Date: Wed, 2 Aug 2006 12:43:31 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Falsely Enslaved, Part Nine

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  Nine

Sam had used some of Brett's "spare" time during the
previous week to make him really polish and clean the
trap that we'd found in the barn, so all was ready for
our first trip.

I told Brett that I didn't expect him to know the way
to the barber shop initially, but this would be his
first and only "learning" of this route.  Sam was
surprised when I didn't snap the cuffs shut on Brett's
wrists once he was between the shafts, and told me I
was courting trouble.  "Look, Sam, I wanted this pony
totally "natural", remember?  His slim ankle bracelet
is almost invisible, and we hid his brand, and his SIN
is only visible when you look at him from behind - and
soon, when his hair gets a bit longer, it won't
usually be visible at all.  It would totally spoil the
effect to have him cuffed into the shafts - it would
suggest that it isn't 'natural' for him, that he is in
some way being forced, rather than doing it as a
proper, totally trained, pony."

Sam shrugged, but as we set off I could see that he
was worried about Brett's behaviour as I could see Sam
loping along behind the trap, as ever looking after my
interests.

We did indeed cause a sensation in the town!  There
were not a lot of ponies in use anyway there - most
people were either so far out that they needed to
drive in, in their beaten-up pickups, or cycled, like
me.  And those ponies that there were the
"traditional" niggas:  there wasn't a lot of money
around, and very, very few whiteys at all therefore.
Those there were occupied the "professional" slots in
the town's social structure, acting as doctors,
lawyers and the like:  so many men in those
professions ran up large debts that there were a lot
of them enslaved, they were bought by large rental
companies, and towns like ours then found it
convenient to hire these people rather than pay
salaries to free men.  So using a whitey for something
utterly degrading and "physical", like a pony, was so
unusual that it almost had the power to shock local
public opinion.

Then, too, Brett looked so little like a slave that
some folk might have thought that he was a college
student running naked through the town as some sort of
prank, rather than being driven to it, by me.  I gave
him concise instructions to the barber shop, and then
told him to wait - again, there was a ripple of
sensation from the passers-by who had now stopped to
idly gawk at us:  it was "traditional" to tie your
nigga to the hitching rail, and he was anyway cuffed
to the trap:  Brett, on the other hand, was apparently
"free" to move if he wanted to, even to run away, but
instead stood there, head bowed, hands clasped behind
his back.  By the time I'd finished quite a crowd had
gathered - in our small town anything "new" is so
worthy of comment and is bound to cause excitement.
Poor Brett was looking utterly forlorn and humiliated
as he stood there, totally exposed, for all those
people to see, people who, a few months before, he
would have considered so far beneath him as society
measures these things that they would have hardly have
been worth his notice.  But I could see that I'd got a
whole lot of new respect from some of the folk who
only shortly before were calling me a "Damned Yankee":
 anyone who could so totally master and dominate a
slave to such an extent must clearly be deserving of
their respect and admiration.

I saw Sam lurking across the street, though, acting
properly as a nigga slave should and not occupying the
shady areas which were the privilege of free folk.
Although he was magnificent in his own right, he
hardly attracted a second glance form the majority of
the town's inhabitants as he was a nigga dressed only
in small slave shorts, and therefore hardly unusual in
our neck of the woods.

Climbing onto my seat on the trap I snapped "Home,
fast trot", to Brett, and this was the only
instruction I needed to give him of course.   It's
slightly uphill from town to my place, and as you'd
expect Brett started to flag a little with the much
greater effort required to pull the weight of the trap
and me up an incline.  He'd run so well to the town,
behaved so perfectly when we were there, and I knew
from bitter experience how much more difficult
"uphill", even slightly, that I was inclined to let it
go this time.  But Sam caught up with me, took the
whip from the holster, and gave Brett a couple of firm
strokes on his butt to "encourage" him to the correct
pace.

It would have been very wrong of me to quarrel with
Sam about this with Brett listening, but Sam saw my
look of faint disapproval, and as he ran along beside
me, said casually "The pony needs encouraging to
maintain the proper pace, Steve.  It's not good for
him to think he can get away with 'slacking',
especially after such a short trip this morning:  it's
a kindness, really, to whip him now so that his
lessons are reinforced, rather than perhaps setting an
unfortunate pattern that might require really severe
beatings to get rid of later."

Sam was right, of course, and I nodded.  And when I
got back home, and Brett stood there in the proper
position in spite of clearly being severely winded, I
had to be amazed at how well Sam's training had taken
hold.  I went and caressed his neck gently, thrilling
as I saw the legend "Property of S Masters" etched in
black, and said "Well done, Brett!  I'm not going to
use you again today.  Sam may have some additional
exercises for you to do later on, but for now, you can
run down to the lake and swim if you wish, or just lie
in the sun to perfect your tan."

Very hesitantly, Brett muttered "Sir, thank you, sir"
- evidently he wasn't sure whether he was supposed to
respond or not, and it was good to see that my threats
to beat the life out of him if he spoke unnecessarily
were having effect.  Strictly speaking I suppose he
should not have, as I had not questioned him, but  I
decided to let it go.  I slapped his butt almost
affectionately as a signal of dismissal, and he jogged
of down towards the lake.

In bed that night I discussed with Sam the possibility
of allowing Brett to sleep in the slave house, which I
thought would be nice for Brett as he could experience
the other slaves.  Sam and I had each other in Brett's
stales, but there were always other slaves around who
we could fuck, too.  But Sam was opposed to it,
pointing out that we'd said he was a pony, and that
therefore the barn was the proper place for him.  "In
any case, Steve, you're planning to stud him, aren't
you?  And it's better for him therefore if he doesn't
get used to proper, regular sex.  He needs to be
vaguely enthusiastic, and 'charged', when put to stud,
and if he's always fucking all the other slaves, he
won't be in tiptop condition."

"It never seemed to stop you...."

"...or you!"

We fell about laughing then, but it did get me
thinking and the next morning I called Dave and Sheila
and asked them if any of their nigga bitches needed
covering.  They did, and later that morning therefore
I drove over in the trap, Sam jogging alongside.

Dave and Sheila did not come out to greet me but a
note said they were in the slave barn, and I should go
around.  When Sam and I went in Dave bounded up to
greet me as usual, and, seeing Sam, gave him a big
slap on the back.  "Hey, Sam, big boy, what's going
on?  Is Steve getting tired of you, and wants a bit of
excitement as he watches you stud? ", and turning to
me he went on "This is really good of you, Steve:
that kind of power and strength is just what my herd
needs....  But why Sam now?  Folks around here have
kind of got used to thinking of you two as... well....
together."  Dave blushed a bit as he said this, as he
wasn't easy at the thought of men having sex, still.

I told Sam to go and fetch Brett, and when he came
back into the barn with his arm draped casually around
Brett's shoulders to give a measure of "control" to
Brett, both Dave and Sheila initially gasped.  Sheila
in particular seemed embarrassed to see a whitey -
well, as I've said, they were not common in our neck
of the woods - and even Dave, when Dam casually
reached down and stroked Brett's dick to a full
erection, looked mildly shocked.

"This is my stud", I told them, "Not Sam!  He's
obviously not as powerful or as big as Sam, but as you
can see he's a really nice whitey, ideal for
'lightening' your slave stock:  I think there's a long
term change going on in the market and by the time the
pups are ready for sale, I wouldn't be at all
surprised if much lighter stock fetches substantially
higher prices.  So you can be in at the start, using
this stud here, with my compliments:  there's no fee."

"But he's blond....", Sheila gasped.

"Yes, obviously - totally natural, too, if we let all
his hair grow all his pubes would match his mane."

I saw them still looking in amazement, so went on
"He's a proper slave, I've got all the papers and
everything.  It's just that whiteys are not all that
common around here, especially not ones available for
stud!"

"I don't know if it's right, Steve....", Dave muttered
eventually.

"Not right?"

"Well, it's kind of rude, almost, to see a guy who
could be like you and me, having to fuck in
public....."

"Dave, I'm shocked!  I never thought you'd be
prejudiced!  It's OK, apparently, for niggas  like Sam
to fuck in public, but not whiteys?  I thought we got
rid of that kind of disgusting discrimination based on
colour years ago."

Dave nodded, and I sensed he didn't like me taking him
to task like that.  But I can't stand prejudice just
based on a guy's skin colour - I mean, look at Sam and
me, and you'll see that him being a nigga is
absolutely irrelevant.  Indeed, I even almost prefer
his lovely even dark pelt to the thought of a whitey.

Dave's nigga bitch had been standing there as all this
was going on, one of those big niggas with wide hips
and a big butt who are such good breeding material.
At a command from Dave she slipped off her loose slave
smock, and then Dave asked me "Any position you like
to see particularly?", and when I shrugged a "no", he
called out "on the table, on your hands and
knees....".

"Doggy fashion is always good for slaves, I think", he
told me.

Sam was still keeping a hold on Brett's shoulders, and
I could see the guy almost quivering:  Knowing of my
own thoughts when I was first forced into this utterly
degrading act, I imagined that Brett was not trembling
in anticipation of a a bit of sexual fun, but was
possibly gearing up his "fight or flight" reflexes in
spite of the consequences which would surely follow.
Sam had surely responded to this by maintaining his
physical control over the man, fortunately:  after
all, we did not have to really hurt Brett had he
indeed done anything so stupid as struggle to resist
us, or try to run away.

As is customary, and as I remembered from so many
occasions when I'd been the poor stud, I asked Dave if
he wanted the excitement of introducing Brett into his
nigga, but he shook his head.  I had no compunction
about doing it - he'd done it to me so many, many
times, after all, but Sam did have "control" over him
so I thanked Dave and said that we'd get Sam to do it
as then Dave and Sheila and I could all watch
together.

In spite of everything, and how perfect we are
together, I do sometimes suspect Sam of harbouring
some "straight" tendencies and if there's a movie on
TV where there are men and women fucking, he always
wants to watch it, so the smile on his face was
probably genuine and not at all forced.

Dave had a standard "Stud" kit - he was remarkably
well equipped in all matters to do with slaves, as I
knew from his ability to lend us things like tattooing
machines and branding irons - and he tossed the
collar, chains and cuffs to Sam.

As Sam buckled the collar around Brett's neck I
remembered with sickening clarity how I'd felt that
first time I'd ever been made to perform in public
like this, and how I'd hated the feel of the leather
as it encircled me.  I thought at first that Brett was
going to break training completely and protest as Sam
took one wrist behind his back and pushed it high up
his back, before attaching it to the collar chain; and
if I wasn't feeling charitable towards Brett and
feeling some twinge of sympathy for him as he stood
there so very vulnerable , I'm sure I could have
detected a tiny whimper of dismay as his second wrist
joined the first and he knew he was completely
helpless now ( a whimper that would have had to be
punished, s ponies re silent!).  Sam patted him
encouragingly on the butt and whispered something to
him, then reached down as if it was the most casual
thing in the world (which I suppose it is if you're
used to handling studding, and Sam and I had a lot of
experience, after all!), and stroked Brett to
erection.   Again, I remembered how I'd felt that
first time Straughan had used my erect dick as a
handle to pull me across the room towards the bitch.
As I now watched Sam force Brett to take those
reluctant steps, and then, as we continued to watch as
 Sam  "introduced"  Brett into the bitch as she knelt
there, I knew how totally and utterly humiliated I'd
been at having to do these so very private things in
front of an audience.

Sam slapped Brett's butt a couple of times, not hard,
but more as a kind of encouragement, and Brett began
his first stud session.  Like me, I think, once he'd
seen it was inevitable and his dick was in the bitch,
he got on with it and made a pretty workmanlike job of
it.  And I was able to admire just how much all Sam's
hard work in training Brett had paid off, as his butt
and thighs really did look most agreeable as they
pounded away.

Down our way a studding is a bit of a social affair,
and Dave and Sheila invited me to stay for lunch once
it was all over.  Knowing of our "special
relationship", they even allowed Sam to eat, too
(although they couldn't quite bring themselves to
allow him to share the table on their shady veranda
with us, and he had to sit on the floor by the side of
me to eat).  Brett did not get fed, of course, as he
was on the pony's usual regime of twice a day feeding,
but because we were pleased with his general demeanour
and performance, I told Sam to go and tell him he
could sit in the shade, rather than standing in the
trap in the broiling sun.

Lying in bed that night I was discussing with Sam what
incredible progress Brett had made, and he sort of
shrugged.  "It was inevitable", he told me.  "Guys
from rich backgrounds have no stamina - they're so
used to having everything easy, that when it all goes
away their world collapses and it's easy to mould them
into a new life.  It was much harder for you and me,
as we'd always had a relatively tough life any way and
were used to making up our own minds about things and
doing things for ourselves - so they had a much harder
job of breaking us, and of training us.  I used to see
it all the time in the marines - guys from really
tough backgrounds took a long time to settle in, but
then they were fucking marvellous soldiers.  If we
ever had anyone from a good home, most of them wimped
out during basic training."

"And what about you, Sam?  Are you really 'broken' to
the life of a slave?"

I felt Sam's body tense next to me, and I wondered for
a moment if I'd asked exactly the wrong question.
Then he raised himself up on one elbow and shuffled
his body next to mine so were in skin to skin contact
down almost our entire length, and muttered, as he
looked down at me, "I reckon it's OK as your slave,
Steve.  But I reckon that by now, if I'd been sold to
someone else, I'd have tried to make a run for it.
I'd either have got to the north, or Canada, or I'd be
dead."

"Is not being a slave that important to you?"

"Well not whilst I'm with you.  I reckon it doesn't
much matter whether I'm a slave or not as I'm going to
stick close to you.  Some of the stuff's a bit boring
- having to sit at your fucking feet today, for
example!  But there are some good points to it all - I
mean, I get to run, and exercise, and go around
stripped off if I want to; whereas you have to get all
dressed up to go to town, and you have all those phone
calls with your lawyers and accountants....."

".... Well managing all that money is a big
responsibility, Sam..."

"Sure it is.  And you have to do it.  Whereas I get to
enjoy all the things it gives us - this place, the
lake.... And  don't have any of that."

He grinned a bit and went on "And you have to
constantly worry about the behaviour of the other
slaves, in case they getting something past you, and
you worry about whether you ought to be punishing
them, or if you've done it too hard, or too little...
It's much easier for me:  if one of them pisses me
off, or doesn't do as I tell him, I give him a good
going over there and then:  no worries, no nothing -
they all know that they don't piss me off, or they'll
regret it."

"I didn't know that.... "

"Same in the marines!  Officers were always worrying
about whether the lads were behaving and obeying
orders and stuff.  Us sergeants just gave them a good
thumping if they were trouble, and they soon got the
message."

I didn't know whether to be shocked, or what.  Sam's
experience was so very different to mine, where until
I'd been falsely enslaved no one had ever treated me
violently in any way.  But  I didn't want to go down
this particular conversational alleyway any longer, so
I said "Look, there's a difficult thing I've been
meaning to talk to you about.... My mom and dad want
me to go and visit them."

"...and you can't take me."

"No, I can't.  I want to, to show them what a
fantastic guy I'm with, but you know it's illegal to
take a slave out of the south."

"So why can't they come here and visit us?"

"Because mom and dad are fanatical abolitionists, and
there's just no way they'd ever set foot in the south.
 I haven't seen them for years, and dad, in
particular, isn't getting any younger.  I won't be
away long, only a few days...."

"You've made your mind up, then?"

"What's to make my mind up about?  I need to see my
folks some time, they won't come here, so I have to go
there.  I'll only be way a few days - I'm even
thinking of flying, to save time."

"So you're going to leave me...."

I was beginning to get exasperated.  "Sam, I don't
have any choice!  I can't take you there, as you know,
as you are a slave."

"...throw that in my face as usual, whenever the going
gets tough!"

"Sam, get real, will you?  You are a slave, and you
have a pretty good life, in fact a fucking good life
here with me:  we do everything together, share
everything, just like two men would.  But there are
some things that slaves can't do, and one of them is
travel to the north.  So that's it, final, done, over
with."

Sam rolled over and turned his back on me.  Frankly,
if I wasn't so tolerant I would have taken the cane to
him!  I always treated him well, but sometimes he
totally failed to accept the reality of our lives, and
I was beginning to think that perhaps I ought to
remind Sam about it in a rather meaningful way.  I lay
there seething, and was sorely tempted to get the
gardener over and have him restrain Sam whilst I gave
those lucious butt cheeks a few strokes of the cane.
But, as I say, I'm pretty tolerant, and I didn't.  But
I as sorely tempted when the next morning Sam sulked
all over breakfast, and then just left the room
without even asking me, and I saw him go over to the
barn and take Brett out for a training run.  Frankly,
if he preferred the company of a slave like Brett to
mine, I felt like chaining him into the shaft of the
trap and using him as a pony - let the two ponies
spend all their time together!

It kind of blew over, though:  the next morning,
really early, Sam slapped my butt that caused me to
wake up more abruptly than I like to, then began to
tug at me playfully to make me get out of bed,
slapping and tickling me until I complied.  "You don't
get enough exercise", he told me, "And that's why
you're getting sad and grumpy!  So especially if
you're going away, you need to be in peak condition,
so your mom sees I'm looking after you!  So until you
go, we're going to start really working out again,
like we used to have to do.  So get your lazy ass out
of there and get some shorts on, or else I'll pull you
out naked....."

Well by the time we got back - and I as really winded,
as Sam showed me no mercy in  making me run and run -
I did in fact feel a whole lot better, and over
breakfast we talked about the trip and why I needed to
go.  "You see, Sam, there's always been this problem
with my father - he doesn't think I can do anything
properly.  And he wanted me to get a good education,
so I could work in an office, and it's just not me....
I'm more of a creative person, a free spirit...."

"....until you were a slave!", Sam joked.

Anyway I booked a flight - well, if you've got the
money, why not spend it occasionally - for a weeks
time, and as a treat Sam came to the airport with me
in the car I hired, just to see more of the country.
It's amazing to think that Dallas used to have
hundreds of flights a day, and tens of thousands of
passengers would tear through the place.  Now it's
pretty much a ghost town of course, with only one
small terminal as the demand has gone away as flying
is just so amazingly expensive, and the high speed
trains are anyway so much more civilised.  It's very
luxurious, though, as only the rich, and government
officials, now fly.  On my flight to Boston there were
only about fifty people, and of them I was the only
one dressed casually, and not in a suit!  The air
steward person who was serving me my lunch was rather
cute, though, and as he bent over to re-fill my
champagne glass I let my hand slide over his
tightly-stretched black pants as his butt was rather
enticing.

To my utter amazement he shouted out, so some of the
other passengers could hear, "I'm not a slave, sir!
How dare you attempt an assault on me like that!  You
are lucky that I do not have you put in irons for
sexual harassment of an airline employee.
Interference wit the lawful duties of airline
employees is a felony..."

I had to mumble that I was sorry, and that I'd kind of
assumed they'd have slaves doing jobs like that, and
he haughtily pointed out that this was a plane from
the north, and that therefore all the crew were free
men.  Still, it was embarrassing, and considering my
ticket probably cost about as much as he earned in
three months, I think he could have been rather more
understanding - or if he didn't want men making
advances to him, why did he wear those absurdly tight
pants as he must have known that his butt was
exciting?

Mom, dad and Jamie met me at Boston and we all drove
together for the couple of hours it takes to get
"home".  It was that kind of inconsequential talk that
families have after they've all hugged at the airport.
 And all the time mom kept saying, though, that she
was so glad to have me back, as if it was in some way
permanent, and "how brave" Jamie had been to rescue
me!  All dad could do was say in a somewhat icy voice
that I should never have been in the south in the
first instance, as it was a terrible place.  And that
he assumed I'd be moving north as soon as I could, to
get away from all that slavery nonsense.

When we got home I was in for a big disappointment,
though:  they'd given my room, my special big room
with the great views, to Jamie!  And I was stuck in
his miserable little place on the wrong side of the
house.  And when I complained, no one could understand
why, as I didn't live there any longer, whereas Jamie
did.  The whole place looked smaller, shabbier and
more run down than I remembered it, and dad muttered
something to me about not being shy to ask to borrow
extra sweaters as with the price of heating these
days, they now kept the thermostat set very, very low
indeed.  And when I went into the kitchen and saw mom
preparing dinner and there were only a couple of
bottles of wine for the four of us, and not very good
stuff, either, I was a bit shocked as they always kept
a decent table in the past.  I went to the phone to
call the local store to have a few dozen sent over as
a gift for them, but mom told me everyone had stopped
doing deliveries as it was just too expensive on the
fuel, so I pulled on my outdoor coat and ran the mile
or so there - it did me good, anyway, after sitting on
that plane.

The whole town seemed to be sliding down hill, slowly
and gently, with a lot of places closed up, and a
general seedy air settling over the place.  It used to
be exclusive and fashionable, priding it self on its
small speciality stores, delicatessens and antique
stores, and now it was, well, just awful.  Still I did
manage to buy some wine, and sprinted home just in
time to avoid being late for dinner.

I'd forgotten how good mom's cooking was, and the fine
wine helped a lot to keep the conversation flowing,
although mom and dad kept asking me when I was coming
"home", and that "although you might have met some
nice southern belle, they were sure she'd grow to like
our falls and winters".  I didn't want to talk about
anything like that, of course, so countered by asking
what was wrong with the town (and by implication, the
house).  Finally dad shook his head, and said "The
economics of things have finally caught up with us,
son.  We were living in a fool's paradise - it's cold
up here, really cold, in the winter, and we have to
pour energy in to keep ourselves alive.  And now the
prices.... Year on year, they go up and up, and most
folk can't afford them sooner or later, so the houses
are left - you can't sell them, as no one wants to
take them on.  Everyone is moving down to Boston and
other centres, and moving into apartments that are
easy to heat.  And of course it's the transport costs
as well - the gas for the car to and from Boston was
frightening.... Most folk now want a place right on
top of a train station.  So the town's dying, slowly
but surely, as we're all forced to retreat and cluster
together again.  And as the folks move out, there's
less and less work left behind for those who stay....
So poor Jamie can't get a job, any sort of job...."

I looked at my little brother, and he just shrugged.

"And with the inflation", mom chimed in, "Dad's
pension goes less and less far, and we're eating into
our savings faster and faster."

"It's a bit different in the south, you know", I
ventured.  "We don't have the heating problems.  We
don't have a lot of the costs, in the factories and
fields, as we use manpower again now rather than
expensive fuel.  For example, if I want something from
town, I don't have to have it delivered, I simply send
one of the slaves to run in and get it..."

I thought dad was going to have a fit! "A son of mine,
ordering slaves around....".  But I was a man now, and
I wasn't going to be cowed by him.  "Ah, come on, dad
- it's not that bad!  I ran into town and back here,
this evening, to buy more wine...."

"Mark, stop being ridiculous!  You ran in because you
wanted to.  Your slaves run because they have to."

"Dad, I told you I wanted to be called Steve now....
And, in any case, my salves run because they want to:
if I order them to run, they run because they want to
- they want to, to avoid punishment."

"My son is Mark!  And that's more of your southern
foolishness...."

Mom did her usual soothing stuff and suggested we went
and sat around the fire in the big sitting room "like
old times" with our coffee, and it kind of simmered
down, but I could see that these were not going to be
an easy few days.  And as I lay in bed later, I was,
frankly, pissed off - well, I was mildly drunk, and
that always makes me a bit introspective and tending
towards the maudlin.  I was pissed off at Jamie for
lying about "rescuing me" - I bet dad and mom would
think differently if they knew he'd fucked me, and was
the "stud master" when I had to perform so
degradingly;  I was pissed off at not being in "my"
room;  and I hated being treated like a child again,
even though I'd survived slavedom, had a lover of my
own, and millions of new dollars in the bank.

The more I lay there the more pissed off I got, until
I slid out of bed and pulled on a robe against the
cold night air, and stepped carefully down the
corridor to my old room (avoiding the places where my
body's memories from my boyhood told me my footsteps
would cause everything to squeak!).  I opened the door
of "my" room, slipped off my robe, and slid into "my"
bed, lying against Jamie.

"What the fuck...?", he muttered, coming awake as he
felt me against him.

"Hey, little brother... You and me.... We've got some
catching up to do.  And what's all this about
'rescuing' me?  Didn't you tell mom and dad the truth,
about how you fucked me, how you played 'stud master'
for Brett and led me by my dick and 'introduced' me to
those niggas?"

As I spoke, I grabbed Jamie's wrist and pulled his
hand down to my dick, which was hard and solid.
"Remember this, Jamie?  Remember how my dick feels
when you've stroked me to erection, and have dragged
me across a studding barn by it?"

"Steve, let go of me...."

"No, Jamie.  It's my turn now.  Why don't you take
that T and those boxers off, little brother, so us two
men can get right up close and personal?"

"Steve, no...."

I always was bigger than Jamie, and with all that
muscular development as a pony I was now considerably
bigger, and much stronger.  I grabbed him and almost
ripped his T off him, then wrapped one arm around his
waist as I pulled his boxers down with the other.
Once he was naked I tuned him around to face me,
locking him close to me with one arm, and with my
legs.

"Now, little brother, it's your turn.... You fucked
me, and I get to fuck you..."

"No, Steve, please, it's not right.... I wasn't
fucking you!  I didn't know it was you!  I thought it
was just a slave, one of Brett's pony slaves, not my
brother...."

"But it was OK to fuck a slave against his will, was
it?  OK to force your dick up another guy's ass,
without his asking you to?"

"It wasn't like that, Steve..."

"It was, Jamie!  I was there, remember?"

When I was growing up I'd never even considered having
sex with my brother, but the more I thought about it,
the more I realised what an idiot I'd been.  With a
nice young body like Jamie's around, I could have
saved hours and hours of chatting up the girls and got
on with something more useful.   Just thinking about
it made me harder and I could feel pre-cum sliming the
end of my dick - just as well, really, as I wasn't
going to argue with Jamie all night and get him to
jerk off so I could lube him fully:  my own pre-cum
would have to do the job.  "Right, little brother....
over on your belly", I told him, pulling one of the
pillows under his belly so that his ass was just
slightly raised up.

"No, Steve, please....", he began, and I bit into the
side of his neck and whispered "Better be quiet, boy!
Mom and dad are in the next room, and although their
hearing isn't as good as it used to be, if you make
too much noise they'd be bound to hear.  It doesn't
bother me to have sex with another guy, even if he is
my little brother, but I reckon you'd have a bit more
explaining to do...."  I tugged another pillow down
under his chin and went on "You start to make too much
noise and I'll smother you with this, in your own best
interests, now...."

I think I've told you before that I really like the
position where the guy you're fucking is basically
flat, or almost so, lying out full length.  Then you
half straddle him, half lie on him and alongside him,
gently part his butt cheeks, and slowly and carefully
slide into his ass.  As I did so, I realised I was not
the first - although Jamie started to moan and cry,
and I had to push his head down quite hard into the
pillow to shut him up, that ass was no stranger to
dick.  So I fucked him properly, and then, when I'd
shot my load and had relaxed, enjoying the feeling of
his subjugated body under mine, I asked him who it had
been.

"No one", he said at first.

"Now Jamie, no lies!  You're not like that cowboy  in
that old classic movie about a mountain or something
who seemed to lie there and take dick the first time
without even a murmur.... I can tell you're
experienced, and my dick knows it, too."

I was almost as if I could feel Jamie blushing as
finally he muttered "It was Brett, Steve.  I was
fascinated by him, even though I was supposed to be
working for the FBI to find all those missing
girls.... He as so confident, so rich.... And after
he'd paid for us to go together for a few nights to a
pleasure palace, a really high-class one with really
stunning bitches in it, and we were comfortable with
fucking bitches in front of each other, he suddenly
said he wanted to fuck me!  I refused at first, but he
got more and more insistent, and I didn't want to lose
access to him, to the house, the pleasure palaces, the
restaurants, the slaves... So I did what he wanted."

"You're worse than a slave, Jamie!  Slaves get fucked
because they have no choice.  You're much worse -
you're a whore:  you were prepared to be fucked for
Brett's money, or, at least, the things it bought.  So
now I don't feel at all badly about going up your ass,
and whilst I'm here, I'm going to do it several times
as a man like me gets used to having regular exercise
for his dick."

I felt bad after that, actually, as we'd got on well
when we were younger and I didn't often have to ball
him out.  He lay there kind of rigid against me,
feeling sorry for himself.  So I put my arm around him
and "spooned" up to him, then let my hand slide over
his belly and begin to play with his dick.

"Steve, please...."

"Why not, Jamie?  Your dick's been up my ass, so
what's wrong with it being in my hand?"

I carried on playing with him, then quickly moved my
hand upwards and gave his nips little tweaks - like
me, he's incredibly sensitive and he squirmed and half
laughed as he tried to get away.  Soon we were rolling
around in the bed almost as if it was me and Sam, and
then I stopped, and pulled him close so that our
torsos were touching and his erect dick was sandwiched
between us.

"So, little brother, you like a bit of fun with
another guy, do you?  I reckon this vacation isn't
going to turn out as badly for me as I thought!"

End Of Part Nine