Date: Sat, 24 Jan 2009 21:56:23 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: It's Not Equal At All, Part Two

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 Two

For the rest of the week I was really excited, looking forward to Saturday.
It wasn't just the money, either: no-one in our neighbourhood owned a car,
and there weren't all that many of them on the main highway, either.  In
history we learned that once even poor folk like us would have had a car,
but I'm not sure some of the stories were true - I mean if everyone drove,
the roads would just be clogged with cars, wouldn't they?  And then, unlike
what it seemed like in these days, there would be no point in driving at
all.  Anyway, I liked the idea of parking the arrivals at the Club, even if
it was only a few yards of driving, and I began to wonder if it would be
very difficult to do, and whether I'd need lessons or anything.

I was so excited that I got there really early (and almost gave them a free
hour, therefore, but I didn't mind).  It turned out that there were six of
us valets - the other five were niggers, and I soon learned that they were
the sons or nephews of members, and were being given a lot more than my
measly 50 new cents an hour.  There was not a lot to do initially, so I
went in through the huge doors (opened by a slave, as I approached - very
impressive!) and spoke to the head receptionist about the rates of pay.

"You're very lucky to be here at all, boy.  Be grateful", she said, turning
away to get on with her work.

"But ma'am, in Civics we learned about the Equal Pay Amendment - it's not
lawful to pay different rates for the same work."

She gave a sigh, typed some stuff into her screen, and turned back to me.
"The Club strictly follows the law, boy.  We have five parking valets grade
A, and one parking valet grade B - that's you.  All the five grade A valets
are, correctly, according to the law, paid the same.  And if we had any
more grade Bs, they would be paid the same as you."

"But that's not fair, ma'am!  The work is the same, as far as I can tell.
We all do the same job."

"Listen. Boy, do you want to work here?  They always say you whiteys are
idle and don't want to work, even when there's work to be done!  If you
don't like it, leave."

"But it's the same work...."

She sighed again.  "Listen, boy, you've got a few things to learn if you're
going to move in polite society!  The ladies and gentlemen who are members
here don't like having to deal with whiteys - unless they're slaves, of
course.  They don't want your nasty white hands helping them out of their
carriages, they don't want you messing about with their vehicles, and so
on.  It took a lot of work to persuade the Club committee to reach out and
offer a whitey an opportunity to better himself - there are lots of proper
young men who would like to earn some extra pocket money, you know.  Some
of the members said that this type of thing would happen - you haven't been
here a day yet, and already you are complaining: as I said, it's what we've
come to expect from you ungrateful, idle whiteys.  No wonder you never make
any progress in the world!"

"So what do I have to do to get promoted from grade B to grade A?"

She sighed again.  "Boy, haven't I made it plain enough?  The only way
you'll ever make a grade A valet is by changing the colour of your skin.
Now, if you don't like that, leave.  Otherwise get out there and get to
work, as the members are starting to arrive."

I thought about it, but only for a few moments.  And really I did need them
money, so I turned and left, and she called out after me "Oh, and boy, the
next time you need to speak to me, don't use the main entrance - whiteys
enter at the rear."

It all seemed so fucking unfair, but the other valets, although they didn't
bother to include me in their group, turned out to be not so bad - well, at
least, they didn't all turn on me as I was clearly so different from them.
But, as I found out, there was a good reason for that - Grade A valets
never did anything other than stand around and chat, if they could avoid
it.  It was the grade B valet, me, who was expected to run back and forward
to the holding area, and they only stirred themselves and did any work if
there were too many guests arriving simultaneously.  The driving was a real
washout, though.  Even though most of the Club members probably had cars,
they didn't use them to come to the Club: it was, I learned, "social death"
not to be seen to toe the ecological line, and so using a car for social
purposes was not on.  Consequently they all arrived in their traps or
carriages, pulled by slaves.  Mind you, as "status" was so important to the
members, they took the opportunity to display their wealth by the
magnificence of their carriages and the slaves pulling them: there was
never a speck of dust or mud to be seen on the coach work (indeed, those
slaves not shackled to the shafts used some of the time in the holding area
to clean and polish - it seemed like a waste of effort to me as the
carriage would get dirty again on the way home, but one of the slaves told
me that his hide would get a real beating if his owner came out and saw the
carriage less than perfect when he got in).  And, of course, most of
 the pony slaves, or ponies as they were known for short, were whiteys as
you'd expect: less than one per cent of slaves in general were niggers,
although amongst the ponies the percentage of blacks must have been closer
to one in twenty.  Nigger slaves fetched a high price because of their
scarcity, and being able to squander an expensive slave on the grunt work
as a pony was another way that the owners showed their superiority and
affluence.

You may be wondering why they needed valets to "park" the vehicles, given
that the ponies could perfectly well have taken themselves off to the
holding area., but, if so, you're obviously not up in the finer points of
pony driving.  Well over half the ponies were heavily blinkered with the
blinkers also fixed to their collars so that they had to keep the head
forward at all times - they could just about run along seeing the ground in
front of them, but for directional control they relied totally on guidance
from their owners using the reins to their bits.  Without a driver they
couldn't see where to go, and so the first part of my job was to take them
by the arm and gently lead them around to the holding area (when they had
to work, it seemed that class A valets were allowed to get up into the
driving seat and use the reins.  I never tried this, as I didn't think it
was right to use men as ponies, and leading them seemed the most humane
option).

In the holding area there were a number of different things to be done,
depending on the degree of restraint that the ponies were under.  Those who
were not manacled to the shafts, and whose bits were loosely fitted and
could be removed by the pony himself, were no problem: they could go off
and sit in the shade, and get themselves water, and so on.  But the poor
guys who had been fitted with wrist shackles holding them to the shafts
needed help: there was a watering can with a long spout, and the first
thing I needed to do was to water them.  Most of them had run a long way,
and in the heat of summer in particular they were desperate for a drink -
and this could take a fair time, if the owner was one of those whose
carriage sported an ostentatious set of four, six or even eight matched
ponies!

The next problem was pissing - again, the "free" ponies were no problem, as
they could simply go and stand at the edge of the area and piss into the
bushes.  But the manacled ones had to be helped: it was an example of the
"law of unforeseen consequences" in action: the revision of the public
decency laws I'd read about being enacted a couple of years before required
that slaves were no longer allowed to appear naked in public places. But
the lawmakers, never having to work as a pony themselves, had forgotten
that men had to piss and that clothing a pony was likely to cause him
problems in this respect!  Being ponies their asses had to be bare,
according to the fashion, and to facilitate the driver's use of the
carriage whip to encourage them, but their cocks and balls were "decently"
covered by a small triangular pouch of light silk-like material held in
place by a thin string around their waists with another running up their
ass crack to tie at the
 back.  I say "decently" as most of these triangles were very small and
tight, and it was clear that the ponies' pubes must have been cut back and
trimmed as there was only a hint of pubic hair straggling out, even when
the pony was otherwise hairy (we were at that time when fashion was in
transition between having a "natural" pony, with body hair mostly intact,
and the completely shaved look that was coming in as it was thought to
enhance the look of the hide as oil could be applied).  The small size of
these pouches was compounded by the fact that fashion again dictated that
ponies were "well hung" - some of the type A valets had copies of "What
Pony Slave?" magazine, and I learned that whilst it was obvious that all
ponies should have good, muscular bodies, long legs, a well-turned ass, and
so on, the size and shape of a pony's tackle were a major determinant in
the price, and a well-hung thirty-five year old could easily cost
substantially more than
 a "regular" twenty-five year old, in spite of having less usable years in
front of him.

Anyway, for the poor guys who were shackled, pissing was a major problem -
the ponies who could talk as they were not immovably bitted told me they
actually preferred running naked as they could let fly whenever the urge
arose, but now they couldn't.  Many of the guys in the holding yard had
been well watered before they left "home" and were now desperate to let it
out as it has worked its way through their systems.  They didn't dare wet
their pouches as these were often pure white as their owners thought it
made a good contrast to their deeply-tanned hides, and they were fearful of
being beaten if there were unsightly piss stains when their owners
reappeared.  So one of the jobs of the valets was to help them - I was
supposed to push down the pouch, free the pony's dick if it was plastered
to his balls with sweat, and wait until he had relieved himself before
pulling the pouch back up.  But it's not as simple as that, of course!
Firstly, there's the
 problem of the piss that gets left in your dick when you've finished -
some of the ponies were so worried about the possibility of staining that I
needed to do that thing with my thumb and finger and "express" any residue
from their dicks.  And secondly, the use of sets of four, six or even eight
matched ponies for some of the very largest carriages was another problem:
these guys were usually harnessed in very close formation, so that in their
pairs, each pair was almost pressing into the ass of the guy in front of
him.  I couldn't just pull down the pouches of these ponies and leave them
to it or else they'd have had to piss onto their buddies, so I had to kneel
there and hold their dicks to direct the flow away.  Even then, except for
the front pair who could piss into the vegetation, the remainder had to
piss onto the ground and inevitably it splashed onto the feet and calves of
all of them.  It may sound terrible to have to kneel there and hold a
 guy's dick whilst he pees, but you get used t it - and as the ponies all
drank a lot of water, their piss was quite dilute and didn't really smell
all that much.

The first time I had to do it I felt truly dreadful, though - touching
another guy's dick and so on.  I mean, I'm not gay, and so there's no
pleasure in it, and I actually thought it was rather disgusting.  But one
of the nigger valets just laughed.  "I know they're white, like you, Steve,
so that must make it difficult.  But these aren't really dicks... It's not
as if you were grabbing hold of the dick of one of your buddies.  They're
slaves, not men like us.  Think of them as animals, and all you're doing is
helping a dumb beast.  Think of it like being as how you wouldn't comb a
buddy's hair, but you would a dog's.  It's the same thing, really - you're
helping an animal.  As I said, though, it's probably difficult for you to
make that distinction, being a whitey yourself - it's easier for me to see
a white slave dick as something very different from a real one."

He saw me trying to agree, and went on "Look at it another way, if it
helps.  You're not a jewboy are you?"

"No."

"Well then, these slaves' dicks are different from yours in another way -
they've all been 'skinned."

"Uh?"

"You know, circumcised.  Almost all owners have their slaves 'skinned, as
it's one of the ways that you can tell a man from a slave if they're both
naked together.  Well, at least they have the whiteys 'skinned, almost
always - but owners tend to leave the 'skin on a nigger slave.  But then,
when you see a good black dick on a slave, you're not going to think of it
as like yours anyway, are you?  Size wise, colour wise, it would be
different."

"I don't know about the size", I protested.  "I read that it's a myth that
nigggas have bigger dicks than whiteys.  It's one of those times where such
statements need a qualification.... 'MOST niggas have bigger dicks than
MOST whiteys...' - and I reckon I'm probably the exception that proves the
rule as none of the bitches I've gone with have ever had anything to
complain about.  But why would an owner leave a nigga slave his foreskin?"

"Oh, it's pity, I guess.  You have to be a pretty stupid nigger to get
enslaved.  Really break the criminal law.  And I guess owners feel sorry
for them - a real, proper man who makes a mistake and has been punished
with enslavement... They think it's enough, and don't want to cause him any
more shame than he's already feeling at letting down the nigger race, by
making him expose his dick head all the time.  It's not the same for the
whiteys - you've got nothing to be proud of."

It sounded mad to me, but he seemed convinced, so I stuck at the work.
And, of course, I got to hold a lot of dicks!  I suppose a queer would have
done the job for nothing, but feeling a guy's warm dick in my hand didn't
turn me on at all and it was just a job - although I was able to confirm
what I'd always suspected from seeing the other guys in the showers at
school: I am in the top quartile for endowments.  And that's true for the
whiteys and the small number of nigger dicks that I worked with as well.
The only odd thing I found was that nigga piss was the same colour as ours
- I'd sort of thought it would be darker, but then I thought about blood,
which is the same colour, and started to speculate as to whether a nigga's
jism would be as creamy white as mine.

I couldn't talk to the other valets about this stuff, as you can imagine,
but there was a young pony, probably only about twenty years old, who had a
lot of freedom as his owner trusted him.  He wasn't shackled into the trap,
he wore no blinkers, and he could take the bit out of his mouth once he'd
arrived.  I didn't really have any need to do anything for him as he could
walk himself around to the parking bay, water himself, and piss himself.
But he seemed a nice guy, as I noticed that on very hot days he kind of
toured around the ponies who were shackled, offering them water and even
helping them to piss.  He wasn't like most of the others, either, in that
he was relatively slight and not all that heavily muscled, and I got into
the habit of talking to him when I could.

He told me his name was Dalton, but that his owner had renamed him Jack as
his owner didn't think Dalton was a proper name for a pony, and preferred a
short, sharp name for when he issued commands.  He pointed out how he'd
been tattooed across his shoulders with it, and shrugged and said "So I
guess I'm stuck with it now."  He'd only been a pony about a year, and had
only had one owner as he'd been "spotted" immediately after enslavement and
bought by his owner at that first sale.  He lived only a couple of miles
away, and explained that he was only one of eight ponies in his owner's
stable.  "You see, Steve", he told me, "I'm kind of like a sports car, I
suppose.  Lean, sleek, new-looking.... The other guys at my place are
pretty traditional older, heavier, more like 'work horses'.  They can pull
the heavier carriages for hours at a time, mostly at a fast walk, whereas
my owner brings me on these short trips in a very light cart - with the
ball-bearing
 wheels and everything it's surprisingly easy to pull, especially as it's
mostly a level route.  I've got long legs, so I can manage a fair pace, but
obviously not for very long distances."

"So how did you get enslaved?". I asked, not sure if it was OK to ask a
slave stuff like that.

"You're from the West side, right?", he asked me, and when I nodded, went
on "Well, I'm from the barrio over on the East - I thought I'd never seen
you around.  I guess I got on the wrong side of one of the cops who
patrolled our street, as from the moment I was sixteen he was always
picking on me.  I suppose you've met the type - he reckoned us whiteys were
scum, and that he, as a nigga, had some sort of god-given right to lord it
over us - he was always going on about what the preacher had said the
Sunday before, to justify what he did.  He wouldn't let me sit on any of
the street corners, made me pick up any bits of litter blowing around if he
saw me as he was patrolling, sent me home if he found me out after seven,
and really was a pain in the ass generally.  One day he saw me chatting to
one of the nigga bitches who used to come down to the barrio in their
daddies' cars as they thought it was daring to cruise around in that
'dangerous' neighbourhood
 looking at us whiteys..."  Here he stopped, flexed himself generally,
slapped his hard, flat belly, and went on "....especially if they're as
handsome and well set-up as me.  So I was telling this bitch I'd be happy
to do more than just stand there, and that my body was designed for fun,
and if she wanted to know what a bitch was really for, she needed to ask a
whitey to show her.... When this cop came along and almost went berserk and
started screaming at me about 'disgusting perverts trying to defile the
nigger race', or some such nonsense, and that 'He'd punish me even if the
good lord had not yet seen fit to'.  And after that ,my life was hell - he
was watching me all the time, and one day when he saw me stroll across the
street against the lights, he arrested me!"

"Well that doesn't sound serious...."

"Fuck, no.  But he wrote it up as 'Behaviour likely to lead to serious
public danger and disorder'.  They gave me a public defender of course as I
had no cash, but he was fucking useless - some nigga just out of law school
who thought it was more important to uphold the position of niggas than to
get justice, and who was not interested when I told him the cop was lying
about the seriousness of what I'd done.  Then at the trial he told the
judge that 'Technically, my client is guilty...', and somehow never managed
to get out the bit about 'but in practice....'.  So the judge said
'Technically guilty' was 'guilty', and there I was, nineteen years old, and
a fucking slave!  And there's no appeal or anything, you know.  Once
they've sentenced you, it's out of the Court and straight off to the slave
dealers.... And, as I said, I suppose I was lucky in that my owner was in
the market for a young whitey who was easy on the eye, so I was sold
immediately and
 have been with him ever since."

"But don't you mind.... I mean, it sounds so wrong, being enslaved for
nothing.  And your loss of freedom...."

Jack shrugged.  "Well, Steve, it may be wrong, but there's fuck all I can
do about it as once you're enslaved, there's no repeal or anything.  They
say that sentencing you to slavery would end up being as useless as the old
prison system was if there could be endless appeals, parole, time off for
good behaviour, all that sort of stuff.  So there's no point in me worrying
about the 'injustice' or 'unfairness' - life is what it is, and I'll be a
slave all my life.  And my owner's a pretty good guy, from what I can see -
he's some sort of stocks and bonds dealer or something, fantastically
wealthy, and his hobby is keeping slaves.  He spends a lot on it, ad so he
makes sure we're always in good condition: I'm a pony, but even so, in the
pony barn there are hot showers, fresh straw in the stalls every day and
enough of it, too, so it's really comfortable to sleep on as you don't feel
the concrete underneath, and good food, and enough of it.... fresh fruit,
 and all sorts of stuff like that which I never got at home in the barrio.
I feed better now than when I was free, I can tell you.  And then there's
the medical attention - because we cost so much to buy, he's really sure to
keep us well, and the moment there's even a hint of trouble, the vet comes
around - you know what it's like if you haven't got medical insurance,
don't you?"

I nodded, as I knew what a constant worry it was for mom and dad.  "Well
I've got none of that - if I'm ill, all the medicines and everything are
there for me.  And, as I said, I reckon the food's better.  And I suppose
he's kept me off drugs - in the barrio there were always dealers,
everywhere, and I was very tempted...."

"But there must be something you miss...."

He grinned.  "Pussy, I suppose!  You look a lot like I did at your age,
Steve - sixteen, are you?"

I nodded.  "Well as a good-looking stud at sixteen, you don't lack for
pussy, right?  You've fucked everything in sight?"

"More than once!", I added, grinning.

"Well there's none of that.  My owner doesn't let us slaves fuck the female
slaves, and we don't even try... It would be easy enough as he doesn't keep
us chained up or anything, as you can see. But we all know that if one of
the bitches gets pregnant they'll abort her, do a DNA test on the foetus,
and the father will then be castrated."

"He can do that?"

"What?  Abort a pregnant bitch?  Of course - he owns her, doesn't he?  So
why can't he do something like that to her body?  It's trivial - you don't
even need an anaesthetic, and they don't even need to call the vet to do it
as one of the old bitches knows how."

"I meant castrate...."

"Steve, don't you know anything about the slavery laws?  Your owner owns
you - that's what 'owner' means.  Owns your body.  Has complete power over
you.  So he can do what he wants to your body - whip it, have it tattooed,
castrate it....  The only thing the law prohibits is doing anything to a
slave that is 'cruel or unusual', as the ASPCS defines it.  Think of a
puppy - you can punish it, dock its tail, castrate it.... Slaves are just
animals, Steve."

"What's this ASPCS?"

"American Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Slaves", Jack told me.

"Wow! So there's no sex - that must be hard, no pun intended!"

"No, there's lots of sex!  Every night, all night!  It's just that none of
us risk it with a bitch - I mean, we're fit, healthy guys, right?  Very
fit, given the work we do. So we want regular sex - no, we NEED regular
sex!  And it's easy - all of us together in the pony barn...."

"You mean you fuck guys?"  I sounded both incredulous, and, I suppose,
disgusted.

"I should be so lucky!  I've told you, I'm the youngest, and the
lightest...."

"...they fuck you?"  Again, I was horrified and I guess it showed in my
tone.

"Yes.  Except the two niggas, as they think a nigga's cock should be kept
for a nigga's ass, and they will only fuck my throat.  Still, as I get
older, and I put on a bit more muscle - my owner says the fashion is
changing, and he'd like to see me build myself up a bit - perhaps things
will change.  I'd like to force my cock down those niggas' throats."

"So he has niggas as ponies, too?"

"Yes, but only two.  They're really expensive, you know.  A nigga fetches
at last four times what a whitey does at auction.  It's that that gives
them their air of superiority, I reckon, even though they're slaves like
the rest of us.  That and their foreskins, of course - they're always going
on at the rest of us about how our owner must think more of them as he's
allowed them to keep their 'skins."

"Jesus, Jack - you were 'skinned?  What does it feel like?"

"Most whitey slaves are 'skinned, Steve, hasn't anyone told you?"  I
nodded, and he went on "I missed it at first - jerking off isn't nearly as
sensual when you haven't got a 'skin to slide over your dick head, and I
reckon my head's a lot less sensitive now, as it's used to being scraped
against the fabric of my pouch as it's not protected.  But there are some
advantages, I suppose."

"Oh, come on!", I cut in.  "How can there be any advantages?"

"Well, there's none of that messing about in the shower, cleaning under it.
And if you do get an opportunity for casual sex - say you offered to suck
me off now - I wouldn't have to worry about whether it was all fresh and
clean, or whether there was some dried piss or pre-cum lurking under
there...."

Frankly, I didn't believe him about the so-called "advantages" - it never
took me long in the shower, and, anyway, I quite enjoyed doing it.  But I'd
already learned to let some things go, if it helped the other guy and made
no difference to me.

He paused, looked around and saw we were not overly busy, and carried on
"You don't want to do that, do you?"

"What?"

"Blow me. I'll do you, in return.  And I can assure it will be the best BJ
you've ever had - I've learned a lot from the other guys...."

"I'm not a fucking gay pervert, Jack!  It's OK for you, I suppose, if your
owner won't let you slaves have proper sex, but I'm a free man.... And I
get all the pussy I want."

"Suit yourself, Steve.  You're the loser, believe me.  I used to think like
you, and now I'm certain I wouldn't go back to screwing bitches - unless I
wanted kids, of course - if I ever was given the choice.  It takes another
man to really understand what really pleases a guy.  I mean, how can a
bitch possibly know as well as another guy about where your cock is
sensitive?  And an ass compared to a pussy, well..."

"Shut the fuck up!  I don't want to hear any more.  It's disgusting!  Look,
there is one thing you can tell me, though - you tell me you've been with
these niggas - well, is their jism the same colour as proper jism?"

Jack roared with laughter.  "Of course it is!  Well, I suppose there's
variation, as there is with all guys, but they're just like us, really -
some have really thick, dense white stuff, some thinner, more kind of
blue-white... It varies.  What made you think it might be otherwise?"

"Well, it's skin colour, I suppose - you see the palms of their hands, and
they're lighter.  And when I have to help a nigger piss and pull his 'skin
back, it's kind of pinker than the rest of his dick.... So I thought
perhaps their cum might be different..."

"Think about it, Steve!  When you 'skin back, isn't your dick head a bit
different in colour from the rest of your dick?  And take a look at us
ponies - whitey dick heads show some colour variation from the shaft - even
allowing for the circumcision marks...."

Well, we might have gone on like this, except that one of the other valets
came over and said that there were more folk arriving, and that I should
get my white ass back up front and start working properly instead of being
a bone-idle whitey.

I saw Jack a lot over the next few months, although as the warm weather
turned into Autumn there was a lot less chance to talk to him: as it got
colder, we used to throw rough blankets over the slaves as they stood there
to keep them warm.  And Jack used to go and share one with some of the
manacled guys, wrapping it around both of them.  I could see him rubbing
his body against theirs, and he did tell me one day that he usually jerked
them off, as if an owner manacled a pony in a trap, it was a fair bet he
didn't allow them much freedom where sex was concerned either.  "And us
slaves have got to stick together, haven't we, Steve?  I mean, we need to
help each other out, when we can."

"I wouldn't know, Jack", I replied, half teasingly.  "I wouldn't know what
slaves need to do... I'm a free man, remember?"

Still, a lot of this was to be in the future.  That first day I was pretty
worried about even holding a pony's arm to guide him, let alone having a
talk about sex and stuff!  But it seemed to go OK, except that when the
main rush of members had left around 11:30 (as it did seem to be a "family"
kind of event and parents wanted to take their kids home), most of the
other valets wanted to go home.  I'd have been glad to leave, as I could
just have caught the last bus, but they made it clear that I didn't have a
choice: I had to stay, so they could go.  Except that the Club rules
apparently said that there always had to be two valets, so the five of them
cut cards to decide who was to stay with me.

Walter wasn't a bad guy, I suppose.  He hated the valeting as he said he
didn't need the money, and he only did it as his folks thought it was good
training for him to actually work rather than just hang around with his
buddies.  I told him I thought he was lucky, as I always needed money, and
he just kind of shrugged.  "I guess that's the problem with you whiteys -
my folks say whiteys are always short of money as they don't get proper
jobs, if they can be bothered to get a job at all.  And what they do earn
they spend on drugs and alcohol, or in fathering big families...."

I tried to tell him that it wasn't like that where I lived - most of our
folks didn't have good jobs because there were no good jobs for whiteys.
And there was absolutely no money to spare for alcohol and stuff.  And as
for the families - well, I don't know anyone who had more than four kids.
I don't think he believed me, though, so we agreed to differ, and spent
most of our idle time talking about women, as a couple of horny sixteen
year olds do.  There, at least, I was able to demonstrate how superior I
was to him as I had lots of experience, as I'd been making out since I was
fourteen.  The more we talked, the more I began to realise he was bluffing
as in all the important little details he just didn't know what he was
saying - he'd read about it in books, or seen a video, but he'd never
actually got around to having his dick in a pussy.

The last guests left at two thirty, and I was wondering how I was going to
get home as the first bus wasn't until eight on a Sunday, and I didn't
fancy the two hour walk.  I was hoping that Walter's parents might give me
a lift when they came to pick him up, but it wasn't a strong hope - what
respectable parent would want o give a lift to someone who he probably
thought of as a ruffian?  But as it turned out, Walter didn't want to call
his folks, and he said to me casually, "So are you going to bunk down in
the slave quarters, like me, then?"

"Hell, no!  I'm a free man...."

"Sure, Steve, and that's the fun of it!  We go into the slave quarters,
turn them out of their bunks, get them lined up, and pick good ones...."

"And what then?"

"We fuck 'em, of course!  All that bragging about the women you've been
with.... I'd like to see how you make it with a muscular slave!"

"No way!  I'm not queer...."

"Neither am I.  But fucking a slave isn't being queer.  If we were to fuck,
that would be queer - two free men having sex.  But a slave's a slave - the
slaves are here to serve the Club members, and being a slave's a 24-hour a
day thing, you know: their obligation to serve doesn't stop when the bar
closes, or the restaurant shuts, or whatever, and they go 'off duty': no,
they're here to serve free men, and one of them is going to serve me
tonight."

"Well, I don't think so, it's not for me...."

"All that talk, then, about you being a cocksman - it was just bragging.  I
might have known a whitey would exaggerate when he talked about his dick.
I guess you're just scared... Us niggers aren't afraid of using a slave,
you know."

"Of course I'm not scared!  It's just that I don't want to go with a man,
whether he's a slave, or not."

"You whiteys don't get it, do you?  Slaves are not men, as I explained
earlier...."

"Well their bodies sure look like men's bodies, and I don't fancy it."

"Suit yourself!  But are you going to wait around for that first bus of
yours, or walk home?  Or are you going to have a nice warm bed in the slave
quarters?"

Well, put like that, and given that the night had turned a bit cold, as it
can do after a warm summer evening, the prospect of a bed did seem the
better option.

End of Part Two.