Date: Fri, 6 Mar 2009 08:04:59 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: It's Not Equal At All, Part Ten

IT'S NOT EQUAL AT ALL!

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part Ten

My manager had a company induction process that he had to deliver.  He
seemed surprised that as a whitey I could actually read a lot of the stuff
about the health and safety of employees, and the humane treatment of
slaves.  He was particularly clear about the drink and drugs stuff, though,
reminding me that they had had a lot of trouble with whiteys in the past
and so there was a programme of random testing, which was mandatory.  And I
had to sign an official-looking form that said I fully understood the
requirements of the Treatment Of Slaves Act and that I accepted that the
severest punishments under the law would fall on me if I failed to comply.
"But don't worry, Steve", he said as I pushed the document back across the
desk to him.  "You can do almost anything here - the use of the prod, and
the strap, and even the bull whip, is fully mandated by the act - not that
we use the bullwhip here as it destroys the value of the merchandise as it
does so much damage to the flesh.  Any of the slaves unruly enough to
deserve it can be prodded into submission, and their new owners can have
the pleasure of seeing them scream and writhe as the whip cuts into them."

"Please, sir, I don't think I'm really cut out for this kind of work", I
said again.  "I don't think it's right to treat other men to a prodding, or
even to a strapping..... Isn't there some sort of office work I could
do....?"

"Nonsense!  Look, Steve, a lot of new recruits are like you.  But as I've
told you, it's in the slaves' best interests really - a little suffering
now can save them a whole lot of trouble later.  And, anyway, most of the
men here get to quite enjoy it: there's something very satisfying you know
about having another man totally in your power, trembling and scared that
you might set into him with the prod or the strap again.  So don't worry
about it - we'll make sure that the first few times you prod a slave you're
properly supervised, and then it will seem kind of normal.  And I think
that a well-muscled man like you will become quite an expert with the strap
- you'll find something very satisfying about laying into a bare butt,
hearing the snap of the leather against the skin, seeing the slave jump
with the pain, hearing him cry out, and then watching the red mark on the
white skin!  It's a very satisfying experience, and those of you who work
here are lucky - men pay money to be able to do that kind of thing to
another man normally, you know!"

I was going to protest again, but what was the point.  My manager seemed to
have finished, as he got up and led me out to show me the locker room.  It
was the kind of place you find in any communal changing facility, really -
a row of metal lockers along one wall, and a wide bench along the opposite
one.  At the far end there was an arch opening into a communal shower area,
and my manager consulted a list and led me over to one of the lockers.

"This is yours, Steve.  Set the combination lock - you need to change into
uniform each shift and ensure there's nothing from 'outside' carried
further in to the facility - we had some incidents a while ago with one of
the slaves who works here stealing cash from the uniforms of the workers,
and the simplest way of avoiding all that kind of thing is to insist that
the 'outside' stops here.  Now, let's go and get you fitted up with a
uniform....."

"I was expecting to come to work already changed, actually, sir."

"Well you can, I suppose.  But most of the guys don't.  I think you'll find
that it's not a good idea to go through the streets in a Johnson's uniform
as some people object to it: parents whose kids have been enslaved, wives,
brothers, and other assorted scum.  It doesn't seem to matter to them that
it's the courts who sentenced their people to enslavement - as far as
they're concerned, it's us who are doing it.  So I generally advise new
employees to keep quiet about where they work - in a bar, for example, you
can just say that you work at one of the plants in the industrial area....
Which is true, actually: we're a slave processing plant!  It's not so bad
if you live out in the suburbs as us niggas understand slavery, but you
whiteys can be very prejudiced against it, you know."  He looked at me as
he said this, and added "Not that you'll be going into bars, of course - it
says in your file that you're only seventeen."

"Yes, sir."

"So, let's go and get you kitted out."

There was a special area which we got through after walking along lots and
lots of internal corridors, and I began to realise what a vast operation
Johnson's was.  As we went along we heard muffled shouts and even screams,
and my manager didn't seem phased at all.  When finally I asked him, he
said "Oh, it's just the specialised stuff we offer as an after-sales
service.  That's where we make the money, I suppose: all the branding,
tattooing, ringing, and re-shaping the slaves...."

"Re-shaping?"

"Well we have intensive programmes of exercise and stuff, so If an owner
wants sturdier legs, or better developed pecs, or a harder belly, we can
put the slave through an intensive exercise regime.  And as most of them
are bone idle, they need to be 'encouraged' to work at it - the exercise
machines are electrically monitored, so if the slave's work rate falls,
he's given a little shot of the juice to remind him that it's not a gym
he's at., but a training facility!  But once you're older, you'll find out
all about that kind of thing - we rotate the guards through the various
sections so that you don't go 'stale' - frankly, working in input
processing is a bit of a bore after a time as there's very little
opportunity to be creative in your work, and so you'll be glad when we move
you.  But we can't do that until you're eighteen, as the law says that
slave handlers can't do most of the stuff until then.  It's silly really -
it's to protect the handlers, I suppose, in case they get too excited when
they have to work on female slaves, and sex with a minor might be a
problem.  But we mostly do males here, so who cares about whether you fuck
'em or not - they're not going to get pregnant, are they?"

I was going to ask more, but we were now at a counter with a lot of shelves
behind it, and my manager ordered the slave who was behind there to "be
quick, boy, and get out here and measure master Steve."

It was the first time I'd been referred to as "master", I guess, and it
sounded at once both somehow wrong, and yet strangely exciting.

The slave was a guy in his forties, I'd guess - kind of thin, and
subservient looking.  He was dressed in what I came to recognise a
Johnson's standard slave uniform - a short-sleeved open necked shirt neatly
tucked in to relatively short shorts (that's one way you can distinguish a
slave in the distance, I suppose: no free man would wear shorts much above
the knee these days), and a pair of plain trainers on his feet, all in
Johnson's regulation dark khaki green.  To emphasise his position, the back
of the shirt had the word "slave" in big letters, and peeping through the
open neck I could see a chain collar around his neck - Johnson's was, I
discovered, an enlightened owner of slaves and collared its slaves with the
"humane" chain collars which obviated the chafing and scars which can
adversely affect the performance of slaves with solid collars.

The slave had a tape measure, and he began to measure me - chest, waist,
arm length, collar size; and then knelt in front of me to take my inside
leg measurement.  As he did so his fingers strayed slightly to linger, just
for an instant, on my crotch, and at once my manager came over and slapped
his face.  Slapped it so hard that the slave was knocked sideways, and lay
there on the floor whimpering quietly.

I was totally surprised by this, as my manager had seemed a decent sort of
guy for a nigger, and I was even more shocked when his formerly pleasantly
affable tone became a scream as he kicked at the slave, shouting "Get in
there and get master Steve his uniform, scumbag!  Or do you want to feel
the strap on that miserable ass of yours?"

The slave was almost sobbing as he scrambled to his feet, blurting out "I'm
sorry, master.  At once, master....."

I guess I'd never seen a slave treated like this before - my only real
experience had, after all, been with ponies and there you expect the gentle
touch of the whip as I've explained to you as a means of control.  But this
was different - this was punishment, physical punishment, for what might
have been an honest mistake - was he really trying to feel my crotch, or
just careless?

As the slave ran up and down the rack behind the counter my manager rubbed
his hand and commented "That's why it's best to use a strap on a slave,
Steve.  My hand stings quite badly after that slap to the slave.  But
you've got to act fast when you see something like that - the man's an
idiot, trying to touch a master inappropriately; but it's a good rule, like
when you're training a puppy, to punish as soon as the action has occurred.
He'll be a lot more careful with the next guard who needs measuring for
replacement pants!"

"I guess it hurt him, too...."

"Of course!  How else do you punish a slave?  You can't fire him, or not
give him a raise next time, or not promote him.  Short, sharp physical
punishment is how you teach slaves, Steve - and most of you whiteys are
pretty quick to learn the lesson, I'll say that for you.  You may not
always be the sharpest needles in the pack, but you can learn if you have
enough incentive to."

Well I wasn't sure I liked being lumped together with slaves as "you
whiteys", but for a nigger my manager seemed to be a reasonable sort of
guy, and I guess in-build prejudices take a long time to eliminate and even
when they're really trying, something will slip out in the language.  So I
didn't make a big thing out of it, and watched as my manager ordered the
slave to bring two sets of pants, two shirts, and then a standard guards'
equipment pack.  He rummaged through the box holding this, and showed me
each item in turn: cuffs, a slave prod, a leather strap, a small device
which he said was a "panic alarm" in case the slaves got out of control,
and a broad leather belt to hang the other items from.  "Inside your locker
you'll find a recharging point for the prod and alarm, and get into the
habit of always plugging them in at the end of your shift, even if you've
not used them: you never know when trouble might erupt, and you don't want
to be facing
 a mob of slaves with a prod that's only half charged", he told me.

We went back to the locker room then, with the slave following us carrying
the kit box and all the items of clothing - I could see that there were
some advantages to having slaves!  My manager dismissed the slave (I felt a
bit sorry for him, seeing the huge red mark on his face), then went and sat
on the bench, waiting.  I stood there not knowing what to do, and my
manager said "Well, this is it, Steve!  Get changed into your uniform, and
I'll take you to introduce you to the rest of the men in your crew."

I reckon it was lucky I hadn't gone commando that day, as once again I
could feel a nigga watching me as I stripped off my T and jeans.  "Nice",
he commented as I stood there in my boxers.  "As I said, I like a
solid-looking man in the initial processing crew, as it can help prevent
trouble.  And you can save money, you know: Johnson's has an employee gym
as we like our workers to stay fit, and there's no subscription or
anything.  And you can get to use the slaves in the showers afterwards -
mind you, they're not absolutely top class as the best ones go to private
owners, but they're good enough to relieve the tensions that build up in a
man when you're working here."

"You mean there are women here I can fuck....?"

"No, of course not!  Johnson's is a commercial concern, responsible to the
stockholders for making a profit.  There's not a lot of female slaves
around anyway, and the number of them you'd want to fuck is pretty small.
But we manage to get some males who are OK for a casual fucking, and
they've all been through the training in giving good BJs, of course.
You'll need to look at the gym times to see when whiteys are allowed in,
but you'll probably find you can have a really good workout at least some
days of the week - the management here is very enlightened, you know, and
believe in equality: they don't just obey the actual letter of the law,
they try to be fair."

"I thought the law said you couldn't discriminate in stuff like that -
whiteys and niggers should have the same facilities at work...."

"You do, Steve.  You have the gym.  It's just that all of us feel more
comfortable with being with our own folk when we're working out, and
especially when we're in the showers.  So Johnson's is scrupulously fair in
splitting the gym times between us - equal access for all, but equal and
separate, of course."

"Well it doesn't sound 'equal' if I can only get to the gym on some
days....."

My manager's tone seemed to change, and as I continued dressing he went on
"Steve, you're like so many whiteys, always complaining when there's
nothing really to complain about.  You need to re-think your attitude if
you and I are going to work together!  You ought to be grateful that
Johnson's is providing so many employment opportunities for whiteys,
especially poor whiteys like you without a proper education even.  And so I
don't want to hear any more of this complaining about not being equal -
you'll find the company is more than fair, and you have showers in your
changing rooms here which are at least as good as those in the ones for
niggers, for example.  And we all even use the same restaurant at lunch
time, and Johnson's even care enough to provide a separate servery for you
that serves the kind of food that whiteys like!"

"....and separate tables, too, I suppose."

"Well yes, of course.  Whiteys and niggers don't have anything much to talk
about, after all.  And when you're at lunch you'll want to joke with your
fellows, and talk about the whitey trash TV programmes last night, and
stuff like that.  And think about it, Steve - if you were in the same
showers as a nigger, he might think you were a slave: it's natural enough,
after all, as almost all slaves are whiteys and when you see white skin in
the shower, you expect service....  So equal, certainly.  But separate, of
course - it's actually better for you in all kinds of ways.  What's wrong
with that?"

"Well it's not what the Constitution says...."

"It says that all men are equal, Steve.  I don't know what they taught you
at school, but at mine they didn't say anything about having to have
everything the same!  'Equal but separate', is what we learned.  You'll be
telling me next you don't believe in slavery...."

"It's not in the Constitution.... It talks about men having rights...."

"No slavery isn't in there, Steve.  And a lot of other things aren't,
either.  The Constitution talks about the rights of men, Steve.  And it
doesn't talk about slaves, at all, or animals, for that matter.  I know it
must be difficult for you, but when you work here you've really got to
understand that slaves are not like us - they're a totally separate class.
It's a bit like whiteys and niggers - we've given you so much, you're
almost like us, even though the Constitution doesn't demand it.  And the
only rights slaves have are those that our enlightened law makers have seen
fit to give them. "

"...like not being castrated?"

"Exactly!  Imagine what it would be like if every owner were to be allowed
to chop his slaves' balls off!  Under the law the owner has to go to a
magistrate and show just cause, and then it has to be done humanely, with
anaesthetic and everything.  And the court fee deters owners from acting
capriciously, and so only those slaves who really ought to be gelded end up
that way."

I wasn't convinced, but what's the point of arguing with a nigga,
especially when he's your manager? And I probably needed to stay on side
with him if I wanted to get promoted and stuff.  So I finished tying the
laces of my boots, and then went over to the mirror by the door, that had a
slogan over the top of it that said "A good guard takes a pride in his
appearance."  I looked somehow different - was it the pale green khaki of
my uniform?  Or the thick leather belt around my waist with the new tools
of my trade dangling down from it?

"Excellent, Steve!  I like a man who takes pride in his appearance.  But
you need to wear a uniform cap as well - or get your hair cropped."

He saw me looking questioningly, and added "You've got free man hair, and
it's too long - you whiteys grow your hair, I know, as for some reason you
don't want to have proper nigger hair like us.  And that's OK - I'm not
prejudiced.  But working here long hair can be dangerous, as an unruly
slave could grab it and use it to restrain you.  So the rules are that you
can either have your skull shaved, or crop it to no more than an inch, or
wear a cap that keeps it totally covered....."

I reckoned a cap was my best option.  I mean, who wanted to look like a
nigga, with a shaved head?  Or a slave, with cropped hair?  That's one way
we differentiated free men from slaves, having a proper head of hair.  Not
that mine was effeminate or anything, not down to my shoulders as some guys
had.... But respectably long as befitted my status.

Hearing this, my manager used his phone to call to the stores and ordered
the slave bring me a uniform cap, and whilst we were waiting he ran through
the drill I was supposed to adopt every morning.  "First, check the
emergency alarm - press it, and when the Control Centre answers, just say
'test'.  Then turn the power on your prod right down to 'minimum', press it
to the palm of your hand, and verify it's working."

He watched, as very cautiously I turned the power right down, then gingerly
pressed it against my skin.  Even on very low, my whole arm twitched!  My
manager laughed, and told me "You'll soon get used to it, Steve.  And don't
neglect it - making sure your prod is properly charged might save your life
one day.  And don't forget to turn up the power to 'operational' now -
that's half the maximum, but quite enough to incapacitate a slave.  But
learn how to thumb it to 'full' without looking - if we ever have a riot,
you may not have the luxury of being able to peer at the prod before you
lay in to the slaves!"

I began to realise that this was a serious business, and after I'd tried it
once or twice, my manager seemed satisfied and said we should go and meet
the rest of the crew.

It turned out that there was a squad of five of us who worked "initial
processing" - all big, strong, muscular looking guys, the type you'd see in
rough bars and who looked as if they would actually be glad if one of the
slaves revolted to give them an excuse to set into them!  They all stood up
respectfully when my manager entered - it seemed that when there wasn't a
transporter in the yard, we were allowed to sit around and read the papers
(or, rather, the piles of crude girly mags that were strewn around).  He
introduced me to them, and said casually "Steve's got some pull here, so
don't you guys go doing anything silly with him - none of those initiation
ceremonies you are so keen on!  The last recruit I gave you chucked it in
at the end of the week he was so upset at the way you'd handled him, and
you'd do well not to repeat that as Steve might really complain.  So show
him the ropes - he really is new to this, has never prodded a slave or
anything
 like that, so let him practice a bit.  OK?"

They all nodded, and he turned and left and I was left with these four big,
older guys, who all looked at me kind of interestingly.  "So, you've got
pull with the bosses?"

"No - I don't know what he meant."

"So you haven't been sucking some nigga's dick, boy?  Or letting him
cornhole you...?"

Well I wasn't going to stand for insinuations like that, was I, regardless
of how big and hard he looked?  I stepped forward and stood right in front
of him, eyeball to eyeball.  "How come you know so much about what niggas
do for sex?", I demanded.  "Me, I just fuck bitches."  (I didn't think it
politic to mention that it was kind of me that was getting fucked, and by a
nigga bitch at that!).

I thought he was going to hit me, but his mates all started to laugh.  "The
kid's got a lot of spunk, at least.  Leave him alone, Charlie!", one called
out, and the guy kind of backed down.  We all sat around then and they
started to tell me about the way slaves reacted when they were brought in,
and gave me some of the background on how we were going to work
together. Then we just sat around, waiting, thumbing through the girly mags
and occasionally showing the others pictures of some particularly
big-titted bitch, or of one with her legs really wide open and with that
expectant look on her face.

The time passed quite quickly, but then a loudspeaker on the wall barked
"in-coming, five minutes", and the guys all got to their feet, and, like
me, they tugged at their uniform slacks to ease their dicks which were
bulging a bit.  We all buckled on our belts, and then we asked each other
"Your prod checked this morning?", and we had to formally reply "Yes".
Then we went out into the yard.

The yard was empty except for a sturdy looking table on thick legs which
held a box with some apparatus in it, and a dumpster.  We waited around
until a siren sounded and the gates opened slowly, to admit a slave
transporter - a kind of standard van except for where a narrow strip ran
down each side covered in strong steel mesh, and through which we could see
faces trying to peer out.  They reminded me a bit of the sheep and cattle
you sometimes see peering out of the sides of a livestock transporter as it
makes its way down the street to the slaughterhouse.

The driver got out, and talked to one of our guys - they seemed to know
each other well, and I was to learn as time went by that it generally was
the same people who drove the transporters day after day.  There was a lot
of messing around with paperwork, until ultimately the driver got his
twelve slaves signed for, and I found that quite interesting - it was not
all that big a van, and to have twelve guys crammed inside it must have
meant they were really crushed together, and were certainly close enough to
be inside each others comfort zone.

Charlie, the guy amongst us who seemed to be in charge, came over to me and
said "Now, Steve, for this first one, just watch.  Stand well back, as you
don't know yet what to do if there's trouble, and I don't want you getting
in the way of the rest of us.  Just watch closely, and next time we have a
delivery I'll let you have a go.  OK?"

I nodded, and he strode off towards the back of the van, pulling his prod
off his belt as he did so - it occurred to me that this seemed very
natural, and I looked again at my own: the handle was cunningly shaped so
you could hold it easily for long periods, almost as if it was an extension
of your hand, and there was a shield over the fingers, too, which I suppose
prevented the thing from being snatched from you.  I guess that's the
difference between really professional, heavy-duty equipment, and the kind
of simple stuff you can buy in the slave supply shops for an owner to use
occasionally.

The driver undid the locks holding a sturdy metal bar across the back door
of the van, and it was pulled open.  Charlie reached in and hauled a guy
out - so unexpected was this that he fell and lay on the ground, and
Charlie and the driver quickly slammed the van door shut.  As I watched,
two of our crew stepped forward and grabbed the slave, hauled him to his
feet and then half marched, half dragged him over to the table.  He began
to shout, calling them all sorts of vile names, as they threw him down on
to it, and Charlie went over and snapped "Open your mouth, fucker - wide
open!"

The slave stopped shouting, and I could see him defiantly clamping his jaws
shut, but evidently this was expected as Charlie simply reached down and
grabbed the guy's crotch and squeezed: as the slave let out a scream, one
of the others grabbed the apparatus I'd been wondering about that looked a
bit like a slave prod actually, and stuffed it down the slave's throat.  I
saw his legs begin to thrash around as I supposed he was choking or at
least gagging, then it all went silent - his limbs carried on twitching and
scrabbling around, but no sound came out.

The crew let him go then, and he was pushed off the table and ordered to
strip.  It was kind of eerie - after all the shouting, this silence, as
Charlie barked the order again, and the man began slowly, and very
reluctantly, to unclothe.  When he was naked, he was left standing there
with one of the crew near him holding his prod threateningly, and Charlie
went over to the back of the van to repeat the whole process.

I was really interested, and moved so I could get a better look as the next
slave had the instrument rammed down his throat, and I saw that a button
was pressed at some point, and then the noise seemed to stop almost
immediately.  My fellow crew man saw me watching and grinned "It's a
paralytic drug, Steve.  We push the injector down the throat, and when I
press, he gets a dose.  It knocks his vocal chords out for twenty four
hours - as you can hear, or, rather as you can not hear!"

"But why...?"

"To stop them from plotting and arguing, and ganging up!  Once they can't
speak, they're much easier to control.  They can't ask their fellows for
help Can't complain.  Can't get together and agree to try to make some
concerted attack on us....  And, anyway, who wants a load of shouting and
complaining going on all the time?"

I could see that in the crazy way that this world operated that it made
some sort of sense, and indeed the men did appear to be relatively docile
after they had been silenced.  Soon all twelve of them were standing there
naked in a group - some of them with their hands hanging loosely in front
of them as if they were trying to shield their dicks from view, and some of
them with their hands at their sides, fists clenched, as if in impotent
fury at what was happening to them.  I couldn't see why some of them looked
so ashamed - after all, we were all men here, and it's not as if we haven't
all got the same basic apparatus, is it?

Charlie came over to me and said "OK, Steve, your chance now to finish the
job.  Even though they've been ordered to strip totally, some of them have
left their watches on.  And there'll be rings - some of them were probably
married - and some of those men-on-a-stick figures on chains around their
necks.  Take this bucket and go and collect them - and look out for
trouble, as they'll try and plead with you to keep some of that crap as it
has sentimental value for them: not that it will do any good, as they can't
actually plead now anyway.  And even if they could, the rules are that they
must enter the processing facility totally devoid of anything from their
former lives."

I nodded, and he went on "As you get more experienced I'd advise you to use
the strap to make yourself clear - after the first one tries to argue with
you, give him a good blow across his ass, and you'll find it a lot easier
to collect stuff from the rest.  But if you're not confident with that yet,
just scream and shout at them, and slap them across the face, hard....."

Look, I'm not into hitting guys, and as I've told you, I wasn't at all sure
about this whole slave processing stuff anyway.  But I could hardly back
down now, could I?  Charlie and the others would think I wasn't a proper
man if I chucked it in and walked away, so with some trepidation I picked
up the bucket Charlie had indicated, and walked over to the naked men.

I demanded the watch off the first guy, and I suppose it was something in
the hesitant manner in which I did it that caused him to mouth "Fuck off!"
at me, and then turn his back as if to ignore me totally.  I really wish
I'd done what Charlie had been talking about and slapped him, or even used
the strap, as the next moment one of the others walked up and touched his
prod to the slave's ass.

Have you ever seen a slave prodded?  I don't like to think what it would be
like at full power, as even at half power it's pretty dramatic!  One minute
he was turning away, and the next moment he was on the ground, writhing
around, his arms and legs thrashing around and his mouth wide open as if he
was trying to scream and shriek.  All of the others looked horrified as
they saw it happening, and it took two or three minutes before he'd stopped
moving.  Charlie came over and looked down, and kicked at the slave in
order to get his attention and to establish his dominance.  "On your feet,
scumbag!", he demanded.  "And let this be a lesson to you all - when a
guard tells you to do something, you do it!"

He then nodded to me, and I went through the group of slaves now finding
them almost willing to take off watches and rings, and to undo gold chains
holding crosses and stuff and drop them into my bucket.  When I thought I'd
finished, Charlie took me by the arm and pointed to one of the slaves - a
handsome looking guy, with a body in good shape (unlike some of the others,
who were a bit overweight).  "That gayboy has got a tit ring and a PA,
Steve!  That's not allowed either - go and take them off him."

It wasn't all that easy - I think those kind of body ornaments are meant to
have unscrewable ends so you can undo them and slide them out.  But on this
slave the little balls on the open ends of the ring through his tit and the
even thicker one hanging out of the end of his dick seemed to be stuck in
place.  "They do this, Steve!  When one of these gayboys gets arrested they
get their boyfriends to visit them and superglue the ends of their rings on
- they think it will stop them losing them!"

He turned to the slave and said "You're lucky Steve here is feeling
merciful today- we usually rip those rings through the holes if you can't
undo them.  But Steve's going to use a cutter...."

He gestured, and I saw one of the crew holding out a big pair of pliers for
me.  Then I had to stand there, pulling at the guy's nipple to make it
stand out from his body so that I could cut through the ring - he hardly
moved, and I wondered if gay guys were different from us, as if anyone had
been working at my tit like that I'd have been squirming around in pain!
His cock ring wasn't so much of a problem - Charlie ordered him to hold it
out in front of him and there was enough of the ring hanging out of his
piss slit that I could get the pliers to work, although as I then slid the
ring out from the hole in the underside of his cock I felt my own dick
shrivel up in my boxers, and I felt that urge guys get to clamp their legs
together - I mean, fancy having a hole actually punched through your dick!

Once I was finished, one of the crew came over and ran his hand through the
stuff in the bucket.  "Mostly low grade crap", he told me.  "We had a group
of executives through here the other week who had done some sort of
corporate swindle - or, rather, had been found out, as they all do it.
Then we had some really good watches, and some diamond class rings, stuff
like that.  It all adds up, you know - it's one of the perks of working on
this crew, as we get to keep the money: you take that to a pawn broker
tonight and split it with us tomorrow."

I nodded. I mean, every dollar helps, doesn't it?  Then I heard Charlie
instructing the slaves.  "Right - I want you in a line.  Shortest in the
front, tallest at the rear.  And we've got a prod here to help you, in case
you have problems with that, and you've all seen what that can do.  Now
line up - you've got twenty seconds."

The men scurried around, and it was almost comical to watch as they tried
to sort themselves into size order - and when they'd done, Charlie went
along it and changed some of them around, now delivering a big "slap" to
the butts of the offenders with his strap.  He then told the guy at the
back to go around and collect all their discarded clothing from where it
was lying and put it in the dumpster - and all eleven slaves and five of us
watched as the big guy went around, stooping to pick the stuff up, his dick
and his balls swinging up and down as he worked away.

Charlie came over to me and said by way of furthering my education "This is
another important part of it, Steve.  It's one thing to strip a slave
naked, but when they see their clothes going into that dumpster, it signals
to them that things really have changed - they see that their life as a
free man really is over, as why else would we throw their clothes away?"

I could see the sense in that, I suppose, but then Charlie called out
"Right, you men.  Turn and face the door over there, and we'll march you in
for processing.  Put your hands on the shoulders of the guy in front of
you, and keep them there until you're told otherwise.  Any man who disobeys
gets prodded."

The men obeyed, and it seemed almost funny to see them standing like that
in a row.  Then Charlie called out "Dick to crack!", and the rest of the
crew went along pushing the men together so that they were in intimate
contact.  "More lessons for them, Steve.  A lot of those slaves have never
felt the naked skin of another man, and almost certainly haven't felt a
dick pressing against their ass crack - except for the gayboy, I suppose.
But they'll need to get used to that sort of thing, as a slave should feel
no shame at being naked, and even though they might not like it, they need
to learn that if a master orders them to do some act, their only thought
should be to obey."

He shouted "Forward!" then, and with the crew guiding them the line sort of
shuffled towards the door.  I couldn't help but wonder what it must feel
like to be in the middle of all of that, your sweaty body sandwiched so
intimately close to two others, your dick rubbing the hairy ass of another
guy, and the feeling of a dick pressing into your own sensitive place.

Once inside the building we kept the slaves lined up, still "Dick to crack"
as we called it, and Charlie said to me in a low voice so the slaves
couldn't hear "We keep them like this for about twenty minutes - one of
them is bound to start getting an erection in that sort of time, and when
the guy in front feels a dick pushing between his cheeks, he'll do the
same.... They'll soon all be like it, and it's another lesson for them:
most men have never had an erection in public, let alone had it push
against another guy's ass.  It's another example of how they're not proper
men any longer, but slaves now, slaves with animal instincts."

"...except for the gayboy", I added, using the term the others used even
though I thought it sounded derogatory.  Look, you know I'm not gay, but
the fact that they are is no reason for using abusive terms for those poor
guys, is it?

"Oh we'll fix him later!", Charlie laughed.  "At some point the gay guys
are made to fuck one of the bitch slaves. Fuck her with a roomful of slaves
watching.  That's usually enough to make them realise their regular little
perversions have all gone."

I nodded, wondering how I would perform if I had to fuck a bitch in front
of a room full of other guys - I wasn't sure I could do it, and I'm
straight!  It would be terrible for a gayboy, I'm sure.  Still, the line of
slaves had now gone in, and Charlie and I followed.

Inside there was the kind of communal shower you get at school - a tiled
area with a row of shower heads over it, and no privacy.  Some of the
slaves were clearly embarrassed when the order was given to break up the
line and start showering as the action of the dick to crack walk had caused
them to go erect.  I couldn't help staring myself, as you're not used to
seeing a lot of guys erect, are you?  I mean it's OK to see other guys in
the showers, but most of us don't have erections, do we, as that's kind of
private.

The water was turned on but the slaves were told to stand still, and to
clasp their hands behind their necks.  It looked really odd to see them all
like that, and then I saw why it was done: two other slaves came in who
evidently worked for Johnson's, as although they did not have the uniform
on they had been tattooed in huge letters on their backs with the company
name - actually it made them look strangely erotic as the words seemed to
emphasise the width of their shoulders and accentuated the classic
triangular shape of them as their bodies narrowed to the hips and their
asses.  They started to methodically soap each of the new slaves in turn,
and clearly some of them did not like it - they were shaking their heads to
try to say no, unable to voice their dislikes, but if they tried to do any
more - like reach down to stop the action of the slaves - one of our guards
lashed out at their naked butts with their straps: the crack of the strap
sounded
 really loud in the harsh echoey environment of the shower, and it
evidently hurt quite a lot as they leapt around a bit afterwards.  I even
saw one of them - a young looking guy - almost crying as the slaves first
soaped his dick and then teased his foreskin back to clean under it.  I
suppose I can understand that, as your dick head is a pretty private kind
of thing if you've got a foreskin, isn't it?  Other than the bitches I
fucked I can't recall anyone actually seeing my dick head since I was
mature - I guess mom had when I was a kid and she was bathing me, but no
one else; there was no way I'd do it in front of the other guys at school,
and those of us with 'skins used to turn away and face into the corner of
the showers when we cleaned under there.  There was no escaping it for this
slave and the other guys with 'skins, though, as the cleaning slaves were
particularly diligent in their efforts and didn't seem at all concerned by
it.

Most of the slaves didn't like their asses being cleaned out, either - not
only did our two slaves run their hands down the ass cracks of the others,
but they soaped their fingers and evidently pushed them in to the ass holes
to do a really thorough job.  I remembered how only an hour or so ago I'd
squirmed when the doctor had done this to me in private, as part of a
medical, and really felt for the slaves who were now having it done in
public like this.

When the water was turned off there was no attempt to dry the slaves and
Charlie just shrugged when I mentioned it as they stood there shivering
slightly, indicating that their comfort was of no concern, and that they'd
dry off naturally sooner or later.  The "house" slaves soon reappeared
though with rechargeable electric clippers, and as the guards watched the
line of naked slaves with their prods and their straps at the ready in case
of trouble, the slaves went down the line of shivering men trimming their
pubic hair to a nice short length, and then tugging and pulling at the
slaves' dicks and balls so that the balls could be cleared of hair.  The
poor guys looked utterly defeated - they didn't make any attempt to stop
this gross indignity to them.  I didn't need to comment on this - clearly
anyone buying a male slave would want to see his tackle, and a big thatch
of pubic hair really does obscure the view: without most of it, and with
their balls
 shaved, even those of them who had smaller than average dicks looked a bit
bigger.

When all was done, to my surprise the slaves were all handed shorts - the
kind of grey cotton "exercise" shorts that you normally wear over a
jockstrap (but perhaps needless to say here the dicks and balls were
hanging loose inside them).  Charlie saw me looking a bit surprised at
this, but told me that it was good to give the slaves some modicum of cover
now so that when they were stripped for the auction they would again suffer
embarrassment.  "You see, Steve", he told me, "If we keep them naked all
night and then parade them naked tomorrow, they'll be kind of used to it.
But if the shorts are ripped off half way through the auction their
instinctive reaction will be to try and shield themselves from view again,
and that's a very arousing reaction for some of the buyers - so we get
higher prices as the slaves who appear to be a bit more 'innocent' seem
more desirable."

We marched the slaves off to a holding cage then - all twelve of them
inside at once, together, in quite a confined space.  There was a hole in
the corner for them to pee into (and, I suppose, to crap into, too), and a
spigot on the wall that they could drink from.  I couldn't help thinking
that they did indeed look like animals, herded together into a pen, and I
realised that this process was indeed dehumanising them in the eyes of us
guards.

Remarkably, our shift was then over, Charlie said.  And although I hadn't
been told this, I learned that we were the "earlies", working from six
a.m. to two p.m., and we were replaced by the "lates" who worked through
until ten at night.

All of us went back to the locker room to change, and I guess that after
working with naked flesh all day we were kind of unconcerned about our own
nudity: in a changing room like at a gym it's been my experience that some
of the guys walk to and from the showers with a towel draped around
themselves, but none of the guys here did - you took off your uniform,
letting it drop on the floor, then strode naked to the showers at the end.
The two slaves who'd been dealing with our consignment were in there, too,
and were available to help us shower if we wanted - some of the guys used
them, but not me - I mean, it's pretty gross to have another man cleaning
your as crack, even if he is a slave, isn't it?  Even more shocking was the
way that the slaves fell to their knees and knelt there in front of us, so
that if we wanted we could push our dicks into them for a BJ - again, not
me!  Charlie saw my reaction to all of this, and slapped me on the back in
a
 friendly kind of way, as guys sometimes do after a game.  "Don't worry,
Steve - you'll soon get used to it", he told me.  "Every one of us finds it
a bit strange at first, as guys like us were not brought up with slaves.
But it's very convenient, you know: if your bitch is not putting out for
you, there's no need to feel frustrated as these guys are really good.  And
you don't have to worry about your uniform either - they collect all our
stuff up and have it freshly laundered and pressed for tomorrow morning."

The tiny apartment Sh'Kwala had found was only about a five minute walk
form Johnson's, so I was soon "home".  And then, utterly exhausted by this
strange day, I fell asleep.  I came to with a great start, wondering where
I was for a few moments, to see her standing over me.  I realised it was
about four thirty and it was my time to "pleasure her", as usual.  I
couldn't help thinking that my life wasn't all that much better than those
poor slaves I'd been processing today - what freedom of action did I really
have?

End Of Part Ten