Date: Tue, 3 Feb 2009 01:38:27 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: It's Not Equal At All, Part Six

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  Six

I had I suppose in total eight encounters with Brad.  Then one Saturday
night, he wasn't there. Walter said in a rather offhanded way "Oh, he's
been sold.  I expect one of the members took a fancy to him and decided to
have a really personal personal trainer and made the Club a good offer for
him, and they accepted."

"You're kidding...."

"No, it happens all the time.  Waiters are bought by big catering
companies, and chefs.... Well, the Club has a big problem as if there's
anyone that's any good, a whole lot of members will want to buy them for
their own kitchens.  And good, reliable gardeners, especially those who can
keep grass that kind of perfect, smooth green....  I mean, if you're going
to buy a slave, why take pot luck in an auction when you can buy one whose
work you can see?  And it's good for the Club, too - well, at least as far
as the slaves in customer-facing jobs go: they can get rid of a slave
without the need to pay the slave sale tax at an auction house, get a good
price for him because of the proven provenance, and, most importantly, have
a spare slot then which they can back-fill with new blood.  I mean to say,
you don't want to be looking at the same old slaves all the time, do you?
Take that waiter I was fucking until recently - he was sold last week to
some old
 guy who really appreciated seeing a young, lithe body with a tight little
ass - it was a bit inconvenient for me, but at least it made me go and find
another: it's not a good thing to get attached to a slave, you know,
Steve."

"But..."  I didn't quite know what to say as it all seemed so wrong.  A man
ought not to be sold like that, without any say in the matter.  He ought to
be able to choose who he works for, where he lives, how he runs his life.
I knew it was no use explaining all this to Walter again, so I continued
"...I liked Brad.  I hope he's all right...."

Walter looked at me strangely.  "All right?  What do you mean?"

"Well, I guess he had a pretty good life here.... The person that bought
him might not appreciate him..."

"Steve, you are so fucking naive.  A slave like Brad, still in his
thirties, very good looking, fabulous body.... He's expensive, right?"

I didn't know anything about slave pricing, so I kind of nodded.  "I guess
so."

"Well then, if you'd just bought a very expensive asset - say like a new TV
or something - well you take care of it, don't you?  You don't put coffee
mugs down on it or anything, not like you might on some old beat-up model.
Well it's like that with slaves - after all that money's been spent on
Brad, his owner is going to make sure he's properly looked after, isn't
he?"

"I guess so...."

"....although in the slave quarters the word is that he didn't want to go,
as his new owner is some old bitch who was buying him not so much as a
personal trainer but as her personal plaything.."

"But Brad likes the bitches.  He was married, has a son...."

"There you go again, Steve, not understanding things properly.  Look, Brad
may have been 'straight' at one time, but here at the Club he was
exclusively used by the male members, no pun intended.  None of the lady
members would want all the gossip and stuff if it was known that they
needed to use a slave for sex.  And I'm told that he got to really enjoy
man-on-man sex - well, you would know more about that than me, as you
seemed to get on with him well enough.  So like a lot o guys, once he'd
seen how good it was, he probably wanted to go on with it... And there's no
chance of that now."

"Why not?  I guess there are other slaves in his new place..."

"Oh yes, certainly.  Anyone with enough money to buy a slave like Bad would
have lots of other personal slaves about the place.  But think of it from
the point of view of his new owner, some old, dried-up hag.... You wouldn't
want Brad whoring around with the other slaves: firstly because you'd like
to think to yourself that he really was focussed on you, and you alone.
Secondly because you'd keep his dick locked up in a chastity cage so that
he couldn't even jerk off, so that when you did let him out, he'd be fully
primed and desperate for sex, even with your old sagging body.  And thirdly
you'd not want your friends to know that the slave who you said was your
toy and really loved you for it was fucking everything in sight: it
wouldn't say much about your own attractiveness, would it?"

I nodded, as I suppose I could see some logic to what Walter said.  "You
see, Steve, slave ownership is a lot more complex than you poor whiteys
imagine.  You have to think about all these things - I know my dad spends a
whole lot of time resolving disputes amongst the slaves, making sure they
all work flat out for him, don't waste his money - there's no incentive for
a slave to turn down the heating in the winter, for example - and that kind
of stuff.  Still, I guess it is a bit hard for Brad - he was always having
sex when he was here, and that cock cage will be awful for him.  I hope he
gets over the big snip, too: it affects some males, you know."

"The big snip?"  My blood ran cold.  Surely Brad hadn't been castrated!

"Yes, you know, vasectomy.  Tying off his balls.  The old bitch wouldn't
want Brad's little swimmers actually going into action when he'd pumped
them up her, would she?  Always supposing that she lets him fuck her, that
is: a lot of women owners just buy male slaves for their tongues! So she'd
have told the vet to give him a vasectomy, as most owners don't like all
that mess with condoms and things - we have females sterilised for the same
reason, so a guy doesn't have to put a mac on his dick.  But some males
react badly to it, and start to think they're not 'proper' men, so they
find they can't get it up.... And if you've been bought as a stud, that's
not good news for you!"

"Fuck me, Walter!  Tying off a guy's balls...."

"It's no big deal, Steve - I've seen it done to some of our slaves, as my
dad thinks it saves a whole lot of trouble with unwanted pregnancies in the
long run, in spite of the penalties for slaves fucking each other.  It only
takes a few minutes, and the vet only charges a few dollars.  They bring
along a portable chair and do several at the same time - you put the slave
in the chair, it's got stirrups and his feet are clipped in so that his
knees are right up and back and the vet can get to his dick.... The pubes
have to be shaved off, but they soon grow back, and it's only a couple of
small incisions just above the dick, then a bit of fiddling around with a
piece of special surgical string.  At our place we don't even have the
slaves anaesthetised, as the vet charges extra for that - we just gag the
slave to stop the worst of the screaming - it's not so much painful, just
very, very unpleasant, like being kicked in the balls."

I winced, and by reflex put my hands down to cover my balls - I'd been
kicked like that during a football match, and my body still had the memory
of that very special pain that anything to do with your balls seems to
bring.

"Anyway, that's why they don't castrate slaves any more - although a mature
slave like Brad could still get an erection if his balls were taken, most
of them are no good at all for sex as they just can't believe that they can
perform.  A castrated slave can even pump cum, you know - did they teach
you that in slave biology at your school?"

"We don't do slave biology.  Only the human kind...."

"...and I'm sure they don't teach you about castration in that!  Well, you
probably don't realise that the actual sperm in cum is a tiny, tiny amount.
The rest - the stuff that gives it its characteristic texture and smell -
is a secretion from another gland.  So lose the balls, and you can still
cum - that's why, if you are gong to castrate a slave, ideally you want to
do it before he's learned about ejaculation to start with.... If he's never
learned, then he never does it at all.  We can't do that in this state, of
course, as slaves here have to be over sixteen - although in some of the
real backwoods states, like Alabama, where kids as young as ten can be
enslaved, I hear it's not uncommon."

"Aw, come on, you're not telling me they cut a guy's balls off?  What about
the 'look' of the guy, wit his dick handing there and nothing behind it!
You were saying about 'value' - I reckon that would really reduce it."

"Steve, you're still not thinking right!  Of course no one would cut a
man's balls off.  But did you ever have a dog, or a horse, or keep hogs?"

I shook my head.  "Well, it's really common to castrate dogs, to 'calm'
them, and a lot of race horses - especially those who are in jumping races
- are geldings so that they don't get hurt by the fences if the jump goes
wrong.  And commercial hog breeders always castrate the males, to stop
fighting.  It's OK to castrate animals, Steve - and that's what slaves are:
they're not men like you and me - even though you're a whitey and not a
proper man, you're still very, very different from a whitey slave."

I'm not sure I valued Walter's view that I was better than a slave but
worse than a nigger, but he went on "And as for the 'look' - well, you
don't have to take the ballsac off, you know - a simple slit up the back of
it, a couple of snips to cut the balls off from their suspensor ligaments,
then the balls can be popped out of the ballsac.  And before the vet sews
up the slit, he can insert a couple of prosthetic balls to make the ballsac
'hang' properly - that's the origin of all those jokes about 'swingers':
they arose because some owners like to have really big, heavy balls put in,
much bigger than the originals."

He was really in "lecture mode" now, and paused for a breath, and I let it
run. He went on "So, Steve, if you only want to stop the slave bitches
getting pregnant, all you need to do is vasectomise the males on your
demesne.  You only resort to castration if a slave is very, very unruly and
needs 'calming' - but these days that's rare, as most owners will have him
whipped to within an inch of his life, and that usually deters any further
bad behaviour."

He paused for breath again, and said, kind of finally "But none of that
will happen to Brad.  The risk that the slave is unable to fuck at all is
too great - it's all psychological, of course, but when you've paid a lot
of money for a slave, especially a slave who's there just to pleasure you
with sex, the risk isn't worth taking."

I was going to argue with Walter about how wrong it all sounded to treat
men like this, but he grabbed my arm and pointed to where one of the
gardeners was dragging a lawnmower over the manicured lawns near the house.
The sweat was running off his body as it was one of those warm, humid
afternoons, and an overseer was occasionally "encouraging" him with a small
whip applied to the slave's naked back and buttocks - the harness he wore
to chain him to the mower seemed to be cut to expose as much of those areas
as possible to facilitate this, and the slave was otherwise naked except
for one of the brief pouches similar to that worn by the ponies.  "How
about that then, Steve?"

"What?"

"You're going to need a slave to sleep with tonight, and I reckon you like
a well-setup muscular one, as you stuck with Brad when there are so many
nice lithe young waiters to enjoy.  So how about that slave there, the one
harnessed to the mower?  You can see he's nicely muscled - loo at the way
his thighs are straining and his chest heaving - that mower's offering a
lot of resistance. He's got a good strong ass on him too, as you can see.
I can have the overseer have him showered and cleaned up and made ready for
you...."

I felt somehow sick at the thought that a man could be "made ready for me"
and given to me to use against his will.  Although, continuing to watch the
slave, I could see he would hold a certain attraction for me with his long
legs and very muscular frame.  As he turned to drag the mower towards us, I
could see that his minute "decency" pouch appeared to conceal a very big
package, too.  It probably would be fun to explore that body, and he was
only a few years older than me, I reckoned, and it might be interesting to
have sex with someone who wasn't as old as my dad.  But it wasn't right!  A
man ought to be able to choose who he has sex with, so I told Walter,
rather vigorously, "No!".

For the rest of the evening I was almost constantly worried about what I
was going to do later. I couldn't see myself walking into the slave dorm
and selecting a slave to sleep with, or, even worse, having Walter select
one for me.  Towards midnight, though, a young guy dressed in chef's whites
came out from around the back and sort of sidled up to me.  "Are you Steve,
sir?"

"Yes."

"Brad asked me to find you and say goodbye for him - he wanted you to know
you were a lot of fun, and really reminded him of his son."

I felt really embarrassed to have another guy tell me this. I mean, I
didn't like the idea of this guy knowing I'd had sex with another r man,
let alone that the other man thought of me as being a bit like his son.  So
I muttered a kind of thanks, but then saw the chef looking really sad.

"He never said that about me, you know", he confided.  "I mean, we were
together almost every night, except Saturdays, and we had a lot of fun
together.... But it was you he thought of as being like his son...."

"Well if you weren't like his son, you must have done a whole lot more!"

The chef looked at me.  "What do you mean?"

I was starting to blush furiously now, as this conversation was verging on
the surreal.  "Well, I mean, if it wasn't like a dad and son, I guess you
fucked...."  Was I really saying this?  Did I mean that jerking each other
off, sucking each other's cocks, and kissing and fondling were all right
between a son and his dad?  I couldn't quite picture it somehow with my
dad!

"...well", I stammered.  "I mean, a man isn't going to fuck his son, is he?
So if you weren't like Brad's son, he probably fucked you?"

"Of course he did!"  The young chef's response was so clear, as if one guy
fucking another was the most natural thing in the world.  "But I didn't
believe him when he told me you didn't want him to fuck you... I mean, who
wouldn't want a great body like Brad's driving that cock of his into you?"

Again, it all seemed so natural to him. I stood there, not knowing what to
say.  The chef continued "I do miss him, really I do.  He was so kind, so
gentle - a big guy like that, and so tender.  And he was good to me - when
I first came here he kind of took me on, stopped all the other guys from
raping me, threatened them with a good beating if they did anything to me I
didn't like.... And then took all that time to really show me what sex was
all about.  Still, he was doing the same for you, wasn't he?"

"Uh?"

"He told me you liked fucking the bitches - I was like that when I came
here.  In fact I was enslaved for failing to pay child support for a kid
I'd fathered.  I reckon I was really lucky to find Brad: we're not allowed
to touch the bitches here, and without having learned about what's really
good sex for a guy, I reckon I'd have been trying to anyway, and got deep
in the shit!"

It all sounded so strange - I thought that Brad was very odd in some way
for liking sex with other guys even though he'd been married.  And now here
was this chef - well, trainee chef, I suppose, as he couldn't be more than
nineteen - telling me the same story.

The young guy came closer to me, and said quietly as if he didn't want the
other valets to hear (not that they were interested - as usual they were
laughing and chatting to each other) "I don't suppose you want
to.... To.... To make out with me tonight, sir?"  Having got that out, he
seemed almost desperate to get the next few sentences out, and was almost
stumbling over his words.  "I miss Brad, sir, and I need to find some of
the other guys to go with, sir, but they're mostly hooked up, except for
the ones I don't fancy, sir, and you sir, well... Well you might be like
Brad, sir, kind to me, and do all the good stuff he liked...."

"I'm not gay!", I blurted out.

The chef looked at me, and said quietly "Sorry, sir!  But I saw - and heard
- you with Brad...."

He turned away, looking so forlorn.  And there was something about him that
appealed to me - he was quite different to Brad: much, much younger, not a
lot older than me, as I've said; and he wasn't muscular at all - in fact he
looked really slim in his whites, and where his arms and legs protruded
from his skimpy T and short shorts, they were kind of skinny.  I wondered
what it would be like to sleep with a guy who was not obviously as strong
or well-built as me.

"Hey, wait", I called to him.  "I need a bed somewhere tonight, and it
doesn't look as if you take up too much room.  So look out for me - I'll be
up about two."

"Thank you, sir!"  He'd broke out in a big grin.  "The kitchen's closed now
for the night, so I'll go and shower really well - Brad hated to smell the
grease and stuff on my skin and hair.  And I'll make sure I'm REALLY clean
inside, sir...."

I wondered what he meant, and then it dawned on me: he was going to clean
his ass, as he expected me to fuck him, as Brad did.

"I'm not going to fuck you....", I told him, meaning to add "I'm not gay."

As he moved off, he turned and added "Oh, are you one of those hard-to-get
guys who doesn't fuck on the first date?  Or do I get to fuck you, sir?
Brad only let me fuck him occasionally...."

Before I could say "Neither", he'd gone.  And now I had a new worry for
later, as I realised I'd set his expectations that one way or the other,
we'd be fucking.  And there was absolutely no way a man was going to have
his dick up my ass!  And I was pretty sure I didn't want mine up his,
either.  They do say, don't they, that it's not so much what you do or what
you don't do that matters - it's whether you fulfil the expectations you've
set in the other party.  And the more I thought about it, the more I
worried.

Later that evening a big nigga came out under the porte cochere where all
us valets were waiting around for guests to start to leave.  He really was
a big nigga - about six-six tall, but broad and kind of, well, fat!  He was
sweating profusely, probably from the effort of dragging his gross body
around, and dressed in what we whiteys always call "nigga threads" - you
know the kind of thing I mean: a totally unsuitable suit in a kind of
shimmering dark material shot with silver threads and buttoned up tight
over his vast frame; huge black and white leather shoes with very thick
crepe soles; a near-fluorescent green ruffled and frilled shirt, open
almost down to his navel to reveal that kind of tight black curly hair that
some niggas have all over the body; and a mass of heavy gold chains and
pendants around his neck and hanging down over it all - probably designed
to complement the huge stupid wristwatch with three dials on it to show the
time in
 different places, and heavy gold rings on most of his fingers.  He
probably thought he was the epitome of the well-dressed nigga partygoer!

I watched as he talked to the other valets, and saw them shaking their
heads and then turning away from him when he appeared to persist.  I
wondered what he wanted - probably some vile sexual perversion, possibly?
But then, he'd hardly be likely to ask the valets who were well connected a
the Club.  Or perhaps he would - who knows what sort of strange sex
practices niggers have!  Still, having no luck with them, he waddled his
huge body over towards me, beckoning to me rather imperiously to meet him
half way.  I considered staying where I was - after all, I'm a free man,
not a slave, but then remembered what mom and dad always said about being
polite, and got to my feet and went towards him.

He was breathing heavily, and perspiring freely, and I could see vile wet
patches under the armpits of his tight jacket.  He pulled out a huge silk
handkerchief in the same bilious green colour as his shirt, and mopped at
his face.  "Boy", he began.  "Do you want to earn some money?"

Oh, fuck me, I thought, he is after sex.  And there's no way I'd even think
of it with a man like that, no matter how much he offered.  But then it
occurred to me that he might think that I was a slave, as most whiteys
around the Club were, and so would be eager to have sex with a nigga like
him in the hope of getting some sort of advancement.  But if he thought I
was a slave, why would he be offering money?  He'd called me "boy", so he
might consider me to be a slave as that was a pretty normal form of address
for them, but on the other hand I was clearly a whole lot younger than him,
so perhaps he thought it appropriate - if a little impolite.

I decided to be noncommittal.  "Depends...."

"On what?"

"On what it is you want me to do, and how much you're paying."  As I said
it, I realised it might sound as if I was a rent boy, talking to a client!

"Look, boy, we're giving a garden party next Sunday.  My wife wants it to
be all done properly, everything of the best, all the social niceties
followed.... So we need someone who's experienced at valet parking.  It's
the first thing most of our guests will experience, and we want it done
right.  I'd thought about hiring in some slaves, or finding some in my
stock, but they might not do it right, or might not be properly respectful,
and by the time I'd found out and had them whipped, it would be too late.
So I need a free man, an experienced valet.  And all those young niggers
over there said they were 'busy', but that you were always chasing money.
I don't like using a whitey, really, but the Club seems to think you're
reliable, and most of my guests are members here so the shock of seeing a
whitey when they arrive won't be too terrible."

I nodded.  I didn't understand what he meant about "stock", but who cares?
I nodded.  "I certainly am experienced, sir.  But I too might be busy next
Sunday...."

"You sound polite, boy, not like a lot of the whitey scum.  Are you sure
you're busy?  We'd need you about one, as the party starts at two.  And it
finishes at five so our guests can get ready for evening service to hear
the word of the Lord, so you'd be away no later than six.  I only need you
for five hours.  Surely whatever it is you have to do on a Sunday afternoon
can't be that important?"

What an arrogant fucker, I thought.  He doesn't think that a whitey could
be doing anything important.  At least I wouldn't be wasting my time going
to church, as he would be later.

"Well I suppose I could break my engagements", I told him.  "But it would
be difficult.  And expensive."

There was a gleam in his eye, as he seemed to be a man who was used to
wheeling and dealing.  "So it's like the old prostitute joke", he said, a
nasty artificial smile breaking out to expose a mouth stuffed with teeth
with gold implants. "...we're not arguing about the principle any longer,
it's only a question of price?"

"Well, I'd like to help out a gentleman like you, sir, of course, but I do
have other plans...."

"So how much do you want an hour, boy?"

I thought about my measly fifty cents at the Club, and that the nigger rate
was three times as much, one fifty.  "Two dollars fifty, sir."

"Outrageous!  Two is the most the work is worth, boy."

Fuck him, I thought.  Using that "boy" again, and not in a nice way.
"Look, I'm sorry, then, it just isn't worth my while to break my
engagements, change my plans...."

At that moment an equally big, fat negress appeared - I suppose "stately"
would be the kinder way of describing her figure.  She was clad in violent
shades of purple, fuchsia and orange, the long dress positively screaming
its unsuitability for her or the occasion.

"Have you got a valet?" She demanded of the nigger.

"I'm just negotiating with this whitey, my sweet", he replied.

"That's the boy who is always polite", she retorted.  "Take him!"

"But the price..."

"This is MY party.  It is to go perfectly.  This boy is here, he is
experienced, and he is unfailingly polite to the guests.  Hire him."

"I need to discuss the rate...."

"Hire him!  And come back inside, at once!  Our daughter is not behaving as
well as she should - she is all over some boy in there.  He looks like a
marine, home on leave, and you know what is the only thing on his mind
therefore...."

The nigga turned back to me "Twelve fifty it is, then.  But don't be late!
And if there are any complaints on the day, I will deduct money from you,
seeing as how I can't have you whipped as I would any normal whitey!"

There it was again, that assumption that as I was a whitey, I must be like
a slave!  I thought about telling him where to stuff his money - if he
could still find it buried down in those great mounds of fat that were his
buttocks!  But then twelve fifty was a lot of money - dad only earned about
twice that for a whole week of really hard toil. So instead I said politely
"I'm sure there will be no reason for complaint, sir.  And I'll be there on
time.... The address?"

He told me, and added "And none of your whitey trash clothes - those
disgusting low-cut jeans so you can flaunt our body!  I know how you
whiteys are - always strutting around, flashing your muscles and thrusting
your baskets at decent folk.  I want you respectably dressed, in a proper
uniform, like you are now."

I'd got into the habit of taking my uniform home for mom to wash, as once
I'd found one that fitted properly I didn't want it to get mixed up with
the others in the Club laundry (something that had incidentally pleased the
other valets, as they really didn't like the idea of my clothes being
washed with theirs), so there would be no problem with that.  So I said "No
problem, sir.  I will be dressed exactly as today."

The feeling of elation at the prospect of earning so much kind of carried
me through the rest of the evening, and I'd almost forgotten the mater of
the tryst with the chef.  But as Walter and I climbed the stairs to the
dorm, it came flooding back to me.  Walter slapped me on the back and said
"You sly dawg, Steve!  I saw you ogling that chef - he looks hot stuff!  In
fact I've seen him around in the dorm, and he's a real go-er... So you did
decide to try something a little different from Brad... I thought you might
have gone for another of those big muscular gym types, like that gardener
we were admiring earlier."

"I keep telling you, I'm not gay.  I wasn't admiring the gardener - I was
feeling sorry for him, harnessed to that mower like that, being
whipped...."

"Get it right, Steve, please!  He wasn't being whipped, not really.  That
was only a small 'work lash' designed to 'encourage' the slave to give his
all: it stings and hurts, they tell me, but it doesn't break the skin or
anything.  Now a real whip, a real whipping, that's another thing
altogether.... We had one on our demesne this week, and dad had the public
whipmaster come out to do it expertly: that was a sight, I can tell you.
The slave's back was shredded, and judging from the screaming before he
lost consciousness, he'll never disobey an order again.  They do say that a
slave will do anything to avoid a second taste of the whip.  I fact, were
it not for the risk of killing them, some folk think all slaves should be
whipped when they are enslaved, so that they'll be perfectly obedient ever
after."

"It's barbaric!"

"They're slaves, Steve, only slaves.  Still, that's not our concern
tonight, is it?  I don't suppose that chef's going to disobey you.... He
looks like the kind of slave that's really eager to take a master's cock.
Although you never can tell, with you being a whitey - I mean, any slave
ought to be proud to be given the privilege of taking nigger dick, but
whitey dick... That's different."

"How different?  Do you mean longer, thicker, more forceful...?", I added,
trying to make a joke of it.  "But I don't fuck, as you know.  I'm not
gay."

Walter stopped, put his hand on my shoulder so we were turned towards each
other and looked straight at me.  "Look, Steve, you're a free man, right?
You're always going on about it, in a way that niggers don't.  And when a
free man's with a slave.... Well, there are certain expectations, certain
norms...  A free man is supposed to fuck a slave, and the slave expects the
free man to fuck him.  That's the way of the world, Steve, and it's
upsetting enough to have a whitey here as it is, without him behaving as if
he were a slave himself."

"I don't behave like a slave!"  I was indignant now, especially when I
remembered how I'd got my way with the big nigger earlier.

"If you don't fuck him, and you let him fuck you.... Then that's pretty
much like being a slave, if you ask me."

"Well no-one's asking you!  I'm not gay, and I'm only here because I need a
bed tonight.  You do what you want with those waiters and so on, Walter,
but leave me out of it.  I'm a free man, just like you, except that our
views on things are a bit different.  So you do what you want, and I'll do
what I want, OK?"

He heard the anger in my voice, and I learned another lesson: even a nigga
like Walter, who considered himself smart and sophisticated and
worldly-wise (as I suppose he in fact was), will back off when up against a
bigger, tougher man.


End Of Part Six