Date: Tue, 29 Jun 2004 22:08:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: You Can't Be Friends With A Slave, Parts 19-20

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part nineteen

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

A SERVANT

Then  he fucked me for the second time. And there
wasn't anything  I could do about it, except kneel
there and take it.  I felt the familiar fear, anger,
shock, rage, humiliation and disgust rise as he prised
my butt apart and started to run the tip of his dick
up and down my crack.  He was breathing heavily and
almost crooning to himself as he fiddled around, and
then he put his hand in the middle of my back as if to
steady himself, and with his other hand he must have
positioned his dick head at my pucker, because I felt
its insistent nudging at me.

"There, Steve...", he crooned.  "Any moment now....
Are you ready...."

I didn't need to reply, as the next instant I felt the
pressure increase as he tried to force his way in.  I
gritted my teeth, as I wasn't going to give him the
satisfaction of knowing that he was both hurting and
humiliating me.  The pressure increased, and I
couldn't help it - I went to move forward, as if
subconsciously I was trying to get away from him.  But
he followed me up the bed, and there was nowhere to
go, really, was there, as my head was soon at the
headboard, nestling against my cuffed hands.  The
remorseless pressure on my hole increased, until I
think Billy-Joe lost patience - there was a lightness,
as if he pulled back, then a "slam" as he thrust
forward.  In spite of myself and my determination to
make no noise, I couldn't help it - I gave a cry, as
my sphincter was stretched and his dick slid in.

Once you're in you usually give the other guy time to
recover, don't you?  The stretched sphincter muscles
need time to relax a bit, and then you slide the rest
of your dick in nice and gently, going as slowly as
you need to in order to make sure the guy you're
fucking is happy with it.  And only after that do you
speed up.  Look, I know I hadn't always done that to
Billy-Joe when I'd fucked him recently as he actually
liked it "rough".  But I wasn't like that, was I?  He
knew I hated taking dick.  He knew I was almost a
virgin.  He knew that I had no experience of rough
sex.  But did that stop him?  No - once he'd broken
through my defences he simply went at it in a fever of
excitement, thrusting his whole dick in to start with
without stopping, so that I felt his wiry pubic hair
right up against my butt.  Then he was off, in and
out, in and out - long, hard strokes, without any
consideration at all for how I felt.

I buried my face into the crisp starched pillow, to
help me stifle my shouts of humiliation and pain.  I
don't think I revealed to him just how much I was
hating this.  Although he could fuck me, I wanted him
to know that I was still a real man, a man capable of
taking whatever he chose to dish out in his perverted
way.  It went on and on.  I couldn't really understand
it.  Billy-Joe used to be fit and active, like me, but
recently he'd put on so much blubber that I felt sure
he couldn't perform such feats of athleticism.  If
he'd had to run a hundred metres, or race up two
flights of stairs, he'd have been totally out of
breath.  But I've since noticed that there's something
happens to guys when they start fucking - it's as if
their bodies find some hidden reserves of strength
from somewhere to enable them to do that most primeval
of all the human body's actions:  that rhythmic
muscular action that forces a dick in and out until it
climaxes.

Finally, he gave a great shout of "OH, fuck... I'm
cumming... fuck.... fuck....",  and then it was over,
or mostly over.  I felt the huge weight of his flabby
body, his skin slicked with sweat, press down on my
back.  He kind of struggled a bit and pushed at me,
and I understood that he wanted me to lie flat, so
that he could rest his whole body on me.

He lay there, and now I could feel his heard racing as
his chest pressed into my back, and his head was on my
shoulders.  "There, Steve...", he half whispered.
"That's how it's going to be, boy, every night.  You
and me, and my dick up your ass.  That's what it's a
all about, Steve, having a body servant -  a slave
who's only job is to satisfy the needs of his master.
Are you going to enjoy serving me like this, Steve?
Are you going to start craving the feel of my dick up
your ass...?"

I said nothing, just lay there.

"Well it doesn't matter anyway.  It's immaterial what
you want, and what you like.  Because you're a fucking
slave, aren't you?  A fucking slave, who gets fucked
by his owner when his owner wants to do it.  All those
years we roomed together and played on the same
football team, and you never once even let me play
with your dick.  Well, Steve, now I'm going to play
with your whole body, every night, and some
afternoons, too.  So get used to it, boy, as this is
your life from now on."

He lay there for a couple more minutes, and it was
getting really uncomfortable for me - he was a heavy
guy, and having him sprawled on top of me was making
it hard for me to breathe.  I was glad therefore when
he finally pulled his detumescing dick out of me, then
rolled aside to lie beside me, and then he said "Roll
over, on your back, Steve."

Well I did, it seemed harmless enough.  I was
conscious of my own sweaty pits as I lay there, my
hands still cuffed above my head.

"Are you OK?  The cuffs not too tight?"

"Master, please can't you let me go, it's
uncomfortable..."

"No, Steve.  It's for your own good, you know.  I want
to make sure that the cuffs aren't cutting in to you,
as I don't want your skin damaged.  But it's in your
interest to remain shackled - I might want to fuck you
again during the night, and I know you're not yet
fully accustomed to it, and I remember how you usually
react... Well, that behaviour was all right when you
weren't a body slave, and I quite enjoy a little rough
and tumble with a big strong guy like you.  But a body
slave's different - there must never even be any idea
that a slave whose job is to serve his master
intimately would do anything at all to prevent his
owner from using his body, or to resist, or to fight
back.  If a body slave ever did that, his owner almost
has a duty to do something about it, and I wouldn't
want to have to do that to you.  Even though you're a
slave, we used to be buddies, after all.  And even
though you can't really be friends with a slave, you
can remember what it was like when you were.  So you'd
better remain shackled."

"Please, master... Please.... As you said, we used to
be buddies.  Buddies don't do things like this to each
other.  Please, let me go free - I hate being shackled
like this... I won't do anything, I promise."

"Hush, Steve.  Calm yourself!  Look, for the sake of
our former friendship, let me lay it on the line for
you.  I don't think you can help reacting the way you
do when you're being fucked - why you're so upset when
a guy just does something perfectly natural to you, I
can't imagine, but you are.  So until we get you
properly used to it, I'm going to shackle you in bed
every night.  And as I said, it's for your own good -
if I had to have you 'calmed' if you did anything to
hurt me when I was possessing you, you'd hate it.
You'd hate it even more than being fucked, I assure
you."

"Please, master.. Please... I'm prepared to take the
risk.... I'll let you fuck me, but please let me go
free.. I can't bear being tied down like this..."

"No, Steve.  You'll thank me for this one day.  You'll
thank your old buddy who thought about you so much
that he went to all the trouble to keep you tightly
controlled until you'd learned your job properly.
Look, if I had to have you 'calmed', the doctor would
take one of those lovely balls of yours out of that
fine big sac.  And then, when you're a free man again,
you'd always know that you weren't quite a man....
That there was something missing, something that's
quite important to most men, and especially to big
studs like you who take a pride in their bodies.  You
would never be really free."

"Master, are you going to free me, really?  As you
said you would when we thought of his 'voluntary
enslavement' thing?  And, anyway, if you took one of
my nuts, you'd spoil me - how much money are you
making from 'studding' at the moment?  And what would
I look like pulling your rickshaw with only one ball -
people would laugh at you, for not being able to
afford a 'proper' man to do it..."

"Oh Steve, of course I'm going to release you, once
conditions are right.  I need a slave now, as you
know, and the Colonel won't pay for it, won't let me
have the life I'm entitled to.  But one day all of
this will be mine, I'll own the estate, and then I'll
be able to afford all the slaves I want.  And then I
can think of letting you go free.  But don't delude
yourself about losing a nut - it wouldn't make any
difference at all to your stud fees:  the male testes
produce zillions of sperm, you know, and it only takes
one to fertilise the egg.  And half of zillions is
still zillions more than you need.  And there's hardly
any diminution of the volume of your cum, either, as
only a small proportion of it is actual sperm from
your balls, and the rest of it is the seminal fluid
from your prostate.  You should have listened in those
High School biology lectures, instead of thinking all
the time about how you were going to get into other
pants of the cheerleaders!  Don't delude yourself
about appearances, either:  the doctor would slit your
sac up the back so there would be no scar afterwards,
and whip out one of your balls,  then before he sewed
you up he'd slip in a prosthetic one.  I've had slaves
like that - and you get to choose:   the size of the
replacement, and how it feels:  the new plastic ones
are completely lifelike and when you're rolling the
balls around in your hands afterwards you can't tell
which is which (until you squeeze them, that is, then
the slave reacts to the real one!).  On the other hand
you can have a really big, heavy stainless steel one
put in - it doesn't feel right, but it makes the sac
hang spectacularly:  you know how on most guys one
ball is bigger and hangs lower than the other?  Well,
if you take the little one out and replace it with a
big steel one, then it hangs even lower than the
originally larger one.  Far from detracting from the
aesthetic of the slave's body, it can actually improve
it."

As he was speaking all of this, in an almost "stream
on consciousness" way, Billy-Joe had reached over and
was playing with my balls... Very gently, kind of
testing them with his fingers a they lay in the palm
of his hand.  I was totally on edge, expecting that at
any minute he'd give them a sudden twist, to emphasise
a point or something, but I think he was just enjoying
the sensation, the feel of my balls in their shiny
smooth sac.  Still, it was good to know he was still
planning to free me - although why didn't he say it
loud and clear, rather than all this "I can then think
about it....?"

"So you see, Steve", he went on, "We'd better not take
any risks.  Even though you could be improved with
even bigger balls, let's not go there, shall we?
Let's not force me to have to have you 'calmed'.  As a
conscientious owner I need to protect you from
yourself... So for the time being, until I'm certain
you've accepted your new role, we'll have you
shackled.  And, you know, it's kind of exciting - I
rather like the idea of you being totally powerless,
totally unable to stop me doing anything I like to
you..."

He leaned over as he said that and bit my nipple!  I
gave a shout, and my body arched upwards.  Billy-Joe
relaxed his teeth, but kept my tit in his mouth, and
proceeded to suck at it and play his tongue over it.
I couldn't help moaning with satisfaction as he did
this, and I felt my dick thrusting upwards against the
smooth sheets, tenting the bedclothes upwards.

"See", he said as he pulled his mouth away.  "That's
fun, isn't it?  And don't you find it more exciting as
you can't stop me?  Isn't it more fun to know that if
I want to chew your nips until they're raw and sore,
you've just got to lie there and take it?  Your dick
seems to think so, even if you won't admit it to
yourself, Steve."

As he finished speaking his face went down into my
armpit.  I've always been ticklish, and as his chin
and then this tongue started to lick around and play
with me, I couldn't help writhing on the bed and
starting to laugh and call for him to stop.  My laughs
turned into a shout of pain, though, as he sank his
teeth into that really soft skin just where the arm
and shoulder join onto the body - even when you're
heavily muscled, like me, there's a kind of little
ridge that's incredibly sensitive, and I couldn't help
protesting as his teeth bit into it.

"There, again.... That was fun, wasn't it?  And now
you're lying there wondering what's next.  What new
part of that delicious body of yours shall I attack?
Where shall I play with you, Steve?  How can I make
you appreciate your own body and its reactions?  And
isn't it better that you're helpless: all that power
in your body and you can't prevent me from using the
tiniest little force to make you shout and squirm.
There's so many ways I can cause you pleasure, Steve,
or is it pain? Or do you know the difference - a lot
of guys can't, they don't understand that something
that seems to hurt them is also the most incredible
turn on."

As he was speaking I felt this hand move down from
where it had been resting on my tit, over the plane of
my upper belly, and hover above my navel.  Then his
little finger stabbed downwards, with his nail trying
to burrow its way into my body.  I got that incredible
sick feeling you get when you try to clean out your
navel - no, not exactly sick, but sort of nauseous,
coupled with a weird tickling sensation, coupled with
the feeling of 'something' unusual happening to me.  I
always have to stop, even if there's one of those
irritating bits of lint or stuff down there, as I
can't stand it, even if I use a gentle cotton bud.
But Billy-Joe's nail wasn't gentle, and it didn't stop
- it probed, it twisted, it turned... And I was at
once almost on the point of throwing up, almost
wanting to shout with laughter, and almost wanting to
cry out with pain.  My legs were kicking feebly up and
down, and my body tried to arch away from him, but he
grabbed my balls with his other hand, and that forced
me to lie almost still.

"There, Steve!  Wasn't that fun?  How would you feel
if I did that for ten minutes, rather than for just a
few seconds?  And with the sharp tip of a pencil,
rather than with my blunt finger nail?  I could, you
know.  That's the power of having a man helpless,
that's the excitement for both of us. You're like clay
under my hands, to be moulded to my will, and you're
powerless to do anything about it.  So for all those
reasons, let's keep you manacled, at least for the
time being."

He sat up now, and looked down at me.  He pulled the
sheet back so that my upper body was totally exposed,
then hauled himself up to sit astride me.  I craned my
head forward, and saw his thick, dead-white thighs
pressing onto my muscular bronzed chest.  His dick was
resting on to me, and I could feel the got moistness
of his ass hole pressing against me as his legs were
splayed outwards, making it very accessible.

He kind of waddled forward, until his knees were
pressing into my arms as they lay above my head, and
his big, fat dick was hanging down over my chin.  I
smelt the sweat and semen from it, and thanked God
that I'd been properly cleaned out that night so there
was no shit around.  It was bad enough having to
endure the stench of my own body fluids and his cum.

"Right, Steve.  An owner should have no secrets from
his body slave, and there's no personal service that a
body slave shouldn't perform for his owner.  So after
sex I don't like to sleep with cum and ass slime all
over my dick, so I need cleaning up.  Open your mouth,
and get that nice big tongue of yours to work,,,,"

"Please, master, please... No, not that..."

"Yes, Steve.  Now stop being silly - it's mostly your
sweat and stuff, and some of my cum... But where's the
problem in that?  One man's cum tastes a lot like
another ...."

"Master, I don't eat cum..."

"Correction, Steve.  Yo used not to eat cum.  Are you
telling me you never even tried your own?"

"Yes, master.  I never did."

"Oh, come on, Steve!  All guys try their own cum at
one time or another, when they're a lad.  How could
you just resist running the tip of your tongue across
the palm of your hand when you've just jerked off?
You must have done..."

"No, master."

"Well it doesn't matter, anyway.  I like being cleaned
up, and I'm your owner, so fucking well get to work!"

As if to emphasise his point, he reached backwards and
grabbed my balls again.  "Play time's over, Steve.
Now, get to work, before I hurt you properly."

So I did.  What else could I do?  And I guess once
you've tasted cum, it's not a huge problem, is it?  I
mean, it smells pretty vile, but it doesn't taste like
that.  In fact, it doesn't taste much of anything,
does it?  Rather like when you've got catarrh, and you
swallow a whole load of mucus:  it's much the same.
As I licked away at his dick and his balls, he guided
them to me, pushing his dick this was and that to make
sure I could cover all of it.  And he raised himself
up on his knees and moved forward a little so  that he
could drop his balls almost into my mouth.  That
taught me one thing - it's really sensible to have
your balls shaved, as it was horrible to be left with
some of his pubic hairs in my mouth.  I tried to spit
them out, but somehow they wouldn't go - it's funny,
isn't it, how pubic hair has an incredible tendency to
get stuck between your teeth, and to sort of hide in
your cheeks?   Billy-Joe saw my attempts to get rid of
his hairs from my mouth and put his finger in....
"Steady, Steve.... You bite me, and I'll have you
calmed, remember?"

It felt odd having another guy's finger in my mouth,
especially a he probed around my cheeks and gums
finding the errant hairs.  When he'd finished he left
his finger there for a moment, and stared down at me.
Somehow, I don't know why, I did something I'd never
done before - I started to suck on his finger.  Why, I
don't know, but it somehow felt right.

"Hey, Steve, good boy!  Remember this action.  We'll
give you something bigger and better to suck on later
in the week, but you seem to have the right idea...."

He got off me, came and lay beside me again, and sort
of snuggled himself close to me.  I could feel his
flabby body, more like a woman's, and not at all like
the tense muscularity of Grunt.  He threw his arm over
my chest, and pulled his head close to mine.

"Goodnight, Steve... But don't sleep too deeply, as if
I wake up in the night I might need you to service me
again.  And if I hear you snoring, I'll make you stop
- they always say it's involuntary, but all  the
slaves I've had in this bed who snored always stopped
after a couple of nights, as I slap them awake - slap
their balls, that is!"

With that, he reached out and turned out the light,
and we lay there together.  Well, other than with
Grunt I'd never slept with another guy, and it was
tough with Billy-Joe:  unlike Grunt who just lay there
and was happy to be in my arms, Billy-Joe tossed and
turned, threw his arms about, kicked out as he dreamt,
and I was totally unable to do anything about it with
my arms still cuffed above my head.  I hardly slept at
all - there was no time to go into that deep sleep
when you snore - I doubt that I had more than a few
uninterrupted minutes the whole night, so that when
dawn broke I was really still tired and exhausted.

I wondered what to do about Billy-Joe.  I felt that I
shouldn't wake him, as he was sort of a late riser and
it might anger him, and I could do without that.  He
woke up naturally, though, and I was glad - his head
had been resting on my chest, and the irritation of
his hard bristles rubbing over my sensitive nips as he
moved in his sleep was causing me problems.

He reached down as he came to wakefulness and his hand
grasped my dick.  "Ah, Steve - that morning hard-on
you always have.  You can't know the number of times I
lay there awake at college, watching the bedclothes
tenting up as you slept on.  You've got me aroused,
too...."  He moved his body against mine, and I could
feel his dick stabbing at me.

"Still, not time for that now - I've got to breakfast
with the Colonel, and then I need to go into town.
So, rise and shine...."

With surprising agility he threw back the bedclothes
and got out, his dick waving around in front of him.
Then he came and leaned over me, and undid the buckles
on the cuffs.  I sat up, and sat there for a moment
massaging my arm muscles - I had been able to move my
arms a bit during the night,  so it's not as if I was
completely stiff from being totally immobile.  But you
know how it is, when you're used to being free - any
constraint on your movement is a difficulty.

I was dying to piss, and I got up off the bed and went
into the bathroom, kind of scratching my head as I
went - it's one of those things I always do when I
first get up, like yawning, and stretching.  I started
to hose piss down into the pan, when there was a hard
slap on my butt that almost made me lose control and
go all over the floor.

"Stop that!", Billy-Joe commanded.  I did try,
honestly, but you know how difficult that can be when
you're in the middle of a long, hard piss that you've
been wanting to do for some time!  It took me a few
seconds to manage to squeeze the muscles hard and stop
the flow, and it's not a pleasant experience, is it?
Billy-Joe slapped me again as I tried to do this,
telling me again to stop, and that didn't make matters
any better.  I stood there eventually, the last
dribbles of piss leaking out of my slit, and turned to
face him.

He'd got a massive piss hard-on, and he snapped "How
dare you use this before your master!  In future, you
wait until I've finished, then you ask me if you might
do it, understand?"

I started to nod, then remembered the conversation
last night, and said "Yes, master."

Billy-Joe then stood there and took his time to empty
his bladder, and it made it difficult for me as I
still needed to go, and all that running water made it
feel worse, much worse.  When he'd done, he shook his
dick a couple of times and turned around to look at
me.  I stared back, and muttered "Please, master, can
I piss now?"

He nodded, and I went to flush his piss away, but he
snapped "Don't waste water, Steve!  Haven't you heard
of ecology?  You know the Colonel's keen on saving the
environment, which is why he has all the slaves
around?  What's wrong with seeing your owner's piss
anyway?"

I just stood there and let go - it was such a relief,
as Billy-Joe watched.  When I'd finished, he said
"Right - the next thing in the morning ritual is a
shower, and a shave.  Turn the water on for me and get
it to the right temperature - not too hot, not too
cold:  I'll let you know if it's OK when I get in."

Billy-Joe's shower was a large walk-in cubicle with
the controls on the far wall.  I soon found out why I
was supposed to turn it on - it was impossible to
reach the controls without getting covered in the
water that cascaded out!  I had to stand there
fiddling with them, as I successively got icy cold
jets, then really hot ones.  I suppose the designers
always knew that the owner would never be turning the
water on for himself, and so they put the controls in
the most aesthetically pleasing place, rather than the
most convenient one.  Whilst I'd been doing all this
Billy-Joe had gone and sat on the lavatory and shat;
he made a perfunctory attempt to wipe himself clean,
flushed the water, then came over to continue to watch
me, with a faint smile.  He called out "You'll soon
get used to it - I find that initial cold blast helps
to wake my slave up in the morning.  Now, is it all
right?"

"Yes, master."

Billy-Joe came into the cubicle and stood there, and
commented that the temperature was fine, and that I
should remember it for the next time.  Then he looked
at me expectantly, and said "Well, get on with it,
then!"

"With what, master?"

"You're a body slave, Steve!  Think!  What do you
expect a body slave does in the shower?  He washes his
owner."

Now of course I'd been in showers with Billy-Joe
before when we were on the team, and if it had bee
raining and we were all very muddy, some of us helped
out the others by soaping their backs, in those areas
it's really hard to reach by yourself.  But it's very
different from doing that to going to completely wash
another guy:  I couldn't believe I was  massaging
shampoo into Billy-Joe's long hair, and then having to
rub soap all over his upper body.  Billy-Joe seemed
quite used to it, though, as he moved around almost in
sympathy to me as I worked, for example by raising his
arms slightly when I had to soap his pits.  I'd
finished his upper body, and he looked at me, put his
hands on my shoulders, and pushed me down to my knees.
 I knelt there on the wet floor, looking at his dick,
and he nodded at me as if to say "get on with it!".

I'm not sure whether having to wash his dick and balls
was the worst, or whether it was running my soapy hand
down his ass crack.  I'd avoided doing that and run
right down his thighs and done his feet, but he called
down to me reminding me of my omission.  I couldn't
help thinking of how he'd just dropped a huge turd,
and the very tiny effort he'd made to clean himself.
Still, I suppose my hand was covered with soap, and
it's antiseptic, isn't it?

Billy-Joe rinsed himself off, telling me to soap
myself quickly as he stood there enjoying the water
cascading over him, and I had to do it all in about
thirty seconds, then I was allowed to rinse off.  I
had to dry Billy-Joe then with one of the huge fluffy
white towels that I remembered were such as feature of
the bathrooms of the house from my time there as a
guest - but there was none of that for me!  I had to
hurriedly get as much of the water off my body as I
could with the towel that was now sopping wet from
him.

I had to shave Billy-Joe, too - he sat in a
towelling-covered chair in the bathroom, and I was
expected to crouch down by the side of him and lather
his face, then shave him with an ordinary razor.  When
I'd done he looked at me and said "You only shave
every three days, Steve - I like to see that manly
stubble all over your face.  Now, time to get
dressed...."

Frankly, I thought it was stupid:  he was an able,
grown man, and I had to help him into his clothes just
as if he was a little kid - holding his boxer shorts
open for him so that he could step into them, then
pulling them up for him over his waist.  He even
expected me to "settle him in" to them by making sure
his dick was comfortable - I ask you, how on earth can
you do something like that for another guy?  How can I
be expected to know if he's hanging properly?

I buttoned his shirt, helped him into his expensive
casual slacks, then he raised each foot in turn so
that I could slip his soft leather loafers on.  Even
though he was only breakfasting with his father, the
Colonel, this was apparently a formal affair, so after
he had selected one of his silk ties from the many
tens of them in his closet, I was expected to tie it
for him.  Have you ever tried that?  Even if you're
used to tying a neck tie for yourself, it's just
impossible to do it "the wrong way around".  Finally,
as he got more and more impatient, Billy-Joe ordered
me to stand behind him, reach around, and do it from
the back so that it was more as if I was tying one for
myself.  After I'd helped him on with his jacket I had
to hand him his stuff - wallet, keys, gold wristwatch,
expensive pen, silk handkerchief:  Billy-Joe pointed
out to me that it was my responsibility to take all
these things off him when he returned in the evening,
and to make sure they were all given to him again when
he next went out.

Somehow seeing Billy-Joe getting covered in his
clothes and now being there totally dressed and fitted
out with all his finery made me acutely conscious of
my own nakedness.  I'd hated being naked in bed with
him and in the shower, but that now didn't seem half
as bad as having to stand there, my dick semi-erect,
as Billy-Joe gave himself a final check in the mirror.
 He slapped me almost affectionately on the butt and
said "Not bad for your first morning, Steve", and
stood there, waiting for me to open the door for him.
I'd never felt to be made so small, and insignificant
- the way he'd slapped my butt, just as if I was some
sort of pet animal he was encouraging.

He left for breakfast then, but told me to go and get
he rickshaw out as he was planning a trip that
morning.  I went down the rear stairs, the ones
reserved for slaves, seeing a couple of the houseboys
sniggering at my nakedness, then strode across the
yard to the garage block and got the rickshaw out.
Straughan came past, looked at my body, and said "You
owner's on to a good thing there, slave!  You really
look the part - a naked pony slave with a body like
yours.  He must be the envy of all his buddies to have
something like you pulling him!   But make sure you
clean that rickshaw properly - I think I can see some
flakes of dirt on the wheels!"

How the fuck was I supposed to make time to do that?
If I was taken straight to Billy-Joe's quarters after
we returned from a trip?  But it wasn't wise to argue
with Straughan, so I just said "Yes, sir."

Fortunately there was still time to go and get my
helping of slave chow, and I joined the other outdoor
slaves jostling along to the scanner so that our
portion could be determined - mine, I noticed, was
smaller than usual, and I suppose that was because
they now thought I wasn't working as hard.  My former
fellow outdoor slaves were really nice, telling me how
sorry they felt for me having to expose myself all the
time, but it didn't really help.

I went  out and as I picked up the shafts of the
rickshaw Straughan again came past, and instantly
snapped my wrist restraint closed.  He slapped me on
the butt, and told me to "Giddyup.." round to the
front steps.

Billy-Joe ran me into town that morning, then tied me
up outside his club whilst he lunched with his
friends.  And in the afternoon I had another studding
- the usual, with me being blindfolded as the owner
and some of the estate workers watched me fuck some
slave girl who I never got to see.  Actually I suppose
it wasn't so bad now - having to spend my entire life
naked, it wasn't now so awful to have to take my
shorts off and fuck in front of an audience:  I guess
I was losing my civilised sense of "what's right" and
what a man ought to do.  I was even getting used to
the feeling of running free - my balls had stopped
aching from their motion against my thighs.

The thing I couldn't get used to though was pissing.
Like after my studding:  when they washed me down for
the journey home, the slaves at the estate gave me a
big drink of cool fresh water - after all, when you've
been fucking away you do sweat a lot, don't you,
especially in the southern heat?  And I must have
drank at least a couple of litres as they held the
hose they were washing me with up to my lips and let
me take my fill.  But water works its way through you,
doesn't it?  And Billy-Joe was in no mood to stop to
let me piss as I ran home - there as some trash TV
programme or other that he didn't like to miss in the
early evening.  I turned around in the shafts as I ran
along at a fast jog and asked him if we could stop for
a moment, but he said no and gave me a light lash
across my butt "to encourage me".  The pain in my
bladder got worse and worse, and the constant motion
of my feet on the road only added to it.  So
ultimately all I could do was let it go, so the piss
hosed out of me as I ran along.  Of course it made my
legs and feet wet as it splashed down as there was no
way I could hold my dick into a good position with my
hands cuffed.  Billy-Joe saw it, and laughed.  He
called out "That's right, Steve - better to let it
loose as we go along, rather than making an unsightly
puddle when I tether you at the end of a journey.
Remember that - in future, if I come out of the shops,
or my club, and see you've pissed in the main street,
I'll really flay your hide.  Understand?"

Through half-gritted teeth, I called back "Yes,
master."

End Of Part Nineteen.

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part twenty

By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


DECORATIONS

So life went on for a couple of weeks.  I certainly
wasn't enjoying it, and, actually, I don't think
Billy-Joe did much, either.  He didn't seem to have
any real friends - none of the guys he hung out with
at the club in town ever came back to the estate, and
he never took me to any of their houses to visit them,
either.  He always insisted on having me manacled to
the bed, but after the first two or three times he'd
fucked me, he stopped doing it:  I think he'd rather
have had me fuck him as I used to, but now he'd made
his position as owner of a body slave clear, he
evidently felt he couldn't back down and have me start
fucking him again.

The first night he didn't haul me to my knees and get
me ready to take his dick I was surprised, but
Billy-Joe muttered something bout having had a hard
day - well, no harder than usual for him, I think!
Getting up late, having me run him into town, a few
hours at his club, then a run back, slump in front of
the TV, eat dinner, and on to bed.  So it was a pretty
pathetic excuse.  He played with my dick a bit,
though, and that was sort of OK - I mean, if you've
got a real boner and you want to go to sleep,  you'd
jerk yourself off, wouldn't you?  Well, I couldn't do
that having my wrists shackled, so having Billy-Joe
teasing my dick helped - I closed my eyes and though
of Grunt, and found myself shooting.  I don't think
Billy-Joe was very pleased, though - I guess he'd
wanted just to make me feel hornier and hornier, and
then leave me alone to try to sleep with that big
hard on.  He got his hand covered in my cum, as he
wasn't expecting me to shoot so quickly, and had to
wipe it on my chest hair to clean himself up.

Another night he straddled my chest again and started
to feed me his dick into my mouth, telling me to "suck
good and hard".  I'd never really given anyone a blow
job before, and I didn't like it much.  But, after
all, I'd had to lick his cum and my own sweat off that
dick after he had fucked me, so just sucking him was
less of a problem, I suppose.  He did all sorts of
stuff - slapping my cheeks with his dick, rubbing it
all over my face, telling me to suck it, then to
nibble it (gently!), and finally heaving himself right
up over me and pretending he was actually fucking my
mouth.  Actually that was the worst - his dick was
thick and quite long, as I've told you, and when he
thrust it right in, so that my nose was buried in his
pubes, it tickled the back of my throat and made me
gag.  Billy-Joe seemed to like that, but it didn't
help him much:  after about ten minutes of sucking,
pumping and generally pretending to be enjoying
things, he gave up and lay beside me.  He hadn't cum,
and he didn't even lie there and jerk himself off.  It
made me start to think that he really didn't like
being "master" quite as much as he knew he was
supposed to.

The studding work fell away - Billy-Joe never said
why, but I suppose it might have been that all the
females from around about who needed to be bred with a
white guy had been "covered" by me.  Or perhaps it was
that Billy-Joe was charging too much.  As I stood
outside the club one day waiting for Billy-Joe as
usual, I did overhear a couple of the local farmers
talking as they went down the street, and they were
using words and phrases like "boycott" and "teach him
a lesson."  So I had more and more time back at the
estate.

In the afternoons now Billy-Joe generally just sat
slumped in front of the TV, and I was called on almost
endlessly to change channels, and to fetch him more
beer.  Fortunately he often fell into a deep sleep
after about half an hour on the couch, and lay there,
head back, snoring.  That gave me time to catch up
with my "chores" - in particular, keeping Billy-Joe's
clothes immaculate.

The laundry was done by the normal indoor servants,
but Billy-Joe insisted that everything he was going to
wear was specially ironed, and I had to stand there at
the ironing board and press all his boxers and Ts
again, and to run over all his shirts to make sure
there wasn't even the tiniest crease.   I used to
stand there and look out of the window as I worked
away at this, watching all the outdoor slaves working
on the lawns, and in the gardens.  When I'd had to do
that, clad in just my shorts, with the thought of the
tawse always in my mind if I slacked, I'd hated it.
But now, standing there, doing this really sissy
stuff, I wished I was back there again. I'd always
hated ironing my own stuff, and never did underwear;
and I ironed as few shirts as possible as I hung them
up to dry.  After all, who cares about a few creases -
if you buy shirts a size too small and make them
stretch over your body, no one cares:  they're so busy
focussing on the outline of your muscles through the
tight fabric that they fail to notice the small
creases!
Billy-Joe generated a mountain of the stuff, though:
he changed his mind several times about what to wear,
and after trying a shirt on, would just drop it onto
the floor and try another:  I had to iron those
discards and put them neatly away, and I hated being
used as a skivvy in this way.

His boots and shoes were a big problem, too:  he
always wanted them to look almost like glass, and this
took hours with the polishing cloth and brushes.  And,
yes, I found out that the "spit" in "spit and polish"
really is true - if you want that absolutely perfect
high shine, that's what you have to use. It felt so
odd sitting there naked, with a big leather boot on my
lap, spitting on it and polishing it.

I did my best to keep really fit:  the runs into town
were good for my heart and lungs of course, and for my
legs and butt.  But I hated the way I was losing that
perfection of tone I used to have in my upper body.
When Billy-Joe had passed out I'd do endless press-ups
and trunk curls, and I even filled a couple of his
suitcases with books and shoes and used them as
weights for some simple training.

I asked Billy-Joe if it wouldn't be better to let me
go back outside to work, but he said that he liked
having the same slave tend to all his bodily needs,
and that he didn't want one of the indoor lads coming
into his quarters and ironing whilst I was "enjoying
myself out there on the estate."  I doubted that it
would be enjoyment, with the overseers' whips always
hovering, but I hated the confinement.

It was as if he needed to find new ways of humiliating
me.  One night after we'd finished dinner he made me
sit at one end of the couch, then he lay on the rest
so that his feet were in my lap. I had to trim his
toenails for him!  Well, you know how tough and
leathery a grown man's toenails can be, and how
difficult it is sometimes to get the scissors to cut
them - you have to be really careful you don't hurt
yourself, don't you?  Billy-Joe cautioned me that if I
so much as made him flinch he'd bring his other foot
down hard into my balls, to teach me a lesson.  I bent
over his feet, trying to do it well, and I hated it.
One man shouldn't have to do this for another.  As  I
was working away, me, Steve, who'd been "top dog"
amongst the outdoor slaves, there was a knock at the
door and Billy-Joe called out for them to come in.
Charlie and Coon - who I hadn't had chance to talk to
for a long time, as I was now either in the rickshaw,
or in Billy-Joe's rooms, came in with a big slave I'd
not met:  I'd seen from the window that someone else
had been given my job on the farm cart, and realised
that instead of "promoting" one of the other slaves,
they'd gone out and bought a really big worker.  He
must have been six foot six, and was heavily muscled
as you'd expect for a special job like that.

The new slave stood there, proudly defiant, and I saw
him look down at me and almost sneer - he obviously
thought I was some poor indoor slave, just there to
service the needs of Billy-Joe's body, not a real man
like himself. His shorts were tight across his
muscular butt, and the way they bulged at the front
suggested that his dick was in the same heroic
proportions as the rest of his magnificent body.

"Are you a virgin, slave?", Billy-Joe asked.

"No, sir.  I've been a slave for eight years, and my
original owner took my cherry.  And since then, sir,
well, you know how it is, sir, in the slave
quarters..."

"I suppose that you generally 'top' the other slaves?
Your size, your strength..."

"Sir, yes, sir!"  The slave broke into a grin now.
"There's none of them that can really resist me if I
choose to take them."

"Stand up, Steve", Billy-Joe now commanded me, and I
got to my feet and stood there.  The new slave and I
were both eyeing each other up and down, and I could
see an evil glitter in Billy-Joe's eye as he noticed
this.  The new slave, after generally looking at me,
was now focussed on my dick - I was, after all, the
only one in the room naked.

"So, I have two slaves here who both prefer to 'top'.
How interesting.  I wonder which of you would win out
if I ordered you to have sex?"

"What do you think, Steve?", he continued.  "He's got
two or three inches on you, and he looks a lot tougher
- you've let yourself go a bit recently.  On the other
hand, you're very keen to avoid dick up that ass of
yours, so perhaps that would give your fighting a
certain desperation that might enable you to beat
him....   Of course it might be more interesting just
to have you put on the horse, and let him take you
anyway:  you haven't been stretched much these last
few days as I've been a little tired...."

I knew Billy-Joe was taunting me, trying to make me
have some outburst of anger, or even of protest, or
supplication.  So I just stood there, head slightly
bowed.  But fancy the bastard saying I'd "let myself
go"!  I'd done all I could to exercise properly,
confined as I was most afternoons to this small
apartment, and with all Billy-Joe's personal needs to
attend to.

Seeing that I wasn't rising to the bait, Billy-Joe
switched tack.  "I haven't seen a good sex show
recently", he continued.  "I suppose we could run into
town and I could hire a DVD.  But on the other hand,
with such excellent material to hand, it seems a waste
of money.  I suppose I could try my hand at directing
my own little scene..."

My heart was starting to beat more quickly and I could
feel a damp clamminess on my skin as I started to
sweat.  Billy-Joe was perfectly capable of devising
some cruel thing for the new slave and me to do to
each other, I knew, and I wasn't certain that I
actually could beat the guy if it came to a fight.  He
carried on looking at us, then ordered the slave to
drop his shorts, which of course he did, without any
hesitation.

He truly was magnificent.  Like all of the estate
slaves he was 'skinned and he had a long thick dick
with a flaring head.  As he turned round on
Billy-Joe's command, his brand stood out well on the
strong, working butt that flared out below his classic
triangular upper body.  I couldn't help admiring him,
and then it struck me how much I had changed - the
idea that I might be looking at another guy and
thinking about his dick and how his butt looked would
have been unthinkable at one time - well, at least, I
might have peeked at a guy like that in the locker
rooms, but only out of curiosity, as we all do, not
with any real interest in seeing him as a sexual
being.

"Let me see that dick of yours ready for action",
Billy-Joe commanded, and the slave at once started to
stroke himself to life, without any sign of
embarrassment or shame.  So that's what eight years as
a slave did to you, I thought.  He stopped after a
very short time, and stood there with it jutting out
proudly at just above the horizontal - that's hard, as
those of us with big, thick dicks know:  only guys
with asparagus dicks generally manage to get erections
that reach up to the sky, as gravity does its job on
those of us who are exceptionally well endowed.

"Nice, very nice.", Billy-Joe commented, then turning
to me he said quietly "I think that would stretch you
nicely, Steve.  Would you like to feel that monster
sliding into you?  You always make such a fuss
whenever a dick approaches that ass of yours, that I
wonder what you'd sound like when there was really
something to make your muscles ache!  Perhaps we
should have a little scene here, now, instead of the
TV tonight - you on your knees, butt in the air, and
this new slave fucking the shit out of you."

I knew that anything I said would only goad him on, so
instead of asking him to spare me, I just stood there,
silently, head bowed.  After all, I reasoned, if he
was going to have the guy fuck me, that's what would
happen; and I determined not to give Billy-Joe the
satisfaction of having me beg him to spare me, so that
he could simply order it done anyway.

My strategy seemed to be working, as when Billy-Joe
saw I was not rising to the bait, he had a change of
tactic.  "On your knees, Steve", he said, "In front of
the slave.  He's top dog around here now, I guess, so
perhaps he should exercise his rights."


I knelt there, and his huge dick and balls were
hanging right in front of me.  He'd evidently been
cleaned out and showered as there was no smell or
anything, but there were those characteristic wet
traces on his dick head from where there had been a
tiny trickle of pre-cum a very short time ago.

"Right, Steve... Clasp your hands behind your back.  I
don't want to see you move.  And open your mouth and
put your tongue out."

"And you", he continued, turning to the slave, "Jerk
off.  I'm not going to get Steve here to suck you, as
I prefer to keep his lips for my dick.  But when you
cum, I want your dick pointing at the back of his
throat - it's all to go into his mouth.  Not a drop is
to be spilled, or I'll have you both caned,
understand?"

The slave said, matter of factly, as if it was
perfectly normal, "Yes, master", and I mumbled "Yes,
master" a great deal more reluctantly.  Look, I didn't
want to suck the guy's dick, but I didn't want his cum
in my mouth either.  I suppose it was the least awful
alternative.  And it's not as if I didn't know what
cum tasted like now - Billy-Joe had after all made me
clean his dick off often enough after he'd fucked me.
I knew that his cum tasted just like my own,
tasteless, nearly, and so I thought I could probably
take it when he shot.  It was the fucking humiliation
more than anything - Charlie and Coon were standing
there watching, and they'd know that I'd had to do
this, had to just kneel there and act as a receptacle
for the new slave's cum.  I used to be the biggest and
best slave, and now here I was, kneeling in front of
the dick of this new guy, and about to have to serve
him in this utterly humiliating way.

I watched in fascination, almost like the snake
watches the flute of the snake charmer, as the slave
stroked his huge monster into full rampant erection.
Then, in close-up, I saw the circle made by his thumb
and first finger striking the thick flange of his dick
head, as he began jerking away.  I wanted to pull
back, to get up and stand there and shout "No!", but
something stopped me - look, I know it's utterly
humiliating to be made to kneel there and prepare
yourself to take cum, but what was the alternative?
The alternative was to take a beating from Billy-Joe
and STILL have to do it, as he could have me cuffed
and chained down and my mouth held open by clamps.
More importantly, that would give him greater
satisfaction - he'd enjoy forcing me to do something
that he would know was totally against my nature.  I
couldn't bear the thought of being seen to be weak
like that, and so the least awful alternative was just
to take it, take it where there was still some shred
of choice left to me.

I felt something warm spray onto my face, and my
eyelids twitched almost reflexively:  drops of pre-cum
must be flying out of his dick and spattering on to
me.  I couldn't help moving my head slightly, and
Billy-Joe saw it and snapped "Keep still, Steve, and
keep that tongue out...."

Then I felt it, felt his dick head on my tongue, and
the next instant I almost gagged as a stream of his
thick, warm viscous semen hit the back of my throat.
I controlled myself, though, and tried to swallow -
not easy with your tongue out, and I didn't dare close
my mouth as I didn't want to risk injuring the slave -
after all, it wasn't his fault, was it, that he was
being made to do this?  He was just as much of a
victim of Billy-Joe as I was.

He'd finished now, though, and Billy-Joe told me to
lean forward and to clean the last threads of semen
from his dick head, as he didn't want them dripping on
to the floor.  Well there wasn't much point in
disobeying, was there?  I'd already had a big mouthful
of the guy's cum, and a few more drops weren't going
to make any difference to me.  So I reached out and
lapped at his dick, but it was difficult, as he'd
started to go soft, and the dick head was now pointing
down.

It's funny, isn't it - you somehow know the right
thing to do.  I reached out and put an arm around his
butt to steady myself, feeling his hard musculature
slightly covered in a faint sheen of sweat (se he was
as nervous and pissed off as I was!), then with the
other hand I gently raised his dick up so that my
tongue could run all over the head and clean him.  As
I did so I felt a shudder run through his body, and if
I hadn't been gently restraining his butt I'm sure he
would have pulled away - like me, I thought, he must
have one of those dicks that's incredibly sensitive
when they've shot, and which can't bear to be touched
or anything for a few minutes afterwards.  The touch
of my tongue as it feathered its way across him must
be causing him all sorts of amazing sensations.

And that was that, really - Billy-Joe didn't look very
pleased about the little tableau he'd arranged, and I
knew I'd kind of won - he was expecting tantrums and
arguments and perhaps even a struggle, followed by
some real use of force, and all he'd got was
obedience.  He dismissed the slave, and Charlie and
Coon went to take him away.  I could tell by the way
they looked at me that they hadn't understood what had
happened - they gave me pitying looks as if to say
"How could you sink so low, you who used to be in
charge?  How could you kneel there and take this new
slave's cum like that?  You're nothing but a cum dump
now, to be used by any other man who needs his dick in
a mouth."   Nevertheless, I was almost happy - I'd
done what I knew was the right thing, and hadn't let
Billy-Joe totally triumph yet again over me.

Billy-Joe's general mood of ill humour continued for
the rest of the evening, and there was no relief for
me - he kept me kneeling all night as he drank endless
beers from the salver I had to hold out to him, and he
was in that mood of querulous dissatisfaction that
drunks often have when it was time to go to bed.  I
was of course manacled into the bed, and tonight
Billy-Joe just wouldn't leave my dick alone - he kept
stroking me almost to the point of climax, and then
stopping, leaving me helplessly erect and with my
balls aching.  I tried wriggling around to get my dick
to rub against the sheets in the hope of finishing
off, but it was no use - the moment Billy-Joe realised
what was happening he grabbed my balls, squeezed them
in warning, and told me to hold still.  On and on it
went, over and over.  I was almost maddened with the
need to shoot.  My shaft was almost raw from
Billy-Joe's rubbing, and his foul, alcoholic breath
was making me feel almost ill.  I actually don't know
which was worse - having him continue to work on me
like that, or what ultimately happened:  He sort of
got tired of this amusement, and fell in to a deep
sleep, thrashing around and sweating heavily, as you
do when you've drunk too much.  The consequences of
that were that I hardly slept, and my erect dick
continued to cry out for relief. The human body's a
marvellous thing though, isn't it?  Some time in the
middle of the night I woke up from a doze and felt
better - my dick was lying down, and I felt at ease:
as I moved around I realised why:  there was a wet
feeling against my thighs as they moved over the
sheets, and I realised I must have had something that
had not happened to me since I was a kid and first
learned about jerking off:  I'd had a "wet dream", and
a big one, after all that stimulation earlier.  The
sheets around me were absolutely soaked.  And as his
body heaved next to mine, I could feel that Billy-Joe
was almost stuck to me with a layer of dried cum.

I suppose I should have known that I couldn't "win"
for long over Billy-Joe, though.  It might have been a
very small triumph for me that night, but he had ways
of taking his revenge the next day.  We ran into town,
and instead of going to his club, Billy-Joe directed
me down a couple of side streets to end up outside a
tattoo parlour.  I'd kind of thought most of these had
gone out of business, as with most slaves being
tattooed with their owner's names and their universal
slave identification numbers (SINs), free men now
considered tattoos too "slave like".  Skilled
tattooists weren't needed to put owners names and SINs
on our hides as it was mostly done with an automatic
tattooer - you just dialled what you wanted, pressed
the business end to the slave's skin, and pressed the
button:  rather like those label-making machines that
you can use for making those sticky plastic labels.

It hurts!  I'd experienced the one-off short hurt when
I'd been tattooed on my shoulder with my SIN and the
barcode to drive the food dispensers.  But what
Billy-Joe now had the guy do  to me hurt for a long
time - it took over five hours for the tattooist to do
his work, and I was in acute discomfort for all of it.
 He was a nice enough guy, and did care about me as I
lay there, and gave me the stuff he used with all his
clients - a short wooden rod, like the handle of a
garden implement, to hold in my hands and squeeze on
if the pain got too much, and he told me that there
was also a rubber bit that I could bite on, but I
declined that.

He wouldn't tell me what he was doing as I lay there,
but I could feel the areas of acute discomfort moving
all over my back.  He chatted away as he worked and
told me that he mostly now did very small tattoos, and
that a "big piece" like I was having was a rarity
these days, confirming what I'd thought about how free
 men no longer wanted their bodies inked.  He also
said how nice it was to have good, hard muscle to work
with, as so many of his customers were a "bit flabby",
and I noticed that he seemed to be taking advantage of
my firm flesh by resting one of his hands on my butt
as he worked.  Still, it's an innocent enough
pleasure, I suppose - he enjoyed it, and it didn't
particularly bother me as I'd got used to free men
looking at me and generally touching me, so I did and
said nothing.   Other than the constant background
pain, it wasn't so bad to lie there for a couple of
hours, enjoying doing nothing.

It was terrible when he'd finished, though - there,
stretching right across the top of my back, from
shoulder blade to shoulder blade, was the word
"SLAVE", and underneath, so that it only just finished
above my butt, was the word "Steve".  The letters were
huge, chosen so that they filled all the available
space across my body, and were in dark, bold black.

The tattooist saw the look of horror on my face at the
way I'd been disfigured, and said "Sorry, bud, but
your owner was very insistent.  Look, it's permanent,
but after five years or so the letters will fade a bit
so it's not quite so prominent.  Now, I haven't
finished yet - he's ordered some for your front as
well.  I wouldn't normally do a back and a front the
same day as it will be 'uncomfortable' for a couple of
days and you'd probably like to sleep on your back or
your front, and if I do both, that's difficult!  But
your owner says he's in a hurry, and as he's
paying....  Come on, on your back..... Here... I'll
put this soft pillow under you so that you don't have
to lie on the hard surface with that inflamed back of
yours."

He did his best, I suppose.  He complimented me on the
firmness of my belly, but he used a magic marker to
plan out another set of big letters running across me
from hipbone to hipbone, just above my pubic hair and
below my navel, saying "SLAVE" again.  This time it
hurt a bit more, but I suppose I no longer cared - I
felt horribly disfigured.  All eyes would be on me
when I appeared like that in the streets.  People
couldn't help but stop and stare, and when they did,
they'd look closer at my dick, wouldn't they?

When it was over and I stood there, I felt like a
complete freak.  OK, so I was a slave.  And wasn't my
collar meant to tell everyone that?  Why did Billy-Joe
have to have me inked like this?  Of course I should
have known, the answer was clear as I pulled him
through the streets on our way home - he even
"invented" little detours, pretending to need to go to
stores, then to the library, then back to his club as
he'd forgotten something, to make sure I was in the
streets as long as possible:  they'd got used to
seeing me naked, and he needed some new sensation to
make people stop and stare, to say "There's Billy-Joe,
that fashionable man about town..."

"Steve, you look absolutely fantastic!", Billy-Joe had
told me when he got back to the tattooist.  "And
you'll be glad to know you're in the very forefront of
fashion.  'Modern Save Owner" this month says that all
the best people in Manhattan, and in the Hamptons, are
having their slaves inked, especially those who go
around naked.  The author says it adds interest to
otherwise plain bodies - well, I can see the point:
somehow I found you were sexier when I had you wearing
that tiny pouch, and the totally nude look is boring
after a time, so this makes a big difference, turns
you from the  'just ordinary' into 'something special'
again."

"But master, please.... How am I going to get along
when you free me?  It was bad enough being branded:
the other guys at the sports club would have looked
funnily at that.  But now, I'll never be able to
change in the locker room again:  I'll have to be like
those shy guys who lurk in one of the special cubicles
and don't go in the communal showers...."

"Steve, don't worry about it!  By the time you're a
free man I don't expect you'll want to play much
sport.  Football players do give up, you know, in
their late twenties..."

"Master, please... You were going to free me when you
can afford to...."

"Steve, stop worrying, will you?   You've got a good
life here... You work hard, but you've got nothing
else to worry about, as I've said before.  So stop
being so fucking ungrateful, especially as I let you
sleep in my own rooms rather than those slave dorms.
It's almost like old times, isn't it, you and me
together?"

Yes, I thought to myself, just like old times if you
don't count being naked, whipped all the time, and
being manacled to the bed at night whilst your old
buddy plays with your dick!

My day's ordeal wasn't over yet, though, and those
bastards who write for "Modern Slave Owner" have a lot
to answer for.  When I'm free I'm going to go up to
their nice cosy offices and punch them out!  After
telling Billy-Joe how to join the fashionable set by
having me inked, the very next article talked about
how the look of the slave could be improved by rings.
They'd even had a special "readers' offer" of a set of
rings, in heavy stainless steel, for only a few
dollars, and Billy-Joe had sent off for them the week
before, it seems, as soon as the magazine had arrived.
 So our next port of call was the doctor again, and
Billy-Joe didn't tell me, at first, why we were going
there.  I assumed he wanted to get me something for
the general discomfort from my fresh tattoos, or to
get some cream to stop them oozing blood, or
something.

It was only when the doctor told me to sit in the
examination chair and then swiftly snapped the wrist
clamps shut that I began to suspect that something was
wrong.  When he cuffed my ankles, to stop me kicking
out, and then pulled the belly and shoulder straps
around and really heaved on them to make sure they
were fully tight that I knew something was up.  I saw
him and Billy-Joe discussing something, and then the
glint of the lights on the stainless steel, and then
Billy-Joe told me that I was to be tit ringed in both
tits.

"You know, Steve, the article specially recommends
heavy tit rings for slaves who do a lot of physical
activity, like you.  It says that as they bounce up
and down they send you constant signals to remind you
that someone else owns your body, that someone else
controls your life.  For indoor slaves they say that
the normal ornamental rings are satisfactory, but it
needs really heavy ones to bring the message home to
an active slave like you.  I must say I agree with
them - sometimes you see slave boys with those tiny,
open-ended rings for ornament, and I think they're a
bit 'twee'.  But these rings from the magazine are
really different - they're much larger diameter,
they're really heavy so they'll be that reminder to
you, and once the doctor has put them in, you can't
take them out as they'll be completely closed."

The doctor interrupted at this point saying he was
ready to begin, and he was holding a syringe in his
hand.  "Good!", Billy-Joe told him, "But we don't need
that stuff - Steve's a tough guy - or likes to think
he's a tough guy - and a little pain whilst you do the
ringing isn't a problem for me."

"Oh, very well, you're his owner, you know best.  Now
- before I start, I need to arouse his nips.  Shall I
do that, or are you more familiar with the body, sir,
and wish to do it as you presumably usually do?"

Billy-Joe didn't usually touch me there, as when he
did play with my body he always went for my dick.  But
as usual he didn't want to be seen not to be "in the
swim", and said "No, of course I'll do it - there's no
one knows a slave's body as well as his owner."

He grabbed my left nip between his thumb and
forefinger, and started to roll it around, and tug at
it, pulling it away from my pec.  I tried to wriggle
and squirm, as I'm really sensitive, but all that
happened was that the restraints cut into me.  I
shouted out - I couldn't help it - when he squeezed
particularly firmly, and Billy-Joe slapped my face,
hard, and told me to stop whining!

My nip was erect, of course, and Billy-Joe indicated
it to the doctor, who nodded.  He quickly painted some
antiseptic on with a cotton swab, and momentarily I
felt the chill as the alcohol in it evaporated, then
before I could hardly think, he did something with an
instrument, and I screamed out.  I screamed again when
he withdrew it, and he stood there looking at the
bloody needle he was holding:  but this was no
ordinary needle, not like the tiny things you use for
sewing.  No, although this one started thin, it was
kind of tapered, getting thicker and thicker towards
the handle.  He'd just plunged it through my tit and
pushed it on in to make a wider hole.  This was only a
momentary pause, though, as he did the same to my
other nip (which had erected and swollen in sympathy
with its brother and hadn't needed Billy-Joe's
ministrations).

"There!", he told Billy-Joe.  "The pilot hole.  For
these big rings I'm going to have to make it bigger -
you're lucky your slave has such pronounced teats, as
you just couldn't do this to some of the slaves I get
in here.  Now this will hurt him - I'm going to use a
special tiny high-speed drill with a very sharp bit to
go through the hole I've just made and actually open
it up, drill out more of the flesh.  Are you sure he
shouldn't have the anaesthetic?  Look, if it's the
cost, I'll throw it in free.... "

"How dare you!", snapped Billy-Joe. "How dare you even
suggest hat I can't afford your fees!  It's not the
cost at all - if there was a problem with this slave
I'd pay any price to have him fixed up.  But for
something like this, it's unnecessary - I don't
believe in pampering slaves, and, anyway, I
particularly want this one to remember his ringing, so
that every time he sees them, or they jog up and down,
he'll remember the pain he suffered in order to please
me.  It's sometimes too easy for these slaves to
forget who actually owns them, and a little pain every
now and then is a salutary reminder of who's boss.  Go
ahead, please.... But perhaps we'd better gag him to
avoid disturbing your neighbours....?"

The doctor nodded, and a standard rubber bit was
offered to me - I had to open my mouth and take it, as
they would otherwise have squeezed my balls to cause
me to open up - and the straps were tied behind my
head.

The drill was smaller than a domestic drill, but from
the whining noise it was making I knew it must be
rotating at very high speed.  The doctor held a wooden
block behind my tit, then simply pushed the drill
through the pilot hole, and, yes, it did hurt.  It
hurt possibly worse than I've ever been hurt before.
It hurt more than the whippings.  As much as the
branding. And there was blood and bits of my flesh
splattered everywhere when the thing was pulled out.

He drilled my other tit then, and I shrieked once
more, although the gag stifled it.  Actually, it's
somehow satisfying to really let go like that - a man
can't cry out normally, can he, in case other guys
think he can't take it?  But once you're gagged, you
kind of lose that inhibition - I think it was good to
be able to scream at the top of my voice, without them
really knowing I was a coward, as it helped me to bear
the agony I was in.

Threading the big heavy rings through my bored-out
nips was painful, too, and the doctor used a kind of
pliers to close up the ends, making them perfect
circles, after first wiping the surfaces with some
sort of adhesive.  "There", he told Billy-Joe, "A
really good job...."

Billy-Joe leaned over and flicked them up and down,
almost experimentally.  Then he held the rings and
slid the around, through my flesh, hurting me again as
the blood had just started to congeal.  "Excellent!",
the doctor commented, "You'll need to do that for the
next few days as the flesh forms scar tissue around
the wound, as you want the rings to be free-moving."

"Have you decided about the other one we discussed?",
he asked , conversationally.

"Yes, I've decided to go ahead.  I agree with the
stuff I've read that a good ring should be visible at
all times, even if the slave is clothed - not that
that's normally at issue with this one!".  He laughed,
almost conspiratorially.

"Right - but we need to make a few more preparations.
It's really important he doesn't move...."

What the fuck was about to happen?  I didn't like all
this talk of rings that were always visible even when
the slave was fully clothed - oh shit, they were going
to put something through my ears, I bet!  My suspicion
was strengthened when the doctor produced a kind of
big clamp from a cupboard, and screwed it into a
fitting at the back of the chair.  The two sides of it
went around my head, just above my ears, and after
he'd screwed it closed so my head was pretty immobile,
a leather strap joined the open ends together, across
my forehead.  When this was jerked tight I absolutely
couldn't move my head at all, either from side to
side, or backwards and forwards, or up and down.

I was wrong again.  The big silver stainless-steel
tool he produced (rather like a pair of pliers, but
with ends shaped like those cherry-stoner gadgets you
can buy:  a spike on one side, and a small circle with
a hole through it on the other) wasn't destined for my
ear lobe, but for my septum!  He pushed the open ends
up my nostrils and fiddled around for a moment or two
- I could "smell" the metallic tang of them, I felt
sure, and it made me desperately want to sneeze.  Then
he moved and kind of braced himself, put both hands
around the ends of the device, and squeezed with all
his might.  I heard, and felt, a kind of scrunching as
the spike punched a hole through my septum, and then
smelt and tasted the salty tang of the blood that
started to stream out form my nose.  The doctor pulled
the pliers out, and dabbed up my nostrils with a tiny
cloth soaked in something  - something that stung like
hell and made me cry out again, but which seemed to
staunch the bleeding.

There was a third ring, bigger even than the tit
rings, but in the same shiny stainless steel.  He
pushed and prodded it to get it into my nose and
through the hole he'd made, and down the opposite
nostril, and all the time thrills of pain went through
me as my sensitive membranes reacted to its presence.
Then a dab of glue, and the other pliers to close the
ends up, and he turned to Billy-Joe and said "done!".

He wiped my blood off his hands with a fresh towel and
said "You know, sir, the only thing that surprises me
about this is that you haven't had him ringed before.
It used to be the done thing to ring the noses of
slaves who were being studded - as I understand you do
with this one - they say it makes them easier to
handle, as you can just put a hook on a stick through
it and lead him along to the studding bench when he's
cuffed and blindfolded."

"I'll have to consider that", Billy-Joe told him.
"Although the studding's died off a bit recently - I
think he's covered all the available brood slaves in
the immediate area.  But if you hear of any of your
clients who want to lighten the colour of their herd a
bit, be sure to refer them to me - the fees are always
useful, and this one has a good track record for
fertility, and there aren't a lot of pure whites
available for stud."

"Will do, sir.  Now, the bill..."

"Can you add it to the Colonel's account for the
estate?"

"Certainly."

What a cheap skate, I thought.  Having all this done
to me, and then getting the estate to pay.  Still,
that was typical, wasn't it?   The doctor undid  the
clamps and straps, and I was able to stand up.  It
immediately felt "wrong" - the weights in my tits, the
way that the cold steel hung down on my upper lip.  I
just stood there, dumbfounded at what had been done to
me - I thought that after being collared and shaved
and branded and made to prance around naked, there was
nothing left:  now, inked and ringed, I began to see
that there was almost no end to what an owner could
command for his slave.

I got my first experience of running with the rings
in, then, as we headed for home.  Not only did it hurt
as the rings teased my skin that was trying to heal,
but the constant stimulation of my tits had another
effect - I threw bone after bone, as I'm sensitive
like that.  I don't know if that was what Billy-Joe
intended, or if he genuinely only wanted me to be
ringed for "display", but I can tell you it's probably
the ultimate humiliation:  having to run naked through
the streets when everyone else is decently clothed is
one thing;  running naked through the streets with a
massive erection is another.  Even the townsfolk who'd
got acclimatised to seeing my body naked now stopped
to stare in open-mouthed amazement at the sight of the
huge tattoos, and my constantly erect dick.  It's
awful to try to run with an erection, too - it waves
around and up and down, and it makes you ache for
hours afterwards.  The constant motion also stimulates
you, and for the first few days I stood there and
blushed as tiny threads of pre-cum fell from my dick
on to the roadway - Billy-Joe who had previously
tethered the rickshaw to  convenient lampposts now
tied me directly - he had a chain with a clip on both
ends:  one went to my nose ring, and the other closed
up the end of the chain once it had been looped around
some convenient object.

You need to try it before you can understand just how
it feels.  Everyone else is in jeans, Ts, dresses,
shorts, and so on, and you're buck naked.  OK, you've
got a fantastic body, and all the men are envious of
your wide shoulders, flat belly, muscled thighs, and
bubble butt. But that doesn't compensate for being the
only one totally naked.  The only one with huge
tattoos saying "Slave" on his body. The only one
attached by a ring through his nose to the nearest
lamppost.  The only one with an erect dick drooling
pre-cum.  I just stood there with  my head bowed,
wondering when this was all going to end.

END OF PART 20