Date: Thu, 7 Dec 2006 08:58:45 EST
From: SANIBELBOYS@aol.com
Subject: a lesson in time part 8

This story is (C)Copyright 2006, by TM. All World Wide Rights  Reserved.
This story may not be sold or made part of any collection without  prior
written
permission.

A Lesson In Time, Chapter  Eight


I had apparently lost track of time, let alone my surroundings, while talking
to  `616'; as the door to the building opened up and an employee of Mr.
Trumbull  came out, followed by what I assumed was the  doctor.

Both  men smiled, introduced themselves and lit up cigarettes. They began
speaking  with me, in generalities, about how my stay was so far, how I liked my
personal  slave and things like that. I started to feel quite comfortable
around them,  when my cellphone `buzzed' in my  pocket.

There was a text message from old Mrs. Mudfart which read; "Call me the FIRST
 chance you get."  Well, I instantly knew that something was important,
because of the way she capitalized the word `first'. It was a pre-arranged
signal that something important was going on that I needed to  know.

I  stuffed the phone back in my pocket and talked for awhile longer with the
two  gentlemen, while they finished smoking. I at least learned that the four
newly  indentured wouldn't be ready for their physical exams for at least
another  hour.

I sent  `616' back up to get our buggy, while the two men went back inside
the building.  This gave me the chance to contact Mrs. Mudfart, in  private.

I  walked away from the building, scanning the masses of `out buildings' to
the  rear of the compound and called  her.

"Kevin", she started right in; "Your father got a call from Mr. Trumbull a
few  minutes ago. He is concerned that perhaps you are taking to many pictures
of his  organization. Remember what I told you! Take only a few pictures which
others  won't object to and the remaining photos you'll have to take when
you feel it is  safe to do so. Taking too many pictures there, or anywhere else
just might land  you in some serious trouble; trouble that your father would
have a hard time  explaining... let alone bail you out. So just be extra careful,
okay  Hun?"
I assured her  that I would henceforth be cautious about taking any and all
pictures and I also  thanked her most politely for her commanding supervision
over my  internship.

After putting my phone away, I tried to recollect who might have seen me
taking  the five or six extra pics of the new slaves. It gave me a creepy feeling
deep  inside; as if even I, myself, was being  watched.

I  walked towards the three or four, identical looking buildings. They all
appeared  to be in good condition on the outside, with well kept lawn and
trimmed shrubs.  I wanted to go into one of them, but opted not too; just in case I
was being  watched.

Off  to the end of the last building, I noticed the apple orchard and saw
that a  number of slaves, naked, were clearing the vegetation from between the
rows of  trees. I guess even in an orchard, that slaves have to keep it looking
pristine.  The faint fragrance of late blooming apple blossoms filled my
nostrils and that  seemed to take the edge off of any misgivings I had at the
moment; as I made my  way back to the building which I needed to see  next.

Even  though the slaves were not yet there; I went inside and was immediately
greeted  by the `doctor'. He showed me around, pointing out the basic things
like the  tables, implement, testing equipment and so forth. He brought up
the topic of  the SIMS machine which Mr. Trumbull had so nicely purchased, and
began telling  me all that he knew about it. He had no idea that I knew as
much, if not more  about it than he did.

He began to  explain the procedures he used to do the initial exam on the
slaves, by going  over step by step the list of things he looked at and tests
that he  performed.

My butt kind of squeezed together when he showed me his instrument which was
used to expand the sphincter muscle on the slaves so that he could implant
the  required GPS, Slave Identifier Chip.  From the look of the damn thing; if
he opened it all the way, you could fit a baseball bat up a slave's  ass.

Further  down the line, he showed me where a slave would get any and all body
rings;  should his new Master require them. It was also, in this same area
where some  slaves received a treatment to permanently assure that no more body
hair would  ever again  re-grow.

One  part of his job was to do a `minor' surgical procedure on any of the
pony slaves  who were required to have a more `permanent' tail. He picked up a
long length of  horse hair that was attached to a silicone plate; which he
normally implanted  just under the second layer of the slaves skin just below the
tailbone. I  couldn't imagine having to live a life with a tail of such
dimension hanging  down between my legs. It was awkward enough seeing the one
slave, earlier, with  a temporary tail attached to a rather simple butt  plug.

Finally he spoke of some of the atrocities which some of the slaves went
through  in the first building, upon their initial induction. He told me that no
matter  what group of slaves was being processed on any given day that he had
at least  one rectum that he had to stitch up after the slave had be subjected
to a cruel  regimen of sodomizing, cuts needing attention and welts that
needed ointment.

The  baritone voice of Mr. Wilton filled the room, as he led the group of
four slaves  in; followed by two other employees. He looked at me, straight in
the eyes; as  if trying to determine the need for my being  there.

"Why  don't I have one of the men take you down to the `Carriage Training'
building;  where they are working with two new ponies this morning. I'm sure
that you'll  find it much more interesting and enlightening than watching `doc'
 and his boys  do their normal routine on this lot of scum", Mr. Wilton said
in a tone of voice  that was more like he was ordering me to leave versus
asking if I wanted to.  "I'm sure that a few pictures taken in there, won't be of
any  consequence."

I nodded my head, as I verbally accepted his offer and one of the men led the
 way back outside. As I walked passed the four slaves, it was easy to see
that  each of them was in some degree of pain or discomfort and all of them had
dried  tears making streaks down their faces. The poor slave that had the pony
tail,  even had what appeared to be traces of blood on the inner portions of
his legs.  I felt as if I truly had be `transported' into a world in which I
knew little or  nothing  about.

I  motioned for `616' to follow us, bringing with him our pony slave. He had
a look  on his face of either dissatisfaction or concern. I couldn't tell
which, from  the distance he was away from  me.

The next  building seemed to be nothing more than an indoor arena. Earthen
floor, and no  place to sit. Just two pony slaves, four employees and nothing
else.

Each of the  ponies was hitched to a cart. Each cart was commanded by an
employee; and on the  back of each cart were layer upon layer of cement blocks. I
later learned that  the blocks were to help build the strength in the slaves'
legs as he pulled his  cart. One would guess that the added blocks represented
the possibilities of  pulling and extra human  around.

One  of the ponies, only wore those all to familiar blinders next to his
eyes, while  sporting one of the doctors implanted horse tails. Even his hands
were covered  in what appeared to be padded leather  mitts.

The  remaining pony had his entire head covered in a leather hood. He seemed
to be  the worse for wear as the man atop the buggy was yelling obscenities at
him and  flailing his pony whip across the slave's back and rump.  This
particular  pony was simply maneuvering around the outer boundary of the ring,
learning  proper speeds, direction of turns and of course need to pull the added
weight.

The  pony wearing the blinders was more or less in the center of the arena;
following  commands such as each simple word instructed him to follow. He wasn'
t receiving  any verbal abuse; but he was getting his fair share of whip marks
laid upon his  butt cheeks.

I watched  both slaves, as they worked to learn and prefect their new lives.
It was truly  amazing to see how each of them was learning, albeit at
different  paces.

As  the one pony circled the arena, he came within three feet of me and I
could see  the enormous amount of perspiration his body was producing. I looked
down at the  ground and discovered the depth of the tracks which the cart was
leaving as a  trail. I almost, almost, thought that the added weight on the
cart just might  have been a bit more than that equal to an added free  man.

As both  of the ponies were pulled to a stop, they were each given a bucket
filled with  cool water for them to lap. It must not have been unusual for the
employees to  see the pony slaves pissing directly onto the ground; as each of
them so  amicably did. One could only assume that even their bodily functions
were to  `mirror' that of the animal which they were now well on their way
to  becoming.

The two men switched carts, and the ponies were also switched as to their
training. Each assuming the others place within the confines of the arena. The
totally sightless pony struggled with the commands, the constant whip on his
flesh and the menacing tugging on the reins attached to his mouth bit. I could
 see where the corners of his mouth seemed show the initial signs of minor
bruising.

There was just something about these and my pony slave that kept me
mesmerized  for quite some time. I couldn't help but to envision the pony I was using
going  through this same sort of training.

I had to  commend their instructors, as from my novice knowledge of such
things, they  seemed to not only know how to train a pony but they also seemed to
have some  understanding as to what and how the pony was  thinking.

Time had gone quite fast, and before I knew it; Mr. Wilton appeared, standing
 right alongside of me. I honestly didn't know if he had just arrived or he'
d  been there for some length of  time.

"Young  Kevin Latimore is quite intrigued with the way we train ponies here"
, Mr. Wilton  said; breaking my thoughts about the  ponies.

"Well.... Ahh.. well yes, I suppose; I'm captivated by the ponies desires to
not  only learn but to please their trainers as well", I  responded.

"These two ponies, didn't start out as ponies. They originally came to us
for  training as male pleasure slaves, but their body structure was so suitable
for  pony work, that Mr. Trumbull bought... I mean exchanged them... for two
other  slaves."

"Oh, I see", I replied; "I thought that all pleasure slaves were those such
as  my slave. You know, the ones which are born into slavery, and learn from
an  early age?"  I hadn't realized that I phrased my response in a vague form
of a question, until Mr. Wilton  responded.

"Well Sir, you're partially correct; however, there are so many needs for
pleasure slaves over the last eight or nine years that we have to educate some
of the indentured slaves into the ways of pleasing a male or female.  With
the amount of `criminally enslaved' doing a majority of the hard labor and the
 illegal immigrants doing so much of the `domestic slave' work, there is a
shortage... a need if you will... of slaves who are superbly trained in the ways
of  sexual  pleasures."

"Yes, but don't you find it difficult to ... say ... take a man or a woman who
is a  normally heterosexual individual and `convert' them into a life whereby
they  might strictly serve someone of the same sex?" I asked in  earnest.

"Once again your thinking is rather precise Sir. But, with the methods used
these days, it doesn't seem to take more than six months of hard, constant,
and  firm work with such individuals to show them their new world. But you are
correct as to the breeding program to produce sexually adaptive boys and
girls.  After your lunch, why don't I meet you at the insemination building or the
`milking barn' and I can show you more of what I'm speaking of and them we
can  go to the training building and you can see for yourself how we train
those not  born into  slavery."

"That sounds great", I responded with a degree of excitement. "I'd like to
see  that and learn what I can from viewing such delicate  work."

"Well  then, what say you about meeting me in the `milking barn' at two and
between the  three buildings you'll just about fill up your afternoon", Mr.
Wilton  inquired.

I  hastily agreed, and then Mr. Wilton and I left the pony barn. Mr. Wilton
climbed  atop a beautiful cart, being pulled by two of the most magnificent
ponies, I'd  ever seen.  He didn't even have to say a single word to them;
except to  make a certain sound and the two ponies took off on a dead gallop, as I
stood  there in  awe.

`616'  was smiling at the way I had been so mesmerized by the sights and
sounds of the  two ponies; as I turned towards him and my pony  slave.

I had  `616' sit on the back of the cart, as I shook the reins for my pony
to take me  back to the cottage. I almost had the urge to crack the whip above
his head just  to see his response; but decided not to, as I rather preferred
looking at the  pony as he cock and balls bounced in accordance with the way
his legs moved up  and down.

At  the cottage, `616' got a pail of water and a bucket of slave chips for
the pony  to eat; while I went inside and began making notes on what I'd seen
and heard  this  morning.

Lunch was simple and quick, which allowed me ample time to finish my notes,
and  rest for a little bit. I didn't pay to much attention to `616' as I
really  wanted to replay, in my head, all of the events of the morning. I still
found  myself enamored by the pony training and couldn't help but wonder about
the four  new slaves.

Just before leaving to meet up with Mr. Wilton, I availed myself of `616's'
mouth and relived myself. This time I had `616' trot alongside, as my pony
slave  took me up to the `milking  room'.

I was  met outside by Mr. Wilton and Mr. Trumbull. I was given a few simple `
rules'  about how to behave inside; with the main rule...  "Silence".

Upon entering the building, we seemed to be in a small room where a slave
quickly put little disposable coverings on our feet, and handed each of us a
small paper filter mask to wear. The slave that tended to these things appeared
to be about twenty years old, rather handsome; even though most of his body
was  devoid of hair and the standard slave collar and cuffs were present. His
cock  had the largest Prince Albert ring I'd ever seen and there were even
rings  lining the entire length on the underside of his magnificent looking penis.
He  smiled at me, once he noticed that I was looking at his  `package'.

Inside the room, well lit and very sterile looking; were two rows, of three,
slaves. Three slaves on each side of a sparkling clean and tiled walkway.
There  was one man, dressed in a white laboratory coat walking towards us. I
knew, from  Mr. Wilton, that this man was going to be the only voice I would hear
while  inside the `milking room'. He would explain the process and the
equipment.

The only other sound, or sounds I should say, were the weird hissing and
piston  sounds from some machine, and the muffled moans and groans from the
slaves.

My  eyes were like a sponge, absorbing everything in the room; most, if not
all, was  totally new and strange to  me.

Each of  the slaves was kneeling on the floor, his knees spread wide and his
hands and  head were being kept in place by what appeared to be lightweight
aluminum  stocks. Their eyes had been covered, so they couldn't see other
slaves, or  anything else; not even us. I noticed that each of them had actually had
their  knees in some sort of indentation on the floor which was apparently
well  padded.

The  man never introduced himself; but at least he did shake my hand before
he began  speaking.

"It's not often I get a visitor to the `milking parlor' and it's my
pleasure to  explain what takes place here and why', he said with a sparkle in his
eyes.

"Each  of these slaves remains here from three to four days until the
required amount  of sperm has been extracted from them. Their only purpose in life is
to be  donors for the eggs of females. As you can see, the slaves are either
black or  Latino; as we seldom get to many calls for a white man's sperm. When
we do get  such a call, well... we have the means to gather it, without the use
of measures  such as we use  here."

The  man looked at Mr. Wilton and Mr. Trumbull who, even behind their
filtered masks  seemed to be smiling. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out
that the  few white slaves such as maybe `616' were hand milked for their
sperm or maybe  even some of the rather handsome and sturdy employees
volunteered their  semen.

"The  bags of liquid you see hanging next to each of the slaves is their
nourishment.  It flows down and into the orange tube in their nose, which goes
down into their  esophagus. This way, we don't have to stop the procedures just
to allow them  time to eat. It's a well balanced meal, much like they use in
hospitals and  nursing homes to feed the ill and  infirmed."

The man took hold of my wrist and brought me right alongside the first of the
 slaves and pulled me down towards the floor as he began pointing to the slave
's  appendage.

"As you can see, we have an elaborate system here which constantly
manipulates  the penis up and down in the standard `masturbatory' manner; keeping a
certain  amount of rigidity to the  penis."

I  was amazed to see the similarities in this equipment compared to the SIMS
unit.  It looked much like it, or at least I should say, it worked much like
it.  However, the sleeve which covered each cock was a clear cylinder, which
made it  quite obvious what the slave's cock was doing inside the  cylinder.

There was something that caught my attention, just behind and below the
cylinder  that I wasn't exactly sure what it was; but I had an eerie idea that I
was going  to find out soon  enough.

I  watched and listened as the slave's body jerked, and a small amount of
sperm  came oozing out and was sucked into a smaller tube alongside the cylinder.
It  was the first time that I'd actually seen something like this work, as I
didn't  see much of my own ejaculations, thanks to my sister. And, I don't
know why it  happened, but my own cock began to stir with  excitement.

I was soon helped back up to my feet, and followed the man to a position just
 behind the first slave. I was shocked at what I was looking  at.

"The  small armature coming out of the floor, is connected to a small anal
stimulator;  which constantly massages the slave's prostate gland, which in turn
aides in a  higher yield of semen and sperm cells. As long as the slave keeps
his knees on  those two pads, his ass will remain stimulated. And the other
thing we've  discovered over the last two years is the simple yet mystifying
reason why a  man's testicles yield higher sperm counts if his scrotum is filled
to capacity  with a warm saline  solution."

When I heard that, it seemed to explain what I'd seen from the underside of
the  slave. From where I was standing, the slaves ball sac looked as large if
not  larger than a farm animals would appear.

"Once a  slave is secured into his stocks and sedated, we infuse
approximately 1000cc of  saline into the slave's scrotum very slowly, allowing his body to
adjust. The  saline seems to allow the two testicles to `float' within the
sac unrestricted.  This `floating effect seems to stimulate his body to produce
more sperm cells;  sometimes as much as thirty percent more. Combine that,
with the prostate  stimulation and `Bingo'... more sperm for making more slaves
here or we sell it to  other slave  foundries."

I was speechless, even if I could have spoken. I looked up and down the row
and  saw that all of the slaves had large testicles, especially the Latino. I
glanced  over to the other row of three slaves and noticed that they were all
Latino and  probably had larger scrotums as well.

I turned  back to see what the other two men were doing; and saw that they
were simply  standing there, silent, with their arms folded, watching me as the
man explained  the entire process.

"I can tell  that you are still doubtful as to our extraction procedures, so
perhaps you can  come back another time before you leave and spend more time
with me and then I  can perhaps answer some of your questions. But I have
noticed your keen  attention to the size of the Latino's  balls."

All  I could do at this point was to nod my head in an affirmative manner; as
I was  indeed amazed at the size in which they'd enlarged his  scrotum.

"There's just something about a Mexican and his balls that makes me enlarge
them  so much. Mr. Wilton seems to think it is because of all the problems
they caused  years ago, sneaking into the country and all. I guess I just have
this `racist'  or bigoted view towards them. Sometimes, well once actually, I
enlarged a  Mexican's balls so much that the doc had to remove them after I was
done milking  him. Remind me sometime and I'll show them to you. Doc pickled
them for me and I  keep them on my nightstand. Kinda helps me to fall asleep
every night. I have to  keep my emotions in check now, because if I screw up
another Mexican kid, Mr.  Trumbull will take the selling cost of him, out of my
paycheck and outta my  ass."

We  strode down the line, in back of the other two slaves before crossing
over to  the remaining three. I got down low and watched, for some time; as each
of the  last three slaves delivered a sizable load of white cream into their
respective  receiving tubes. I was totally oblivious to my own erection, while
amongst these  slaves.

Once  I stood up and realized that I had erected, I quickly turned my back to
all the  other men and tried to adjust my pants and I even pulled my shirt
tail out to  vainly try and cover myself up. I could just imagine the shit
eating grins on  the faces of Mr.'s Wilton and  Trumbull.

The man motioned for me to follow him, as he went to a door at the opposite
end  of the room and as I moved towards him, I noticed the two other men coming
along  as well.

The  room we were in was no larger than a decent walk-in closet. Other than
the one  fluorescent bulb in the ceiling the only other thing in the room was
what looked  like a stainless steel  cylinder.

He  unlatched four of five things and lifted the lid off the cylinder, as a
foggy  air rose to greet  us.

"This is  the `freezer' of sperm", the man said half laughingly. "This is
where I keep the  slave sperm until the female receptacle is ready to receive
it. It is all  cataloged and available to anyone who needs it. Keeping sperm
this way is quite  expensive and that's the reason there is only one other place
in the country  that does the same as we do. Most of the `standard' slave
farms just have a  slave mount a bitch and hope he can shoot a live load up her.
Here, we guarantee  the sperm count and can even select which slave it came
from, if there is a need  for a certain `type' of slave desired or  needed."

I  watched as he lifted a container out of the freezer. It had to have had at
least  two hundred small vials of semen in it. Each vial had several rows of
numbers  which must identify which slave it came from, sperm count and date
extracted.

He gently replaced the container and sealed the freezer, before the group of
us  left the `milking  parlor'.

While getting our little shoe coverings removed, Mr. Trumbull asked the man,
"how many vials of white do you have  available?"

"None Sir, we haven't had a white slave in some time, and as you and Mr.
Wilton  are aware we've had to resort to using  `545', `559' and `590' when we
had  need of white seed Sir. I haven't thought to obtain additional samples
from  them, but it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to get a little extra since
the  `new season' of slave auctions and transfers will be coming up pretty
soon."

"Well, if I were you I get started on thinking about scheduling at least one
or  two of them for at least a day's worth of extractions. I have one  guest
now who is keenly interested in several naturally born white slaves and he's
willing to pay my  price."

"The  three Mexicans are coming off the machines tonight and after I drain
the fluid  from their balls, they will be on rest for two days, so I could use
the white  boys for those two days, or even one if that's all I can  get."
"See to it then,  and don't disappoint me", Mr. Trumbull said in a rather
strict  tone.

We  left the `milking parlor' heading next door to the insemination room,
when Mr.  Trumbull announced that he had to get back to his other guests.

Mr. Wilton  explained to me, before reaching the other side of the building
that there were  no scheduled inseminations taking place today, but it would be
a good  opportunity for me to see where and how it was  done.

The  room looked no different than that of a doctor's office. Small, clean
and well  illuminated; with, I'm guessing, everything they needed to impregnate
a female  with slave sperm. I was surprised when Mr. Wilton told me that a lot
of the  females impregnated were between the ages of sixteen and twenty; with
few, if  ever, any older than twenty  five.

Exiting the building, Mr. Wilton looked at his watch and followed me back to
my  pony cart. Not saying much to me, but rather he spoke to my pony, saying, "
Take  Mr. Latimore on a proper and casual ride around the entire compound.
You know  the routes by now and you should have him returned to his cottage in
time for  him to rest and clean up before supper. You fail to do this and you'
ll find  yourself pulling a plow for the next three  years."

The  pony snorted and nodded his head, as Mr. Wilton turned to me saying. "
This  afternoon is so nice and pretty and it would be a good time for you to
inspect  the remaining parcels of our estate. Not much else is going on here
other than  the work on the four new boys, which you'll get to see more of
tomorrow perhaps.  Take `616' with you and enjoy the hour or two you'll have to tour
our beautiful  countryside. I'll send one of our runners out to find you and
bring you some  refreshments along the way. So off you go and have a nice
ride."

That's about all he said, as if `telling' me to go. I climbed up to my seat
and  the pony began to trot away as Mr. Wilton gave me a half hearted wave, as
he  turned towards the building where I assumed the four new slaves were
being kept.
It wasn't much longer  and I had `616' sitting alongside of me, as we made
our way down to and through  the apple orchard. Slaves toiling away, all naked
and beautiful and three of the  female slaves appeared to be pregnant as  well.

I made  good use of my camera, and took pictures mostly for myself; as I
wanted to have  a good memory of this particular  visit.

As my  eyes meandered around the vast land, my mind was re-hashing the
events, and  scenes of the `milking parlor', and the insemination room.

It was only  my second day here and already I'd learned more than I had ever
thought  possible. I could only imagine what tomorrow would bring, but I had
to endure  another night of formal dining amongst the elite; before perhaps
savoring the  taste, feel and smell of `616' once more.

To Be Continued...

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