Date: Tue, 17 Nov 2015 21:46:44 +0000 (UTC)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Passing, Part Four

PASSING

A story by Pete Brown  (petebrownuk@yahoo.com)

Part  Four       Managing two slaves.  A meeting with a slave trader.


As I was walking to the tube that evening I was thinking about Greg and
Jason and how I was going to differentiate them. Fortunately there's a
slave accessories shop in one of the malls at Canary Wharf so I diverted
slightly and went in and made a purchase before continuing home.

Back in the apartment there was an air of simmering resentment between the
two of them, and I suspected there had been rows, perhaps even blows,
during the day. Jason was dressed like Greg in Greg's shorts and a T and
the white material did, I have to say, set off his rich tan and bleached
blond arm and leg hair really rather agreeably.  But I am used to finding
my way through the kind of "office politics" that obsesses so many men,
especially those who are masculine and virile like Jason and Greg and of
whom there are many in my office, and I know it's best to act sooner or
later.

I tossed the package at Jason and told him to open it and dress.  He tore
at it eagerly, half-smirking at Greg as if to show him that he was now in
my favour.  He stripped off the T and pulled on what I'd bought - in
English we'd refer to it as a singlet, a T without arms, with the armholes
lying low under the pits, and cut relatively low at the front so the upper
chest is exposed.  And I'd deliberately chosen one that was very loose and
not tight fitting. He stood there then, flexing his arm muscles in pride
and smirking at Greg again.

"Finish, then", I snapped.  He looked at me in surprise, but before he
could say anything I continued "That's your uniform around the house. Now
get out of those shorts and return them to Greg."

He was about to say something, to complain I suppose, but saw Greg's whole
body tense rather menacingly. He eased the shorts down, slowly, tugging at
the hem of the singlet to make it go down as far as it would. But I was
pleased to see that my estimate in the store had been correct and that
however hard he tried it was so short that it finished just a little above
the end of his cock.  He looked at me as if he wanted to ask me not to make
him wear it.  Then stuttered "Please, sir, don't make me wear this...."

"You've no need of shorts, Jason, if that's what you mean. And I suppose I
could let you go around the place totally naked, but I rather like my
slaves to wear something, and that makes you look rather good - I like the
way the white contrasts with your tan.  So that is what you will wear from
now on."

I could see Greg wanted to say something and half nodded to give him
permission.  "Without shorts he might dirty the furniture, sir. These young
guys are too quick sometimes and don't wipe themselves properly..."

"Quite right!  Thank you, Greg.  Jason, you will in future not sit on the
furniture, or on the silk rug. When you are not standing you will sit only
on the bare wood of the floor."

He went to say something but once again saw Greg's body tense, ready to
strike, and sullenly he hung his head.  I felt rather sorry for him I
suppose, but I was pleased that I had certainly established a proper
"pecking order" between my slaves by this differentiation. And actually he
did look really sensual as when he moved more of his cock was fleetingly
exposed, and at the back the thing had a tendency to ride up to bunch on
top of his buttocks, so adding emphasis to them.

I didn't share my dinner with either of them later, but did allow Greg to
sit at the table with me as usual but made Jason squat on the floor.  And I
felt rather pleased with myself at how well things were going.  Before bed
I told Greg to search out the lockable collar and chain that I had been
persuaded to buy by the dealer when I'd bought him, but which I do not use,
and which had never disposed of.

Next morning, Saturday, it had turned cold and there was the usual London
grey sky making it seem far worse.  I told Greg that the T and shorts were
not sufficient as were going out and it might anyway rain, and he quickly
stripped and pulled on "slave jeans" as they are called (very cheap, rather
coarse, without any of the fancy stitching and so on you find on "proper"
jeans - only slaves now appear in jeans like this), and a fleece top.  In
spite of his protests I then had Jason collared and chained to the slave
tethering point in the floor, with which all expensive apartments are now
fitted.  It has the advantage that the slave can get to the lavatory and
can drink from a tap, but cannot reach the telephone or any of the controls
for the entertainment system.  I told Jason it would be good for him to
wait patiently for me to return without anything at all to do other than to
think about his life now.  All I then had to do was to tell Greg to kneel
so I could clip a transport token onto his collar, and we were off.

It was quite interesting I suppose to continue past Canary Wharf on the
tube to Stratford, as Canary Wharf is the furthest East I normally go . But
once there it was grossly oppressively overcrowded in the passageway to the
Central Line (as I have since learned it is every Saturday morning since
the huge shopping centre opened just before the Olympics).  Greg did his
best to make it easy for me in the throngs but it's difficult for him as a
slave - he's big enough and strong enough to shoulder a way through, but he
has to remember that any one of those free men and women could make a
complaint against him as he's a slave (and I noticed that he'd pulled the
zipper on his fleece up really high, to try to hide his collar).

On the Central it was OK as I suppose most people were travelling in to
Stratford at that time, rather than out. But when we climbed the steps up
to the road at Lepton Station I was not at all impressed. In the early part
of the century the continuing rise in London property prices would have
pushed "gentrification" out this far easily, and the rows of Victorian and
Edwardian workers' houses would have been improved, modified, enhanced and
extended, and the whole area ultimately would have become a middle-class
place with the shopping street lined with clothes boutiques, fancy
delicatessens, organic greengrocers, coffee shops, and so on.  It had
evidently suffered badly in the "great crash" though, when so many people
could no longer afford the enormous mortgages to buy in places like
this. Many of them would have been enslaved for debt, and those that did
survive would have found it possible to move back into more fashionable
parts of the capital.

So now it had a distinctly "seedy" air, and had become one of those areas
known for slave dealing.  There was a Scabbard & Drass "outlet" (not the
proper luxury showrooms) opposite the station where I suppose there might
once have been a small shopping mall, and the rest of the high street
appeared to be given over to slave outfitters, sellers of restraint
devices, "fancy dress" purveyors for slaves (really rather coarse and in
bad taste), bulk slave chow suppliers offering rock-bottom prices for
slightly out-of-date material, a couple of places offering punishment
services, and no less than three sex shops with their windows blacked out
but with signs offering the use of slaves by the half-hour, hour or half
day in every possible combination of single and multiple males and females:
really quite disgraceful, but even at that time in the morning there were
men (and the occasional woman!) going in.  I couldn't imagine how it must
feel to use a slave sexually in such places, but perhaps some people finds
it adds to the excitement. Or perhaps it's all they can afford.

My communicator was telling me that our destination was an eight minute
walk away from the High Street and so we set off, Greg now respectfully a
step behind me but ever watchful.  "I wouldn`t be surprised if there were
some nasty folk around places like this, sir...", and perhaps he was right:
as we passed one of the sex places a "barker" outside made it difficult for
me to pass as he tried to persuade me to enter.

"You and your mate, just pay for one and you can both come in as it's
morning" he was saying as he blocked my path.  I really was rather shocked
- not about being offered the services of the sex shop, but because the man
clearly thought that I, smartly dressed in my leather overcoat, my hair
stylishly cut, would have sex with a brutish-looking guy like Greg in his
cheap fleece and jeans! But then I suppose some men do go for "rough
types", and older men, too, so perhaps it was understandable. And he was
only doing his job.

When we finally turned the last corner and saw our destination it was
obvious that it had once been a small builder's yard or something, and that
had been rather inelegantly converted into what looked like two or three
buildings.  There was a big sign outside, in those kind of supposedly "fun"
characters in all different bright colours saying "Dave's Slaves" which
didn't add much to the general style of the place.  But as we'd come this
far and as I did have something that needed doing, we went in.

The "waiting room" was a tiny space with a couple of old chairs in it and a
small counter behind which was clearly a slave - she was black, very black,
probably only about twenty years old, wearing very, very low cut brief
slave shorts.  She was in very good condition, she must work out I thought,
as her bare breasts were held high and showed no signs of sagging at all.
Greg made some sort of appreciative sound.

"I'm here to see Mr Challenor. My PA made an appointment..."

"He don't do appointments."  Her speech was uneducated. "Sit down and I'll
try and get him".  With that she turned and went out of a door behind the
desk, literally waggling her ass at us as she did so!  Greg made that sound
again - I'm not a good judge of females, probably because I'm not
interested in them, but evidently Greg, who is interested, found her more
than satisfactory.

We waited for some minutes as I sat and leafed my way through months-old
copies of "The Slave Owner", and Greg of course stood.  I amused myself by
looking out beyond the magazine to see if those cheap jeans were concealing
an erection.  I'd decided they probably did, when the door behind the
counter burst open and a big man came through.

"Dave Challenor", he said, holding out his (rather dirty) hand.  "You must
be the gent who had Sammy call me yesterday.  So what can I do for you
then?"

I shook his hand - he pressed mine hard - and I felt myself almost
instantly liking him.  He was about the same age as me, I guessed, and in
pretty good shape, as am I, too.  He had an unruly mass of dark blond hair
which his shirt, open too far down his chest, revealed was also on his
body.  His jeans, tucked in to stout working boots and rather grubby,
seemed to show an impressive bulge.  This was the kind of rough type that
the man outside the sex shop earlier obviously thought Greg was, and in
spite of what I said earlier about rough types, there was a distinctive
"magnetic" appeal to him.  Until I saw that in his other hand he was
holding a whip - not one of those small ones that in the early days I'd
bought to threaten Greg with, but a proper long bullwhip, neatly coiled so
he could hold it.... And it was dripping with blood and what could be, and
probably were my brain told me, bits of flesh.

"Well it's a somewhat complicated matter - Did my PA say anything?  Could
we go to your office to discuss...."

"Who, little Sammy?  He wouldn't say. But said it must be important for you
to spend time on it.  He respects you, that lad does.  All the family's
glad he pulled himself up and got a good job, so we owe you big time and if
I can help, I will. But look, I'm in the middle of something, and really
ought to finish it.  You can wait, or perhaps you'd be interested in my
operation?  Follow me around and have a look at what we do here, as it
might throw some light on how I can help."

I felt rather amused at the idea of Sam, so "in control" at the office was
"little Sammy" around here.  But I thought it would be interesting to see
some of the operation here, and said sure, I'd like to see.

"You'll have to leave your slave here - he might be upset.  You can have
him fuck the girl if you like, she needs breeding, and a big buck like him
could sire a really good-looking `breed with her, I reckon."

The girl didn't seem to care, but looked over at Greg rather slyly.  He
looked horrified.

"Oh no, Greg won't be upset.  He was in the marines, and I think he saw a
lot out in the wars...  And he's totally obedient."

"It's different here, for slaves.  When they see what we do for some of the
slaves here they do find it very upsetting.  And let me give you a little
tip, based on long experience.  There's no such thing as a `totally
obedient' slave.  Only a slave where the threshold between obedience and
punishment is in balance. Take it too far out and it doesn't matter what
threats the future might hold, a slave will disobey because the present is
so bad."

"I assure you Greg's not like that.  He's sensible, obedient..."

"Well we'll see. But don't say I didn't warn you."  He looked at Greg and
said "Unclothe".

"There's no need for that..."

"Yes there is, sir.  For two reasons.  Firstly, all slaves `out the back'
are naked. So it's easy for the guards to be able to distinguish free men,
like you and me, from them.  And secondly, if he does `go rogue', or even
if he's a `bit uppity' as we say in the trade, then there's a lot of bare
skin for the goads to strike.  Anyway, as I said, you can leave him here
and he can fuck the girl if he wants - and if you agree, of course - or he
can strip and accompany you."

Even at times like this I can't resist a deal.  "If he does stay, what's
the fee, the stud fee?"

Dave laughed.  "You're a clever one.  Sammy said that.  No fee, you just
get the satisfaction of knowing that your slave is still a man, a real man
that is, capable of getting the girl pregnant."

This was funny. I was enjoying it.  And thinking about how Greg was always
going on about how he never had "proper" sex now, I looked at him and said
"It's up to you, Greg. Strip off and come with us, or stay here and have a
bit of fun - I can see from the way your shorts are tenting you find the
girl desirable."

Greg actually glared at me.  He's at the point now where he finds it easier
for me to make all the decisions for him. And he was going to be
uncomfortable with whatever he did, having to decide for himself.

"I'll stay here, sir. But I won't touch the girl, thank you."

Dave barked "You fucking slave!  You'll do whatever your owner says.  If he
wants you to fuck her, you will. And if he doesn't, you won't. You don't
get to choose - you're a slave."

Thinking about it I realised I didn't want Greg's cock in the female, so I
said "No fucking. But next time you complain about not having the sight or
even scent of a woman, I'll remind you of today.  It's been offered, and
you turn it down, but in the end I decide, decide I don't ant you to fuck
her.... now.  In fact, I'm not even certain that I shouldn't insist - it's
not good for slaves to make choices."  I was smiling inwardly as I said
this, and saw Greg's face start to look all anxious.  "But we're in a
hurry, so on this occasion, suit yourself."

So saying, Dave opened the door behind the desk and went through, expecting
me to follow.

We went into a dark, narrow passageway that after a couple of paces opened
into what must be one of the other buildings on the narrow site.  There was
a pathway between lines of cages on either side - really small cages, only
just large enough for a slave to lie down in them, and very uncomfortable:
just bars, and a bare concrete floor.  Most of them contained a naked
slave, and I could see that Dave must be one of those total
non-discriminatory people as there was a random mixture of races, and the
sexes were all mixed up too (although, as you'd expect, there were far more
males than females).  There was an intoxicating scent in the air - bodies,
I suppose, all those pheromones, mixed in with piss, and a bit of shit.  It
was like being at a zoo seeing the animals in their cages.

"This is my stock", Dave told me.  "Not top class, as you can see.  Mostly
too old, or too weak, or downright ugly.  But I buy `em cheap, exercise `em
a bit to put on a bit of firm flesh, and sell `em on to the trade."

"What's your margin?"

He looked surprised. "About 10% I suppose. No one's ever asked me that
before."

"Gross or nett?"

He looked uneasy so I added "10% between buying and selling prices, or 10%
after you've taken into account all the expense of running this place -
cost of capital employed, business rates, power and heat, guards...."

"Oh, I try to get 10% more than I paid."

"Well I suspect you're barely profitable, then.  All those costs mount
up. Especially the cost of capital and so on.  I assume you do make a
profit?"

He looked as if he was going to tell me to mind my own business, but
instead said "You're a shrewd one, aren't you!  Most people I show around
are more interested in the slaves than in the numbers in the books."

"Perhaps that's why I'm a very successful business man, then."  We both
laughed, but he looked a bit more worried when I added "But at those
margins you probably aren't profitable at all.  So I suspect there's a few
deals made on the side, where the sales don't hit the books at all?  That
must be a challenge since they introduced VAT on slaves, and the VAT people
have always been much hotter on looking at the business than the
Corporation Tax people are!  If you don't know it already, let me tell you
to be careful, very careful. Very careful indeed - it would be a pity if
you ended up in a cage like that yourself in some other dealer's stock
rooms, after the tax authorities pounced!"

He wasn't smiling at all now, so I tried to lighten the mood a bit by
adding "But if you do, try to get a message to me - I'll make a decent
offer for you..."

We didn't continue then as we came out into a small enclosed courtyard
where there was a slave hanging by his wrists from a whipping frame.  His
back was already shredded, and there was a pool of blood on the floor
underneath.

"I just need to finish this one - you arrived when I was almost done."

"Finish it?  It looks finished..."

He bent close to me and said calmly and quietly. "No, it's one of my
special services.  If you have a violent slave and get the courts to order
a proper bull whipping, and you send it to a public whipmaster, it will
come back to you damaged and it will take time for it to recover and
there's no guarantee of success.  So you've got all the expense of having
it not work, needing drugs, all that sort of stuff, and you end up with
something that isn't worth much anyway. But if you send it here - I have a
licence to carry out bull whippings - you will get it back, but so badly
damaged that it will die in a day or two.  A huge saving of money. And
exactly what owners want - they need an example to show all their other
slaves what happens if they too are violent.  It's a skill I've got - it
mustn't die here or my licence is at risk, so I have to gauge just how far
I can go. And I'm pretty good at it."

As he said this, Dave handed his jacket to a waiting slave, uncurled the
fearsome whip he's been carrying, cracked it in the air, and then set into
the slave.  It was disgusting.  Horrifying.  I've never been exposed to
these more physical aspects of slave ownership and management, and seeing
this poor creature being literally flayed alive in front of me was
terrible.  He was so far gone he had ceased screaming and there was only a
continuous keening sound coming from him, as his writhing and struggling
gradually died away too.  Still, the courts do not lightly order a bull
whipping, and so I suppose the slave only had itself to blame. And in our
society it is necessary to keep the slaves under ultimate control I
suppose.

When he'd finished a slave bought Dave a basin of water and he rinsed his
hands delicately, and we both watched as two big niggas cut the slave down
and dragged it away.  Dave's shirt was drenched in sweat, and I found
myself very attracted to this example of sheer masculine brutality.

We went on, through an area where slaves were exercising - or perhaps it
would be better to say "being exercised", as the guards standing around
allowed for no letup in what they were doing, and Dave told me it was his
"intensive" course to put the stock, and owners' slaves, into better
physical condition.

And then the sex room, where...  No, I must continue with the narrative.
Suffice it to say there was every imaginable kind of act being "taught" to
the slaves, both singly and in pairs, and threesomes, and quartets, some
all one sex, some mixed.

After about half an hour Dave seemed to have finished his inspection,
turned to me and said "Come to the office then and tell me about your
problem", and strode off with me following.

The office was rather better than the reception area.  I wondered if Dave
deliberately kept the reception area rather mean and scruffy to give
clients the impression it was a "cheap" place where the prices would be
low.  In the office though there was a very businesslike desk with a
terminal on it, and proper "office" chairs, very much like he ones we had
at Canary Wharf.  To one side of the room there was a counter top with a
small sink and an expresso machine, tended to by a slave.

"So, coffee, or something stronger?  Whiskey....?"

"No, coffee's good. Black, no sugar, please."

I watched in fascination as he slave made it.  Like the slave at reception
he was clearly rather exceptional, and therefore, I guessed, very
expensive.  It looked as if Dave did not bother to stint himself with the
quality of the slaves around him personally.  This particular one was a lad
- he must have been only just above the age limit for enslavement.  Slight,
some would say skinny, and some would say starved-looking as his ribs were
all visible.  He wore only the very tiniest pair of pale blue sating
shorts, and I do mean tiniest: I have Greg keep his pubes clipped and
trimmed so he can wear the low-slung slave shorts I like to see on a man,
but this slave's were of a different order altogether.  He must have been
totally shaved (as, I now saw, the rest of him appeared to be), as the top
of the shorts was literally right at the top of his cock!  He wasn't
stunningly well hung, but his cock, outlined through the satin, seemed to
be properly in proportion to the rest of him.

He came over and gave me my coffee, then went and knelt by the side of
Dave, who almost affectionately ruffled his hair.  "Good, Timmy.  You're
learning.  But when you offered my guest his coffee you didn't kneel as
you've been told to, to make sure there's nothing else he wants.  So you
know what that means, don't you?"

The young slave nodded, stood up, and pushed down his shorts.  As he turned
I could see his bum was bright red, in contrast to the rest of his
milky-white skin.  He almost fell across Dave's lap, and Dave held him
there with his big hand pushed into the lad's neck as he slapped his bum
hard - and for a powerful man like Dave, I could imagine "hard" was very
hard.  The lad squealed and then sobbed, but made no plea for mercy. And
his wriggling, to try to avoid the blows, didn't seem to be all that
serious - indeed, it looked rather erotic.

After six slaps Dave stopped and pushed the lad off his lap, and he
sprawled on the floor.  Now I could see his cock clearly, and it was, as I
has suspected, "just right".  And perhaps the spanking had not been as hard
a I thought, as he was erect.  He stood there looking somehow vulnerable
and defenceless, and wiped a tear away fro his eyes.

"He's a nice lad is Timmy", Dave told me.  "He's lucky I found him tucked
away in a corner at Scabbard & Drass.  Something must have gone wrong with
their system as had he appeared on the auction platform some old pervert
would certainly have snapped him up for a high price - some of those old
men do dreadful things with young slaves!  I paid the pre-auction asking
price straight away. - ludicrously low, it was And now I'm teaching him how
to work properly as a house slave."

"He certainly does look good, if you like young lads like that.  But he's
so young - what did he do?"

"Oh, the usual!  Hormones raging, so he had sex, lots of it, with the girls
in his school. Then one of them got pregnant - silly boy - the parents
complained, she said she'd been forced, of course, so he was held in
juvenile detention until his birthday, and then sent off to S & D to be
sold. "  He paused, and went on "It's wrong, if you ask me.  They shouldn't
enslave you until you're eighteen. But anyway Timmy here has fallen on his
feet, so to speak, to be bought by me - I don't fancy sex with youngsters.
I'll make a good profit when I do sell him, of course, but until then I've
got to feed and clothe him...."

"....well that doesn't look as if it costs much!"

Dave laughed "So you're a joker, too!  And then there are the medical
bills, the annual slave tax...  I don't supposed it's a problem for a man
like you, but for those of us struggling to make ends meet...."

"Enough!  I reckon you've got a good thing going here. All those slaves to
use - it's not my style, but that young girl at reception looked pretty
remarkable.  A lot of cash-under-the-table transactions, I'd imagine.  A
good home in a relatively central area, paid for out of the business
profits....  You probably end up with more than me!"

He laughed again.  "Oh, I wouldn't say that.  I do have a big financial
crisis looming. But what about you?  Sammy didn't know anything, or said he
didn't..."

End of Part Four