were
supposed to provide.

When I told him to kneel, so that I could put a bit in
his mouth, he began to swear, shouting "No fucking
way, man! I wore that bit with you for three years,
and I'm not going to start again...."  It didn't
matter how much I explained it really was necessary,
he just refused to open his mouth.  Time was getting
short, and I could see that this was not an argument I
was going to win.   I hated the thought of my plan
going wrong as it was so important to me, and there
was only one thing I could do: Sam forced me in to it,
and he only had himself to blame.  I took the goad
from the holster on the side of the driving seat, and
stabbed at Sam's butt five or six times until he
howled at me to stop (along with a lot of other very
unsatisfactory language for a slave to use to his
owner, which I won't repeat here).

Once I'd got the bit in and had allowed him to stand,
I did try and explain, and to apologise even, but Sam
was having none of it and I could tell by his body
language that he was really pissed off.  He was even
more pissed off when, having looked at him, I decided
we ought to go the whole hog and reached down and
undid his shorts, so they fell to the floor.

At first I thought that he was jumping up and down in
rage - I can't imagine why, as he had a superb body as
you know, and there was actually no reason why he
shouldn't display it.    I suppose I'm being
charitable to Sam to say that I did give him the
benefit of the doubt, though, and perhaps he was just
trying to show me that his dick and balls were really
jerking around as he was no longer cinched.  I could
sympathise with him, as running totally without
support really does make your balls ache, as I'd found
out the first time I ran down to the lake after my own
cinch had been removed.  Fortunately, though, I'd
bought some small mesh pouches for the gardener to
wear in the hot weather, and I called for him to bring
one over - they're a fairly broad mesh, in a little
triangle, with three strings to hold it in place - two
around the waist, and one up the butt crack, to join
with the others at the back.  I think the gardener
enjoyed putting it on Sam and "settling him in" - you
could still see Sam's dick and balls quite clearly,
but at least now they were comfortably secured.  There
was a bonus for me, too, as I decided that seeing the
thin white strings around his waist, and, more
excitingly, emerging from Sam's butt crack, was really
rather exotic - they emphasised his gleaming black
skin really well.

All that messing around had made me late, though, as I
wanted to drive him around the town square just as
most of my superstitious neighbours were streaming
into the little church, and even though I told Sam to
jog, and then trot, he was almost ambling along the
road to town.  I warned him, really I did. In fact I
warned him several times, and even asked him if he
still remembered what the pony command words were - he
turned his head and tried to mouth something at me
which looked suspiciously like "fuck off!".  Well, if
a pony's not behaving, as I knew only too well from my
own experience, there's only one course of action the
driver can take - Sam's body still remembered exactly
how painful the carriage whip can be, as he jerked
forward most satisfactorily when I slashed at his butt
with mine!  Perhaps it's true that "the body
remembers", as Sam seemed to respond to my verbal
commands properly after that.

By the time we got to town Sam was a fine sight:
sweat was running down his body in big broad streaks,
and the bit had held his mouth open just enough so
that long trails of drool were falling from it.  His
chest was heaving from the exertion as he tried to get
his breath back. I slashed at his back a couple of
times as we jogged around the square - I did feel a
bit guilty about that, but I wanted to make a real
"effect" - no-one seeing him displayed and working
away like that could have any doubt that he was
anything other than a slave.

I went to the bar, leaving Sam tethered outside, and
stood there having a beer and waiting for most of the
guys to come out from church, and of course when they
did so, most of them stopped to admire Sam as he stood
there.  They were mostly farmers, after all, and so
could appreciate the finer points of slave stock, and
so when they came in they congratulated me on what a
fine animal I had, and we had a lively discussion
actually about the set of his butt, and the way his
thighs, knees and calves were so perfectly formed.
Dave was there, to give me moral support, I suppose,
as he was too sensible to be a churchgoer, and he was
particularly interested in Sam's dick - indeed, I'd
seen him and a couple of the other guys pulling down
Sam's little pouch and "feeling" him, as they say in
those circles.

Dave did a stupid thing, though - just as I thought
I'd got away with convincing everyone that  Sam was a
"proper" slave, Dave asked me if he could borrow him
to stud!  "I know the fees must be very high for a
fine stallion like him, Steve, but perhaps you might
do your neighbours a kindness?", he asked jovially.
"A lot of us around here have got nigga bitches who
need breeding, and with a stud like that there'd be
bound to be a fine batch of pups...."

Several of the other guys agreed, and one even
proposed setting up a syndicate to rent Sam from me
occasionally, and then "doling him out" to the
members.  Well, I cold hardly refuse, could I?  Any
owner would, after all, be proud that other men
admired his slave so much that they wanted to breed
from him.  I could hardly refuse, and then Dave went
on "How about you come back with me for lunch, Steve?
One of my nigga bitches is in season right now, and
I'd like to catch her with that stud of yours.... I
suppose he's done it before?  He is a proper stud,
isn't he, and not some sort of homo?"

I laughed.  "Of course!  In fact he's got excellent
confirmation, with over eighty percent of his studding
of in-season bitches taking first time.  And he's
above average at siring male pups, too, so you help
keep down all those vet's bills for the abortions of
the bitches."

All the guys in the bar were really impressed as I
reeled off those statistics - Straughan kept that kind
of thing at Walker Plantation - and I knew I'd won.
Unfortunately Dave then suggested that he and I drove
back to his place right then, so that Sam could cover
the bitch immediately.  Sam of course knew nothing of
these arrangements, although I could tell that he was
really pissed off at having to pull both Dave and me
back towards home, and he realised he was In for a
longer run when we turned off to Dave's place rather
than going straight home.  His whole body language was
wrong, and it was the kind of dumb insolence that
would have driven a lot of owners to order a caning
for him back at the stables, frankly.

At Dave's place I stood and chatted to  Sheila and the
kids while Dave went into the barn to get the bitch
strapped down on the studding bench - he thought it
was probably her first time, and was expecting
trouble!  Little did he know that I was expecting
trouble too, big trouble, from Sam.  Fortunately,
though, he came out from the barn with a studding kit
- pretty standard, as most of you probably use them
yourselves - and buckled the heavy leather collar
around Sam's sweating neck.  Sam knew, of course, what
it was and began move around and make incoherent
shouts through his bit, and Dave just laughed. "Your
pony sure is frisky, Steve!  He knows what's going to
happen next, and he can't wait to get stuck in!"

Dave was a practical kind of guy, though, and I'm sure
he'd done this before, as he didn't unshackle one of
Sam's hands from the trap until he'd done the first
one and got it safely secured into the manacle
dangling down Sam's back from the collar - with all
the work he did Dave was  a pretty strong guy,
probably not as strong as Sam, but he did have two
hands to work with in bringing one of Sam's arms
around and up his back, so it wasn't much of a
contest.

"Easy, boy!  I can tell you're ready for it", Dave was
saying to Sam as he pulled down Sam's pouch and then,
as had been done to me so many times before, started
to stroke Sam's dick to full hardness.  The kids were
squealing with delight at seeing their daddy handle
the big nigga with such skill and ease, and for a
moment I thought Dave was actually going to let one of
them lead Sam by his dick over  to the barn;  but at
the last minute he told the child that it was "work
for daddy, as you never could tell with slaves, when
they were in an excited state."

I must say I enjoyed it, actually,  I'd always liked
seeing Sam at stud, the way his powerful buttocks and
thighs worked to force him in and out of the bitch,
and the way the sweat poured off him.   Now I could
really relax and enjoy the spectacle, as there was
absolutely no danger that I would be the next one to
have to perform in this way.   Considering the bitch
was probably a virgin, judging from the way she
screamed and cried when Sam was "introduced" to her
and then made to thrust away, Sam didn't seem to
really be as enthusiastic as he had been on all the
other times he'd studded.  As I watched, I wondered if
he'd really got to prefer being with a guy like me;
or, of course, he might be totally pissed off with
being made to perform like that.

Dave was really considerate when it was over, too,
using a damp cloth to wipe not only Sam's dick, but to
go over him lightly totally to help get rid of some of
the sweat, and refresh him.  They wanted me to stay to
lunch, but I declined as I knew I was in for a
difficult time, to ay the least, with Sam, and if I
kept him standing around half he afternoon, it could
only make matters worse.  So Dave re-shackled Sam into
the trap and put him back into the little mesh pouch,
and we set off for home.  I didn't even attempt to
make him go fast, and never even thought of using the
whip or he goad on him.

Wen I did take out the bit and free his hands form the
manacles, Sam was totally and absolutely lived - no,
almost berserk.  It didn't matter what I said about it
being no worse than he'd done many, many times before.
 It didn't matter that I reminded him that he always
said that he liked cunt.  All he could do was stand
there and scream at me that he thought we were meant
to be free men now.  I ought just to have shut up and
taken it, and let his anger subside and melt away.
But I was pissed off, frankly - he was spoiling it all
for me, when everything had gone so well - no one
would now doubt that Sam was a "proper" slave, and
that therefore my behaviour was perfectly acceptable.

"Listen, you dumb fuck!", I finally screamed.  "Let me
remind you that I am indeed free.  But you, Sam, are a
slave.  You'll always be a slave, as there's no
remission, not ever.  You're fucking lucky that you're
my slave, because I care about you. But if your
attitude doesn't change, boy, that could soon be
different:  I'd get a good price for you at the
auction, probably make a handsome profit on you
compared to what I had to pay to get your sorry ass!
I don't think you appreciate how I had to beg and
plead to get someone to advance the money to buy you -
we took a real risk, you know, as it wasn't clear I
was going to get the money from Walker's enslavement.
So I suggest you shut the fuck up, right now! "

Sam came towards me, his fists clenched at his side,
seething for a fight.  "One more step, boy, and I'll
have you whipped.  Really whipped, not with that toy
carriage whip."

"You and whose army?  You can't even stop me fucking
you when I want t  - I could flatten you before you
could even get the whip out!"

"No, not me, Sam - the Slave Police.  I'll call the SP
in, and get them to instil a little respect into you."

Sam calmed down instantly then - some thing every
slave knows is that you don't mess with the SP.  All
of us had seen the battered, mutilated bodies brought
back to the Walker Plantation and unceremoniously
dumped out in front of the slave barn.

I turned and went into the house, expecting Sam to
follow, but he didn't.  At first, I thought he might
just have gone for a walk to simmer down, or even for
a swim in the lake to help him cool off both
metaphorically and physically.  But when he hadn't
appeared by dinner time, I began to get worried.  My
valet said that the chef had my dinner ready, and when
I said I was going to wait for Sam, he looked
surprised.  "He's eaten, sir, with us.  We always eat
before your dinner, in case we have duties to perform
afterwards.  He came over to the slave house and
shared our chow."

I demanded to know where he was now, and the lad,
seeing my anger, began to tremble.  "I think he's
still there now, sir.  He was making us all move
around earlier, so he'd have somewhere to sleep, and
it's already really cramped in there with the three of
us.... I'm not criticising, sir, honest I'm not, sir,
but the slave house is very small, and the gardener's
a really big guy, and with Sam in there too...."

I ordered the lad to go and fetch Sam, and he came in
and stood in front of me, totally naked, his head
bowed and his hands clasped behind his back in the
"slave rest" position.  He just stood there, as I
raged on at him, asking him what the fuck he was
doing.

"I'm a slave, sir, as you keep telling me, so I
assumed you'd want me to live in the slave house with
the other slaves, go around naked as I used to, and
all that, sir.  I expect you'll want me to stud again,
and so perhaps I should stop having sex, sir, so that
I have a good head of cum when you want to sell my
services?

So that was his game, was it?  Trying to make me feel
guilty.  "You're right, Sam", I replied calmly.  It's
probably better you do sleep in the slave house for a
while.  And it won't hurt you to do a bit of real work
for a change - tomorrow you can harness yourself into
the grass mower and help the gardener as I think I'd
like to see all the meadows down to the lake a little
shorter.  He doesn't have time to do it himself, but
with a strong slave like you pulling the mower, it's
probably possible provided you work exceptionally
hard. Be sure he understands that you're to pull the
mower, not him, and that you are to be harnessed to it
- you are, after all, a pony."

Sam looked surprised, and I was secretly pleased that
I'd beaten him at his silly game.  "One more thing,
Sam - send the gardener over when you go back to the
slave house, but tell him to clean himself up properly
before he does.  I haven't exercised my owner's rights
over him yet, and I think his nice firm butt is just
what I need after today's excitement."

I could see Sam was furious, recognising that I'd
trumped his ploy, but in order not to lose face he had
to turn and go.  And, actually, the gardener was fun
and made a nice change from Sam:  his big soft eyes
were very appealing, and he had long, long legs ,which
I always think is nice.  He kept making little Russian
noises as I fucked him, and afterwards he lay in my
arms and there were tears  running down his face - I
assumed they were tears of happiness, as when  I
suggested he could go back to the slave house the, he
pleaded with me to fuck him again.  It turns out that
because he was the biggest, my valet and chef always
wanted him to fuck them, whereas all he wanted to do
was to relax utterly and let someone else take charge
of things.

It took a week or so before things were "back to
normal" in our little household.  For the first few
days Sam stubbornly "acted the slave", making a point
of dragging the heavy mowing machine past me if he saw
me on the veranda or walking by the lake, sending word
by my valet to ask if "master wanted the trap brought
round today", and all that kind of childish thing.  I
got tired of the gardener, though, as I much preferred
the excitement of Sam and our little tussles, and the
chef valet weren't much better - OK for the odd casual
fuck, but not anything special that you'd want to use
over and over again.  Sam, I imagine, had the same
problems over in the slave house.  So eventually Sam
and I both kind of compromised, with me complimenting
him on the grass, and then gently stroking his butt in
appreciation, and him giving me one of his slow, sexy
smiles..... And, before either of us really knew it,
we were in bed together again.    It was a memorable
"reunion"  - Sam fooled around, acting the slave until
I was almost in him, then quick as a flash he turned
and was thrusting into me with a vigour that left me
screaming with the sheer ecstasy of it all, and with
us both laughing afterward as we lay there.

I decided that I didn't want to put Sam through all
the trauma of studding again, telling him that I
wanted his dick for myself, which pleased him.  So I
took up my neighbours' idea of a kind of
"co-operative", and generously bought them a big
nigga, with a proven tack record, for their communal
use.  I was the hero of the town, and  at the Harvest
Supper, after the ridiculous blessings of the food
from the pastor, one of the farmers stood up and said
what a fine man I was, even though I was a northerner,
and how rare it was to find someone from the north who
actually understood slaves properly.

Sam and I continued to live our rather quiet life,
therefore, taking long walks over my land, doing a bit
of duck shooting,  swimming in the lake, and all that
sort of stuff.  Sam was always curious to know why I
didn't go up north to visit my folks, though, and told
me that if he could, he'd go back to see some cousins
and stuff of his in Chicago, but of course he was not
allowed to leave the south.  In truth, I didn't know
why I didn't visit them - I'd spoken to mom and dad on
the phone, indeed, called them once a week, and mom
was of course overjoyed at having me "back", and
really proud of how Jamie had helped "in spite of the
danger" - I assumed he didn't tell her that he'd
fucked his elder brother!  Dad, though, was his usual
gruff self and as much as said that he had always said
hat I'd come to no good, as I hadn't worked hard
enough at college, and had been squandering my time
living with a totally unsuitable woman.  He even went
so far as to suggest that he assumed I was doing the
same thing again, shacking up with some totally
unsuitable girl that he wouldn't approve of, and
that's why I wouldn't go home as I didn't want to let
them see her!  I smiled to myself as he said this - if
only he knew!  Then he went on and on at me about
"finding a nice girl" and "settling down" as my mom
really wanted a grandchild.  I did manage to keep my
temper and not tell him to mind his own business - I
reckon he'd have been really shocked, in spite of all
his liberal views, to hear he and mom were already
grandparents many times over:  well I reckoned I'd
studded about three hundred times in those past years,
always in bitches "in season", so if my confirmation
rate was about eighty percent, like Sam's, that would
be 240 pups.  Ignoring twins and so on, and there
probably would be some in that many, and allowing for
the fact that half of them would be aborted as a big
stud like me would only be used to sire males, that
meant there were well over a hundred grand kids
somewhere or other in the puppy farms!

I expect that things would have gone on like that for
a fair time, except that over breakfast one morning
Sam drew my attention to a small paragraph in the New
York Times.  It was talking about "how the mighty were
fallen" and citing the case of old man Walker.  But
then went on to say that "Evidently the misfortunes of
the father were to be visited on to his child.  Brett
Walker (25) has escaped his father's disgrace and
financial crash by virtue of trust funds set up by his
grandfather.  It could not be proven that he knew his
father was using the illegally enslaved, and he had
sufficient money of his own for good lawyers, and was
therefore free.  But 'fast living' and gambling and a
love of luxury cars had taken their toll:  the trust
funds had been exhausted and Brett Walker had not seen
the end coming in time.  With debts of tens of
thousands of new dollars, he had been enslaved and
would be auctioned shortly.  'Like father, like son' "
, the article concluded.

"Sam, we haven't given ourselves a treat since we've
been here, have we?"  Sam shook is head, a slow smile
spreading over his face.  "I think I deserve a pony, a
proper pony.  Do you think you could train one for me,
if I bought one?  I can hardly do it myself, as I'd be
bound to betray the fact that I knew a little too much
about the 'practical' side of pony life."  Sam nodded,
the smile now becoming almost a laugh.  "This Brett
Walker sounds interesting..... He enjoys pony life.
And isn't there a book you could use, by a  Herman
Wright, or someone?  As I remember, Brett wasn't
strong enough for long-distance work, but it's only
two miles from here to town.... And then, there's
always the dressage - and I'm sure he'd 'prance'
well...."

"And I wonder if he's already 'skinned,?", Sam asked.
"Perhaps we ought to have him decorated, branded,
ringed.....?"

End Of Part Six