Date: Sun, 5 Dec 2004 14:58:26 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Four The Same

Here's part 15 of my story, that you've been running
in gay/male/authoritarian.  This story is concluded
now - thanks again.  Pete

FOUR THE SAME    by Pete Brown    petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part Fifteen

As I sit here in the gentle morning sunlight, looking
out over the splendid creation that is my estate and
gardens, I'm tempted to keep slipping back into a
reverie, remembering all those key points of the last
twenty years that have shaped and focused my life.  I
am old now, even I know that, and my remaining time
here is all too short, as the doctors have told me.
And even with my vast wealth, there's no hope of
remission from the tumour that is slowly, but surely,
killing me.  Last week at the AGM I finally
relinquished control of the bank, to Andrew, and now
all I have left to do is to put things in proper order
before my death.

It was indeed an exciting time all those years ago in
the first few moths that the slaves were on my estate.
 In spite of the physical restraints on them with the
collars, and the much greater control exerted by the
prospect of them being "taken" again and returned to
the mines, I was still worried that they might
consider it a good trade, to bring me down in exchange
for a few weeks of freedom. Even in the most important
business meetings I would sometimes find my mind
wandering and beginning to worry about this!   But, I
suppose, their slave mentality was already well
established as a result of their previous experiences
as pleasure slaves, and so they were less likely to
"rebel" than ordinary, "free" men might have been.  So
they are still here after all this time, still working
hard on further extensions to the gardens - I can see
the spring sunshine glinting off their bodies in the
distance, as they are probably sweating as a result of
their labours (and are in their normal warm weather
uniforms of brief satin shorts).

About three years in to their lives here I discovered
that the "dog control" system had broken during the
week, and was  in somewhat of a panic to get if fixed
- until Marc, ever the one for a joke, boldly walked
into the house gardens in full sight of me.  It seems
the slaves had known about it for some time, but had
not chosen to escape - an interesting comment,
perhaps, on the way that men can be changed to see
themselves as perpetual slaves, and no longer as "free
men".  I never had the system repaired, but I decided
to keep the chains around the slaves' necks as a
reminder of their status - it never hurts to reinforce
some mental conditioning with a physical symbol, I
think.  And, anyway, like their brands, the slave
collars gave me an erotic charge, irrespective of what
they did for the slaves.

It was difficult in those first weeks, though.  I was
not here for most of the time, and of course it was my
late wife's plan for the gardens that they were
supposed to execute.  On pain of the most severe
punishment I ordered the slaves to speak only Arabic
when they were not in their slave pen at night, when
they would be allowed to speak English if they wished.
 And I told my wife that I had recruited these four
men to work for her, but that they were illegal
immigrants from some East European hell hole and that
they had only limited knowledge of our language:  she
could give them simple orders, but he should not
distract them by attempting conversation.

I do not know whether my wife fully believed this
story, but, like so many things between us, it was a
convenient fiction to which we could both subscribe to
allow for our normal civilised existence.  I did
notice, however, that she was beginning to "spoil" the
slaves, by giving them little "treats", and by backing
off from agreed completion dates and so on as, she
told me, "those poor boys do work so hard".

It was my practice to come down from London on Friday
evenings - a process much facilitated when the bank
acquired a helicopter as a companion for my jet - and
after changing, would go down to the slave pen to see
how the slaves had progressed during the week.  They
understood that on that night they were to delay their
nightly bath after work, as I enjoyed the spectacle:
as I have told you, there was no plumbing or anything
in the slave pen, and so they had a big tin bath that
was pulled in front of the blazing log fire in the
winter.  The water was heated over the fire, then, in
turn, each slave would lower himself into the bath and
his brothers would help him clean himself, before his
place was taken by one of the others.  The sight of
the men's beautiful bodies, the reflections of the
flickering flames from their wet skin, and the general
atmosphere of happy camaraderie all combined to make a
most erotic spectacle, and when they were all clean
and the bath had been cleared away, I often
orchestrated a small entertainment to amuse me
further.

It's interesting - I noticed it then, and it's still
true today - that even though the slaves were
basically so alike physically, even though I had not
required all their hair to be removed to make them the
complete clones that had been the case when I first
saw them, they all had those interesting personality
quirks that differentiated one from another.  Matt
liked to be seen to be the leader, to be in charge, in
control.  He wanted to be on top when they were
fucking, and he thought it was he who made the running
in all important decisions.  Ray almost never said
anything, and seemed to be totally under the control
of Matt, but, I observed, he actually ran most things
- the quiet "suggestion" to Matt (which he promptly
adopted as his own), the wise words inserted into a
debate amongst all four of them that made for harmony,
but also shifted things in the way he wanted.  I've
often thought that we are too ready to categorise men
into "tops" and "bottoms", and the presumption is
always that it's the "tops" who're in control - but is
it?

It was much the same with Steve and Marc - Steve
always liked to fuck, and was the one who took
decisions.  Marc was amusing, witty, but "light
weight", and this spilled over into their sex where he
always had to "bottom" for Steve.  But Steve really
seemed to care for Marc, even when he recovered from
his trauma, and was always perhaps excessively
concerned for his fellow's well-being.

I liked watching their personalities bend to
accommodate my orders, and as I got older and my
physical desires became less strong, I got perhaps
more pleasure from seeing their reactions - even
though they tried to conceal them - when I required
Marc to fuck Matt, and Ray to fuck Steve, than I did
from actually seeing their strong, muscular bodies
actually engaged together.

One Friday night, shortly after they were installed
and I was beginning to relax, knowing that my scheme
was working, they actually offered me a piece of cake
to eat as I sat there and watched them!  My wife had
baked one of her renowned Victoria sandwiches and
given them a whole one, and they cut the first piece
for me.  I thought they were actually going to dare to
say something when I took all the cake, except my
piece, and threw it into the flames -  I did not want
them treated specially, as if they were jobbing
contractors who might be offered a mug of tea in the
afternoon.  These were slaves, and they were required
to work hard because of that, not because of any tea
or additional reward that they might get.  A free man
needs "rewards", but a slave works because that is
what his destiny is, and I did not wish to upset the
natural order of things.

Even though they did not dare to react openly, their
body language for the rest of the evening was however
sullen, and they did not take part as enthusiastically
as they should in the fucking session that I required
them to do for my amusement.  I probably should have
caned them to remind them of their proper position,
but it was, after all, mostly the fault of my wife and
so I relented a little and, after I had eaten my slice
of the cake, I allowed them to lick the sugar from my
fingers as a special treat.  There's something
special, I always think, in having a naked man at your
feet, suckling your fingers, and I can assure you that
a group of four of them, their bodies intertwined,
adds hugely to the enjoyment.

After that I needed to remind my wife again that these
men were "illegal workers" and were not to be shown
favours - they were there only to work, and she
agreed.  Nevertheless, after all this time I still
wonder if this actually happened:  when my wife died,
ten years later, the hearse stopped at the gate of the
estate and the slaves carried her coffin up the steep
hills to the cliff top where her remains now rest.
They dug her grave, located a special piece of rock
from the beach, and laboriously carved it themselves
with the simple inscription "She loved these gardens".
 I couldn't help noticing that on that dreadful day
they were crying as much as I myself was, and
sometimes, even now, I will see them sitting here
silently, as I do, remembering her and her vision for
this beautiful place.

We all lose those that are dear to us - it's part of
the human condition - and I do not intend to dwell
further on my loss.  It was only a year later, too,
that my friend the sheikh died, and as we were the
same age, I began to have those feelings of my own
mortality that occasionally sweep across us all.
Fortunately by that time Andrew had an even closer
relationship with his eldest son, the crown prince,
and our business was not at all affected - indeed, it
flourished under the new regime.

It had become apparent that Andrew was never going to
move back to London.  After his three years of running
our branch in the sheikhdom, I counselled him to move
back to another important job in the bank's head
office, but in a meeting of unusual frankness he told
me that he would leave, rather than do that.  His
life, as an owner of a large house and slaves, was so
much better than he could ever hope for in London, and
he was not prepared to give it up.  At the same time
the sheikh began dropping hints that he did not  want
Andrew moved, as he was so pleased with the way that
Andrew was "organising his evening's entertainment".
I knew, of course, that Andrew was using the sheikh as
his fuck toy, and evidently the old man enjoyed this
attention from a young stud, so I was in a dilemma:
If I insisted that Andrew move he might well leave and
simply stay and "amuse" the sheikh full time;
equally, our excellent business might disappear if we
upset the sheikh.

Andrew, of course, had the solution.  As we were the
central bank of the sheikhdom, we should move the
"executive offices" of the bank from London to there.
Most of the staff would remain in the bank's tower in
London, but "key decision makers" would occupy
executive offices in the sheikhdom, and an additional
aircraft would be bought to make commuting easy.

After much heated debate in the board, I ordered the
move, and it worked out even better than I might have
hoped:  as well as forcing the resignation of several
senior people who had said they would "never" work
outside London and who I had been scheming to dismiss,
it enabled Andrew to proceed up the corporate ladder
whilst maintaining the lifestyle to which he was so
admirably suited.  Other Arab countries, seeing our
commitment to the sheikhdom, so rare in "western"
banks, treated us with a new respect and even started
to give us their business, so helping to further
consolidate and grow our position on the world stage.

I had been discussing with Andrew what would happen on
the sheikh's death - a senior executive always has
"succession planning"  in mind, after all, but he
assured me there was no problem.  It was only some
months later that I learned the truth:  the sheikh had
confided to Andrew his concern about the lifestyle of
his eldest son, the crown prince:  he was living the
typical "playboy" life in all the world's flesh pots,
gambling heavily, smoking, drinking, and even being
photographed with a succession of "starlets" and
"personalities" who, the newspapers hinted, he was
"romantically engaged with".

The crown prince was summoned back for a meeting with
his father, on pain of losing his free access to
money, and once back in the sheikhdom the sheikh
ordered Andrew to begin "training" his son.  I never
learned the exact details, as neither Andrew nor the
sheikh would divulge them, but I understand that
Andrew's skill with his cock, fists and the whip were
all used lavishly (and probably to excess).  I could
imagine the scene, with the sheikh sitting watching
impassively as Andrew, in his favourite leather wear,
tore into the crown prince, who was then just about
Andrew's age.

I noticed thereafter that the crown prince deferred in
everything to Andrew.  If we were all alone together,
he would always sit at Andrew's feet, rather as a
slave would.  Whatever Andrew had done to "tame" the
man, it worked as he never again travelled abroad,
vanished from the gossip of the world, and fathered
five sons in reasonably quick succession, much to the
joy of the sheikh.  One night, when he had perhaps
drunk rather more than usual, Andrew told me that the
crown prince was in fact like so many men who were
afraid of their own sexuality - they put up a huge
public "display" of their supposedly manly virtues,
when in fact what they really wanted was another
strong, dominant man to take control of them.  Andrew
had done this, and when the sheikh required the crown
prince to actually fuck a woman in order to breed, it
had been Andrew who had had to make him do it.  "You
know, sir", he told me, "that man who had supposedly
bedded half of Hollywood, had almost no idea when it
really came down to it.  His father and I made him
strip, then had to really direct him to fuck the women
that the sheikh had chosen as his wives!  He's glad
it's all over, actually, as he much prefers the
feeling of my cock inside him, and the discipline that
I bring to his life - and his body!".

To end this memoir I suppose it only remains for me to
tell you about Darren.  When you last heard of him he
was my personal slave when I visited the sheikhdom,
living in Andrew's house.  Now seventeen, his strict
training had turned him from a rebellious teenager
into the perfect slave, always alert for the needs of
his owner.  And whilst these changes had been effected
in his personality, the physical aspects of the
education had also transformed his body into a thing
of sheer delight - the slender boy had become an
exciting young man, with heavier musculature,
delightfully proportioned limbs, and the promise of
even more to come as he matured further.

I was perhaps concerned, though, that the "education"
had gone too far.  Whilst I had not enjoyed the
rebellious skateboard boy who had been so callous to
me, I did not altogether relish the creature he had
become:  he was now so eager to please, so very
concerned that he might miss some signal from me, so
terrified of punishment for failing in some way, that
he was perhaps a little "nervy" and lacked the
self-confidence that is one of the attributes I enjoy
in a man that I am fucking.    Andrew, of course, did
not see this as a problem, as he enjoyed disciplining
all the slaves around him into a state of utter abject
terror at the thought of failing to please their
master, and required complete, total obedience from
all of them.

Whilst Darren was in some ways very satisfactory in
bed - he was always told that he was not permitted
any sexual release for a week before my visits, and so
he was "primed" and "charged" when I fucked him and
was instantly ready to shower me with huge amounts of
cum if I even toyed with his cock.  But, on the other
hand, he lacked any degree of spontaneity about our
couplings - he was, of course, always fucked by me,
but even so he seemed incapable of initiating any
action, of daring even to suggest whether I should
fuck him on his knees or his back.  I began to tire of
this meek total subservience, and wanted more from a
man whose body I was enjoying.

He knew, of course, about the terrible experiences of
the four slaves in the opal mine, and I used
essentially the same argument to convince him that he
would be a slave in my apartment in London on pain of
being "taken" and immediately sent down the mines
should he ever be found to have escaped, or cause me
an embarrassment.   I had the apartment modified so
that there was a large gym for him to work out in, and
when I left for the office in the morning I always
took the precaution of totally disabled the phones and
PCs, and of locking him in behind the thick soundproof
doors of my eerie.

It was in many ways very satisfactory - as I've told
you, I could no longer frequent the pickup places for
the odd bout of casual sex now that I was a famous
personality, and having Darren always on hand for my
sexual relief was much better.  But I did begin to
worry that the lad was getting "gym muscles", rather
than a proper working body of the kind that only harsh
physical labour can produce, and the lack of access to
fresh air did not, I thought, do him good.
Consequently I took the bold step of allowing him to
accompany me to the country estate for the weekend - a
minor risk, I suppose - and this made for dramatic
improvements in him.

I told my wife he was another "illegal immigrant", and
he spent all weekend with the four slaves.  This in
itself was interesting for me, as the contrast between
their sturdy, hard tanned bodies and Darren's more
slender, pale one as they all bathed and then fucked
for my pleasure added a new layer of excitement, and
many more opportunities for me to produce new
variations on "who does what to whom".    He had to do
the hard physical labour that the other four did all
weekend, which helped perfect his body, and I think
that exposure to these more self-reliant slaves did
his personality good - he began to unlearn some of
Andrew's harsh conditioning, and came to understand
that it was possible for a slave to take some
initiatives sexually, provided his owner did not
object.

Always one to experiment, though, when Darren was
twenty I tired of using him just in these ways and
decided that I would like to turn him into a much more
complete "companion"  slave for myself, which would
require him to be properly educated.  He had of course
had no proper education so far, except in slave
skills, as he had consistently avoided school in
favour of "hanging out" with his friends, and
skateboarding.  But he was not unintelligent, and I
determined that he should get a university degree to
provide a proper grounding for him as a companion for
me - economics and business was an obvious area to
study, as it would interest me, but I took a great
deal of effort to get him into a university, lacking,
as he did, any of the necessary qualifications.  As I
recall, it cost the bank tens of millions of pounds in
an endowment for a new chair, and much coded
conversation with the vice chancellor, before one of
the UK's most prestigious universities offered him a
place.

I think it was hardest for Darren in the first year.
All those boys from school knew far more than he did,
although, of course, he was far more skilled than they
were in so many other areas. He was inclined to give
up, and not to study properly, until I took control
and used those very same learning techniques that had
turned him into a slave to help him become a good
scholar.  As we lay together at night I now had the
added thrill of feeling the cane marks I had made over
his back and buttocks, as well as the ever-present
delight of his brands.

Darren did not find university life easy - as well as
all the course work and the amount of "catching up" he
had to do, he was still my slave and he needed to
exercise hard to maintain his body, and to work with
the other four every weekend.  In the vacations there
was no time off for him, only the unrelenting physical
labour on the estate, and his continuing duties to
keep my apartment clean and to pleasure me in bed.

He was surprised, I think, to do so well, and could
probably have had an academic career based on his
results at the end of the three year course.  But that
was not open to him as I began to use him as my
personal assistant at the office, as well as my
apartment.  Sometimes, if I had problems sleeping and
was awake in the middle of the night, I would squeeze
his balls to awaken him, and then we would talk in
that companionable way that's probably only possible
between two men who are intertwined together at three
or four o'clock in the morning.   He would then amuse
me by telling me how the young women in the office
would "come on" to him in the staff restaurant on
those days when I was at a business lunch - his
stunning good looks, perfect body, and well-cut
expensive clothes all said "catch of the day" to them,
and they would flirt outrageously in the hope that he
would do something about it.

By the time Darren was twenty five and I was
approaching seventy, my desire for constant sex had
somewhat diminished.  I still enjoyed watching Darren
and the four slaves perform, but no longer had a
strong desire to participate.  He had served me well
for almost ten years, and I decided that I would give
him his freedom.  To my utter astonishment he fell to
his knees, threw his arms around my body, and pressed
his face into my crotch, as if seeking comfort there.
He was almost sobbing, as he told me he had no desire
to leave, and only wanted to serve me, and that it
would be cruel to send him away from me, and the four
slaves, now.  But sometimes a master needs to be cruel
to be kind, and I insisted.

A conventional career would almost certainly not suit
Darren - he had been too close to the real power in
the organisation for too long to be able to make a
"proper" career in the bank, and probably would not be
suited to a conventional life in most organisations.
To help him make up his mind I sent him to reflect in
the country for a time, working on the estate, and
then to the sheikhdom to consult with Andrew.  As
ever, clever Andrew found the perfect solution that
maximises Darren's skills and experience!  And he
persuaded me to not free Darren, but to allow him wide
latitude to act independently, whilst returning to me
the profits on his labours.

Without boring you with the details I will reveal that
he has a most satisfactory position, that returns me
many millions of pounds a year in untaxed revenues!
Effectively, he visits those very wealthy men around
the globe who have nothing further on which to spend
their money - they have the trophy wives, the
aeroplanes, houses, jewels, cars..... And yet they
need something more.  Darren, who is used to dealing
with the super-rich, can speak to them on their own
terms and advises them of the possibilities of slave
ownership.  He then discusses with them their
requirements - or should that be desires? - as other
than a vague feeling that it would be exciting to have
complete and total control over another man, they have
little conception of what is actually involved.  As
Darren said to me once, "Sometimes, sir, they think
I'm some sort of fraud, just after their money with an
elaborate scam.  But when I strip off, show them my
name that you had tattooed on me, and then let them
finger the brand on my arm and my ass, they begin to
understand what it means.  When I am then prepared to
do anything - anything at all - that they can think of
sexually, as that is one of the roles of a slave, they
begin to get the message."

Armed with a  "requirements statement", Darren then
searches out a suitable slave from somewhere in the
world - Australians are currently very favoured, I
understand, because of their healthy lifestyle and
good bodies, and arranges for the man to be "taken" to
the sheikhdom.  It amuses Andrew to participate in the
training, of course, and the new owners are always
invited to visit to see their new slave being
"conditioned" - they are put up in Andrew's house as
part of the package offered, and are, as you would
expect, always astonished at the number of slaves
there and the uses to which they are put.

So everyone is happy, and on his frequent business
trips to London to interview clients and to search out
slaves,  I still get to use Darren - not that I can
now accomplish much sexually, but he always does me
the courtesy of refraining from sex for as many days a
possible, given the need to impress new clients,
before a visit.  Then, as we lie in bed at night, he
holds me in his arms, and rubs his erect cock up and
down my belly and chest until he shoots those huge
loads of delicious cum all over us both.

I, too, will be buried here on the estate, in that
special spot that we picked out just over ten years
ago for my wife that offers the best view of our
endeavours.  The estate has of course become world
famous, especially after my wife insisted we open it
three days a year to the general public, for charity.
In later years the sheer clamour for places on those
days has become so great as everyone wants to see
this, hailed as the greatest achievement in world
gardening, has meant high ticket prices and enormous
waiting lists.  Once it was apparent that we had
created this treasure, I therefore offered the estate
to the National Trust, so that it can be preserved for
all time in our memory (together with a generous
endowment, which I can easily afford thanks to the
stunning sums that Darren's business empire is
producing for me).

As I sit here, looking back on my life, I am hugely
pleased that I have achieved three things.  I have
build the mightiest business corporation, spanning the
globe, that has ever been seen.  I have been
instrumental in creating a new wonder of the world,
something that will be marvelled at long after my
achievements at the bank are long forgotten.  But, and
this is the achievement I am most proud of, and one
which so few men ever succeed in:  I have taken my
fantasies, and lived them.  Unlike so many other men I
did not lie awake at night fantasising about sex, and
about controlling men:  I went out and did it.  Even
as I look down now I can see my four slaves, still
toiling away, still keeping their bodies in that state
of perfection  I demand, for my pleasure tonight.

But there will be no pleasure tonight.  When I learned
three months ago that a brain tumour was slowly but
surely killing me, I determined to remain in control
until the end.  You know I resigned as chairman of the
bank, and I made arrangements to hand the estate to
the National Trust (together with provisions that I
believe they will find a little unusual, relating to
the "long time estate workers!").  I had one last
night of amusement with Darren, hinting at him that he
was not to be sad when he learned bad news some time
in the near future.

I have no fear of death - it's just like sleep.  There
is no big juju-land in the sky, where judgement
awaits.  But even if there is, I have nothing to fear:
I have always done the right thing:  hundreds of
thousands of people have good jobs and have had their
lives enriched through my business efforts.  I have
made many people happy - in particular my wife, and
the sheikh.  I saved four men from certain death in
the opal mines, and I rescued Darren from a life that
could only have ended in disaster - like so many of
his class, uneducated and living in inner London, he
would have ended up in prison, or living out some
squalid existence on social security with a fat hag as
a wife and squalling children.

Everyone wants a piece of immortality, and I therefore
constructed this work as my monument.  I chose Steve,
sensible, thoughtful, Steve, to fill in some gaps and
spent some time listening to him as he recounted his
part of the story (without access to books or writing
materials for so long, the slaves can no longer
remember how to write for themselves).  It will be
released by my lawyers only long after all those chief
characters in it are dead.  And when I finish typing
this paragraph, I will take one long last look at this
view that I have come to love so much:  the stunning
natural beauty of the estate, the quiet place where my
wife's body rests, and the four slaves toiling away.
Then I will make my way slowly, very slowly and
painfully, back to the house.

The pain killers they proscribed to help control the
side effects of my condition are very strong:  they
tell me that one per day is the maximum permitted
dose, but I have eight left.  I will be in control of
my own destiny at the end, as always.  My remaining
wish is that those slaves whose lives I have cherished
and shaped for so long will be properly appreciative,
and will carve some suitable monument for me, as they
did for my wife - at the end, that's all that's left,
isn't it:  loving memories, in those you have to leave
behind?

THE END