Date: Wed, 1 Oct 2003 01:57:27 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: A Slave's Life, Part 2

A SLAVE'S LIFE, Part 2

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

I stood in my cell, banging frantically at the
aircraft window.  Perhaps if I could attract the
attention of these men - and then I stopped, and
realised how stupid I'd been - if there were coming
towards the plane, they must know about the cell, and
the "cargo" they therefore carried.  I began to
realise that my chances of escaping had gone - at
least until this plane got to wherever it was going.

It was incredibly uncomfortable when the plane did
take off - as it climbed steeply I was thrown back
against the bars, and they hurt as they pressed into
my body.  They obviously didn't believe that all the
usual rules about being strapped in and so on applied
when they were transporting a prisoner (I still
couldn't bring myself to use the word "slave" when I
was thinking about myself).   We'd been airborne for
some time when the door from the front of the plane
opened and one of the two younger guys came in - he
was in a typical air steward's uniform: tight black
trousers, showing off his slim bum, short-sleeved
white shirt with dark blue epaulets on the shoulders,
and a dark blue tie.  He had a deep tan, and his curly
blond hair was bleached almost white, and cut quite
short.  If I'd been on a normal commercial flight I'd
have thought he was one of those typical stewards that
you see everywhere, and would have sniggered at the
thought that he was so obviously "queer".

"Hey!", I shouted at him, as he rummaged around in the
crates, ignoring me.

He came over to the bars, and looked at me.

"Hey.... Let me out of here!"

"Don't be so fucking stupid!".  He had one of those
East London accents - not at all what you'd expect
from a steward.  "If I was to do that, they'd have me
in there before you could say Jack Robinson!  You're
valuable, you know, and we have to take care of the
cargo."

"Look, I'm not cargo... I've been captured.... Please
help me... Call the police, or something..."

He just laughed!  "You're so fucking naive, mate!  I
work for the boss, the man that now owns you. I like
my job flying with him around the world on this
private jet - beats dealing with all those
cattle-class holiday maker and their whiney kids
flying off to Benidorm, I tell you!  I get to stay in
the best hotels, the pay is fucking marvellous, and
the Captain is drop dead gorgeous - I used to fly
backwards and forwards between Gatwick and Spain, and
never got to stay anywhere, for pay that was peanuts.
Do you think I want to go back to that?  Now, I
thought you slaves knew that you aren't allowed to
speak, unless you're spoken to.  So shut the fuck up!"

I could hardly believe it.  Somehow, seeing someone so
"normal" had fooled me into thinking that he wouldn't
have anything to do with this whole business, and yet
he seemed to be pleased to be a part of it.

"Please...."

"I told you to shut up!  See this switch - well, I
think you know about electrified floors.  This is
extra - the whole cell is wired, and if you don't keep
that mouth shut, I'll give you something to shout
about!"

I just stood there, and I kind of knew he meant it.
He'd got a kind of sadistic look on his face, and it
was almost as if he wanted an excuse to press the
switch he'd indicated.  So I watched him, silently, as
he found a case, opened it, and got out several of the
standard airline trays, and opened packets of food.

"Just the crew today, so it's easy for me", he said
conversationally. "No wine, of course, as we're all on
duty.  So just water."  Several bottles of cold
mineral water were added to the trays, and as I saw
the moisture condense and start to roll down the
bottles, I realised I was thirsty still.

"Please...."

"I told you to shut up!"

"I was just hoping you might give me some water....
Please."

He looked over at me, took one of the bottles, and
brought it and gave it to me without a word.  Then he
went off with the trays to the front of the aircraft,
and I sat there, hunched in the cell, gratefully
drinking the water.  It's amazing, isn't it: when
you're really thirsty even plain water tastes
wonderful.

He came back a long time later with the empty trays
from the front, and packed them neatly back into the
crate.  Then he came over and held out his hand for
the water bottle.

"Thank you...."

"Look, you'd better learn!  I've been to the boss's
place, and the slaves there never say a word except in
answer to a direct question.  I think you'll be in a
lot of trouble if you don't learn the system, and
pretty quick!"

He stood looking at me, and went on "This trip is
pretty much of a wash out for me, though - usually the
slave in that cell is totally naked, and they chain
him to the bars, too.  So I get a proper look at his
body, and don't have to guess what delights are hidden
away.  Are you cut, mate?"

"Uh?"

"Cut. 'Skinned. Still got your foreskin?"

"Well, yes..."

"Well that's a double pity, then.  I like wanking a
guy who still has his 'skin.  I suppose I could order
you to get your cock out so I can play with it, but
you wouldn't do it, and I'd have to turn on the
electricity...  And you still wouldn't do it, so I'd
have to shock you some more... And then you might
injure yourself."

"You don't want to just drop your shorts, do you, and
have a little play, to pass the time?"

"You're fucking right I don't!  I'm not some fucking
queer, like you...."

"Steady, boy!  I can punish you for rudeness, you
know!"

He looked at me again, and went on "Look, for some
reason, in spite of your manners and lack of
co-operation, I've taken a liking to you!  So let me
give you some advice."

"First, the talking thing.  They really will punish
you if you interrupt, or ask questions, or comment....
It's strictly acknowledging masters' questions for the
slaves at the boss's place.  And secondly, if you do
speak, always be respectful - if you'd sounded off at
one of the boss's guests like you just did to me, your
back would be a bloody mess within minutes when he had
you whipped."

"You're making too much of all of this - you're very
lucky, really."

"Lucky?  How...."

"SHUT UP!  Don't you listen to what I've said?
Anyway, you're lucky as the boss is acknowledged as
one of the best and most humane owners on 'the
circuit' - the club of ultra rich men who can afford
to indulge themselves by ordering men to be captured
and enslaved for them.  Where did you meet him, by the
way?"

He stopped, and clearly was expecting a reply, so I
thought I could answer.  "I don't know what you mean.
I don't know who your boss is, even...."

"Not 'your boss', THE boss, the man who owns the
estate where you're going to live, the guy who owns
this plane, the guy who's paid a small fortune to have
you captured:  it's far from cheap, you know.   Arab
guy, early forties, black hair, dark black eyes...
Fucking gorgeous!"

"I've never met any Arabs, and certainly not anyone
like that."

"So are you an actor, on the stage, had a bit part in
a movie...."

"No, I'm just an ordinary guy, work in an office, go
to the Club and play....."

"Play what?"

"Rugby, for a really good club team...."

"Oh well, that's it, probably.  Do you play in public
- I mean anywhere big, not just some little ground
somewhere?"

"Yes - I was in the annual Sevens competition at
Twickenham a couple of months ago...."

"That' it, then.  I bet he saw you play and was turned
on by you, and simply ordered you to be captured and
enslaved."

"Look, you're kidding, right?  People don't do things
like that these days...."

"Look at this plane.  How much do you think it costs
to keep this in the air?  Look at the cell you're in -
would anyone have that in a plane like this if they
didn't intend to use it?  And I can tell you they DO
do things like this - about once a month we fly off
somewhere to pick up cargo like you, from all over -
the States, Australia, New Zealand:  it's quite a
change to go back to the UK, as most of the men the
boss likes are big, brawny outdoor types and there are
many more of them in those other countries."

"Anyway", he went on "There's nothing you can do about
it now.  He's had you taken, and you now belong to
him.  You'll find there's no escape from his estate -
I've been invited there several times, and I see the
same faces - or should I say bodies - each time.  I
recognise a lot of the guys from these journeys, and,
of course, I've usually wanked most of them.  I can't
think why they're shipping you with clothes on - you
won't keep them on the estate, of course."

"What.....?"

"Well, the boss has spent all this money on having you
taken and enslaved because he saw something about you
he liked - I expect it was seeing your bum in those
tight shorts rugby players wear!  So when he's got you
on his estate, he's going to want to see it, isn't he?
 So if it was your bum he liked, you can be sure it
will be very visible, all the time - only special
slaves, like chefs and waiters, get to wear clothes on
the estate:  all the other slaves are naked, all the
time.  It's fucking marvellous, I tell you - just like
paradise:  all that gorgeous male flesh just there to
look at!"

"But, as I said", he went on, "You're lucky.  Some of
the owners are real bastards, but the boss is known as
a really good owner.  He's not sadistic, so if you're
punished it's not for his pleasure, but because you've
done wrong (not that he won't watch you being flogged,
or whatever - he likes to see it. But he doesn't order
it just to amuse himself, as some owners do).  And he
keeps all the slaves properly fed, you get he best
medical attention to keep you healthy, and unless
you've been bought in as a sex toy - and I don't think
you have been, as you're too big - then you don't even
get fucked."

"Sex toy..? "

"Well, yes.  Some of the slaves we transport are
really cute - young, like you, but not so big.  More
'swimmers' type of bodies, under six foot, lithe and
not over muscled.  'Extremely fuckable', I think of
them as.  And that's what they're for - some of the
slaves on the estate are just kept for sex - well, not
entirely:  they spend a lot of time working out to
keep in shape, but their prime function is to be
available for sex.  When I've been invited to stay
there, it's fantastic - I can look through the
catalogue and order any one of them for a casual fuck,
or to spend the night."

"But I'm not gay..."

"Who cares?  If they've taken you as a sex toy, they'd
soon train you to take it, or give it, or both.  But,
as I say, I don't think that's why you've been taken:
you're too big, for one thing - a lot of men are
intimidated at the thought of fucking someone your
size, even though they know you're a slave and will
obey them totally.  And, if you were going to be a sex
toy, they'd have had you stripped already, and I'd
have wanked you, or got you to suck my cock, or
something - the more men that use a sex toy early on
in his training, the sooner he loses all his
inhibitions, you know....   So I don't think that's
what's in store for you - pity, really, as I'm not
intimidated by the thought of fucking a really big
guy, and I could have had you the next time I'm at the
estate."

"Look, can I ask you if there' anything to eat?  I
haven't had anything for a day at least, and I'm
famished..."

"Well, they didn't give any instructions about feeding
you.  And I'm not a fucking servant, you know.  I wait
on passengers, and I'm not here to feed the stock!"

"Please..."

He gave a shrug, opened a cupboard and took out a
small package.  He tope open the plastic covering, and
gave me two biscuits, each about the size of my hand
and pale brown in colour.  I took them off him, and
stood there, looking at them.

"That's standard slave chow - better get used to it.
That's what all the slaves on the estate are fed, and
we keep some on board in case the plane's delayed and
the stock needs feeding.  They tell me it's perfectly
balanced, all the vitamins and minerals, all that
crap!  I've tried it, and it does give you the energy
to work, but it's fucking boring.  Still, that's all
you'll be getting from now on, so now's a good time to
start."

I went to nibble at the biscuit, but it as
surprisingly hard - I had to almost gnaw at it to be
able to break bits off and chew them.

"See", he said, "Just like dog biscuits!  Very hard,
so you have to really chew at them - keeps your teeth
in good shape, and exercises your jaws properly.  I
told you your new owner was humane - some owners feed
their slaves on swill - boiled up waste from the
owner's table - as they think it's more humiliating.
But your owner buys the proper food, well balanced,
healthy: he wants you to be fit and active, and this
is a lot better for you than the stuff the crew and I
have been eating.  Steak and chocolate mousse tastes a
lot better, but yours will do you more good."

I carried on chewing away at it, swallowing the bland
stuff.

"Well, it may be doing me more good, but it doesn't
taste of anything!"

"Well of course not.  They could add artificial
flavours, but they're no good for you.  But the real
reason is to focus your mind - I was talking to one of
the trainers the last time I was at the estate and he
told me that the food is deliberately bland - they
want your mind to concentrate on serving your owner.
That's why you don't get any music to listen to, any
books or videos, any of that stuff - they say it's
just distracting.  When there's just you, your body,
and your work, you really focus on it.  And that's
what a slave should do - concentrate on delivering the
ultimate in perfect work for his owner."

As he was speaking, I was conscious that after all the
water I'd drunk the inevitable was happening - I
needed to piss.

"Please.... Look, you've got to let me out of here,
just for a bit.... I need to go to the gents."

"Don't be so fucking stupid!  Do you think we'd let a
slave loose on this aircraft - you might try something
foolish, then we'd have to shoot you."

"So what do I do?  Piss on the floor?"

"You do that and I'll shock you into unconsciousness.
No.... Use this."

He fetched one of the food containers that had been
used for the crew's dinner, and held it out to me.  I
put my hand through the bar to take it, but it was too
big to go through.

"Just piss through the bars", he said.

I'd hoped to be able to turn away from him as I pissed
- I'm not piss shy, as I'm used to peeing in public
lavatories and stuff. And at the rugby club we have
one of those long communal metal troughs to piss in,
with none of those silly partitions that stop you
looking at the next guy - after all, we all bath
together naked,  don't we?  But after he'd gone on
about "sex toys" and stuff, I didn't really want to
expose myself to this guy - especially as he'd said he
liked sex with men himself.  It's one thing to be
naked with your mates, all good normal guys - but let
a queer see me..... No!

But as I stood there, the urge to let go kept getting
stronger, I saw there was nothing else I could do.  As
I went to get my cock out, another problem then
presented itself - the tiny shorts were so skimpy and
so tight that there was no way that I could just
release my cock:  I was going to have to push the
shorts right down to get it out - and then, of course,
with only the too-short singlet on top, he'd be able
to see all my pubes, my balls, my bum....

I hated it, but I had no choice.  I put the box down
on the floor out side the bars, then wriggled to get
the tiny shorts down over my cock, so that they were
resting on my thick thighs.  Then I quickly stooped to
pick up the box, poked my cock through the bars, and
started to piss.

It was heaven - once it started to flow, I just stood
there with my eyes half closed, pissing away and
getting that marvellous feeling of relief you get when
you've been wanting to go for some time.  When finally
I finished I put the box down on the floor and shook
the last drops out of my cock, then struggled to get
my shorts up again.

"Very nice!", the guy said conversationally, as if it
was the most natural thing in the world.  "Very nice -
one of the best cocks I've seen for some time, and
those balls.... I really like a guy with big, low
hangers like yours.  Once they've exposed them,
they'll be a real treat.  But I don't suppose the boss
saw those - it must have been that bum of yours that
attracted him:  it's even nicer 'in the flesh' than
when it's trying to burst its way out of your shorts,
you know.  I like a bum like that - muscular, rounded,
carried high up on top of those thighs of yours... And
that little patch of hair at the top of your crack...
Nice, very nice!"

I started to blush as he was talking.  I wasn't used
to guys talking about my body like this - well, not to
me, anyway:  like all good looking guys I supposed
that gays would look at me and whisper to themselves
about me if they saw me in the street, or wherever.
Actually, I wanted to tell him to shut his obscene
mouth - but what was the use:  he could, after all,
shock me into silence if he wanted to.

"Yes", he went on, "Very nice.  I'll have to look out
for you next time I'm invited to the estate.  Once
you've been trimmed and so on, you'll be truly
amazing."

I wanted to ask him what the hell he was talking
about, but he picked up the box with my piss in it,
and went and emptied it down the sink in the corner
where the food was prepared, before throwing the empty
box into a trash sack.  Then he went through into the
front of the plane.  I was amazed at the way a guy
could treat piss like that - I couldn't imagine I'd
ever be able to pick up a box with another guy's warm
piss in it, and treat it so casually.  On the other
hand, perhaps he thought that it was more like keeping
an animal clean in its cage - not like real man piss
at all.

I sat there thinking about everything he'd said -
Jesus fucking Christ.... What sort of a place was I
going to?

Well, I found out after what seemed like an
interminable wait.  We came down onto what was clearly
a private airstrip in the middle of desert - there was
no fancy terminal or anything, just the landing strip
and a small building  at the side, from which I could
see a big black limousine and a white Land Rover
racing towards us.

As I peered out of the window I saw a man in
traditional Arab dress go down the steps, and was
whisked away in the limousine.  Two men got out of the
Range Rover, and they looked to be identically
dressed.  They came up the aircraft steps, and a few
moments later they were led into the cargo area by the
steward.

Both men were in their late twenties or early
thirties, and were fit looking - they wore identical
khaki shorts cut very short so that most of their
thighs were exposed and their cocks were clearly
bunched up in the short body section, and
tight-fitting white polo shirts.  On their feet they
had black combat boots, with white socks rolled over
the tops.  Around their waists were thick black belts,
with a variety of strange things hanging from them -
although I did recognise handcuffs as one of the
items.

They were chatting to the steward as they came in.
".... And was his cum thick and creamy?"

"Don't know - he's not cuffed or anything, and he's a
big strong guy.  I didn't like to put my hand in and
find out!"

All three of them laughed, and one of the two men in
white said "So shipping him clothed spoiled your fun,
then!  If you're horny, why don't you give that pilot
a miss tonight and come over to my quarters and see
how a real man does it...? You know what they say....
'Soldiers do it at attention'!"

They saw me looking at them and listening, and the
other man in white snapped at me "Hands in front of
you - we're going to cuff you for the journey."

Defiantly I put my hands behind my back, and stood
there looking at him.

"Get your hands in front of you now, boy!  Don't you
know that slaves obey guards?"

I just stood there, and the man casually took a small
rod from a holster on his belt and pushed it through
the bars and touched me with it.  My world exploded -
it was as if someone had thrown scalding water all
over me.  I screamed, and threw myself about, trying
to brush the water off me.  Only gradually did the
pain subside.

"Now, boy, hands in front of you, so we can cuff you.
Or would you like another taste of the tickler?  Good,
isn't it - adapted from cattle prods, and re-tuned to
the human nervous system. Lots of pain, no lasting
physical harm."

What was the point of arguing?  I couldn't escape from
the 'tickler', confined in the cage.  So I extended my
hands out in front of me, and the guy took the
handcuffs off his belt and snapped them around my
wrists.

They told the steward to open my cell, and then
ordered me to follow them.  As I was going past the
steward he reached out and ran his hand lightly over
my backside - I could feel it plainly, trough the thin
silken material of my tiny shorts.  "Fuck you...." I
shouted, as I felt somehow violated.  Another man had
never touched my body like that before.

All that earned me was a big slap on my bum from one
of the two guards, who told the steward, laughingly,
that "this is the way to treat a slave's ass - a good
hard slap, not a little grope!".  I felt so humiliated
- no one had slapped me there before, either.

They led me back through the plane and down the steps
- as we left the air conditioned interior the heat hit
me like a blow - it must have been way up into the
nineties.  But I didn't sweat - I suppose the air was
so dry, as it looked as if were in desert.

They opened the back door of the Land Rover and told
me to get in, and as soon as I sat down a cuff was
pulled out from under the back seat and snapped shut
around my ankle.

"You know", said one of the guards, "We've had slaves
try to leap from the moving vehicle as we make our way
to the estate, even though they're handcuffed, we're
in the middle of nowhere, and they have absolutely no
idea where they are.  So now we make sure you stay
inside - you've cost too much money to allow you to
injure yourself doing anything stupid.  So just sit
back and relax - I would say enjoy the view, but the
scenery's not much!"

We sped through the bleak landscape, mile after mile.
A blob appeared on the horizon, and it turned green as
we approached - it was one of those things I'd read
about: an oasis.  But this wasn't the traditional kind
with a pool surrounded with palm trees - there seemed
to be a vast areas of green in the desert, surrounded
by a mesh fence about four feet high.  The track
curved around, and we went through a gate, that opened
as the men touched a radio control on the dash.

"See that fence, boy?"   One of the guards said.
"Mark it well!  It's not so high that you couldn't
jump it easily - but don't ever try.  Apart from the
fact that you'd never survive walking across the
desert to 'civilisation', that fence marks out the
placing of the sensor cable for the slave collars -
you'll get one as soon as we arrive, and it's an
update on the technology used to keep dogs in gardens
- they get a mild shock when they try to cross the
buried sensor wire to make them go back.  But if you
cross the wire, the shock will kill you!  You get a
warning jolt if you go within three feet of the fence,
but don't try any more.  Understand?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Look, boy, if you're going to get on well as a slave
on the estate, you'd better start learning proper
manners!  All guards and overseers are addressed as
'Sir' by slaves, and your only reply to my last
question should have been 'Sir, yes, sir!'.  Do you
understand?"

"Yes... "  and then I hesitated as I don't like
acknowledging that men are superior to me - I never
call my boss at the office or anyone else "Sir".   But
I thought I perhaps ought not antagonise these men.
So I added  "..... Sir."

The guard who had been talking to me turned around in
his seat to face me, and leaned over and slapped me!
His open-palmed hand hit me hard, on the side of my
face, and I fell over sideways with the surprise, and
the force of the blow.

"Look, boy, I don't think you understand yet what
you're in for.  You're a slave.  Slaves are always
polite, and always eager to obey and acknowledge
masters and guards.  So it's not 'Yes' and then very
grudgingly 'Sir'.  It's 'Sir, yes, sir!" - with vigour
and gusto - you really want to acknowledge your
master, and you need to show it.   Guards enforce the
house rules with physical punishments, and if you want
to avoid them, you'd better start learning now.  So do
you understand?"

I was still reeling with shock from what had happened
- the completely casual way he'd been so violent was a
complete surprise.  But I had the sense to know not to
antagonise him further, so I snapped "Sir, yes, Sir!".
 It was like being in one of those Army films, where
all the recruits have to chant that as part of their
subjugation to the communal life in the army.

"That's better, boy.  Remember to answer like that and
you'll avoid a lot of beatings!"

Whilst all this had been going on we'd pulled up in
front of a long, low building tat was around the back
of a bigger, slightly better looking one - although
neither of them was particularly lavish:  Whitewashed
blocks, and small windows.  I guessed they didn't need
a lot of glass in this blinding hot sunlight.  The
guards got out, unlocked my ankle restraint, then
told me to follow them.

Inside it was much cooler than the furnace-like heat
of the air outside, and I could tell it must e
air-conditioned.  In my skimpy shorts and revealing
top I even felt slightly chilly.  There was another
guard inside the door, wearing what I now saw must be
their "uniform" - the tight, short shorts, and the
white polo top.  Like the two who were with me, he
looked fit and alert, and he reached up and pulled the
"tag" that was still around my neck down, so that he
could scan it with one of the instruments that had
been used before.

"Right", he told my guards, as he glanced at a PC
screen on the desk in front of him.  "This is the one
we've been expecting.  Take him and collar him and
tattoo him, get him clean, and then take him into the
boss - he's eagerly awaiting the arrival of this
purchase."

We went down a featureless corridor into a mostly
empty room - just a table with a chair next to it.

"Sit down", I was ordered, and I went and sat in the
chair next to the table.  All three of us waited,
until the door opened and another guy, in the same
"uniform" came in, carrying a kind of tool box.

He greeted his two companions, but ignored me - it was
almost as if I wasn't there.  The tool box was opened
on the table, and a big pair of pliers was used to cut
off the tag around my neck. Then he got some links of
chain out of the box, and draped them around my neck
and experimentally pulled the ends together. They felt
cold against my flesh, and I shivered inwardly.

"It's about right", he told the others. "I've put the
extra link in as although it will be a bit loose
initially, it will soon tighten as he works here and
his muscles fill out generally - it's so messy to have
to re-fit the collar after a couple of months.
Now...."

As he was speaking he got a tube of pungent-smelling
stuff out from the box and used it to hold together
the two ends of the chain around my throat.  It just
hung below my Adam's apple, and it was one of those
very chunky chains, with thick links.  It felt tight
already as it lay there around me - I wasn't used to
having anything around my neck usually, and I could
feel its dull weight on me.

After a few moments he slipped a finger between the
links and my neck and tugged experimentally - the
chain was firmly in place.

"Listen, boy", he told me, "That's your security
collar on.  You've seen the fence around this place -
don't ever try to cross it, or even get close to it!
You're expensive stock, and we'd hate to lose you.
You're lucky you've got such a considerate owner - a
lot of slaves have to wear rigid collars and then they
get sores and all sorts of stuff where it rubs them -
but these links do accommodate themselves to you a
bit, and there ought not to be even any chafing."

Turning to his companions he went on "It makes him
look good, doesn't it - I always think the slaves are
enhanced when they're collared - we know they can't
run for it as there's no way of getting these tough
collars off without special tools, all of which are
locked up, and it's the real symbol of their
servitude.   Now he's 'safe' and can't escape, you can
take him out of the cuffs..."

One of the guards took the key to my handcuffs off his
belt and went to unlock me.  "Now, boy, don't do
anything stupid when your hands are free!  There's no
escape from this place for you as you've heard, so
there's no point in attacking any of us - quite apart
from the fact that three against one isn't good odds,
even if you got out of the door there you couldn't get
off the estate and we'd soon hunt you down.  So just
continue to be silent and co-operative, and it will be
easier for all of us."

Well, what could I do?  He was right - three against
one was terrible odds, and even though I was fit and
strong and used to a bit of rough stuff in the ruck on
the pitch, all these guys looked as if they were used
to taking care of themselves.

"Elbow on the table, and brace yourself!", the guy who
had chained me now said, and when I hesitated slightly
as I didn't know what he meant, he impatiently pushed
my left elbow on to the table and kind of flattened my
hand on the area between my pecs.

"Right, boy, no flinching!", he went on.  "I'm going
to tattoo your shoulder here with your inventory
number, and your name, so that all the guards on the
estate know who they're dealing with."

He got a machine that looked like one of those label
makers that usually squirt plastic tape out from his
tool box, and fiddled with it, turning the dial on the
top this way and that, and pressing a green button
every now and then.  He pressed the flat end of the
machine against the flesh right at the top of the arm,
and pressed a red button on the machine.  I felt a
great stinging sensation in my arm, and pulled it
away.

The man was grinning at me.  "There, that wasn't bad,
was it?  That's your inventory number done - these new
rapid tattooers are clever, aren't they - five digits
all at once, and no need for a specialist to come in."

I went to rub my shoulder as it was hurting, and saw
blood everywhere!

"Hey..."

"Shut the fuck up, slave!", he snapped.  "Haven't you
learned yet that slaves only answer questions, and
don't speak unless they're doing so?  And don't touch!
 That's only blood from the needles - it will soon
dry.  Just sit still, whilst I dial in your name."

He was fiddling with his machine again, and soon
pressed it against my shoulder again.

"Right, boy, you know what's coming - just sit still
as we don't want it blurred...."

The sharp pain again as the button was pressed, and he
took the machine away.

"Right, Jon, that wasn't so bad, was it?  You're lucky
your name's only three characters...."

"But I'm not Jon, I'm....."

The man looked at the two guards who'd brought me in,
and the one who had hit me in the Range Rover came up
and struck me hard again across the face, with his
open hand.  I fell off the chair half in surprise, and
half from the sheer unexpectedness of the attack.

"You haven't learned, have you?", he said.  "Remember
- you only speak when you're answering a question.
Didn't I tell you that as we were coming here?"

"Yes..."

He drew back his leg, and went to kick me, just
stopping so that his boot rested against my head.

"And how do we answer guards?  Remember?  So you don't
speak, unless spoken to, do you, slave?"

"NO, Sir, no."  I was terrified actually - as I say,
you're not used to being hit, and to the casual use of
force against you, are you?

"Now understand, Jon", he went on, "As that's your
name now!  We don't care what you were called before.
The owner likes his slaves to have short, easy to use
names as it makes commanding them easier.  The last
Jon was sold last week so that name is available on
the estate - there's no duplication amongst the slaves
here, so that when we guards are talking about a
slave, it's absolutely clear which one is being spoken
of.   Start thinking of yourself as Jon now, as if
someone orders 'Jon' to do something, and you don't
jump to obey, you're likely to get punished.
Actually, a lot of slaves find it easier being
re-named - it makes a separation from their old lives
and their new slave lives. But for the first few days
listen hard to make sure you don't miss a command!."

They led me to a second room where there was a shower
head in the ceiling, told me to strip, and shower.
I'm not prudish and at the Club I was used to
showering when there were other guys around - in rugby
clubs they don't have those silly little individual
cubicles, as you all shower together (after all, after
matches, you all share the communal bath!), but having
the two guards standing there watching me did seem
strange.   The soap had absolutely no smell, but it
seemed to do the job, and it felt so good to be able
to wash off all the sweat (and the remaining dirt from
where I'd fallen to the ground at the airport).  When
I was almost done I turned around to face away from
the two men to pull my foreskin back and wash under
it.

"Hey, Jon, don't be shy...."  One of the guards called
out.  "Turn around, and let me make sure that cock
head of yours is properly clean.... "

I ignored him, and carried on washing as that's
something you do facing away from your team mates,
isn't it?

"Slave... I told you to TURN AROUND!  Do it now, or
else..."

I looked over my shoulder and saw the men getting
their "ticklers" off their belts.  I let go of my
cock, and turned to face them, the water still
streaming over me.

"Right... Now, let's see that you're properly clean.
Just ease that 'skin of yours back and show us you've
done a proper job..."

I was blushing furiously - well, you don't do that in
front of other guys, do you?  It's all right if you're
cut to have your cock head exposed all the time, but
when it's decently hidden by your 'skin (or mostly
hidden, as in my case), well you just don't 'skin back
and display it to other men, do you?

They looked menacing, though, so I eased my 'skin back
off my head, and stood there, naked in front of them,
almost holding my cock out for display.  Both men
peered at it, and one said to the other "Nice one...
He's a handsome lad, isn't he?  I wonder how long
before we get a chance to taste that cock?  And I
wonder if the boss is going to have him 'skinned?"

Oh, fucking hell... What had I fallen into?  What did
they mean about tasting my cock, and what was being
'skinned?  I went to ask, then thought better of it
and kept my mouth shut.

They turned off the water, gave me a small towel to
dry myself with, and then a fresh set of the skimpy
satin shorts and loose-fitting singlet.

"Right - off to the boss!", the chief one said.  "Now,
remember, when you see him:  he owns you!  He can
order anything he likes to happen to you!  So be VERY
respectful, wait until you're spoken to, and do as he
tells you, unquestioningly.  Personally, I quite like
to see a new slave writhing on the floor in pain if we
have to 'tickle' him, but it's not really sensible and
it's so unnecessary.  So keep quiet, and do absolutely
as you're told!"

End Of Part 2