Date: Thu, 23 Apr 2009 07:02:53 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: It's Not Equal At All, Part 13

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  Thirteen

As we left the luxurious room where my new owner had placed his orders for
what was to be done to me, we stopped temporarily at a desk where the
"customer request form" that had been filled out was checked.  The
operative sitting at the desk took something that looked like one of those
baggage tags you see on suitcases at the train station (and at airports
too, they tell me, although I have never flown of course as that's reserved
for niggers because of the cost), made some marks on it, and handed it back
to the guard.

"Now, hold still, boy", he commanded, and as I watched he took the tag
which had a screw fixing at the end of it, put the fixing on my left
nipple, and screwed it tight.  I winced and tried to jerk away, only to get
a slap on the bare butt for my troubles.  I was left standing there then
with the tag dragging my tit down and sending wincing pains through me.  It
was just as if I'd been labelled and tagged as some piece of work that was
going to progress through a factory.

I began to understand why Johnson's was such a huge complex as the guards
herded me on then.  There seemed to be miles of corridors with signs
hanging in the air at the intersections saying things like "Medical
Facilities", "Holding Pens", "Training Rooms", "Presale Preparation And
Holding" and "Shipment And Despatch", just as if we were in some large
manufacturing facility - as I suppose we were: a facility for
"manufacturing slaves from free men.  The guards never spoke to me, guiding
me by the occasional mild slap on my bare butt with a strap - it was if I
was some sort of farm animal which the farmer was herding along from one
place to another.

We were evidently heading for the medical facilities, and I began to get a
ray of hope - it was only a few weeks since the doctor had carried out my
induction as a guard at Johnson's, and surely, if he was also going to do
the circumcision, he'd remember me and see that something was wrong.  I
could also feel some ability to speak returning - not exactly words, but I
could grunt and make deep noises in my throat and this would help me too, I
thought.

It was not to be, however!  There were seven slaves lined up guarded by a
couple of big niggers when we went into the facility, and I saw at once
that different standards again applied to slaves than to free men.  When
I'd had my medical before it had been in a normal doctor's office
environment - desk and chairs, then a table to lie on to be examined,
charts on the wall, carpet, all that sort of stuff.  The slave medical
facility was simply a bare space, quite large, entirely tiled in white
tiles with a polished concrete floor that sloped very gently towards a
drain hole in the middle.  Hung in one area of the wall was a collection of
chains, wires and cuffs, each with a neat "painted" mark behind it as some
hobbyists have for their tools, to show where things should go.  And lined
up against the far wall was a collection of metal frames whose purpose was
not immediately discernible, but which looked vaguely sinister - I
suspected they were to restrain
 us guys as the process of dehumanising us continued.  A hose reel was
attached to a tap in the corner, and I guessed that this could be used to
quickly hose down the whole place when necessary.

There was some checking of the tag on my nipple - shooting pains went
through me, and I began to shuffle in embarrassment as I realised that as
my tit stiffened from the action, so did my dick!  The guards all seemed
satisfied then, and the eight of us stood there wondering what was going to
happen.

I was right about the frames - the guards ordered two of the guys to drag
one of them over into the centre of the room, almost over the drain.  It
was arch-shaped, with sets of parallel bars across it .  When it was in
position one of the two slaves was made to lie on it, back down.  Manacles
from the wall were used to fasten his ankles to the side and cross bars of
the frame at one end, then, as he was bent backwards over the arch, his
wrists were similarly fastened.  He lay there, his head down and his dick
and balls thrust up high into the air as his whole torso was bent
backwards.

No sooner was the first slave secured than a second similar frame was
dragged over, and another slave secured to it.  The rest of us stood there
wondering - no, worrying, I suppose - why this was being done.  We soon
found out - the doctor strode in to the room, and I made an attempt to rush
at him to try to tell him who I was, only to be beaten back by the guards.
The doctor hardly seemed to notice the commotion, and certainly didn't
bother even to glance over to where the group of us was standing, and
instead went over to the first secured slave as he lay there on the arch.

The doctor had to stoop down to read the tag on the slave's tit, then,
seeming to be satisfied with what he'd read, he began to examine the
slave's dick, thumbing back the guy's foreskin as his dick flopped there,
and then stroking him to erection to do so again.  Seeming satisfied, he
pulled a small packed out of his coat pocked and tore it open - it was one
of those irritating plastic packages, and the doctor's strong, white teeth
were needed to make the initial opening: it's funny how you notice small
details like this, isn't it?  Us slaves who were watching were fascinated
by all of this, so much so that we nearly missed what happened next - the
doctor moved back to the slave lying there, took old of his dick again, and
the next moment there was an inarticulate sound form the slave which would
have been a scream had he had his power of speech, a spurt of bright red
blood, and a terrible thrashing around as the slave's body contorted and
moved in
 a vain effort to move away.  The doctor had his back slightly towards us
so I couldn't see exactly what had happened, but when he moved away after
what seemed like a very few seconds, we all gasped as we could see that the
slave's dick was all bloodied, and we could hear the guy kind of sobbing.

The doctor had moved to the second slave on his frame though and was
reading the tag, but we had little time to watch now as the guards came
over and dragged one of us to the first frame, and as they released the
slave with the bloodied dick, the new one was forced back onto it and
secured.  The thrashing and noise began as the doctor worked on he dick of
the second of the two original slaves, then he was released in turn and the
guards came towards us to select another one from our group as we stood
there, now terrified.

I realised that they'd set up a kind of "production line" for the doctor to
carry out circumcisions - he didn't have to waste any of his time at all as
he simply moved from one frame to another, always finding a fresh slave
there to work on.  When I was dragged over to the frame in turn I knew I
would have no opportunity to try to communicate with the doctor - it was
hopeless, as he was working at such a rapid pace and he never really got to
look at the slave in general as the body was stretched out.  And the
slave's head right down as his body bent backwards over the frame: the
doctor's only interest seemed to be on reading the tag to make sure that a
circumcision had been ordered, and then on examining the poor guy's dick as
he lay there utterly helpless - presumably to see how much was to be cut
off!

Was I aware of the incredible pain when it was my turn?  I was
disorientated from struggling as I was dragged over to the frame when the
guards came for me, and then from having all the blood rush to my head as I
lay there.  I tried to twist and turn my body, do anything to get away from
him, as the doctor's strong fingers played with my dick and all I could
focus on at that point was the sensations running through me as he stroked
me to a degrading erection.  Then, like all the others, I did try to scream
as the first cut was made - afterwards , when we'd regained our speech, one
of the guys who had been a medical orderly told me that the first cut is to
free the 'skin from where it attaches underneath our dick head.  And I
screamed again as something was pushed down over the raw, bloodied cut edge
of my dick, and again as there was a longer, more prolonged cutting of my
sensitive tissue.  I learned that it was a metal tube that had been slid
down over
 my dick so that the doctor had something to slice against as he trimmed
away my surplus foreskin.  And if I thought that the pain could not get any
worse, I was wrong - there were some sharp pricks into me and more agony as
my cut dick was worked on, and I made an attempt through my gag at a final
great shout as last wave of hurt engulfed me as I guessed some disinfectant
or something was applied to my open wounds.

I tried to attract the doctor's attention as I was released from the frame
and the next guy was being chained down, but it was no good - the doctor
wasn't looking, and the inarticulate noises that was all my paralysed
throat could make evidently made no sense to him.  A huge wave of
frustration swept over me, followed very swiftly by one of frustration as I
realised I was powerless to influence my status.

The whole set of us were cut very quickly indeed - evidently these
circumcisions were purely routine and the doctor's time was valuable so not
much of it should be expended on us.  He left as he had entered, not even
looking back at us to see if we were all OK as we stood there with blood
dripping from our wounds - although as I looked at my dick, cradling it
very, very gently in my hands, I could see that there were some crude
stitches holding the cut ends of the 'skin together and that the
disinfectant stuff had seemingly not only been a protection against
infection but had had some sort of anticoagulant effect as the blood flow
had mostly stopped: there was a a layer of dried, clotted blood around my
dick.

They let us rest for the remainder of the day - we were herded into a
"cage" (of which there were many around Johnson's facilities: just a
relatively large area with a drain hole in one corner for pissing into and
otherwise empty, the floor to ceiling bars providing no privacy at all and
giving the guards an easy time in watching us) - and left there.  All of us
sank to the floor and squatted, sat or lay there, all in shock at the
savagery at what had just been done to us, and all hurting terribly.

There was worse to come for some of us - after a couple of hours the guards
came and inspected our tags, and four of our number were taken out and
marched away.  They came back a short time later with their bodies
strangely contorted and their faces tearstained as if they had been
weeping.  It soon became obvious why this was - as they came into the cage
we saw that each of them had a big, angry-looking "S" seared into their
butts: they had been branded!  Look, I felt sorry for those guys as
evidently they were hurting like hell, but at the same time I was secretly
relieved that at least I had been spared this.  Mind you, it does speak to
the cruelty and savageness of the whole slave system when they can actually
burn you like that, doesn't it?

We were starting to get our speech back now and we sat around (well, I did
- the branded guys lay there on their bellies as their butts were so
painful there was no way they could sit!), and some chat broke out.  That's
when the ex-medical orderly told us about the circumcision, as he said
"Well at least the doc used a fresh scalpel, one of those disposable ones.
It would have hurt much more if he'd used a traditional one as it would
have soon been blunt and slicing through the skin then would have been pure
agony, especially for the last ones to be done as it lost its edge.  It was
all pretty humane, really."

We all argued with him of course, saying that it was barbaric and that they
could have used an anaesthetic on us - especially the poor guys who had
been branded - if they had to do it at all, but he kind of shrugged.  "I
used to do some of this stuff for owners when I was a medical school, and
owners won't allow it.  The ideas is that we will all remember it, remember
it in a way we wouldn't if we had just been done painlessly.  Circumcising
a guy, or branding him, marks the transition from being a free man to a
slave, and they want you to know this deep inside you."

As we talked on, I was astonished to find that most of them had been
enslaved for really trivial reasons - stuff like unpaid parking fines, and
again there seemed to be an explanation for this.  "The nigger's afraid of
us whiteys", one of them said.  "I read about it in a banned book that was
circulating around a group of my buddies.  They're afraid of us, and so
they take steps to minimise the risk to themselves by enslaving as many
young whiteys as they can.  Over the last twenty years the number of
offences that carry the enslavement penalty has shot up: it used to be only
for rape, armed robbery, serious stuff like that.  Now, if you're a whitey,
a whitey in his late tens or twenties especially, you have to really watch
out as any brush with the law is likely to end you up in here!  They've
taken over half the guys our age out of circulation now, and the book says
it's a plot: we're not there, so we won't breed, and we're the ones with a
bit of
 spirit, who did do a few things wrong as it's natural for all guys to do.
There are a lot of our women who can't get married or anything, and if they
do have kids, they'll end up with a lone parent in a poor society, so in
due course the kids will do petty crime, so they too will get enslaved in
their turn....  It's an endless supply of slaves for them, and, at the same
time, over a few generations, a lot of the 'fight' will have been bred out
as it's only the geeks and conformists who'll roaming free..."

We all listened to this and some of the guys put up some arguments against
it, but it did seem to have a lot of sense to it.  And the guy finished by
saying "You see it has to be true - why else would the niggers ban the book
that tries to tell guys like us what's happening?  If they weren't scared
of us finding out the truth, weren't scared of whiteys in general, why
would they bother?  And they take it seriously, too - that's why I'm in
this fucking cage: they searched my dorm at college - they were always
searching the whitey dorms - supposedly looking for drugs - but they found
my book.  And reading a banned book is an enslaveable offence for a
whitey!"

I tried to talk to the guys about my situation, telling them how I had not
been enslaved by the courts, and their reaction was interesting. First of
all they simply didn't believe me, and, indeed, they got quite angry as I
stuck to my story.  The view seemed to be that what old man Johnson had
done was unnecessary: he was a rich nigger, and it would have been easy
enough for him to get me enslaved properly - "things" could have been found
in my locker at work, for example, and that would be that.  So why was I
making up all this stuff, they wondered?  Then someone suggested that it
must be because I was ashamed of why I had been enslaved, and there was
some muttering accusingly about perhaps I had done something really bad
that actually deserved it, like molesting kids.  "But it's not fair!", I
protested again.  "Honest, guys, I did nothing like that!  I was just
fucking a nigger bitch, old man Johnson's daughter.  And she was as old as
me, and really
 wanted it.....  As soon as I get out of this place and can tell my owner,
I'm sure it's going to be sorted.  And then I'll get damages for false
enslavement, and for the pain and suffering when they 'skinned me...."

"Get real, buddy", one of them responded, laughing.  "Think about it!
First, your owner has paid good money for you.  Probably quite a lot, as
we're all pretty fit looking, and whiteys like us attract a premium price.
So he's not going to want to know that you might not be a slave, is he?  Or
he'll have lost his money.  And, anyway, niggers all stick together: he
wouldn't want to drop this Johnson guy in the shit, so he'd suppress your
story anyway, wouldn't he?  So I reckon that if you start telling him this
story, he'll have you permanently silenced.  Think about never being able
to speak again - it was bad enough just now.  I saw a TV programme about
slave modifications, and it's not difficult to do, you know- they simply
slice through your vocal chords."

"It wouldn't matter anyway", another one added.  "I read about a case like
yours in the paper last year.  Some idiot managed to swap places with his
buddy so the buddy could flea to Canada, and he allowed himself to be
auctioned to give his friend a good long time to get away.  When he proudly
revealed himself to be 'free' a couple of days later, the owner disagreed
and went back to the courts.  They ruled that if you bought something in a
public auction, that was that: stolen property, for example, doesn't revert
to the original owner once it's been bought at a legitimate auction in good
faith, and so if you bought a slave in good faith at a properly constituted
slave auction, what you bought was a slave.  So you're a slave, whether you
were enslaved by the courts or not - someone has bought you at a Johnson's
auction, and that's it for your freedom."

We'd have gone on talking, but a guard patrolling outside shouted at us to
shut the fuck up, and then he tossed a few bars of slave chow into us.  I'd
had this before, as most guys at some point as they're growing up taste a
bar just to see what it's like, and you all probably have done the same and
know that it's pretty awful.  I'm told they make it tough and chewy so that
the slaves have to exercise their jaws as they eat it, and it's that
disgusting sweet and sour taste as it's so full of sugar to give you
energy, and salt to replace the stuff slaves lose in sweat as they work.
But we were all so hungry after not being fed for a day that we tucked in
to it as if it had been real food.  I couldn't help wondering if this was
to be all I'd get from now on: some owners, I knew, always fed chow as it
was not only cheap, but convenient.  An owner could control your weight by
giving you only the size of chow bar he considered you needed, and there
was no
 messy weighting or portion control required.

I think they wanted to give us all time to recover from the 'skinning and
branding, as they left us in the cage overnight - well, it seemed like
that, as deep inside Johnson's there was no daylight and the fluorescents
in the ceiling stayed on all the time.  We variously dozed or slept, and I
suppose I really only knew it was the next day when I felt my chin and
found overnight stubble.

We were fed again then - another chow bar - and by this time most of us had
lost our inhibitions about going to the hole in the corner and kneeling
there and pissing in to it as the others watched and listened.  It was
lucky none of us needed to crap, I guess - can you imagine how awful it
would be to have to crap with a lot of other guys watching?  And I suppose
it would be pretty grim for them, too, with the smell and everything!

They took us out from the cage individually.  When it was my turn, the
guard read the tag still hanging form my nipple - I suppose I'd got used to
it, and had almost forgotten it.  He led me to a shower facility and I was
ordered to stand there as two slaves soaped me and cleaned me - I was
scared at first, but I suppose they were used to dealing with guys like me
as when they soaped and cleaned my dick they were very, very gentle.
Looking at them and seeing that they were cut, too, I thought that it was
probably that they cold remember how tender and sore they were immediately
after they'd been done.  This was to be no ordinary showering and cleaning,
though: they had electric clippers, and all I could do was stand there as
they clipped off all my pubes and my pit hair, then changed the setting to
run it over my entire body cutting through my chest hair and that on my
arms and legs.  I had to kneel down so they could do my head, and I could
feel the
 hair falling down onto my bare shoulders as they cut my free man's style
away.

When I stood up, I thought it must be over - but no!  Clipping wasn't
enough, and it then took them quite a time to run razors all over me,
smoothing my skin totally.  I particularly hated it when I was ordered to
bend over at the waist and pull by butt apart so they could shave all
around there.  And of course when they did my balls I was in an agony of
suspense as they tugged and stretched at my sac to make it possible for the
razor to work without cutting in to me - I mean, we all know how difficult
it is if you're doing that sort of thing to yourself, let alone having some
other guy's potentially clumsy fingers playing around down there!  And, no,
I had not been in the habit of shaving my own balls - I keep telling you,
I'm not gay and I don't do stuff like that.  But I used to stretch my sac
and feel my balls sometimes, as they were always telling us young guys at
school about the risk of ball cancer, and it did seem to be a good idea to
check.

I'm told that tattooing hurts, even when it's on some of the flesh parts of
you.  But I can tell you this: it's really painful when there's only a very
thin layer of skin covering the underlying bone.  They must have known this
as they sat me in something that looked like one of those old-time
dentist's chairs to do it, then fastened my arms and legs down, and pulled
a strap tight around my chest to secure me.  There was a kind of vice thing
that was then tightened to hold my head absolutely immobile, and only when
they were satisfied that there was no movement at all possible did they
begin.  I was making too much noise, they said, as the needle bit into me,
and the slave doing it told the guard it was because my owner had chosen to
have my SIN on my forehead and that this "always caused problems".  The
guards' response was to come over and threaten me with a prodding if I
didn't keep quiet, and then when he saw that I couldn't as the needle bit
in
 again, he was fortunately merciful: I was absolutely terrified as he
pushed the end of the prod towards my totally exposed balls as I sat there
utterly helpless, but he didn't actually press the button and instead told
me to open my mouth, and then stuffed a bit wad of paper towel into it.

When it was over and I was finally released, I happened to catch a glimpse
of myself in a mirror - gone was the Steve I knew.  What was staring back
at me was some sort of strange nude creature, who looked like a slave.  My
body glistened and shone, devoid of hair.  I looked a lot younger as my
naked dick and balls hung there without their manly hairy covering.  My
face was tear-streaked where I'd been weeping from the pain of the needles,
and almost worst of all was the large dark blue numbers that now marched
across my forehead - their presence emphasised by the way my head was
shaved too: I was bald except for a patch right on top about three inches
square.  I looked a bit like some exotic sea anemone, with my nude body and
"tentacles" on top.  And I thought to myself that I had used the right word
when I had thought "nude" - I had been stripped naked before, exposed to
the gaze of other men.  But now I was nude - devoid of even the tiniest
shred of
 cover on my body, as smooth and clean as the day I was born.

For the next three weeks my life fell into a routine: I discovered another
reason why the Johnson's building was so large - it needed to contain whole
lot of individual "work areas" for guys like me who were being processed
and receiving their initial training.  I say "work area" but that's a
misnomer - it was a cell, really: stark bare walls, bars from floor to
ceiling along one wall with a door made of bars set in, looking out onto a
corridor containing other similar "work areas". I could see into those on
the other side from me, and we all seemed to be very much alike.  There was
no furniture as such, only a narrow pad on the floor where I was expected
to sleep, and the area was otherwise bare except for a hole in one corner
which was for pissing and crapping in.  Most of the space was consumed by a
big "exercise machine" - kind of a combination of a running treadmill and
one of those weights exercisers.

Each day began when a guard walked up and down the corridor banging of the
bars to wake us up.  We then all had to stand against the bars for
"inspection" - a lot of us were sporting our morning hard-ons, and that
seemed to be the idea: it humiliated us, and made us recognise our slave
status.  In my case the guard who came down was looking closely at my dick,
observing the progress of the healing of my circumcision scar.  But for
some guys their pecs seemed to be under scrutiny, and for others it was
their calves, or thighs, or whatever the were being specially exercised
for.  After that we were allowed to piss and crap, and I suppose I got used
to the humiliation of having to crouch there over the hole to drop my turds
- initially I tried to do it so that as I squatted down I was facing away
from the corridor, but the hole was too close to the wall to make this
possible.  So I had to learn to do my business looking out at the guy
across the hall, and
 at the guard if he happened to be passing.

They cleaned us out then, by the simple expedient of having a slave drag a
hose along the corridor and spraying us through the bars as we stood there
- it wasn't heated or anything so it was really unpleasant and you ended up
shivering (but then the whole place was not all that warm - or was it
because I wasn't used to being naked like that?  And actually, after a
couple of days, I did seem to adjust and it didn't feel quite so cold).
Feeding came next - simple for them, as a slave came along and passed a
standard chow bar through the bars to me.  I noticed that most of the other
guys in the corridor got two, and early on asked the slave for another as I
was hungry; but it was no use - he looked at me kind of pityingly and said
"There's a '1' on your area, so that means one chow bar.  I guess your
owner wants you slimmed down."  It was another example of how I was no
longer in control of even the simplest facet of my own life.

Look, I don't want to give you the impression that I was fat - far from it,
as I reckon my flesh was good, solid muscle.  But it seemed that the
"fashion" was to have slaves where the body was really well defined, and
owners prized being able to see the ribcage and so on clearly delineated.
This turned out to be a huge problem for me as for the rest of the day I
needed to be working away in the exercise machine, and expending all that
energy when I wasn't being fed enough meant that I was constantly
ravenously hungry, and towards the end of my time there I was not able to
sleep properly as I was so famished.  It certainly did the trick, though:
at the end of the time I certainly was so much more "defined" - any
lingering traces of the sleekness that you have as a teenager had been
burned away and my young body had a new virile totally lean look to it.

Ah yes, the exercise!  The rest of the day, until the evening feeding time
when I got another chow bar, was spent on that damned machine!  I'd done
stuff like that before at the gym of course as the coach at school liked
those of us on the team to build up the power and strength in our muscles,
but this was quite different.  For a start, it was continuous - no stopping
for five minutes for a chat with your buddies or anything like that: once a
series of exercises had begun, I had to work away at it until it was
complete.  Then there was a five minute break so that I could get water
from the spigot on my wall, or piss, before the next set began.  During
each set of exercises - whether it was running, or one of the many
different weights programmes - the machine monitored the effort I was using
and if I didn't run fast enough, or if I didn't pull the weights at the
right speed, a warning tone would sound.  If I ignored that it sounded a
second time, but
 after that, it punished me!  I got a powerful electric shock which there
was no way of avoiding as the machine was made almost entirely of metal,
and my naked body was of necessity in close contact with it - a contact
made even better as far as electric shocks were concerned by the fact that
I was covered in salty sweat from my exertions.  The shocks were so bad -
and they increased in intensity if I failed to "improve" my performance -
that I became terrified of getting them and in spite of almost overwhelming
fatigue and aching muscles I simply had to go on and on.

At the end of the day the slave with the hose came by again and hosed us
down, then even though the lights were not dimmed, we were expected to
sleep.  As I've said, this ought to have been relatively easy as I was so
physically exhausted from the exercise, but my hunger made it difficult.
That, and having to lie on the thin pad entirely naked in the cool air.
And, of course, like most guys I wasn't used to sleeping without a covering
of some sort - blankets and stuff in the winter, or a thin sheet in the hot
summer.  Somehow having nothing at all on top of me made it really hard to
sleep.  And if I wanted to jerk off there was absolutely no privacy at all
- not that that was a big problem as I found it hard to get an erection as
the constant heavy exercise and lack of sufficient food took their toll.

The only break from this routine was in the middle of the day for the first
week when the guard came and unlocked the door of my area and two slaves
came in and spread a cream over my face, neck, arms, and lower legs.  It
stung like hell, but that didn't seem to matter as the moment they'd gone I
had to get back onto the exercise machine again.  After the first day of
this I realised what was happening - it was some sort of bleach, to take
out the colour from me where I was tanned.  Looking across the corridor I
could see that the cages of the guys opposite were much more brightly lit
than I was, and looking up I could see strong lamps above my exercise
machine which were not lit: presumably I could have had all my body tanned
to the same colour as I worked away, except that is not what my owner had
ordered for me.

In only a three week stay there they didn't bother to shave me or anything
- to add to my other problems I was itching and scratching like hell around
my pubes, and especially in my ass crack, as the hair re-grew.

I guess the system worked perfectly as far as Johnson's were concerned:
there must have been a lot of us on corridors like mine, working away,
getting toned and tanned or whatever, recovering from being 'skinned (or
even gelded, I suppose), and all it took was a couple of slaves to hand out
the chow and hose us down, and one guard to supervise the whole thing.
Once I was locked into my "work area", that was it - I was in there until
my allotted time was over.  Unlike a prison or some institution like that,
there was no period of "association", no need for multiple guards to
supervise us: the bars and the electric stimulation was all that was
necessary.

In that totally bare environment I lost track of the days.  From time to
time the guard came and took one or other of the guys from their work areas
away and they were replaced by others.  Then it was my turn: the exercise
machine stopped at the end of one "set" and I stood there, limbs trembling
from the exertion, covered in sweat, gathering myself for the next session.
But instead there was a guard at the gate of my cell, and I was led (do I
mean "herded", as the guard's prod was out?) along the corridor and out of
that part of the complex.

It looked like the place where I'd been taken for "initial preparation" as
there were slaves who now shaved me all over again and trimmed my remaining
hair back to a shorter length.  An official from Johnson's was standing
around with a clipboard with a copy of my "work order" on it, and he began
to inspect me closely - comparing the SIN on my forehead to that on his
chart, and then going on to examine my body generally.  I suppose at one
time I'd really have resented a man feeling my biceps, running his hands
over my belly, and trying to dig his fingers into the flesh of my butt, but
now I stood there resignedly - something inside of me seemed to be saying
that I was no longer a man but a slave, and as such it was only to be
expected that men would handle me like this and treat me as if I was some
sort of prize animal who needed to be tested and examined to make sure I
was in prime condition.  In spite of this though I was a little less
sanguine when he
 turned his attention to my dick, and as he held it he ordered me to go
hard as he wanted to see the quality of my 'skinning scar.  When I did not,
he slapped my butt angrily and barked "Do as you're told, you fucking
slave!  If I was your owner your butt would be striped if you failed to do
something when ordered - but I can't do that here as you're being handed
over today and your owner might not want to see red marks on your skin!
But if you're not erect in ten seconds I'll use the prod on you...."

I tried.  I closed my eyes and thought of every sexy thing I could - all
the bitches I'd fucked, and even the slaves I'd been with at the Club.  And
I suppose I was lucky as I felt my dick begin to stir, and I suppose a lot
of you understand that: once you've begun to go hard, it's easy to
continue, isn't it?  It's that initial stirring of interest that's the
problem.  Anyway, I managed to avoid a prodding and the official now ran
his fingers lightly along my dick shaft, top and bottom, and pronounced it
"satisfactory" and "a good job".  There was a problem with the next thing,
though: I was ordered to bend over and spread my ass cheeks, and as I did
this the official poked at my hole with his finger - I distinctly remember
flinching as he prodded and pushed, trying to gain entry.  "Push out, boy!
Don't you know anything?", he demanded, and even though I tried as I'd do
anything to make that humiliating examination finish, it didn't seem to
work.

I was allowed to stand upright and stood there, red in the face from
embarrassment. The official looked at the clipboard again, then said to the
guards "Was this slave stretched?  It says here he was to be loosened, and
yet he's tight as a drum still."  There was then some discussion between
them and it seemed that something had gone awry in the processing of me, as
he made a phone call or two as I stood there.  Then he turned to the guards
again and snapped "We seem to have fucked up!  There was a late order from
his owner that didn't go on the initial paperwork, so the work was never
done.  But we've got four hours before his owner is collecting him, so take
him to room 206 and we'll send in a crew to deal with him."

Once more I was herded along the seemingly interminable corridors of the
place and into another of the totally enclosed, featureless rooms with the
overhead fluorescents and the whisper of the air conditioning.  I stood
there wondering what was going to happen to me, and now somehow resigned to
my fate - there was nothing I could do about it as they were totally in
control.

Two guards came along soon with a slave behind them pulling some stuff on a
small trolley.  I watched as the slave unloaded a standard four-legged bar
stool made of wood, and a small table to stand alongside it which was soon
covered with other stuff - metal things, it seemed.

"Does it say what size he's to be stretched to?" One guard asked his
companion, and the other looked at my "work order" and replied "No."

"It will be wrong whatever we do, then!", the first one retorted. "That's
typical of this fucking place!  They have all these systems and processes,
and then they fail just at the critical time.  If we do it too small his
owner will complain about the effort he has to make, and if we get it too
big - well, then the row will really start, as who wants a really loose
fuck?"

I couldn't understand what all this was about, and stood there.  Then it
occurred to me I might try again to explain my false enslavement.  I began
hesitantly "Please, sir, this is all wrong, I'm not really a slave,
as....."

"Shut the fuck up!", the guard who seemed to be in charge snapped.  "That's
the one lesson you slave boys don't get to learn properly in here.  A slave
is silent unless he's spoken to!"

"But..."

"Do you want a touch of the prod?  If not, shut your mouth."

The other guard looked at me and remarked to his companion "No, don't prod
him!  I'll put him over my knee and spank him.  That white butt looks
really spankable.... And it's a good shape.  I haven't had a slave over my
knee for a spanking all week....."

"Are you mad?  Can't you see this one's a really white whitey? "  The first
guard looked at the work order again and added "Yes - he's had whatever tan
he had bleached out.  So his owner wants him to be deathly white.  And if
you spank him now there'll be red marks all over that butt of his - I agree
with you it is exceptionally nice, and really waiting to be used.  But you
know the fuss there is if an owner gets his slave home and finds
problems...."  He turned to me and added "So keep your mouth shut!  It will
be the prod if we have any problems."

Having said this the guard moved to the table and was sort of rummaging
around through the stuff on it.  "I guess we'd best just go up to mid
size", he told his companion.  "But this is a young slave, probably just
only past his eighteenth.... So as we've got time, let's not make it too
painful for him and we'll start small...."

I was going to tell them that they were wrong - I wasn't yet eighteen, just
a mature sixteen year old - but I could see the other guard fingering his
prod in anticipation, and decided to keep quiet.

As I watched, the first guard took a metal cylinder off the table, and
fiddled around on top of the stool.  There must have been some sort of
screw mechanism or something as he stood back a couple of moments later as
the cylinder was fixed to the middle of the seat.  He opened a can on the
table then, took something out of it, and I watched as he ran his hands up
and down the cylinder - it looked almost obscene, as if he was trying to
jerk it off!  But with a sick horror I began to realise that this was
perhaps not so far from the truth as he turned to me and said quietly "Now,
young fella', you're going to get up onto this stool, put your feet on the
rungs at the side, then lower yourself down - I want to see the stretcher
right up inside you, and that cute butt of yours right down on the seat.
OK?"

"No, please...."

"Now, come on, fella', don't be stupid.  See, I've slicked it with lube, so
it will slide in easily.  Just think of it as a bit like one of your
buddies' dicks sliding into you.... Probably it's a bit smaller than you're
used to, but we'll increase the size as we go along...."

"No!  I'm not gay - I never had one of my buddies do anything like that.
Please don't make me do this now - it's not right, forcing something like
that up inside a man...."

"No one's forcing anything!  As I told you, we're starting small, it's
nicely lubed, and there's no force - you're in charge, you can lower
yourself as slowly as you like.  But you will ride it, and right down,
until your ass is on the seat...."

Something inside me snapped.  This was too much.  "Fuck you, no!", I
shouted.

One guard smiled at the other.  "Are you going to prod him, or shall I?"

His companion shook his head.  "No - it will be more fun it we teach this
fella' a bit of a lesson - let him learn that it's better to obey
orders. Let's increase the size, then we'll put him to it, like we did to
that slave last week...."

The other one smiled a huge smile, nodding in agreement, and as I watched
the first guard unscrewed the cylinder from the seat of the stool, and
replaced it with one which I could see was noticeably fatter.  He went
through the ritual of smearing lube over it again, then looked at the other
guard and said quietly "Ready?"

I didn't have time to react, but I don't suppose there was anything I could
have done much even if I had.  The two nigga guards were both much bigger
and stronger than me, and I guess they had been trained in how to handle
slaves.  So in spite of me trying to struggle they quickly gripped me so
that I was between them with their hands holding my torso firmly, and then,
at another "ready", their free arms reached across and crabbed me around
the thighs.  As I shouted and struggled they swept me off the floor and
held me there in the air, body upright but with my legs bent and spread
apart.  The more I shouted, the more it seemed to amuse them as they were
both kind of laughing as they carried me over towards the stool, and then
slowly, agonisingly slowly (well, I suppose they were concerned about
damaging me) they lowered me down onto the waiting metal cylinder.

I felt the coldness of it as it touched my asshole, and made more desperate
attempts to flex my body upwards and away from it.  But it was no use -
slowly and inexorably I was lowered onto it, and as it began to force it s
way into my body my cries of anger turned to howls of pain.  There was
absolutely nothing I could do - the two guards continued to lower me as
waves of pain went through me, and I knew I was screaming - the sound came
to me as if it was someone else making all the noise, not my own tortured
throat.  It went on and on - could it hurt more?  And then I felt the
guards letting go of my body, as my ass settled down onto the seat of the
stool.  I knew the whole of the cylinder must be inside me, and above the
pain from my bruised and battered asshole I thought I could feel it filling
my insides.

My feet scrabbled around trying to find the rungs on the side of the stool,
and when I did I flexed my muscles and went to push myself up off the cruel
thing that was splitting my ass, and the guards watched as I prized myself
half off it, utterly strange sensations flooding through me as my ass slid
along its length.  Then, when I felt sure I was almost standing and the
thing would be out from me, they kicked at my ankles so my feet lost their
grip and I thudded back down onto the seat, giving another scream as the
cylinder once more slid up into my ass.

I sat there then, my feet almost on the ground, my dick and balls flopping
over the edge of the seat, impaled helplessly.  I knew tears were streaming
down my face, and in addition to the pain I was in I now felt the utter
humiliation of having the guards see me cry.

"Now, fella', you see what happens when you don't obey orders?  Let that be
a lesson to you!  All of this could have been avoided if you'd done as you
were told and lowered yourself down onto the first size, taking your time!
As it is, I reckon it hurts, doesn't it?  So we're going to allow you to
get used to it as there's one more size to go.... So why don't you gently
ride up and down a bit, and let your ass get used to it?"

"Please, why.....?"

"Why?  Because our owner ordered it!  A lot of owners do, especially for
whiteys who look as if they've never taken a proper nigga cock!  I expect
he doesn't want all this screaming and crying when he first fucks you...
He's a pretty good owner I reckon, giving you the chance to get comfortable
with feeling what it's like to take something up your ass....  Now, are you
going to exercise a bit, or shall we get hold of you, take you off it, and
drop you down onto the next size?"

Well, what could I do?  I waned to scream at them that they were perverts,
that this whole slave thing was wrong, that I was a free man and that hey
had no right to do this to me.... But what would be the point?  They were
stronger than me, and I was utterly in their power.

I wiped away my tears, braced my feet on the rungs of the stool, and
gingerly raised myself up, and lowered myself down....  It hurt like hell
at first, but soon, to my utter amazement, it began to feel good - a
strange kind of warmth began to spread from my ass, and I started to feel
good all over.  And I couldn't help it as my dick began to swell, and was
soon reaching for the sky as I worked away.

End Of Part Thirteen