Date: Mon, 29 Mar 2004 20:23:48 -0500
From: Savagetrainer@aol.com
Subject: Odessa 17

Micha, Ka to his peers, heard some crinkling under his pillow as he lay
down for the night.  It was a printout of a story.  He asked around and no
one owned up to putting the three folded pages beneath his pillow.  It was
called "The Ponykids Race."  In a nutshell it was about a culture where
slavery was expected and accepted; and one of the slave's roles was as
beasts of burden; these slaves start out their lives as ponies who learn
their places by running races.  Aside from making him hard enough to go
seek a field hand to fuck, it peaked his imagination.

Confrontation

	Buck was going to be spending some time with Sam going over the
progress report on the lots that have been introduced to the general
population of field slaves.  Dax knew he had time to talk to Seth.

	It was dinnertime, so his movements toward the rest of the ranch
would not be unusual.  It would be unusual for him to stop however, but he
was willing to take the risk.  He had already suffered what he hoped was
the worst punishment they mete out at the ranch and guessed that talking
with his workmate wouldn't land him (them) in the same level of trouble.

	Dax grabbed his food and headed towards the shack he called home
every other week.  Seth noticed him as he motioned with his head for the
German to come to him.

	"Does Buck need me to replace you early or something?"  He asked.

	"No, I want to talk with you about something."  Dax sat down with
his bowl of chow and motioned for Seth to do the same.  "I saw the
brotherhood of the eagle website."

	"So?"  He began eating.  He was a wary, a little nervous at this
point, but wasn't going to show more of it than he had to.

	"So you came here to avoid their wrath or something like that?"

	"Yep."

	"Would they really have killed you if you stayed?"

	"They would kill me now if they found me."

	"You have to be kidding, I mean I know they have a reputation for
being vicious and brutal, but . . ."

	Seth just stared at Dax; Dax made no more effort to finish his
statement.
	"You didn't kill anyone did you?"

	"What would it matter if I did?"  He watched as Dax flushed.  "If I
had killed someone, what would you do?  Would you alert someone?  Who?"

	"Hold on a sec Seth.  I wouldn't do anything.  You are pointing out
that I really can't do anything without fucking up my own situation.  Duh.
I just never met a real, like honest to God real, skinhead before."

	"By their standards you still haven't.  Faggots are as much a
target as Jews and niggers, so I can't be one of them."

	"You know what I mean."  He hated it when others resorted to that
and he hated himself for resorting to it.

	"I guess I do.  Look, I know what you are getting at too.  I will
tell you I never killed anyone and never saw anyone killed, but I was
involved, actively and as a witness, to several severe beatings.  I know
you want to know about my thoughts too, what I believe.  That isn't any of
your business.  I am a slave, same as you, so what I believe means
nothing."

	Dax wanted to argue.  He wanted to say that what Seth mattered to
him, but knew where that would go.  Besides it was true.  They were both
slaves and the only difference in the circumstances of how they came here
was one of magnitude (Dax only felt like he would die in his original
surroundings, Seth really would have).  It was highly unlikely that Seth
hated fags-if he did he was in a self imposed Hell whose only escape at
this point would have been death.

	"I never fucked any kids."

	"It never crossed my mind that that part was true.  I know the
standard slams that anti-gay bigots use.  I know it isn't any of my
business, my curiosity got too big for me to control."

	"That's ok.  Will you keep it between you and me?"

	"Promise."

	On the way back to the office, Dax didn't feel sated.  He believed
Seth's claim that he had never murdered anyone, but the rest was troubling.

Dax had been in close confines with Buck for many weeks now and was well in
tune with Buck's sense of urgency that the delicate balance of the ranch be
kept.  Both he and Seth were likely candidates to be hands.  What kind of
havoc could an unreconstructed skinhead have on the place?

A New Tradition

Before a field slave or trustee can become a hand, they have an initiation
ritual.  They have to get a group of 4 slaves to perform the task of
loading bales of hay into a cart they pull as yoked animals, then unload at
another point on the ranch and repeat.  All initiates worry that if they
fail, they will not become hands.  They only find out after that no one has
ever failed at it, that it is, in fact, designed to be passed.  Buck had
never chosen a hand who caused problems, so the initiation is more of a
formality and old tradition than anything else.

Ka knew what he was going to do.  The only thing that bothered him was that
the thought didn't occur to him on its own.  At 26, Ka had been a hand for
almost five years, which made him one shy of the most experienced hand.  He
joined the ranch at 19, but because of his experience on a horse and
amongst cattle for his childhood, Buck assured the still acned teen that he
would be a hand in very little time.  The only reason he hadn't become a
hand after only six months was because of the turmoil it would likely
cause.  Ka would have been fat if he had stayed home in rural Iowa, being
that he was as cornfed and Iowa healthy as everyone else around him.  But
on the ranch he was five ten and broad shouldered and relatively thin
waisted.  His hair would ordinarily have been dark brown, but the almost
constant sun had it bleached to a light wood-brown.  Kyle was the only hand
who had more seniority as a hand, but he deferred to Ka in nearly all
matters making Ka the de facto head hand.

The idea, basically fully formed, occurred to him very quickly as he
strolled back from the shack nearest the bunk house after shooting a load
up a field slave's ass.  There would be 8 hands involved-him and 7 others.
They would start it.  The two with the worst times would be removed and
replaced by two other hands (those two could petition to get back into it
after a probationary period).  Each hand would pick two slaves to pull him
in a small cart he would make himself (or oversee as his slaves made it for
him).  Now he had only two things to take care of: which 7 to invite to
begin this new tradition and the track he would use.

By lunch the next day he had settled on his 7 and let them all know to meet
him before getting chow.  He picked Ted, Mark 1, Mark 2, Paul, Billy, Todd,
and Chet.  He believed each of them to be not only smart enough and aware
enough to make a good go of it, but also had the most energy.  The
preparation and training would have to take place in the few hours between
dinner and shack time (Ka had to go on the assumption that the races would
have to take happen well within the normal bounds and rules of the ranch).

Colloquy

	"Who put the story under your pillow, Ka?"  Chet asked, he was
concerned.

	"Beats me.  I guess it was Buck, but it might have been the man
itself, they are the only ones I know of who could have."

	"Well now there are the two slaves helping Buck with the recruiting
now, you recon one of them could have done it.  They could be setting you
up boy."  Paul said.

	"Listen, what would happen to either of those boys if they had been
caught coming in here?  It could have been, but I really doubt it.  Look,
they added those auctions, maybe this is another way to spice things up for
the folks who run this place."  Ka spoke calmly though he was perturbed
that they weren't taking to the idea like he thought they would.  "I'm
going to do this, I'll tap a couple of trustees to do it if I have to.
Anyone who wants out now, say so and I'll find someone to take your spot."

	He paused.  Then: "No?  Ok then.  Now each of us has two days to
pick our team.  Mark the two you want by tying a small piece of one of the
lashes of your flogger around his main collar ring.  Once we've done that,
I'll set a deadline for when the carts have to be ready."

	All went to get their chow as if no meeting had taken place.  Ka
decided only to be crestfallen if they didn't get excited while picking out
their team.

Teaming

	Chet had been the most visibly anxious.  He fully understood the
logic that only Buck or the man himself could have planted the story, but
he couldn't help but feel like he was walking into an ambush of some sort.
If so, he would be walking in with a full stiffy though since he had spent
all the time after the meeting trying to determine which ones to mark as
his team.

	As he considered it, he knew that his boy, B. J., would not be a
good choice.  Chet was almost a total opposite of his boy.  Chet was a
small but proportional five foot six twenty-four year old.  At a hundred
and forty or so, he was scrappy.  B. J. was a spindly and lithe
twenty-three year old standing at six three.  Chet was black and black,
B. J. very light blond and blue.  What Chet believed he needed was
something closer to his own shape with a bit more thigh and ass than chest
and arm.  He figured they would be better suited for speed, or at least
quick bursts of it-the rest could be trained into them or whipped out of
them.

	The typical habit for the hands was to get the cattle moved to the
right place, then to take turns keeping watch; those not tending the herd
made their way to the fields or the barn or wherever their quarry was.
Chet left after his turn at tending to do some searching.  He went to the
fields first.  He went between two patches.

	"Ho, slaves, present."  He shouted.

	There was some scrambling sounds coming from the stalks and six
slaves appeared on his right and left standing at attention.  He got down
from his horse, to get a look at the proper angle to determine their legs'
muscle quality.  None of the first set had the muscle structure he wanted,
so he ordered them back in.  He went two patches over and did the same
thing.  He noticed that one of the slaves already had a brown leather
strand tied to the front ring of his collar.

	"Slave, who tied this to your collar?"  He asked, flicking the
leather strands with his crop?

	"Sir, a hand called Ted, Sir."  Ty said.  If he wasn't following
protocol and looking downward, his and Chet's eyes would have met on the
same plane.

	Chet wanted to know from curiosity.  He wouldn't have chosen Ty
himself, but Ty would have caught his attention.  The slave's legs matched
what Chet wanted, but his upper body did not.  Ty's chest and shoulders
were larger than what Chet had in mind.  Next to Ty though was someone that
did catch his eye.

	"What's your name slave?"

	"Sir Pete sir."

	"Hands behind your head . . . turn around . . . flex your shoulders
. . . do a deep knee bend . . . hold it."  Pete complied quickly to each of
the requests Chet gave.  He stopped when Chet said to hold it, about half
way up.  His thighs began to twitch as the seconds wore on.
	
	"Hold it."

	"Sir yes sir," Pete said as calmly as he could despite his
hamstrings beginning to cramp.

	"Keep holding it."

	"Sir yes sir."  The burning in the muscles was causing problems
balancing.  He feared the lash from one who seemed to be calm-the calm
ones, he learned are the more vicious-but he finally had to give and fell
to a knee, moving his hands to break the fall.  He braced for the whip.

	"Stand up and turn around boy."  Pete had yet to really feel many
lashes across his chest and was dreading it.  He was very surprised when
Chet approached to tie a piece of leather to the front loop of his collar.
"I'll be back to get you in a few days, don't take it off."

	"Sir yes sir."

	Chet got back on the horse and headed off to the soybean sectors.
He was pleased with his choice.  He believed that Pete's body form was the
type he wanted.  He would have preferred that the legs be a little larger,
but there was time to make that happen.  Now what he had to do was find the
mate for his new pony boy.

	The search of the soybean area and the grain area yielded some
possibilities that he would check on, but wasn't getting the gut feeling he
wanted.  He got the sense that his race mates were probably in the same
boat-or at least the majority of them-so he felt he wasn't going to have to
compromise.

	Chet went through the rest of his day as normal, replacing those on
watch when it was hit time, and keeping his eye on the herd.  He continued
to give thought to the race however.  He could name all the hands and had
their images fully formed in his memory, short and long term.  But the sea
of field slaves was one faceless naked man in his mind.  He of course knew
his boy, Eddie, well, but even then he was more familiar with Eddie's back
and ass than he was any other of his parts.  Now trying to remember what
. . . um . . . lessee . . . Pete looked like, he was drawing a blank.  He
could remember the shape of legs and ass, but couldn't remember if Pete was
fair or dark haired.  As a field slave, Chet knew, was convinced, that his
memory was broader than that-that he 'knew' the faces of his mates and
other slaves he could see on a regular basis in addition to all the hands
he would see fairly often.  He would puzzle over that odd circumstance when
time permitted, as it stood it was time to return his horse to the barn and
get some chow.

	He was helped from the saddle, as he was every evening by a slave
who then took care of his ride while Chet went about the rest of his night.
This time he actually paused to look at the man.  He saw a blond man with a
swimmer's build who stood about five ten or five eleven with decent legs.
	
	"What's your name?"

	"Sir Nick sir."

	He put Nick through the same paces as Pete and received a similar
result.  He took a bit off the end of the same lash of his flogger and tied
it to Nick's collar.  No need for further thought or energy spent on at
least the initial stages of this new attraction.

Colloquy, Second Part

	"I want to make sure one more time that everyone has two ponies
picked out and is ready to move on."  Ka had spent a ton of time scouring
the fields to find his two-he would make a decision on one and then decide
against him because he didn't match another that he liked a bit better, and
so on.  Normally he was cooler than this, but for some reason this activity
left him a bit scattered.  Plus he had the extra responsibility of fining
the equipment they would need.

	Everyone nodded or mumbled that they had already assured their peer
that they were ready to proceed.

	"Great.  Go get your ponies and meet at the far barn, the one Buck
got ready for the auctions a couple of months back."

	Eight men wearing cutoff denims headed to find their ponies.

	Chet started at the patch where he had found Pete and it was empty.
Great.  The shacks the slaves used were not necessarily anywhere near the
place they worked, so he was going to have to hit each one until he found a
slave whose face he couldn't really remember, so rather than look at his
face he would have to look at their collars to see if they were marked,
then ask them who they were.

	It took four shacks and asking two slaves if they were Pete before
he found his Pete.
	
	"Sir can I ask a question sir?"

	"Sure," Chet said but was leading Pete to the barn where he would
pick up Pete's ponymate . . . um . . . Nick.

	"Sir, um what is going on; I mean a hand came by to pick up Ty a
few minutes ago and I was just wondering . . . sir?"  Pete was nervous and
did nothing to hide it.

	"Nothing bad or anything, so don't worry about that, you'll hook up
again with Ty in a few minutes and you'll all find out together what's
going on."  It was going to take too long to explain, especially if the
slave had questions that Chet couldn't or wouldn't answer, so it was more
convenient for him this way.

	In the barn they ran into what turned out to be a silly obstacle.
Chet noticed for the first time, probably since mounting his horse on his
first day as a hand, that Nick's collar was attached to a chain bolted to
one of the barn's support beams.

	"Well fuck.  Why are you locked into this thing, you do something
that got you in trouble enough that they wanted to make sure you didn't
wander off?"

	"Sir sorry sir?"  Nick couldn't immediately make sense of what Chet
was saying.  He was locked in the same as all barn slaves, but they were
velvet bonds, if you will-the keys to their locks hung where the slaves
could get them.  He had long since stopped feeling the chain and had done
nothing to get him in trouble so he didn't understand the hand.

	"The chain slave, why are you chained?"

	"Sir, that is just how it is here sir, do you need me to follow you
out or something sir?"

	"Yes, but I don't have time to wait for the slave to run to find
Buck and get back to unlock you."
	
	"Sir, sorry I'm so used to it that I don't think about it sir."
Nick walked over to the wall where the keys hung and quickly unlocked the
chain from his collar and walked back to Chet, who had a stupid look on his
face.

	"Why the hell are you chained in here if you can get to the key?"

	"Sir, you know, I never really thought about it sir, we just unlock
ourselves when we have to go out to take the horseshit outside and to get
our chow, then we lock it back, just how it works in the barn I guess sir."

	(Well sort of.  The barn used to be the place where difficult
slaves were put for punishment, and they were chained in a real way; a hand
was used to keep his eye on them and to stay in the barn-it was his
responsibility to unlock all the slaves if a fire broke out.  Buck decided,
after taking over, one, that the hands deserved slaves who weren't so much
trouble to take care of their horses, and two that no matter how fast a
hand was, he wouldn't be able to get all the slaves (typically 10) out of
the barn before the any but a tiny fire got out of control.  But there were
several slaves who actually liked being in there when the change in regime
and policy took place.  They lobbied to have the chains kept as a sort of
tradition.  Buck consented and just made sure they could all get to the
keys.)

	Chet decided not to waste the opportunity he had in front of him.
It was probably half a mile to the auction barn; it would leave them all
winded (hopefully no more than winded) if they jogged to the barn, but it
would give him an idea of what he had chosen-actually looking into the poke
to make sure the pig was really in it.

	"I need you both to jog, but don't just run or trot or whatnot on
your own.  Match your strides and your rhythm.  I'm going to trail a little
bit to see how you do.  We're heading toward the barn in the distance."
	
	Chet said nothing, but just followed them to the barn.  Nick and
Pete spent most of the time trying to match each other's stride; the
problem was that neither was willing to take charge in any meaningful way
that meant they were constantly readjusting to an ever-shifting pace.  For
the whole trek, the two slaves were constantly out of balance, like
improvised jazz.  Fortunately the two slaves would respond to English and
the lash faster than a horse.

	Chet and Paul arrived at the same time and they were the last.
Each trio took their place in the semi-circle that formed around Ka and his
ponies.  All ponies knelt before the hand who chose them.

	"Welcome.  The sixteen field slaves here have a new title for a
while: pony.  You will not be ponies exclusively; the training and
competition will take place after your normal days.  The hand that chose
you will direct the training as he sees fit.  Each team will construct a
dray for the hand to stand on and the ponies to pull.  It is up to the hand
how this will occur, whether he will do it himself or instruct and
supervise the ponies as they do it.  You have two weeks from this night to
build the dray and get what training in you can or see fit.  The track will
be around this barn-I'll be putting out markers soon-we will start with
running the track three times and adjust it from there depending on
performances.  Do the hands have any questions?"

	All were silent.

	"Ok, you will have plenty of opportunities later if you need.
Anyway, in the corner over there are sixteen wagon wheels and enough tools
to build the dray for yourselves.  I've given everything a once over and
believe it all to be about the same condition.  So go on and pick out the
wheels and everything else you think you need.  Honor system gentlemen, you
can work on your dray when and how you need, but do not fuck with someone
else's if there has been any monkey business in that respect, everyone will
be disqualified and I'll get seven more hands to take over-the ponies will
remain attached to their dray at that point so we don't delay things too
long."

	There wasn't a mad rush.  In fact it started sort of timidly.  The
thought seemed to spawn to each at the same time: what the fuck was a dray
and how was 7 city/suburban boys and their equally situated ponies going to
figure out how to build one?

	"Ka," Paul said, "what the hell is a dray?"

	"Duh, sorry I didn't realize it was a mystery.  In a nutshell,
imagine a chariot without the barrier.  Basically it is a two-wheeled cart
with no sides.  You'll just need to put a platform and something you may
want to hold on to.  Keep these things in mind though.  Anything you add is
weight your ponies have to pull, but if you don't have it balanced well,
you will flip on the turns hurting yourself and your ponies."

	"Um, no one said anything about us getting hurt."  Paul said
voicing what he was sure wasn't just his own opinion.

	"I cleared it with Buck, he doesn't think anyone would get
seriously hurt and if you do, you know you will be taken care of.  In a
word, don't be a pussy, guys."

Pony Eye View

	We have done this the same way as the others, at least according to
Chet.  We built the platform that he is going to stand on (a railing
basically with braces to keep it steady so he can lean against it with full
force and it not collapse, and can pull against it with the same force).
We built the T bar that Nick and I will use to pull him (the top of the T
is a sort of double yoke that fits around the back of our necks and the
front of our shoulders for maximum control).  What we are having trouble
with is the same thing that Chet says everyone is having trouble with
except Ka-the axle and putting the wheels on it.

	Nick was a network specialist in his life before, and could (he
says) put together any network anyone would want.  He understood servers
and routers and security and whatever else goes on in that strange world.
I was a legal secretary with very vague aspirations at law itself.  I could
put together a brief with very little information very quickly.  I have no
idea what Chet did before and it isn't a field slave's position to ask, but
I know he wasn't a wheelwright.  I'm sure the other teams are similar.
This means a room full of men with expertise in all sorts of areas
important beyond the fence of this ranch, but most of us would be beyond
totally worthless on a real ranch-this one is real enough as any of the
whip marks on my back and ass would show, but this one isn't one for
profit.  I doubt that there is much call for someone who can build a real
cart either, but someone at a real ranch would likely have a better idea
how to get it to work.

	The axle is one of the simple machines from centuries back and none
of us can quite figure out how to get it done.  Either the wheels wobble or
fall off.  We have a week to go and none of us has practiced.

	Earlier tonight I heard Chet talk with Ka.  Ka said it would be a
waste of time to continue if no one could solve the problem.

	"Go talk to Buck."  Chet said.

	"I don't want to do that.  He did set us up here, but he didn't
seem to be too big on the idea of us doing this.  I think he might be doing
it so that he could set us up to fuck up."
	
	"Why would he do that?"

	"Beats me man, but I just got the feeling that he didn't want us
doing this for real."

	"Then I'll go talk to him."

	"Whatever you want man."

	And Chet left at that point.

	Nick and I have been sitting here in the stall.  We've talked some,
but mostly we have just sat against the wall of the barn and napped a
little.  The nights here have been pretty long and we haven't had as much
sleep as normal, so most of us are dragging.

	After a while and some vague dreams of life outside (it's ok here,
but I must still crave freedom more than I thought because I keep having
dreams of eating steak and fish in high end restaurants), Chet returns with
some paper.

	"You talk to Buck?"  Ka asks.

	"Tried to find him, but he wasn't around, so I just ordered the
little German fucker to find some designs on the internet."

	Ka looked at the printout and said: "A'ite all hands huddle up!"

	The six other hands walked over to Ka and Chet.  They each look at
the printout and discuss what to do.

	In a short while, we have both wheels on and are ready to take it
for a quick spin around the barn.

	As each team finishes their dray, the ponies take it outside the
barn and trot it around the track-it is too dark for full-on running.  Nick
and I can hear it as we put the finishing touches on the dray.  We know
that if it tumbles there will be double hell to pay (at least) for us, one
when we get injured, one when we get whipped for letting it happen.

	Nick takes the left spot in the yoke that would be on the inside
for the turns.  Chet takes his place and directs us.

	"Ok ponyboys, when you exit the barn, turn left and go at an even
trot around the barn."

	"Sir yes sir."  We both say.

	The wood was softer on my shoulders and neck than I thought it
would be.  If I hold it just right, it doesn't jostle as we move.  Left,
right, left, right, a little faster.  We take the first turn pretty wide
and Chet tells us to take it easier.  We do a little better on the other
turns.

	As we get to the front of the barn again, Chet says: "Let's bring
her to a stop boys."

	It is here we find we can't do that.  We forgot what everyone else
forgot: brakes.  It could have been a disaster but both Nick and I had wits
enough to keep holding onto the yoke and just move slower and slower going
in a straight line until the dray stopped.

	"Guess we have a little more work to do."  Chet followed it with a
nervous laugh.

	We take the dray back to our spot in the barn.  Chet looks again at
the document he brought back from Buck's office.  There is some information
he and the other hands overlooked about brakes.  But it was already late so
Chet said we could start working on it tomorrow night.

	"You fucked any since this started?"  Nick asks as we walk away
from the barn.

	"Now that you ask, no I haven't."  The extra time on this activity
gets me back to the shack too late and leaves me generally too tired to
bother.

	Nick stops and I stop too; he sticks a finger in his mouth and
sticks it quickly, like a probe, up my hole.  Satisfied, I guess, he takes
the finger out and uses both hands to position me on hands and knees.
Then, in the light of a three-quarters moon, his sizeable cock followed
where his finger had been.  Being fucked outside on west Texas dust isn't
romantic, but it is hot.

Noah's Proxy

	Noah knew that Scott could not handle the day to day by himself.
He was a friend and was trustworthy with the slaves when Noah was there to
back him up, but Noah knew that he would likely be too lax with them if
left to his own.  So, before he began looking for other slaves and masters
to fill out his own utopia, he needed to find a real taskmaster.

	He mentioned to a few friends what he was looking for.  He wanted a
very young, muscled man who basically lacked any amount of empathy.  Within
a couple of weeks, Noah had a list of names of men who, according to his
friends, qualified.  Noah chatted with most on the list and determined most
unfit.  But he liked the sound of one of them very much.

	Hayden was an eighteen year old who had recently been 'released'
from a group home his parents had sent him to when he was 14.  His parents
had been taken in by the sales pitch of the inexpensive home that would
transform her troubled teen into an obedient and productive member of the
family and society as a whole.  It was a foreign home-in Costa Rica-which
operated cheaply and without pesky American laws.

	Hayden explained that it was basically a Darwinian setup.  The new
boys where stripped of everything-possessions, clothes, hair.  They would
'earn' these things back based on their behavior.  The people making the
decision on what behavior was acceptable and what the boys earned were
older inmates of the facility.  The adults just sat back and watched at the
very least, or encouraged the more brutal inmates; after all, frightened
and cowed teens are more docile and less apt to cause trouble than teens
who were being coddled with group therapy and other such expensive
nonsense.

	He went from grunt-the bald, naked, new arrival-to squad captain
(over half a dozen grunts), to group captain, over three squads, by the
time he was 17.  He would probably have been the highest-ranking inmate in
the place had it not been for the raid that local authorities coordinated
after American officials requested it.  So he was sent home first class to
parents who were mortified at what they had done.

	So, unrepentant and unreconstructed, he was back home.

	Noah found out about Hayden through one of many masters he met in
Chicago.  The master had read about Hayden in the paper and decided to
contact him to see if the boy had talent.  His hunch was right.  He wanted
to continue to use the boy, but his slave was so scared of the boy that the
master had to choose sides.  Which is why he let Noah know about him.

	"You gay?"  Noah asked him when they met face to face.

	"No, but I fuck guys.  I got sent away because I was already
fucking pussy at 14 and the folks couldn't stand it.  I rebelled and they
sent me to that home."  The muscled teen explained.  "I fucked lots in the
home though.  I was raped a few times before I learned how to fight back,
which is how I got to be leader so fast.  The problem is now I can only get
a nut if I'm beating a guy first.  I still want pussy, but I just can't do
it like that now."
	
	"Makes you frustrated?"

	"Fuck yeah it makes me frustrated."

	"So what do you do about it?"

	"Beat the fag harder."

	Sold.

	With that, Noah offered Hayden a place to live with free room and
board for as long as the young man wanted it, with the understanding he
would stay for the long term.  Apart from the obvious that he couldn't kill
the slaves, he was only prohibited from breaking bones.

Just When Things Seemed To . . .

I have to try to sleep on my side tonight.  The taskmaster that Master Noah
got for us while he goes on his trips whipped my ass, back, and shoulders
like Noah or Scott never did.  Crete fared no better.  He is already asleep
though, or I would see if he would want to escape with me.

	"This is your new taskmaster.  That's all you need to know.  He
knows your names and that is all that matters.  Instead of sir, you call
him taskmaster.  He has free reign to do what he feels is necessary to get
out of you what he and I and Scott expect."  Noah said at the building
site, then he walked off.  That was it.

	The taskmaster next to him was a blond boy maybe 18.  He was almost
six feet tall and had to be almost 200 pounds of muscle.  His boyish face
seemed very out of place, especially when compared against the crop in his
hand and the flogger hanging from his belt.  It made no sense to me that
Noah would pick a kid to look after the situation while he was off.  That
doubt quickly disappeared.

	The taskmaster made the hocking noise and spit a lugie in front of
Crete.  We're both pretty used to the masters spitting, so it meant
nothing.  Then he walked behind Crete and kicked him behind the knee so he
collapsed.

	"Nothing that comes out of my body hits the ground.  What comes
from me is more valuable than you and will not be wasted."  He screamed.
"What you are cannot really be defined, but it is beneath shit.  You have a
job to do and it is my job to make sure you do it right.  You," he touched
Crete on his back with his crop, "lean down there and lick my spit off the
ground."

	"Yes Taskmaster."  Crete started licking the thick slime off the
grass.

	"Now I obviously can't let that slip go unnoticed."  He said when
Crete came back to his kneeling position.  He pulled the flogger out of his
belt.  At this point I expected what has become a sort of run of the mill
situation-it is still painful, but not nearly so much as it was when I
started and it is less frightening.  What I got was not run of the mill,
and at that point I had felt nothing.  He swung with everything he had
across Crete's back from one shoulder down to the opposite lat.  It made
Crete scream.  I hadn't heard him scream no matter what happened to him.
Nine more followed and each of them left deep red marks and a little blood.
Each one got at least a yelp from Crete.

	"Where's my thank you turd?"

	"Thank you Taskmaster."  Crete was able to get out between pants.

	"Here's the deal.  I am not going to waste my time telling you when
I have to spit or piss or whatever.  You just need to keep an eye on me and
an ear out for when I start.  Nearest puke comes running and opens up."

	"Yes taskmaster."  We both said.

	He made the hocking sound again.  I was right in front of him so I
knelt down and opened my mouth.  He spit; part of it went in my mouth, the
rest stuck to a cheek and dripped onto my shoulder.  It was horribly salty
and slimy.  "Thank you Taskmaster."  I knew I was going to catch same as
Crete.

	"Now you know that's not good enough."  I didn't have a chance to
make any response before the crop whizzed across my chest.  It knocked the
wind out of me.  It felt like being hit across the chest with a hot poker.
Then he did to my back what he had done to Crete's.  I couldn't feel the
small space of time between each lash.  I screamed with all I had.  When it
was finally over, tears, snot, sweat, drool fell off my face and onto the
ground.  He used the toe of his boot to lift my face to look up at him.

	"The lesson you just learned is that you will have to keep your
eyes open and may have to move to catch it.  I ain't going to bother aiming
at a slave mouth.  Now don't I get a thank you?"

	"Thank you Taskmaster."

	There are two pains from a serious lashing.  The first is obviously
from the lash itself.  It burns first.  It also feels like being punched,
even the thin strips have that sort of punch quality to them.  The second
pain is the longer one.  It would never have occurred to me that the pain
after can in some ways be worse than the pain during.  The muscle pain is
like waking up from a very tough work out, but it begins right away.

	He ordered us to start working on the concrete after our whippings.
We both stumbled to the machine that Scott brought to mix the stuff.  They
decided it was faster that way, that having only two slaves mix it by hand
in vats would not make the foundation strong enough.

	We carried the bags of concrete on our shaky shoulders slowly.  We
had to be careful to go fast enough to avoid anything from the Taskmaster
but not so fast that we dropped some and incurred even more from the
mutherfucker.

	Crete was emptying a bag into the mixer as I went back to get two
more.  I heard the Taskmaster hock again.  Crete dropped the bag into the
mixer and ran to the man with the whips.  Crete knelt a little and caught
the whole lugie.  I was too scared to be sickened.  The idea of eating a
phlegm gobber versus being whipped again put me in a position where the
lugie didn't make me that sick anymore.

	But Taskmaster was not to be bested.  He ripped a very loud fart.
Crete made no notice and started back to the mixer.  Taskmaster grabbed
Crete by the collar and pulled his face very close to his own and screamed:

	"I just gave you a gift from my body you fucking turd.  What came
out of my hole has more use and value that you.  You do not just walk away
from me when I give you a gift like that."  Then he forced Crete down and
kept his boot on Crete's neck.  Out came the flogger.  Taskmaster didn't
seem to care where the lashes landed so long as when they did they were
moving at max speed.  Then, "Thank me for my gift you fuckwad."

	"Thank you for your gift Taskmaster."  Crete screamed as he writhed
under the lash and boot.

	"What did my gift smell like slave?"

	I would die at this point.  I would not be able to come up with an
answer I wasn't sure would get the skin whipped off my back.

	"Like a gift from the Taskmaster to a worthless slave turd."

	In life before the collar, that thought would never cross my mind,
and if it did, I would have too much dignity to think about saying it.  Now
I was making a mental note.

	I was also making a mental note about what was next.
	
	I was going to do all I could to avoid being around him when he has
to piss.  I'd only begun to have to do that and am terrible at it-can't
swallow it as fast as Crete.  He laid into Crete like gangbusters for not
commenting on a fart, I didn't want to know how much worse it was to let
any of his piss spill out of a mouth.  So when I had to walk the distance
from the mixer to the stack of concrete bags, I went as slowly as I could
manage for maximum time further away from him; Crete knows this, but for
one he doesn't care, for another I think he is still protecting me some
since I am not in this situation by choice-at least that is what it feels
like; he's never said anything about it directly.

	This sense of protection showed itself a little while after the
fart incident.  We were both at the mixer when we heard the zipper.  Crete
gave me a quick look as if to say, I got it.  He hurried to Taskmaster,
knelt and opened his mouth just an inch or so away from what turns out to
be a fat uncut monster even mostly flaccid.  This fucker was obviously just
sadistic because he could be as vicious as he wanted without retribution.
He pissed as he would standing in front of any urinal basically which meant
he, like many men, spit too.  We were forbidden from allowing anything of
his hit the ground, and he spit in a place where Crete could not both catch
the stream and the spit.  So Crete jerked slightly to try to catch the
spit, instead he missed it and allowed part of the piss to stream down his
neck and chest.  He got back into position quickly and finished the task.

	"Thank you Taskmaster."

	"A'ite, back at it slave."  He said calmly as he zipped up.

	"Yes Taskmaster."

	Now I was totally fucking lost.  My back still stung from something
as simple and gross as a lugie and Crete got far worse from a fart thing.
Now Crete spilled something these master types seem to think as valuable
and special as a vintage wine and nothing happened.

	I got a chance to ask Crete about it a few minutes later when Scott
came to check on things.  While Taskmaster's attentions were not entirely
on us, I whispered:

	"What happened?  Why didn't he fuck you up?"

	"Dunno, but it is probably one of a couple things.  Either he
thinks it keeps us on our toes to be unpredictable like that, or he was
wondering if I would react differently-I've been at this too long for
that-or, and this is what I'm betting on, he is chalking it up to use
later."  His breath still smelled pretty strongly of piss almost an hour
later.

	"Man, I can't take it if he is going to whip me like that again."

	"Rex, dude," he said with a sort of pitying look, "what else are
you gonna do?"

	What else WAS I going to do was fucking right.

	Scott came over to me after we emptied the contents of the mixer
into the area for the foundation and were getting ready to fill it again.

	"You like the taskmaster boy?"

	"Sir yes sir."

	"Not too hard on you?"

	"Sir no sir."  There was no good answer to this; it was one of
those questions masters ask when they just want an excuse to punish.

	"Yo, Rex here said you weren't that hard on him.  Maybe Noah was
mistaken when he brought you on."

	"Has it now?  We'll let's do this then.  Tie him to that tree and
we can take turns giving him some licks and see what he thinks then."

	My knees got weak and I stumbled a little.

	"Oh, now it won't be all that bad, just a game amongst masters."
Taskmaster said while Scott led me to the tree.

	I tried to stifle some tears as he binds my hands so that I was
hugging the pine tree loosely.

	"See it let a little of my lung biscuit hit its cheek instead of
eating it like a good slave, so I gave it ten of these."

	My back lit up with fire.  I didn't bother counting lashes, I would
be here until I am whipped to death and it didn't matter how many lashes it
took to do that.

	"Now you try it and see if he screams as loud."  I heard Taskmaster
say.

	More lashes landed and I screamed.  I didn't know what whip was
being used; a feather at this point would have made me scream.

	"I don't know, mine sounded like they got a louder scream out of
it.  Here, I'll do one then you do one."

	Fuck.  It didn't matter anymore.  One lash hit from one direction
and I screamed.  One lash hit from the other direction and I screamed.
This went on as I tried to find a place in my skull where the body noise
from the whipping was quieter.  There was no such place in a brain overcome
with every sort of physical and psychic stimuli.

	I felt a hand jerk my head back.  "Tough enough now you runny
dung?"

	My eyes would not focus, my jaw would not unclench and drool poured
from my lips.  I could only nod.

	Scott untied my hands and I collapsed.

	"Good game."  Scott said to Taskmaster.  "I guess I'll let this one
rest for five or so before having him get back at it."

	I leaned against the tree with my knees beneath me.  Drool leaked
out of one end, piss leaked out of another, the muscles in my body were all
fighting a war with each other and I could only wait it out.  They
continued to talk near me.

	"I notice you call the slave him.  Mind if I ask why you do that?"

	"Haven't really thought about it.  He's got a dick, so he's a him."
Scott said.

	"Yeah it has a cock, but you own that cock.  You own it like you
own your truck or your tv.  You get stuff out of those things but don't
call them him, well maybe your truck, but that is a sign of respect and
that isn't something a slave gets."

	"Don't know why it even matters."  Scott said.
	
	"I guess it don't.  Except that it ain't fair to the slave.  It is
confusing for it to be treated like a slave should be but be called like a
human would.  I mean, Rex and Crete ain't their real names are they?  No,
they're animal names.  If you're gonna change their human names to slave
names, there ain't much reason to call them him and he."

	"You learn that in Peru or wherever?"  Scott sounded a little
ticked, like it was a good idea, but he didn't want to admit that an
eighteen year old could come up with it.

	"Costa Rica, and yeah."  Taskmaster said.

	"Well, 'til Noah says I have to do it, I think I'll do it my way."
Scott walked back to the house.

	"Ok, up and back to work slave."  Taskmaster said to me.

	"Yes Taskmaster," I rasped.  It wasn't easy standing up, but once
on my feet again, the pain wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.


	I didn't get another chance to talk with Crete before we were caged
for the night.  He had to drink Taskmaster's piss once more-his bladder was
huge, the piss stream had to last for more than a minute.  He only hit
either of us a couple more times before we were done.  They are what Crete
called 'encouragement' lashes when he was telling me about the rules of
this life.  To me, every lash is an encouragement lash, pushing me to avoid
it, and to find a way to break from it altogether.

	So I'm lying on my side trying to find the least uncomfortable spot
to sleep in.  Crete is asleep leaning his whipped back against the cage and
is whistling a little through his nose.

	It isn't long after I quit moving that the door opens and
Taskmaster comes in.  He sees that I'm awake and I move to sit up at
attention as much as the cage will allow.

	"Hey faggot."  He says kicking Crete's cage.

	"Sir, uh yes Taskmaster."

	Taskmaster pulled down his sorts and hopped up onto Crete's cage.
With little pause I can smell and hear him taking a shit.  Crete moves to
position himself under Taskmaster's asshole.

	I can't watch this.  I turn away and hear the noises and try not to
puke.  His smell is almost as bad as Crete's.  No doubt he knows what to
eat to make it so much worse for us.
	
	"Rex, it better not keep looking away.  I talked with Master Scott
and he said it wasn't ready for this and I promised him I wouldn't force it
. . . yet.  But it needs to learn how to do it, or today's whippings will
be easy as pie in comparison pig."

	I have to follow the order.  All the while he speaks to me, he is
just going about his business and Crete is going about his.  Taskmaster
looks down at me to make sure I've faced him, then he looks face forward
and puts his elbows on his knees.  I keep my face pointed towards the
action but refuse to focus my eyes on it.  It is bad enough to hear the
sounds Crete is making.  He sounds like a dog denied food for a long
time-since he cannot control the flow, he has to breath when he gets a
chance and the sound is as sickening as the stench.

	"Damn Rex, I'm here filling up this dungeon with my smell and there
is a slave here who hasn't give me my due.  Is it going to do that, or does
it want to be whipped again?"

	Fuck.  I can't remember what it Crete said earlier.  "Thank you for
the gift from your body Taskmaster, I appreciate it."

	He looks down at me, still shitting into Crete as if it were as
common as using real porcelain.  "Not 'i' slave.  It is in a cage, it
serves a purpose but it is no longer a man or anything like that.  Look at
its slave brother.  Crete is eating my shit, that isn't something a man or
an I would do is it?"

	"No Taskmaster."

	"So say what you did, but do it the right way."

	"It appreciates the gift you've given it Taskmaster."  I blush
while I say this.

	"Oh, look how it blushes."  He says in a mock baby voice.  "Look at
its slave brother.  Is Crete blushing?"

	"No Taskmaster."

	"And Crete is serving a more useful purpose right now than it is,
so what does that make it?  If Crete is useful now and it isn't, what does
that make it?"

	"Less than Crete Taskmaster."

	"Kinda.  It makes it less than a shiteating slave.  It is lucky, if
it belonged to me entirely, it would have to eat what came out of its
brother until I felt it deserved a promotion."

	"Yes Taskmaster."

	"Right," he says coming down off of Crete's cage, "it don't sound
at all like it believes its position.  I guess it really don't matter
though.  It will come to understand it soon enough.  Now suck my junk
slave."  He puts his semi-hard cock through the bars and I do as he
commands.

	"Thank you for your gift Taskmaster."  Crete says, panting a
little.

	He stands still as I do all I can on his thick, salty meat.  "How
did it taste, slave?"

	"Better than a slave deserves Taskmaster."

	He must be very horny because his cock isn't even fully stiff when
he starts bucking against the cage to thrust better.  I then get a very hot
and bitter mouthful of Taskmaster jizz.  It's like he saves it all up for
one blow and it all comes out at once.  I swallow and fight making a face.

	"Thank you for the gift of your cum Taskmaster."

	"More than it deserves."  He says offhandedly as he pulls up his
shorts and leaves the dungeon.

	I look to Crete to try to talk him into helping me escape, but he
is already asleep again.


The Other Side of the Lash

	I blow a nut into my girlfriend at 14 (she was 15).  She gets
pregnant-until I knew better I was sure she was lying about being a virgin
since I though you couldn't get knocked up your first time.  Her parents
freak.  They come to my parents who were divorcing and then they freak out.
Then there is a call to Costa Rica and just a few days after, I'm wearing
handcuffs on a long drive from Fort Worth to a town outside San Jose.

	The men escorting me tell me it is a school for young men with
behavior problems.  They tell me to expect something less than a military
academy and more than a boarding school.  It calms me a little, but I'm
sick at my stomach for the whole trip and barely able to eat.  What they
tell me wasn't even close to what it really is.

	I get there and they 'process' me.  This means they strip me and
take me to room with other 14 year olds.  We are all naked and only some of
the wooden beds have mattresses or sheets on them.  There is one cracked
toilet and one sink for the half dozen of us.  I am handed a dog tags that
have one number on them in bright white paint-I notice the other boys have
them too.  Mine is 525.

	"You will get your name back when you earn it with enough behavior
points.  Until then you are 525.  You will refer to yourself that way and
your buds here will do the same.  Using names of any kind is punished
severely."  The man says as he shows me to the slats on legs that is my
'bed.'  "You earn bedding and clothes as you learn to behave.  The more
points, the more you get.  Once you get to the point where you are fully
clothed, you move up to a better dorm."

	Then he leaves.  I would ask questions if I weren't so busy trying
to hide my dick from everyone else and basically being embarrassed.  I sit
on the bed with my back to the wall, hugging my knees to my chest.  They
are looking me and I see that they are all thin, pale and dirty.

	I sit there for a little while before one of them asks me where I'm
from.  They all tell their hometowns and at least two of them get
teary-eyed.  I don't remember where any of them are from now.  I find out
that we are fed only once a day unless one of the older guys came to get
us.  I ask about classes and they all laugh a little.

	"You'll try to learn how to keep your asshole exit only, but it
won't work."

	I pull my knees even closer.  I know they are all naked and hungry
and dirty, but I think they are just kidding about that.

	"522 report for chow."  An intercom blares.

	A kid goes to the door, it buzzes unlocked and he disappears.  A
few minutes later he shows up with a rickety cart that had 8 bowls on it.
The food is a mostly bean soup slop.  I watch as the other kids start
eating the shit with their hands.  At first I refuse to do it, then I
realize if it is only once a day, I'll have to put pride aside for a little
while.  It doesn't have much taste and no meat as far as I can tell.

	After each boy finished his bowl, he put it back on the cart.  I
wasn't quite finished with the intercom rang again ordering 522 to return
the bowls.  He takes mine from me with as much force as his bony body will
allow.

	"I can't be late with it or they beat me."

	I let go, disbelieving.  And off he goes.

	Apparently more time ticks away than is usual and a couple of the
boys get nervous.  Then 522 returns and his back is welted with a ton of
red stripes.  His eyes are red and his nose is running.

	"You didn't finish all your chow.  I didn't want to tell, but they
beat me till I did."  He can't look at me.

	"525 report to staff room block D."

	"Um where is that?"

	"Turn left when you leave the room and go to the end of the hall."
522 says.

	I walk to the door still cupping my hands over my junk.  The door
buzzes and I open it and walk down the hall.  I go about 20 steps and get
to the office.  It is a metal desk and a guy of about 17 or so.

	"We expect grunts to eat all that is given them in the time given
them.  It didn't comply.  For every fuck up, it pays."  He says sitting on
the desk with his boots propped up on it still.

	"It?"

	"We don't call inmates still naked and called by only numbers by
human terms.  To us, inmates are it until they prove they aren't.  I've got
all my clothes; I got more hair on my dick than you.  And I have this."  He
holds up something I don't know the name of, I think they use it on horses
though.  "Bend over the desk and spread your legs wide."  I have no choice;
I do it.  "Now grab the sides of the desk.  First rule it gets reminded of
is that anyone better than it is called SIR, since it is the lowest there
is, everyone is SIR.  So you get 10 for that.  Second is the reminder that
all contents in its food bowl is to be eaten in the time given.  10 more
for that."

	I'd been paddled before; I figure this won't be much different.  I
am determined not to make any noises.  The fucker calls me it for not
finishing the bean shit in my bowl.  I ain't going to give him any
satisfaction.

	"Count each stroke."  He stings.  I hear the swish the feel the
burning swipe across my ass.

	I jerk, then say. "One sir."

	"No you see, when it gets beat, it has to use the whole title.
Mine is Block Commander, Inmate Block D."

	The next one crosses my ass.  The sting is horrible, but I keep my
cool.  "Two block commander, inmate block d sir."

	"No, see it has run into a problem.  The first one didn't count
because it counted wrong.  Start back at one."

	Swish.  Oh fuck.  "One, block commander, inmate block d sir."  This
goes on for nineteen more.  I am able to keep my wits and my calm a little.
By twenty though, I am hoarse and shaking and pouring sweat.

	"A'ite 525, back to the room."

	"Yes sir."  I whisper and head back.  My legs work, but they wobble
and are stiff at odd times.  It is hard to balance.  I get back to the room
and I am hit with a stink.  One kid is getting off the toilet and another
getting on as I come back in.  The one leaving doesn't flush.

	"Let's see."  One says pointing to my ass.  I turn and he says.
"No blood, but I know it hurts like shit."

	"Yeah.  Why don't you guys flush, it smells like shit in here."  I
ask.

	"Look at it when it's your turn, there's no flusher on it.  They
control it.  So sometimes they flush it after each one of us, sometimes
not.  When a new person gets here, it can stay full all night."

	"You're kidding."  The stink is horrible.  After the new boy does
his business, another follows.  There is no toilet paper, and the smell
with each boy seems to get worse.  Now I feel my own guts churn.  I fart
and realize I will need to be next in line.

	"I think they sometimes put stuff in the food."  523 says to me as
I walk towards the toilet.

	It is cracked.  There is no seat and no water in it, only a couple
of loads of boy shit.  I have no choice.  It is either in the can or on the
floor-and on the floor is worse for them and no doubt painful for me later.
I barely just touch my red ass on the rim and I realize I won't be able to
do that.  So I have to take my dump standing up.  I squat as best I can and
hold my cheeks apart gingerly and then just relax.  Whatever they put in
the chow does all the work as it comes out of me blown by several farts.  I
gag a little as I walk back to my bed-the closest to the toilet.

	I lie on my stomach on the hard slats and start to cry a little.  I
didn't do that the whole trip down and didn't do it when my ass was being
beat, but now I can't help it.  523 comes over to me as another boy blows
his ass load into the toilet.

	"Its ok to do that here.  But don't ever let any of the commanders
see you do that."

	"What would they do that is worse?"  I know as soon as I ask.

	"Just rest."

	The morning starts with us being started out of bed with a loud
alarm like a fire alarm.  The shit is still in the toilet, the stink still
in the air, and all of us tired and hungry.  522 goes to the door,
stumbling a little and rubbing his eyes.  The door buzzes open and the guy
who beat me last night is there with a bucket in either hand.

	"Holy fucking Christ.  The smell inmates make is criminal enough to
keep them locked up."  He puts a surgical mask over his face.  He walks
over to the toilet.  We all stand at the end of our beds, except for 522,
who takes the buckets to the sink.  He fills one up with water and leaves
one.

	"525, this is too full to flush.  It will have to empty the inmate
shit into that bucket.  I can tell by the way it looks around that it is
trying to figure out what to scoop it with.  Well, obviously its hands are
good enough.  The rest know what to do!"

	523 and 524 start licking his boots.  The rest take the bucket and
the scrub brushes in it and start scrubbing the cell floor.  I take the
bucket under the sink and look at the toilet.  I am going to die.  This is
a standard sized toilet and it is mostly full of boy shit.  My ass still
stings from last night.  I know I can expect more and probably worse if I
don't do what he orders.  I dip my fingers in like I would water I think is
hot.  I start to gag.

	"525, puke and it eats what comes up no matter where it falls . . .
where is my yes sir?"

	"Yes sir."  There is no way for me to describe it.  I hold my
breath and keep my eyes closed as much as I can.  I pretend it is mud and
so long as I can keep my breath held, I can make myself believe it.  I fill
the bucket and he comes over to inspect.  He nods his head and the toilet
flushes.  There must be a camera in the room.

	"525 get the bucket and come with me; the rest head to the yard."

	They all say yes sir, I say yes sir and follow him.

	I follow him out of the building into the heat and humidity of a
Costa Rican day.  He walks to a little creek and says to dump the bucket in
the creek then rinse it out after.  Next I follow him to back into the
building and in the showers.
	
	"Wash up."

	"Yes sir."

	The water is lukewarm but the idea of getting clean is better than
just about anything.  I don't even mind that much as the soap and water
sting the welts on my ass.  I'm totally soaped up when he grabs me and
rapes me.

	I know boys say that it feels like you're being ripped open when
another guy shoves his dick up your ass, but it isn't like that for me.  It
hurts, but there it's more like my asshole is on fire and I'm having cramps
further up.  That pain though is nothing compared to the feeling of having
no control.  I never knew how much I have tied up in a feeling that I can
control at least some things.

	Later, when we are all back together, 523 notices the way I look.

	"He fuck you?"

	I nod.

	"Did you bleed?"

	"Um, I don't know . . . I don't think so."

	"Let me look.  I know its gross, but it's important."  He says.  I
bend over and let him look.  "Looks ok.  He must like you, it looks like he
might have used some lube."

	Two more times I am raped during that first week.  The next time, I
have decided that he will have to kill me if he wants to do that again.  I
know his pattern by this point and when I feel the air move around my
midsection where he grabs me; I whirl around and kick him in the balls.  He
goes down with a thud and I kick him in the jaw and then in the chest.
Then I go back to the cell.  I fully expect to have the hell beat out of
me, but it will be worth it to say, at least once, that he wasn't going to
get my ass for free anymore.

	He and two more commanders come to get me.  They are silent as I
walk between them to what I guess is the main office.

	"Did you attack your block commander?"  A man in his early twenties
asks.  We are in his office and it is cool here.  I shiver some because I'm
not used to air-conditioning now.

	"He was trying to rape me again sir, yes I attacked him, but only
after he came after me again sir."

	"Is this true?"  He asks my commander.

	"Of course not.  I asked it to do something it didn't want to and
it just went nuts."

	The man behind the desk thinks on this for a minute.  "Tim, go get
Hayden a commander uniform and take yours off, you're being demoted."

	"What!?"  Tim says.  "I just told you that this fucker attacked me
for no reason."

	"Look I know you've gone at his ass, and I don't give a shit about
that.  You know how it works.  You have 40 pounds and 8 inches on this kid
and he took you down.  So even if you weren't fucking his tail, you fell
victim to a runt so you would no longer have any control over the rest of
the inmates."  Then to me.  "I'm going to give you some training for a week
or so, I'm expecting some 13 year olds to show up soon and you'd be perfect
to handle them."

	Tim comes back naked, but carrying a jock, pair of shorts and
t-shirt for me.  "Get your own damned boots."

	I hold onto the clothing.  I look at the main man and he nods, so I
put them on.  They feel a bit funny and constricting even though (except
for the jock) the area pretty loose-I never would have figured I would be
comfortable being naked all the time.

	"Now, Tim.  Take Hayden's number.  It will now be 525 in block A."

	I take the dog tags off, happy to be rid of them.

	"You better watch your ass fucker, next time my dick is in it
you'll suck your last breath."  He rips the tags from my hand.

	"Perfect time to start your lessons, Hayden."  The man says.  He
goes behind his desk and hands me whip thing that had been Tim, um 525's
until just a few minutes ago.  "I'm sure you've been on the other end of
this, show me what you can do with it."

	"Um, 525 assume the position."  I sound scared.

	"Are you a faggot Hayden?"  The man asks, I shake my head.  "Did
525 pop your cherry?"  I nod; I also get the picture.
	
	"Fucker, bend over that fucking desk now."  My voice is deeper and
louder than I though I could ever get it.  525 bends over the desk.  I
start whipping his ass.  I must not be doing it very hard because 525 isn't
making any noises and the man seems concerned.

	"You'll need to be quicker with the swing and put your full weight
behind it.  If he raped me, I'd be trying to cut him in half with it."

	I take his advice and swing with all I have, my bare feet coming
off of the floor with each stroke.  He made me count, but I'm enjoying this
too much to have to slow down for any reason for him.  It feels good in an
odd, cold way to be doing this.  I am very calm despite having a raging
stiffy.  I hear him yelp as I watch the welts form on his ass.  I want to
stick my cock up his hole so badly.  That makes me even madder, so I find a
way to swing harder.  Blood starts to leak out of some of the newer welts.

	"I think that's enough.  Now, 525, don't you have something to
say?"

	"Thank you sir."  He says as he turns to face me.  I shoot a load
into the jock.

	"You just get a nut without touching Hayden?"

	I am panting and very surprised myself.  I blush and say, "Yes
sir."

	"Don't be embarrassed dude, just means you're a natural at it."

	I practice on 525 and a couple of other demoted commanders in the
man's office (I never do learn his real name, he's just always "sir").  He
gives me the rules that are simple.  I am to maintain order with an iron
hand and a leather crop.  Any means are fine so long as the kids do not
require medical attention for broken bones.

	"Just keep an eye on them and if they look unhealthy for any
reason, let me know and I'll look in on the inmate and decide if any action
is necessary.  Otherwise, do whatever you think it will take to keep the
boys in line.

	On the first day after I get the revenge on 525, I promise I will
never do what he did.  I would be better about it.  By the third day, I get
so good at bringing the older boys to tears with my lashes that I realize I
like doing it, and it was going to be hard to keep that promise to myself.
By the fifth day, I say fuck it to my promise.  I cum nearly every time I
made the older boys crumple on the floor.

	A few days later, I get 6 thirteen year olds numbers 600 through
605.  I am certain none of them had ever had nightmares to compare to me.

	In turn, each of the six get 10 whacks with my crop.  Each one is
in tears when I have finished.
	
	"When I come in to the room, all y'all have to kneel on the floor
with heads on the concrete and ass in the air.  You have to ask permission
to get up.  What I say, gets done, or you and one of your little faggot
buddies get beat."  I have no idea where these ideas come from, 525 never
had us do any of that stuff.

	The first night for all of them is like my first night.  They all
get food with a small amount of laxative in it.  I watch their progress and
torment in a room behind the man's office with him and a couple of other
block commanders.

	"You going to pick one of them and do what Tim did to you?"  The
man asks.

	"Nah, thought I would be more fair about it.  Have each of them
scoop some out and walk it to the creek.  Spread the joy."

	"You are one mean fucker Hayden."  He says.

	Over the course of the next three years, I get more and more clever
and more and more vicious about handling the inmates.  I do not fuck any of
those under me.  I sometimes fuck the demoted commanders when the man wants
a show, but that is as far as it goes.  For the first 18 months or so I can
cum just by beating or humiliating an inmate.  After that though, it
doesn't happen so easily.  So I leash 522 making him my suck-slave.  I
never do get his real name-it never matters to me.

	The inmates are so fucking scared of me that when the authorities
raid the place, none of them will finger me in any way, even though I
expect to be arrested with some of the others.  I chalk that one up to luck
I guess.

	I get home to a very guilty mother who is so horrified at what has
happened she doesn't know what to do.  She buys me anything I want and
tries to get me a tutor who will catch me up on the 4 years of school I
lost.  But it is useless.  All I want to do is fuck chicks.

	But that is all useless too.  It isn't for lack of pussy.  Girls
hear about how wounded I was and they are waiting in line.  The problem is
that I can't stay hard long enough to get a nut.  The only time I am able
to do it is when I get the mental image of whipping a cowering inmate.  It
is frustrating to the extreme.  They couldn't have found a better cure for
getting a girl pregnant if they had tried (short of cutting my nuts off).

	So I go online.  I figure that I could find some girls into SM.
This turns out to be frustrating too.  The 'girls' online who want what I
need to get off are fat old and ugly; no matter how hard I smacked them
around, I'd never get a nut.

	But I get a message from this guy in Dallas.  He chats with me,
discovers my past and wants to see me in action with his slave.  I haven't
gotten off in a real way since leaving Costa Rica two months back, so I do
it.  I impress him enough for him to call a friend of his in Colorado.

The Race

	Friday evening of the race, all of the hands and as many field
slaves as knew about the event showed up at the barn.  With nothing to bet,
the spectators were there for the prurient joy alone.  They began to arrive
at the barn about an hour before sundown, many brought their dinner with
them.

	Ka decided that there wasn't enough incentive not to lose, or for
that matter, to win.  So he changed the rewards.  The winning hand would
take the hands of the last two teams to cross the line as his horses the
next time-his winning horses then being 'freed' for the other hands to
fight over if they liked (this would tend to mitigate the likelihood that
any one hand would run away with many consecutive wins).  That was
incentive for the hands.  For the ponies, the losing pair would have to lay
in the main honeyboy's trough for a day, giving those pigs some relief from
the hard tile.

	The test runs proved that the ponies couldn't maintain enough speed
through all the turns to keep things interesting.  So the route was
changed.  The distance would be half a mile.  The teams would run to a post
a quarter of a mile out and return to the barn, making then only one turn.
The starting line was a bit diagonal, with the first position-closest to
the main line-farther back than each of the others following.

	When everyone was gathered, Ka called each of the hands leading
teams together.

	"Ok, I'm putting 8 numbers in a hat.  Each of you take one, the
number is your position.

	Each hand then took his team and attached them to their positions,
then guided them to their position.

	"Ok, Buck, will you do the honors of starting us off?"  He shouted
towards Buck who was standing at a skeptical distance.

	"Actually, I think I would rather do that."  Sam said; he was
walking up.

	"Certainly, Sir, we would all be honored."

	Sam walked to a position a dozen or so yards forward from the
starting line and held up a white cloth.  "Can everyone see this?"

	Yes sir's all around.

	"Ok, men," Ka said, "bandanas."  With this each hand tied a bandana
as a gag.  They had to direct their team with rein and whip only.

	"Ready . . . Set . . . GO!"  Sam dropped the flag and stepped back
a bit.  Once everyone cleared his position, he went back to watch with the
rest of the crowd.

	"I still don't see why you think this is a good thing."  Buck said
to Sam as he came back.

	"For me it is fun to watch.  And-you know how often I pull
rank-that is enough."  Sam said watching the teams speed and bunch up.

	"I just want to go on record as saying this will cause problems
that I don't think you've considered."

	"So you've said, but since you have not been able to tell me what
those problems are, there is no reason for me not to continue as I see
fit."  Sam said in a calmness that belied the sternness of the words.
	
	At this point, the audience saw one team break away-from the
distance it wasn't possible to tell who, only to know that he was using the
whip more liberally than the others.  He was the first to make the turn and
had to turn very widely because he hadn't slowed down enough to make it
happen more easily.  In the process, three other teams moved past him.

	The lead changed five times before one team crossed the line.  Chet
and his two ponies crossed the line a length before the second place
finisher.

	It would be ironic to anyone who hadn't felt a whip perhaps, but
the last place finisher was the one who used the whip so effectively at the
beginning.  Ka came in last by about fifteen full seconds-not even that
close to the next to last finisher, Todd.

	"That," Buck said as respectfully as he could, "is what I meant.
Ka is in a very difficult position now and he doesn't handle that well.  I
ain't saying that this will wreck the whole thing, but it brings in an
uneasiness that wasn't there before."

	"So keep an eye on him and let me know.  I know how to take care of
that sort of thing."  Sam smiled and went to shake Chet's hand.