Date: Mon, 25 Sep 2006 22:35:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: A  Modern Helot, Part One

A MODERN HELOT

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part One

I'd gone on holidays to Greece with my mates - six of
us, just finished our university courses and deciding
to take time off before we started work proper.  None
of us took our girlfriends - we wanted this to me a
last "male bonding" kind of thing, and we'd booked up
to do all sorts of diving lessons and water skiing and
sailing, where we'd all agreed that having the girls
along would just slow us down as they'd want to go off
sight-seeing, and shopping, and stuff like that.

Look, we all had long-time girlfriends, and most of us
were nearly engaged.  Some of us thought we'd look
around for rings at the duty free, and maybe even pop
the question when we'd got back.  We'd had no
intention of fucking around, honestly.  But you know
how it is - six blokes in a bar, then you meet a hen
party, and after a whole lot more drinks (mostly paid
for by us) there'd be a bit of dancing, and that leads
to some close body contact when they play a slow one,
and after a few more drinks....  Well, I woke up the
following morning with a blinding headache and no
clear recollection of what had happened.  I at least
had got back to our hotel as I was in the right room,
but there was no sign of the rest of my mates (I
assumed they'd got lucky, and scored!).  As I lay
there in my misery, my stomach churning and my mouth
tasting foul, I could at least manage a small smile at
the thought that some of them must have got laid, even
if I hadn't.  And I put my lack of my usual morning
hard-on down to the fact that I felt so fucking
miserably ill, all over.  Well I was kind of erect,
but it was more with piss, than from a need to wank.

I vaguely heard the thunderous knocking at the door of
the room, and tried to pull myself out of my
still-drunken state to go and do something about it,
when it burst open, the lock shattered, and six
tough-looking local police broke in.  They shouted
stuff at me in Greek, which I didn't understand, then
as I still lay there, pulled the sheet off me so I was
stark naked in front of them.  Look, I've got nothing
to be ashamed of - I've got a tough, hard body as I
play rugger for the university, and I know from seeing
my mates in the showers and stuff that I've got a
better than average set of tackle.  But you know how
it is in the morning, even when you've got the
hangover to end all hangovers - I had a morning
erection, albeit not very much.  The police guys
shouted more stuff at me in Greek, and I think some of
them were half laughing at seeing me erect like that.
Then they literally dragged me off the bed, and only
allowed me to pull my boxer shorts on before bundling
me out of the door and throwing me into the back of
the police van.

Sitting in a filthy cell in the local police station I
needed a long drink to quench my raging thirst, some
aspirin, a shit, and someone to tell me what the fuck
was going on, and not necessarily in that order!  I
sat there on the edge of the hard bunk in just my
boxers - boxers which, like me, smelt a bit.  I
shouted at them to tell me why  I was there, but they
just came along to the cell door and shouted back in
Greek.  Mind you, after about an hour they did at
least come and take me along the corridor to a
foul-smelling lavatory, so at least I felt a bit
better after that.

It must have been late afternoon when I was allowed
out again - and now hunger was gnawing at me.  I'm
very tall and muscular and all the sport and stuff I
do gives me a fast metabolism, and I eat a lot, and
the last meal I'd had was before we hit the bars the
night before.  But there was no food - I was sat down
opposite a small table in another cell-like room, and
my wrists were cuffed to the chair arms, in spite of
my protests.  After a few more minutes a bloke came
in, wearing a perfectly pressed cream suit, his brown
shoes sparklingly glossy.  He sat down opposite me,
and said "Steven Masters?"

"My mates call me Steve."

"Well, Steve, I'm Wilson, from the British Consulate.
I assume you don't have a lawyer yet?"

"Why do I need a lawyer?"

"You really don't know?"

"No.. Why the fuck am I here?  Those police, breaking
into my room, not even allowing me to dress...."

He sighed.  Deeply.  "Her Majesty's Government is
tired of thugs like you, Steve.  You come out here,
swill down the local ouzo as if it's water, cause all
this mayhem, and give Britons a bad name generally for
your loutish behaviour.   And then every now and then,
some particularly stupid one, like you, goes beyond
the bounds of what is acceptable.  And then you cause
work for everyone."

"Look, I don't remember.... We were having fun... We'd
met these girls.... Had a few drinks.... A bit of a
dance.... A few more drinks.... And that was all."

"Sadly, it wasn't.  The Greeks look on rape as a
particularly serious crime, Steve."

"Rape?  Oh, come on!  They were a load of girls on
holiday, like us.  They were asking for it...."

"Apparently not!  After you'd 'had your way' with one
of them, she fled to the police station.  They did the
whole works - rape kit, everything.  Severe vaginal
bruising, it says.  And lots and lots of semen up
there - didn't you even use a condom?"

"It wasn't like that!  She was begging me for it.  She
couldn't wait to get her knickers down and me inside
her...."

"I thought you said you couldn't remember!"

"Well it's sort of coming back to me now...."

"...and what about the bruising?"

"Well, I am quite big"  I blushed as I said this, as a
bloke doesn't like talking about fucking like this.
"..and she was really eager, as  I said.  And I might
not have done all the foreplay and stuff, as I was a
bit turned on....."

"Well that's as may be.  The fact is, you're in
serious trouble.  Very serious trouble.  And they
don't hang around here for crimes like that.  You'll
be in  Court tomorrow morning, and in jail tomorrow
night...."

"No way!  I want a lawyer...."

"You'll have one, of course.  But the evidence is
pretty damming.  A young girl, only nineteen, lots of
semen, lots of vaginal bruising.... And a drunkard,
someone who was too drunk to remember what had gone
on, at first...."

I sat there, my head in my hands.   Despair swept over
me.  I just might have been a bit over enthusiastic, I
suppose - I do like sex, after all, and most of the
girls who throw themselves at me know what they're
after - my big strong body, and my big strong cock!  I
reckon that at home they all talk about it, and I
never have any problems finding someone to fuck after
a big match at the Club, if my girlfriend's not
around.  "So what do you reckon I ought to do?", I
asked.

"If you lie, if you try to make out it was her fault,
it will go even worse for you.  I'd talk to my lawyer,
then pled guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the
Court."

"This lawyer...."

"I've got n English-speaking one outside - do you want
to see him?"

I nodded, and the elegantly dressed Englishman got up
and rapped smartly on the door and called out
something in Greek which soon got the guards to come
and let him out.  I sat there, sweating and
dishevelled, in my sweat- soaked boxer shorts, and
wondered what the fuck was going to happen to me.  And
when the lawyer came in a few moments later, I wasn't
made any happier - he was middle aged, fat, balding,
sweating even more than me (if that was possible), and
had only  a rudimentary command of English.

We sat there, and I told him again that I could barely
remember what happened, but that she must have wanted
it or else  I'd never have fucked her, and he shook
his head sadly.  "Yes, my dear Steve, but then she
went to the police....."

"So what do I do?"

"Well the sentence for a convicted rapist is a minimum
of twenty five years...."

"Twenty five years?  You've got to be joking...."

"No, not at all.  We Greeks value the ideal of chaste
women, and if you interfere with that...."

"I'll plead not guilty, of course...."

"That is unwise, my friend.  I said it was a minimum
of twenty five years.  A lying convicted rapist can
get life imprisonment.... And you've seen the state of
this police station - what do you think our jails are
like?"

We talked some more, but it seemed hopeless.  I wasn't
allowed to shower or anything that night, and neither
was I given any clothes.  When they took me the next
morning onto the Court, therefore, I was in a terrible
state:  I stank of sweat, I looked mean and dangerous
as I had a big growth of stubble on my face, and
standing there, cuffed, and in dirty boxer shorts,
with a big, strong body, I looked as if I was a rapist
and not the clean-living ex-university sporting stud I
really was!

I didn't understand much of the trial, but the girl
was fresh and clean-looking in a demure, virginal
white cotton dress, and she clearly made an impression
on the judge.  They listened to the evidence, and
there was a doctor person who presented medical
testimony and even showed them a glass slide with a
smear of spunk on it!  I got a chance to have my say,
but all the useless lawyer did was lead me through
questions I couldn't answer, as I had been so drunk I
could barely remember what had gone on.  It was as if
he was the prosecuting counsel, rather than my
defender, when he finished by saying "So, Steve, you
don't remember.  You don't think you raped this girl,
but you easily could have, as you like women, you had
been without female company for several days, and the
drink had made you especially sexy?"  Then the jury
retired, only for a few minutes, and came back and
pronounced me guilty.

There was a break in the proceedings at this point and
my lawyer met me in a small, airless room at the side
of the Court.  It was difficult to know who was
sweating more - me or him.  He looked at me and said
"This is different from your country, I think..."

"You're fucking right!  I didn't even get a chance to
bring character witnesses who'd say I'd never do
things like that.... We must appeal...."

"That's not possible.  The medical evidence and the
girl's testimony is irrefutable.  All we can do now is
enter a plea for mercy from the Court, before sentence
is pronounced.  With luck, you might just get the
minimum twenty five years in one of our jails.  Unless
you want to volunteer for the helot programme, of
course."

"What the fuck's that?"

"You can serve your sentence working as a helot, or
labourer.  We have a long tradition of that in Greece.
 The Romans called them slaves, but before them we
gave our helots some rights - for example, you can't
be killed, or mutilated...."

"What kind of labourer?"

"Well it depends who takes up your contract - the
State contracts you out to defray the cost of
maintaining you.  It saves money on prison costs, and
makes something from the person you're hired to.  And
the hirer gets a hardworking labourer, who doesn't
need pay and who can live simply, close to the job
site.... Everyone wins, really..."

"Except the helot!"

"Oh no, Steve.  He wins, too, as he's not in some
stinking prison cell, locked up for twenty three hours
a day with nothing to do, no access to the sun,
terrible food, little exercise.... Most prisoners
emerge from our jails in a very, very poor state... If
they come out at all:  quite a lot of them succumb to
illness, or commit suicide."

"It sounds as if I ought to be one of these helots, if
you're sure there's no way I can overturn the
verdict."

"Don't think it's an easy option, Steve!  The person
who buys a helot's contract from the State has the
right to get work out of you - a lot of, generally,
very hard work.  And if you fail to work, he has the
right to punish you.  It's not the easy option at
all."

"But at least I get to work, get to exercise, get to
be outside...."

"Yes.  But have you thought about working in the sun,
here in Greece?  You northern men are not good at
it...."

"But I can learn - I've seen those labourers working
on buildings and so on as we came to the hotel in the
coach from the airport.  If they can do it, so can
I...."

I wished I'd asked him more about it.   I wish I'd
insisted on waiting, and getting a "proper" lawyer
rather than this poor specimen from the local town.
As it was, we'd stopped discussing how I might avoid
this unjust charge, and had gone on to whether I'd be
better serving my sentence in a jail or as a helot!
But now things were rushing on a pace, and the guards
escorted me back into the courtroom, where there was a
lot of gabbling in Greek and I heard that I'd been
sentenced to fifteen years as "the woman I had taken
advantage of was not a local but a tourist, and
perhaps she had not been a virgin when I had used
her."

My lawyer then made a plea where I thought I heard the
word "helot" mentioned several times, the judge said
something and banged his gavel, and that was it.

I was furious when they cuffed me to the chair to meet
my lawyer again, but perhaps it was indicative of my
change of status from "innocent" accused to convicted
felon;  as he came in I bean to shout at him.  But,
seeing I couldn't physically attack him, he smiled.
"We done good, Steve!", the odious lawyer told me.
"Only fifteen years, and as a helot, too. It was lucky
you didn't go for one of the local girls - I couldn't
have saved you from jail then."

"Saved me from jail?  Look, isn't there anything we
can do?  Fifteen years seems a lot - especially when
the evidence was, to say the least, a bit 'her story -
my story'?"

"Be advised by me:  you appeal it, and they'll think
you're just trying to drag her name through the mud.
The Courts here have the power to increase sentences,
as well as reduce them, you know.  And being a helot
isn't all that bad.... Well, not compared with being
in one of the prisons, anyway."

"But surely there's some European law - using
prisoners as helots or whatever can't be allowed?  And
don't I have the right to serve my sentence in an
English jail?"

"Firstly, Greece has been given what we call a
derogation from the general laws on prisoner rights -
all European governments are worried about the rising
numbers in jail, and so they're watching the Greek
'Helot' experiment with interest as they may do
something in their own countries.  And secondly, yes,
if you were in jail, you could apply to be moved to a
British jail.  But you're not in jail, Steve - you're
a helot now."

"You idiot!  If you'd told me that a jail sentence
could be served in England....."

"Steve, be reasonable!  Twenty five years, at least,
in jail, even if it is in England?  Or fifteen years
working here in beautiful Greece, in the sunshine,
with the lovely fresh food...."

I carried on protesting, though, and finally the
elegant Wilson, still impeccably dressed, came to see
me.  I asked him what the British Government was going
to do to help me, and he looked at me faintly in
surprise.  "Nothing at all, Mr Masters.  Nothing at
all.  I told you when we first met that Her Majesty's
Government was tired of the bad reputation that the
country is getting when drunken louts like you go
abroad, drink too much, and then believe you can break
the local laws with impunity.  Well it wouldn't look
good, would it, if we were to petition the Greek
Government to be lenient to you?   It would be as if
we were condoning rape...."

"...but it wasn't rape!", I shouted, getting to my
feet as best I could, restrained by the chains, and
banging the table.

"I would advise you, Mr Masters, to learn to control
that temper.  Being a helot means that the person who
buys your contract can punish you if your behaviour is
unacceptable, you know."  He gave a thin-lipped smile
as he said this, and continued "We have a young
gardener, about the same age as you, at the embassy.
He was a bit of a tearaway when he first arrived, and
really upset the ambassador's wife with his constant
swearing and lack of proper respect.  Some of the
other staff and I had to teach him how a helot
behaves, and now he's really good at his job - works
without stopping, and is unfailingly polite.  We
enjoyed 'teaching' him manners, but I don't think he
found it quite so pleasant... So I'd advise you to
avoid the necessity of your contract owner 'educating'
you, if I were you...."

He got to his feet, and I scrabbled to try to grab his
arm.  "Wait...."

"Young man - two lessons you'd better learn.... One,
never touch a free man like that.  And two, be
respectful.  'Wait, sir', would be more
appropriate...."

"Sir, please... Look, is there nothing that can be
done for me?"

"Not by the British Government, Mr Masters.  All that
can be done for you needs to be done by yourself.
Calm down, accept your sentence.  Live through it.
It's only fifteen years, and you'll still be a
relatively young man when it's over."

It was evident that the "interview" was over at that
point as he pulled the sleeves of his shirt down so
that they were just showing from the ends of his
jacket, and tapped on the door for the guard to let
him out.  I sat there for a few moments wondering what
was going to happen to me, but  I didn't have to wait
long  to find out:  the guard came back almost
immediately, and he and another one bundled me along a
corridor and out to a yard where there were a bunch of
blokes standing around rather disconsolately - mostly
young, mostly pretty scruffy looking (as I was, as I
still only had my grubby boxer shorts), and mostly
looking as if they all needed a good shower and a
shave, as did I.  We all stood there, watched by the
guards, until a small minibus pulled in, belching
diesel fumes, and we were herded on board.  And that
was it - we sat there, cramped together as you do on
those small buses, the door was locked, and it drove
off.

I tried to talk to the other blokes but it was
difficult - I was the only Englishman, but there were
Spaniards, a couple of Arab-looking men, and a whole
lot of Greeks.  None of them had much English, but I
gathered they were all, for various reasons, sentenced
to various periods of being a helot.  The Greeks
looked most worried by this, and I did wonder what
they knew about the whole thing that I didn't.

The sun was strong and the temperature high, and there
was no air conditioning or anything on the bus.  We
had the windows open as much as they would go (they
seemed to be locked so as not to go right down,
perhaps to stop us jumping out) but it soon got
stiflingly hot, especially when the bus had o slow
down for traffic and stuff.  We were soon all sweating
like pigs - I cold feel those cold rivulets you get
running from my pits down my ribs, and others trickled
across my belly, and my boxer shorts felt all clammy
and damp.  The smell of unwashed bodies got stronger
and stronger, and  I know we all felt uncomfortable,
but there was nothing we could do about it.

After about two hours, though, the bus turned off the
highway onto what looked like a dirt track almost, and
we bounced and joggled along for a few minutes before
pulling into the yard of a complex of buildings that
had probably started out white, but which were now
streaked with grey and those dark stains that affect
concrete buildings.  They opened the door and we stood
there in the hot sun, watched by eight guards - big,
burly-looking men who seemed to know what they were
doing, and who I certainly wouldn't want to tackle.

An order was shouted, which I didn't understand, and
then when no-one seemed to be doing anything, the
guards almost screamed it again, followed by a stream
of what could only be invective and threats.
Reluctantly, at first one, and then the others,
started to take their clothes off.  I looked about me
and apart from me and the guards there seemed to be
other people crossing the yard carrying papers and
stuff, and I wondered why on earth we were being made
to do this here, in public.  I stood there, wondering
what to do, and suddenly one of the big guards was
right in front of me, his face directly in front of
mine, about two inches away.  He screamed at me,
flecks of his spit flying out and landing on me, and I
was in no doubt about what he wanted - I was to do the
same as the others!   I only had my boxer shorts on of
course, and as I looked around I saw that the others
were still mostly pulling off their shirts and jeans.
Surely they couldn't mean for us all to get naked out
there, exposed as we were?  But they did - I saw one
of the other guards punch a young thin-looking Arab as
he hesitated to drop the grimy shorts he was wearing -
and the reason became obvious as he finally let them
drop:  his bum and cock was revealed as he hadn't been
wearing any underwear.

The guard was screaming at me again now, and after the
shock of seeing the guard punch the Arab boy, I
realised that the one in front of me was about to do
something physical to me - well,  I mean, you don't
think it can happen to you, do you?  I'm pretty
violent out on the rugger pitch, but you expect to get
the odd punch and so on during a match, especially
when the ref can't see, in the scrum, and I reckon I
give as good as I get.  But to see casual physical
violence administered deliberately, by an officer,
well, that's completely different.  I'm not a coward,
but I sensed that these blokes had all the power here
and were practised and experienced in using it.  I dug
my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my boxer
shorts, and pushed them down over my hips.  Somehow
feeling the fabric against my feet, in the open air,
was so odd - it was as if my whole body was more
acutely aware of things than normal, and as this
thought came to me I began to feel the gentle breeze
stirring the hair on my chest, and I even got a bit of
a sensation from my legs and thighs, too.  The sun
felt hot on my cock, and I wondered how long it  would
be before it, and my dead white bum, started to get
sunburn!

We all stood there then, and we were kind of sheepish,
shuffling around nervously, keeping our eyes cast
down.  Well, you know how it is in changing rooms and
places like that - you want to take just a quick
glance at the other blokes, not because you fancy them
or anything, but because I think it's programmed into
men to need to compare their tackle with each other.
But you don't want to be seen doing it, do you?  It's
kind of OK to take a casual glance, but you don't want
the other bloke to see you looking at his cock.  Well,
I mean, he might think you're some sort of queer.
It was a bit like this here - we all wanted to look at
each other, but out in the hot sunlight, with not a
shred of cover, it wasn't easy to hide your glances.
The guards didn't seem to mind, though, and I did
watch in horror as one of them used the tip of his
"swagger stick" to gently lift up the cock of the
young Arab lad, as if to get a better look at it.  The
boy looked utterly embarrassed, and went to try to
push the stick away and then to cover his genitals
with his hands, and this had the effect of driving the
guard into a frenzy.  The "swagger stick" was brought
down several times across the naked shoulders of the
young Arab, and he fell to the ground screaming in
pain and terror from this attack.

Well, you can't stand by and see something like that,
can you?  A big guy attacking a defenceless young
bloke?  I moved and grabbed the guard's arm to stop
the next blow falling, and the next moment my world
exploded into pain - two other guards immediately set
about me with their sticks, not only thrashing at me
with them, but using them to stab at my belly, and
even at my balls!  I too fell to the ground, and
curled up into the foetal position to try to defend
the most sensitive parts of myself - this was a
mistake, as they stopped using their sticks and
instead put the boot in:  four hefty kicks from their
boots had me whimpering  with pain, and rolled into
the tightest ball I could make to try to stop myself
being seriously injured.

There was a lot of shouting then and the young Arab
and I were dragged to our feet, to stand there covered
in the dirt from the yard where it was all sticking to
our sweaty bodies.  All the other blokes were looking
at us, and the guards rapped out some stuff which I
took to mean that this was a lesson for them all, and
that the same thing would happen to them if they
didn't obey.  The guards then went around to each of
us in turn and made us take off wrist watches,
bracelets, and necklaces and stuff like that - they
collected them in a little basket, and I reckon they
were going off to sell them as there was no attempt to
label them with who they belonged to, or anything.
One of the Greeks really protested when they ripped a
crucifix on a thin gold chain off him, and the
"swagger sticks" fell on him then, to silence him.  I
think we all got the message.

They kept us waiting there in the burning sun until
they were ready - clearly our needs were totally
unimportant to them.  And then, with a lot more
shouting, we were lined up in single file and marched
into the building.  It was hot in there too, but at
least we were out of the burring rays of the sun, and
I actually thrilled as I saw there were shower heads
on the wall - I hate being dirty and having the stench
of my own body with all that two-day sweat, and so I
looked forward a lot to being able to get under the
water and cleaning myself up.

Look, I'm no prude.  As I've told you, I play rugger,
and I'm used to having showers with other blokes - and
in some of the older club houses they still have those
old-fashioned communal baths:  there's nothing as good
as a sing-song after a hard game, all naked together
in the bath.  But you don't go out of your way to
touch your mates, and here the rule was very much the
opposite:  as the water was turned on the guards
screamed and shouted at us to all cluster tightly
together under the three shower heads, and then, when
they threw a couple of bars of soap at us, it became
clear that you were not allowed to soap yourself and
had to rely on another bloke doing your body, as you
did his!  Well it's OK when you're doing his back -
who hasn't helped a mate out like that in the showers
sometimes?  But we were dirty and sticky with sweat
all over, and the guards watched us, and prodded us,
to make sure we were really clean all over:  a thin,
Spanish bloke had to put his soapy hands down the
crack in my bum, and then I had to do the same for
him.  But there was no way  I was gong to let another
bloke wash my cock and balls, and I did my own, even
though that meant I got hit a couple of times by the
guards.  Look, I know it sounds as if I'm being really
stupid, but have you ever had a complete stranger
start to soap your cock?  And, anyway, I knew there
must be a horrible build-up of smeg under my 'skin
from the sweat, cum and piss I'd have been leaking,
and you don't want another bloke messing around trying
to 'skin you back, do you?

They did at least give us clothes again after that -
loose, baggy shorts with a drawstring waist so they
mostly fitted, and a loose vest that left our
shoulders bare.  No shoes or anything, though, and
then we were herded along a corridor and pushed into
what I took to be a holding cell - just a blank space,
really, with a concrete floor and bars making up one
wall.

One by one we were taken out of the cell and medically
examined - well, what passed for a medical
examination!  Some parts of it seemed very thorough,
and some a bit superficial.  There was a doctor, or
what I took to be a doctor, as he was in a white coat,
at a table in front of the bars, and he did the
routine sort of stuff with a stethoscope to listen to
our hearts.  He timed our pulses, and  took blood,
too, and we also had to stand there and piss into a
small tube.  I've had a rectal exam before - they did
it to everyone at the compulsory medical on entering
university - but there it had been private.  I could
hardly believe it when, as the first guy was being
examined, he was told to drop his shorts, the doctor
pulled on a plastic glove, the guy bent over, and the
doctor went up him there and then in front of all of
us.  When my turn came I tried to protest, but the
doctor had some English and simply said "It is
compulsory for all helots", and that seemed to be
that.  I mean, it's bad enough having another bloke's
finger up your arse, even if he is a doctor.  But to
have it done to you with a lot of other people
watching is totally humiliating.

After that, the guards made us stand on scales, and
there was a measuring stick with a sliding scale on it
so that they could take our height.   And that seemed
to be it - it didn't take long to process the eight of
us, and we were once more back in the holding cell.
They fed us then - just some Greek bread, hard cheese,
a few tomatoes and a load of olives were tossed in.  I
don't like olives much but I was so hungry now (I've
told you I've got a fast metabolism) that I ate
everything I could - it was good to see, though, that
we were "fair", sharing the stuff out between us so
that even the smaller guys got something.

That night we were transferred to a dormitory block -
a long room with bunk beds stacked two high down one
side.  There were about twenty blokes already in
there, and as we were led in by the guards, they gave
some sort of ironic cheer.  I got one of the bottom
bunks and just lay there, wondering just what the fuck
was going to happen to me:  the casual violence of the
guards towards us had really shaken me, as I thought
that sort of stuff was forbidden under European law,
but the ache in my ribs and belly where I'd been
kicked seemed to powerfully suggest otherwise!   There
was a lot of chatter from some of the other blokes who
gathered together and sat close on the floor, but it
was all in Greek, or Spanish, or Arabic, so I had no
idea of what they were talking about and I couldn't
join in.  I felt all disoriented and odd, as I wasn't
used to being locked up, wasn't used to being kept
with a lot of other blokes, and wasn't used to being
unable to join in.  I mean, even when we went on trips
with the rugger club and I had to share a room with
the other blokes, it wasn't like this - we'd usually
had a few pints, and we all laughed and joked as we
stripped and got into our beds - but we knew, of
course, that we could get up if we wanted to, could go
to the bathroom, or whatever:  it wasn't like that at
all here. I'd seen a lot of movies about prison life,
as everyone does, but they just don't prepare you for
the reality of it:  the fact that you are no longer
free, that you can't just get up and leave if you want
to.

The guards turned the lights out eventually, causing
the talkers to eventually give up and climb into their
own bunks, and there was then a different type of
noise entirely - the unmistakable sound of blokes
wanking.  Look, everyone does it, I know. I do, of
course, as you'd expect a fit young bloke to.  But
doing it when other blokes know you're doing it?  My
own cock was rock hard as I lay there, and I stroked
it slowly and slid my 'skin on and off my head,
causing those lovely waves of pure pleasure to go
through me.  But to cum you've got to really work at
it, I find, and you just can't help making some noise
- the noise that I could hear now through the darkness
from all the closely-packed bunks around me.  I
thought about joining in, as no one would know it was
me making the noise, but as I started to stroke myself
it suddenly occurred to me that there was no way of
getting rid of the cum - there were no sheets or
blankets or anything on the bunks, so, like the other
blokes, I'd just lain there in my shorts and singlet.
I suppose I could have got up and gone to the end,
where there were some lavatories and lavatory paper,
but my cock was so rock hard that it was tenting the
front of my shorts and I didn't want the others to see
me like that.  So I just lay there and "suffered in
silence", until sleep finally overtook me.

Mind you, it was no better in the morning - you know
how it is when you wake up with a huge erection!  And
not just a piss hard-on, either:  no, my cock knew it
hadn't been exercised properly for a long time, and my
balls were aching, too, as they weren't used to being
full of cum for so long.  Still, as a guard came down
the row of bunks banging on the posts with his stick,
I saw that a lot of the other blokes  were in the same
position as I was - almost all of them had the fronts
of their shorts sticking out, so I didn't feel so bad
about joining the line of us shuffling along the room
towards the end.  I suppose it was just like any group
of blokes in the early morning, really - some were
wide awake, like me, as I'm a "morning person", and
some still seemed half asleep, yawning and rubbing
their eyes.  A lot of us had that sort of reflex-like
scratch at our pits and our crotches as we first got
up, perhaps almost forgetting that we were not alone
or with our girlfriends.


We had to strip to go into the communal shower, and
mercifully my erection had almost subsided, and I was
thankful, too, that although it was very crowded, it
was acceptable to wash yourself (although there was so
little privacy that I had to 'skin back to wash my
cock head without being able to turn away from the
others, which I always did at the club of course).  We
even got to shave - or, rather, one by one, as we
stood there drying off (there were no towels), we were
told to sit on a small wooden stool as an old guy with
a cut-throat razor quickly and very expertly shaved
us.  It did feel good to have a smooth face again, as
I think you always feel kind of scruffy if you don't
shave, and they gave us fresh shorts and singlets,
too.

By the time we'd been fed - lots of water, some very
strong coffee, fresh bread rolls, some figs and some
cheese - I was almost feeling human again and my
spirits were rising.  After the traumas of the police
station and the Court, and the beatings and stuff the
day before, I had been a bit dispirited - but I'm
generally an optimist by nature, and I started to
think that if this helot stuff was only like this, it
might not be all bad.

There didn't seem to be much going on, really - after
we'd been fed we were all herded out into the exercise
yard in the middle of the buildings making up the
place, and just left there.  Well I suppose it was a
bit more than a yard - the whole place was surrounded
by a ring of bars, stretching up ten feet or so.  I
suppose we could have climbed over them if we'd made a
concerted effort and built a human pyramid or
something, but there were a couple of guards on watch
towers, with rifles, and that was a big
discouragement.  I don't know if Greek guards would
actually shot prisoners, but I wasn't going to be the
one to find out.  And, in any case, even if we got out
of this place, what then?  I hadn't the fuck of an
idea where we were, and I had no money or anything,
and no passport - so even if I did manage to make it
to an airport or something,  I still couldn't get back
to England.

I got hot as the day went on and we all sat around
doing nothing in particular.  But mercifully there was
always some shade on one side of the yard or another
because of the shadows cast by the buildings.  All of
us tended to huddle there, and some of them who had a
few words of English talked to me and told me that we
probably wouldn't be there long - there was an "open
period" every afternoon when prospective "buyers"
could come and look us over, and it seemed that,
typically, most of us were out of there within three
or four days.  In spite of the heat it was fucking
boring, though, and it was pretty bad for me as I'm an
active sort of bloke.  So I cleared a space in the
shade - pushing some skinny Arabs out of the way - and
did some of my stretching and general fitness
routines:  trunk curls, jumping jacks, running on the
spot... That sort of thing.  It cheered me u pa bit as
I worked away, as exercise always does, although I
soon realised my vest and shorts were completely
drenched in my sweat.

In the middle of the afternoon we all sat and lay or
stood and watched as a few men came out of one of the
buildings and walked slowly around the perimeter of
the barred area we were in.   They were accompanied by
a guard, and from time to time one of them would point
to one of us, and the guard would shout for him to go
over to the bars.  Sometimes that was all there was to
it, but about half the time the guard rapped an order
and the prisoner had to go to the gate to be let out,
and led off into the buildings, and they mostly didn't
come back.  One of the English speakers told me that
the men outside were the gang masters who were looking
to make up work gangs for the quarries, or the fields,
or whatever - they did a quick visual inspection to
see if the man might be suitable, then he could be
ordered off into the building for a closer inspection
if required.   "And if he doesn't come back?", I
asked.

The Spaniard who was telling me this gave one of those
sort of characteristic shrugs.  "He's been selected,
and his helot contract starts."

"They're the lucky ones then...."

"Possibly!".

End Of Part One