Date: Fri, 3 Dec 2004 14:05:52 -0800 (PST) From: Pete Brown Subject: Four The Same, Part 14 FOUR THE SAME by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories Part Fourteen My life was now so hectic, and I began to find that the curtailment of my freedom that I had already experienced was affecting me in other ways, too. I had devised a plan - a very bold plan, considering the risks - to deal with the four slaves and have them as my own. I knew that even if Andrew succeeded in making the sheikh give them to the bank, he would still be unhappy about the prospect of his cousin finding them and exposing his innocent ruse to win the bet. I suppose Andrew could handle it, but it didn't seem sensible to rock the boat too much, and we ought really to rely on Andrew's control for important business matters. I therefore planned to remove the four slaves to my country estate in England. This would safely get them away from the sheikh's cousin, and make the sheikh himself happy. Of course the personal risk to me would be immense - one just isn't allowed to own slaves in England, and were they to escape, or even whisper their story to one of the dreadful scandal sheets that call themselves newspapers, my reputation would be destroyed. Technology would aid me, I thought, and I planned to have the mechanism that controlled the dogs modified to deal with the slaves. Instead of a mild electric shock when the dogs approached the buried cable around my estate, I wanted something more permanent: a small explosive charge, I thought, to blow off the head of a slave attempting to escape. Of course there would then be the problem of disposing of the body - we're very strict about that sort of thing in England, but surely the knowledge that they would be killed would actually stop the slaves from attempting it? Normally I could just have called up the company who made the special dog collars and discussed with them the modifications I needed, but this was now impossible. I had to resort to subterfuge, and in the guise of personally inspecting the new business management systems that our IT department was implementing at vast expense, I arranged for a demonstration on how our new systems could be used to provide business information. The low level employees somewhere on the eighteenth floor of our tower were surprised when I, the IT Director, several of my aides, and several of his, turned up unexpectedly for a demonstration of the system. I had to pretend to be interested as screens flashed, printers whirred, "useful features" were demonstrated to me, some wretch showed how she used the "help" facilities, and so on. "Quite so", I finally said. "Now you've given me the demonstration, let's see real life. What do we know about a specific company?" I named the supplier of the dog control system, and to my joy found that they were customers of ours at several branches in England, and in Germany. I asked to be showed the status of their accounts, and deduced that they were trading profitably, but had few reserves. Then I commented that for so many small businesses it was the quality of the directors that was paramount, and asked to be shown details of their accounts. At first, someone was going to deny me this, quoting the data protection regulations, but as I raised my eyebrow in comment, the IT director at once overrode this and said that as the Chairman, I had a right to all the data that the bank held. Consequently I soon saw the meagre state of their Managing Director's personal finances, and gleaned his home address and telephone number. That evening I telephoned the Managing Director, and explained that face to face meetings were just impossible. Without explicitly saying who I was, I promised him a very substantial money transfer into his personal account when four of the collars, to my specification, were delivered to me. He went to give me his account details for the transfer, but I used the fact that I already knew them to show him that I knew more about him than he thought, and hinted of the consequences that would befall him personally, and his company, if there was any leak of this conversation, or of the devices to be manufactured. I waited with frustration for the collars to be delivered - the fools took the best part of two months - and then told Andrew that I would again be visiting, and that he should use his "influence" with the sheikh to ensure that the slaves were available for me. I spoke to the captain of my jet and warned him that on the flight home we would need to bring back a large crate, as I was being honoured with a gift from the sheikh, and he said that he would make arrangements fore it to be swiftly delivered to my estate. He questioned me about the weigh of the crate, and I mentioned that it would be heavy, and he cautioned me against taking some of my many aides with me on the trip as there was only a limited weight that could take off in the desert heat - a restriction that suited me perfectly, as I did not want my people continuing to discuss business with me on the return journey when my mind would be on other, more interesting, matters. THE SLAVE'S STORY I just can't tell you what it felt like as the tiny cage slid up the shaft. When we went down, I had kind of written off the rest of my life, I'd accepted, perhaps, that I was entombed down there for ever. And now, as it slid upwards through the narrow hole through the hundreds of metres of rock, I felt a new hope beginning to stir. I clung on to Marc, and tried to tell him that his nightmare would soon be over, that we would soon once more be in the open air, but he was, as I had become accustomed to, still totally unresponsive. The guards pushed us into a cell at the top of the shaft, and it was only when Matt and Ray emerged some minutes later that I saw what those months down in the mine had done to us. We were, of course, filthy - we had not washed in all that time. We had lost that physical perfection of toned and honed bodies that we had had, because of our lack of sufficient food, and our ribs and so on were now all plainly visible on our emaciated bodies. And, of course, our hair had grown! We all had thick tufts of it at our pubes, on our chests, and sported big, shaggy full beards and long unkempt hair. The guards treated us with disdain, or, perhaps, it was the stench of our unwashed bodies and our vile appearance that affected them. Keeping their distance, we were taken from the cell and put into a big travelling cage on the back of a pickup truck. A tarpaulin was thrown over the cage - a blessing, really, as when the sun came up we'd otherwise have been in trouble as our eyes were just not used to the light (it was bad enough under the electric lights in the shaft head building), and we drove off. We were excited, well, Matt, Ray and I were - Marc was still worryingly silent and withdrawn. But Ray sounded a note of caution - in all our time as slaves we'd never heard of anyone being released form the mines. So what was in store for us? He mentioned the dreaded organ banks - perhaps they had a need of parts from men with our gene types! THE BANKER Our business in the kingdom had grown to such an extent under the guidance of Andrew and his "prompting" of the Sheikh that we had taken on new office blocks, and I had to waste time on one of those "senior management" inspections that plague every organisation. I was seething with impatience before I could decently leave, with Andrew, to go to his house. I barely noticed as Darren helped me change and shower - he had become even more servile and concerned for my needs than he had been on my previous visit, if such a thing was possible, and I suppose I was vaguely concerned by the ridges of scar tissue on his back, buttocks and thighs, and the large areas of bruising on his torso. I asked him if master Andrew was treating him well, and he said, sincerely I thought, that the master was continuing to teach him to be a good, obedient slave. I think Andrew was teasing me, as he knew of my almost consuming passion for the four slaves. He insisted we dine before taking any action on them, and even over dinner he did not want to have a n interesting debate about slave training, or sex - he kept dragging the conversation back to matters of business, and of the Bank's global strategy! It's not easy to talk sensibly about the economy, and overall profitability of the Bank, when you have a raging erection. The moment finally came, though, and four of Andrew's house slaves dragged in what was clearly a large crate, covered in a tarpaulin. He clapped his hands, and the slaves pulled the tarpaulin away with a flourish, rather like those waiters do in very expensive restaurants when they raise the covers to reveal the dishes. I was horrified at what I saw. I was expecting the four, proud - noble, even - men to be revealed. What I saw was a huddled group of filthy vagrants. Thin, bodies, coated in grime; long, shaggy unwashed hair. Awful full beards. And the smell that wafted towards us was simply frightful - it was lucky that the contents of my dinner was not expelled from my throat, it was so nauseous! Andrew saw the look of pure horror on my face, and at once ordered the cage to be decently covered, and then for it to be removed and for the slave s to be cleaned up. "Shall we have them with the standard slave trim here, sir, or do you want them totally hairless again?" "Well, Andrew, I suppose we'd better go for the standard trim - the slaves are supposed to blend in with your others, and give no hint of being the sheikh's old ones. Anyway, what is the 'standard'?" "Oh, short, cropped hair on their heads. Clean shaven, of course. Under arms trimmed to a reasonable length. Pubic hair trimmed neatly, balls and ass shaved to make sex easy... Do you want the hair left on their bellies and chests?" My horror at seeing the slaves was beginning to subside, and as I thought of having the power to order these kinds of processes to be performed on the slaves, my cock began to stiffen. I decided to allow them to keep chest and belly hair, at least for the time being, as I tend to prefer hairy men anyway, and it would be interesting to see what these four looked like a little more 'au naturel'. Andrew issued more orders and whilst the slaves were being cleaned and prepared he ordered a little entertainment for us - two delightful black slaves gave an exhibition of their native dances. I can't say that I'm normally at all interested in tribal or ethnic art forms, but when these are being demonstrated by superb specimens of the male form, I am prepared to make an exception (especially as we could observe them so properly, as they performed naked). When the slaves came back they were quite different. Not as perfect a I remembered them, but somehow their individual differences made them erotically more interesting - the different colour of hair, the way that the pattern of their body hair differed, and so on. But they were evidently not in that same peak condition that I remembered them - they were thin: it was almost as if they had been starved; they had lost that healthy-looking dark tan, and were pale and wan (I know that a tan has nothing to do with good health, really - given the concern over melanomas, it's probably quite the reverse, in fact. But I still think that a dark tan looks better, and suits the masculinity of most slaves better than a more insipid paleness). There seemed to be a problem with one of them, though - he was staring around him in a most unslavelike manner, and his companions almost clustered around him as if he needed protection of some kind. "Do you still want them, sir?" Andrew asked. "If not, I can have them send back to the mines, or sell them, or something...." In spite of my initial disappointment, the slaves still excited me, though. There was something about the idea that these four different men had been brought together from their separate pasts and forced to be totally alike. Even though their differences were now showing, I could still see the tremendous underlying similarities between them - nothing could change their basic body form, heights, and so on. It might be interesting, it seemed to me, to get them back to that state of near perfection in which I was used to seeing them. "No, Andrew, I'll keep them." "So shall we proceed to re-brand them, sir?" THE SLAVE'S STORY When the cover was pulled off our cage and we were allowed out we stood there in this big kind of hall, with a couple of white guys looking down at us from a low dais. There were guards and other slaves all around, and I somehow felt ashamed of my nakedness for the first time in a long while. Here I was, filthy, dishevelled, vile hair, straggling beard, stinking to high heaven, in this middle of this elegant place. The two men looked at us for a couple of minutes whilst they spoke to each other, then the guards motioned to us to leave. It was fantastic to feel real water all over my body again! I could have stood in the shower they pushed us into for hours. We all watched the dirty water flowing into the drain, and gradually our bodies emerged from under the accumulated grime We were still somehow dirty, though - the dirt was just ingrained deep into our skin, I suppose, So after they cut our hair down to a decent crop, trimmed our nails properly (we'd kept our finger nails short by biting them, but our toes nails had become obscenely long and horny), and shaved us to get rid of our beards, they trimmed and shaved our balls and our ass cracks as you'd expect, and then pushed us into a sauna. When we came out we actually felt clean for the first time for ages. And when we looked at each other, we could see that the basic "us" was still there, although we were far from the magnificent peak of fitness that we once enjoyed. You'd have thought that Marc would have snapped out of it, wouldn't you? He looked physically in better shape than the rest of us as he hadn't been working, but he was still "not there". The three of us had to be really careful to hide his condition from the guards - I mean, if they knew he was a walking zombie they might have sent him to the organ banks, or something. So we "covered" for him, and almost made it look as if he was OK: we were all supposed to be doing the same things, after all, so it wasn't all that difficult. Finally they took us back into the big hall, and the two men were still on the dais. Arranged in front of them were four of the fucking and punishment stools that we were used to - mostly for fucking, of course, from our time as pleasure slaves. The guards pushed us down on to the stools on our bellies, and lashed our arms to the front legs with Velcro bindings as usual. I thought we were just going to be fucked - no big deal - but then one of the two men on the dais let his white robe drop to the floor and he was standing there almost as naked as we were - he just had some sort of jock strap on - but made of leather! There was a thick leather belt around his waist, and the pouch holding him in was of the thinnest and most subtle leather I've ever seen - you could clearly make out his cock and balls outlined in it. I began to tremble when the slaves wheeled into the hall iron braziers containing glowing charcoal - my whole being remembered the pain of being branded the first time, and the metal implements sticking our from the braziers looked very much like branding irons to me. I was right, of course. The guy in the leather spent a lot of time looking at the irons, spitting on them to watch the spit sizzle to gauge if they were hot enough, then, one after the other, we were branded again. Even though you think you're tough and strong, and even though you think you can bear it, there's just no way that the all-consuming pain of having the hot iron pressed into your body can be dealt with. All you can do is try to thrash frantically (impossible, as you're held down securely), and scream and scream. All of us did, and when my turn came I just knew I was screaming as loud as the others. And it's the smell, too, that really is a problem for you: you know that that harsh, acrid whiff of searing flesh is not some barbecue that's going a bit wrong, but your own skin, your own muscle. If you weren't screaming so loudly you'd want to retch and vomit, but that's just not possible. Marc was the last one of us to be done, and, to my astonishment, when the iron bit into his ass, he screamed, too. This was the first sound I'd heard him make since we had been sent to the mines, and I actually thrilled to hear his voice again, even though it was the voice of pain, despair, and acute agony. You'll know, though, that it wasn't just our asses that had been branded the first time, and to my horror I realised that my arm was going to be done again, too. So once more the man in black made his cruel way along the line of us, and seemed to take an unconscionable time over all the preparations and tests as he moved between us. I thought it was all over, lying as I was, helpless, drenched in sweat. But they had other plans for us. THE BANKER Frankly, I think Andrew was taking this whole business of the ownership and management of slaves a bit far. He stripped off, to reveal that very skimpy and suggestive black jockstrap made of thin leather: it was quite exciting, I suppose, as you know that I thought he had a pleasing body, and somehow the belt, ass straps and thin pouch of the jockstrap accentuated his masculinity and sensuality. But he made far too much of the re-branding: he'd explained that we needed to get it done, replacing the sheikh's house mark with that of the bank, but surely an electric branding iron could have been used, cleanly and efficiently? All the process of braziers filled with hot charcoal, bellows to blow it up to a white heat, and the endless testing of the branding irons to make sure they were up to temperature was perhaps rather unnecessary. They all screamed, as you'd expect, and I'm not certain that I like to hear the cries of utter despair from men who are being used in this way. There's something about the way that the harsh, frantic screams they utter cuts through you, and although there is some erotic charge to be got from seeing men struggle against their suffering in this way, it's not absolutely clear to me that it really is necessary, or desirable. I suppose that Andrew was sexually charged after his efforts, but I do think it was rather cruel to then go ahead and fuck one of them. It's not as if he didn't have enough pleasure slaves and others who he could have called on, and judging from the desperate way that the slave writhed to attempt to get away, then shouted and raved, it must have been acutely painful for him to have Andrew's body repeated slamming into him - Andrew could hardly avoid hurting the slave as he touched the fresh raw wound of the brand, after all. Mind you, the sight of Andrew's muscular buttocks thrusting away was, as always, a real delight, and as on this occasion he divested himself of even the jockstrap, I was also able to feast my eyes on his detumesing penis when he was finally spent. When the men were finally released, they looked dreadful - I've told you they were no longer in that peak, perfect condition that I remembered, and now they simply just looked "broken" - utterly defeated and totally wretched. I did truly feel sorry for them, knowing that only a few years ago they must have been living a life where the things that had happened to them would just have seemed like some sick fantasy. But, on the other hand, now that they were mine, things could only improve for them - I don't believe that a master needs to be cruel to have slaves obey him, and I intended to bend these slaves to my will in other ways. THE SLAVE'S STORY As we all lay there, the guy in the black came back, examining each of us, then tore off his jock strap and started to fuck Marc! It must have hurt him, because Marc can normally take even a very hard fucking without complaint - he screamed, though, as the guy went into him, and continued to rant and shout as the fucking progressed. Mind you, it was a tough one - that "slap, slap, slap" as the guy's flesh hit Marc's told us that - and I suppose that it was really the brand on Marc's ass that was causing the problem. When it was all over and we had been released, we stood there in a row, looking at the masters. I kept my head bent respectfully, of course, as I didn't want to attract a punishment, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Marc, but a subtly changed Marc - there were tears falling down his face, and so he must have been affected by the branding, or the fucking. There was just no way that he'd have even been aware of these things if his catatonic state had continued, and I began to hope that he was recovering. They led us off then, to a regular slave cell, and left us in peace - although they gave us a big helping of slave chow, which we fell upon ravenously. It was hard to sleep or anything as the brands on our asses and arms really hurt, so we kind of all lay there on our bellies, companionably close to each other but not touching. The "old" Marc seemed to be coming back - he was never all that great on conversation, so I didn't expect a lot of words from him, but he gripped my hand, something he'd not done for a long time, and smiled at me. The next morning we were still all very painful, but at least we felt a bit better when they fed us well again, and we even managed to wash ourselves in the shower without too much discomfort. It's one of the problems of being a slave, of course, that they never tell you anything. After we'd been allowed to piss and crap, they just herded us into a cage - a travelling cage, I suppose. It was only just big enough for the four of us, and it was really hard to arrange ourselves so that our brands did not hurt. We half sat, half lay there, wondering what was to happen next. Still, at least we were all still together, and all still alive! I don't know how I'd have managed if they'd have decided to put us into separate crates and send us all off in different directions - we couldn't have stopped it, of course, as we had no control over our lives, so I guess we were lucky. They draped the cage in tarpaulin again so we could no longer see out, but Marc's claustrophobia was still improving, as he didn't seem concerned by it - I suppose it was being able to hear what was going on "outside" the cramped conditions we were held in that made him able to bear it. There was a lot of shouting, and the sound of a fork lift truck, and we were lifted and put onto a truck, I suppose, which drove off. It was exciting to hear the sounds of the real world again - as the truck inched its way along we could hear other traffic noise, and even the occasional cries and shouts of other people. But soon the noise became more ominous, as we could hear aircraft taking off, and that smell of kerosene that's always around airports floated in. More fork lift truck activity, and then there was a "slam" sound, and it went quieter - and when there was then that unmistakable noise and sensation of an aircraft taking off, we knew that we'd been loaded onto an aircraft. But bound for where? We sat there, talking amongst ourselves (we hadn't been ordered to remain silent, after all) and wondering where we were going - it seemed to me that we might be being shipped off to South America, to the organ banks that slaves were always threatened with. But then, as Matt said, why would they have bothered to re-brand us if they were just going to butcher us for spare parts for rich drug lords? There's actually very few ways of knowing how long anything takes when you're in a covered crate, unable to see out, and without a wrist watch or anything. So we had no real idea of how far we'd travelled , and there were none of those cheery messages form the captain that I remember hearing when I'd flown as a passenger in "real life". But we all felt the motion as the plane started to descend, then that sickening "jolt" as the wheels first hit the ground. It must have been a strange place, as we only taxied for a few moments, it seemed, before everything went quiet when the aircraft engines were switched off - surely we couldn't be at a major airport? But then there was shouting - this time in English - as the cage was manoeuvred a bit, more fork lift truck action, and then the unmistakable feeling of another journey on a truck of some kind. When we'd heard the cheery English voices, we all whispered to each other bout the possibility of calling out and attracting their attention - but it was Ray who cautioned us against it, saying that, after all, we might still be somewhere where slavery was still legal, and that they just happened to use an English company for freight handling. If we called out, they'd surely report us to our owner as slaves are just not allowed to do that sort of thing, and we just could not face further punishment. When our cage finally came to a halt we just sat there for some time - it seemed to be colder outside, from the air that was leaking, in, and I was glad my brothers were with me to help keep me warm. THE BANKER I relied on the slaves' innate good behaviour to not cause problems on the journey. I was a little concerned about the workers at our local airport deep in the West Country who had to unload it - they were not used to sleek corporate jets landing there anyway, and there were no proper freight facilities so a few strong men were needed to manoeuvre the crate from the hold onto a truck. Still, I'd "suggested" to my captain that he reported to the airport as we approached that we were only coming from Glasgow, and so there was no tiresome customs or immigation process to upset my plans - although he told me he was fearful for his pilot's licence if he were found out, I half jokingly suggested that he should be more fearful for his yearly bonus if he didn't comply with my simple wishes; I'd told him that the crate contained rare plants for my new gardens, and had no wish to go through the tiresome procedures that the Ministry Of Agriculture impose on such shipments. The builders who had been working on the house (several new rooms and so on were being added, as befitted my new status) were enlisted to unload the crate, and now I stood looking at it, still shrouded in tarpaulin. Now I really had to be brave: if all went well, as it should, as I had thought about this for a long time and planned it carefully, then the slaves would soon be settled into their new home. On the other hand, if they didn't believe me, even though it would ultimately lead to their own destruction, I would be ruined. I'm not certain if there are still laws on the stature book that prohibit British citizens from trading in slaves, but at the very least I had omitted a felony by illegally importing four men without passports into the country. The damage to my reputation, whatever the legal implications, would however be so extreme that I would have to resign from the Bank - I could even now see the tabloid headlines screaming "The Chairman and the naked men....." So it was with some trepidation that I pulled back the tarpaulin, unlocked the cage door, and commanded the slaves to get out and line up in front of me. I was relying on the fact that they would be disoriented - they wouldn't really know where they were, and I'd made sure they could not see the countryside or anything as they journeyed here. Likewise, the place we were in gave no hint of the outside - it was an old shepherd's bothy, deep down in the cleft of the valley running down into he sea, totally without windows. I intended this to be my slaves' quarters, as it was convenient for the work they were to do and well isolated fro the rest of the estate and from my house. Their needs would be simple, and there was a spring outside for fresh water, and a large fireplace in the corner where they could build log fires, using the copious timber from my estate, to keep warm. As they emerged from the crate I began to feel more confident that my plan would work. They all at first stretched - I suppose their loom's would be stiff after all that time cramped together - but then formed a neat line and stood facing me, heads respectfully bowed. Without saying anything - as I thought it best to do the deed quickly, before they could really think about it - I went along the line of them putting around each of their solid necks the "necklace" that I ad had manufactured. I'd pondered about having the radio device built in to a solid collar, as I think that seeing a muscular neck with a thick steel collar around it is in itself arousing, but had decided that it would be more humane to instead use thick steel chain, with one inch links. Solid collars can chafe when the slave is working hard, I'd been told, and the last thing I wanted was for them to be covered in sores - after all, if they became infected, I would have to call in a doctor, and this would all need to unnecessary complications for me. As I slipped each chain on I used a little "superglue" to close the special link at one end, so that they were on permanently unless the slaves gained access to a really tough saw capable of sawing through case-hardened steel, and I had no intention of allowing this. THE SLAVE'S STORY We weren't used to being cold! Even since I was enslaved I can't remember being anything other than warm sometimes, and usually, hot. I wanted to jump around a bit, or at least rub my skin, to get warm, but thought better of it. It was odd, though, to feel that sensation again as the hairs on my arms and legs started to stand up - I hadn't felt that in years, and I'd forgotten what it was like. When my master slipped my collar around my neck I almost shouted out, as it felt icy against my skin. But then something totally astonishing happened - he pointed at a pile of clothes in the corner, and told us to dress in them! When you are used to being totally naked you just forget about what clothes feel like. It's odd, somehow very constricting, to be covered at all, and the fabric was at first really itchy, and I wanted to constantly scratch at it. It was only threadbare jeans and a thin, long-sleeved T-shirt, but as we then faced our master it seemed somehow so very different. Then he told us "the house rules". The collar that was around my neck had some sort of radio thing inside it. If I went too close to the edge of the estate where I was to live, I'd get at first a warning electric shock, and then it would kill me! Likewise, in the centre of the estate was the master's house and private gardens, and a similar system meant that I could not go in there, either. But then came the chilling bit, and I can remember my master's words as clearly as if he had just spoken them : "However you will come across people here on my estate from time to time who are, like you, working. Bu unlike you, they are not my slaves. You are allowed to speak to these people in the course of your work on matters related to the work that they, or you, are doing, but you must not, of course, discuss anything at all about your past lives, or your new life as slaves. If it should ever happen that the police come here and you are subsequently 'freed', then a dreadful fate awaits you: you may enjoy a few brief weeks, or even months, of freedom, but I have powerful friends whose influence extends everywhere - here in England, and the USA, South America.... everywhere. You know how easy it was for the enslavers to snatch you from your normal lives I the first instance, so you should remember that they would have no more difficulty in capturing you again. You would be taken back to the sheikh's kingdom, where you spent some years as pleasure slaves, I believe, but then immediately consigned to the opal mines. And this time there would be no return, no escape, no rescue: you would die down there, crawling like works through the earth, fulfilling some last useful purpose for your owners. So be careful, be very careful, about what you say about your lives, and to whom you say it. I know that sometimes people talk about 'a fate worse than death', well, I believe you have experienced this already, and you would not want to repeat the experience." THE BANKER Once they were collared, and they had heard my speech, I knew I had them! All of them looked terrible when I referred to their experiences in the mines, and I knew they would not willingly wish to repeat this. There are all sorts of ways of enslaving men and keeping them enslaved - in the sheikh's kingdom in normally involved the acceptance of slaves as being a normal part of life, kept in their place by the threat of punishment; on some estates I had seen slaves permanently fixed to their work stations by fetters and chains; in the opal mines, the physical difficulty of escape did the trick. Here, I was being a little more subtle: the chains around their necks would constantly remind them of their status, and any over attempt to escape would be prevented; but on those rare occasions when they met non-slaves, their fear of a return to the mines would keep them in check. I went on to explain their new life to them: this bothy was their home, and they could make it as comfortable as they chose - there was straw for bedding, they could build a fire to keep warm, the spring outside would provide them with fresh water, and they could heat it over the fire for bathing. I would not restrict their food supply, provided they worked hard: sacks of slave chow were stacked in an outhouse, and they could help themselves; and they could supplement this with any wild fruit or nuts on the estate if they wanted to, but they could not, of course, go into my private gardens for the fruit and vegetables that were grown there. They were now wearing their "winter uniform" - jeans and T-shirts. No other clothing would be provided, as they were expected to keep warm in the very coldest part of winter by the efforts they exerted on my projects. In spring and summer they would just wear shorts. Actually, this clothing had been a bit of a problem - I needed eight pairs of jeans and eight Ts, and I wanted them to change each night and always appear in the morning fresh and clean: but how can a respectable banker buy this? Fortunately the Internet came to my aid, and I was able to acquire all these things, and their work boots, relatively inconspicuously: indeed, it enabled me to buy the used, shabby, almost threadbare stuff that I considered it more appropriate for my slaves to wear, rather than brand new items, at the exorbitant prices that shops charge for the branded goods that are all the rage with today's youth. Then I explained that in future they would work - proper, satisfying work, that was good for men's bodies. They would not need to spend hours working out I the gym to keep themselves in proper condition - the ambitious plans I had for the gardens would ensure that their muscles were subject to the kind of exercise for which a man's body was designed: good, honest toil. End Of Part Fourteen