Date: Tue, 23 Aug 2005 19:01:55 GMT
From: "anonymous4371@juno.com" <anonymous4371@juno.com>
Subject: BEST  OF BREED (Authoritarian)

			       BEST OF BREED

			       by Bill Smith

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____________________________________________________________________________

   I was produced at the Winfield Breeding Farm down in Mississippi about
43 or 44 years ago the best I can reckon out of one of the stock broods he
kept around for just that purpose.  I never did know exactly which one she
was because we were promptly put in the nursery with some other wenches
serving as wet nurses for the little whelps and Master Winfield must of had
over a hundred of those broods around at any given time, all of them kept
constantly pregnant.  They all looked more or less alike to me and not one
of us, nor any of them, seemed to know who whelped who. I suppose after
birthing anywhere from a dozen up to 25 little pups, you sort of lose
interest anyway.

   Master Winfield must have known, though, because when we were sold off
one by one over the years, he could always read out of his "Studbook" to
prospective buyers who the stud and brood was in back of us.  Everyone
complimented him at the sales barns on keeping such good records, but none
of it meant much to those getting sold.  We were much more interested in
who was buying us and for what purpose by then.

   The stud part was easy.  Aristotle had been around for ages and some
said he was into his mid-30s by now and it was believable with the gray
hairs beginning to show in his fine head of hair with just a hint of curl
to it.  You didn't see many slaves live long enough to have gray hair, so
it was a real novelty back on the farm.  Master Winfield claimed Aristotle
had sired over 1300 new stock at his farm, but he had already studded 512
new stock even by the time I was born.  That's why my name was just "512."
Master Winfield didn't bother giving us elaborate names like Aristotle had.
He said it wasn't worth the bother and just labeled us by our order of
birth.  Whoever bought us could name us whatever they wanted he always
claimed.  Until then, we just had a number to answer to.

   According to legend in the slave pens back at the farm, Aristotle had
been bought by Master Winfield when he was 15 or 16, just after he had
filled out and already was being admired because of his splendid physique,
his full musculature, his unusually handsome good looks, and his huge
sexual "equipment" as the sales barns listed it.  He was, full grown, about
6'4", 230 pounds of solid muscle, a bright yellowy brown color denoting he
was at least a mulatto, but more likely quadroon.  That quadroon
speculation was reinforced by his fine brown hair with just a hint of curl
to it, his brilliant blue eyes, his practically hairless body (even his
face was so smooth he never had to shave), his thin lips and high
cheekbones, his thin straight nose, and his baby smooth skin with a hint of
pink to it. But there was enough African blood in him to account for his
gigantic prick, his randy disposition (he was always hard it seemed), and
his suburb physique that was a turn on to any woman (and most men) that
laid eyes on him when he was stripped down.  Since Master Winfield had
bought him, at least, he had done nothing but stud, eat, sleep and do
enough other work to keep him in top shape and "get his balls fully
recharged" as Master Winfield called it.

   All of us young slaves knew we were products of his seed and admired him
from afar as we saw him being led to the rutting shed two or three times a
day or being stripped down for inspection by one of the many visitors to
the breeding farm.  Master Winfield loved showing the stud off and didn't
hesitate to exhibit him to dealers dropping by to look at stock coming up
for auction in the next few months, friends and relatives dropping by on a
visit to the farm, but also at occasional county fairs, the rare shopping
trips to the nearby town, and even the annual church bazaar hosted by
Master Winfield right there on the farm.  During those inspections, we
would see Aristotle remove that old pair of tattered shorts his master had
given him years ago, spread his legs wide apart, put his muscular arms in
back of his neck so his full torso would be displayed, and, with a signal
from his master, thrust his pelvis out so his well-used sex organs could be
easily handled if so desired.

   The dealers in those days were mainly small independent businesses.  But
a few, even then, were franchisees of huge international conglomerates that
offered buyers a huge variety of slaves as well as almost all related
services, e.g., specialized training; restraints and control devices such
as a vast variety of whips, shock collars, and electric prods;
pharmaceuticals such as vitamins, vaccines, veterinary supplies, mood
control and sex stimulation agents; slave feed in wholesale lots; slave
clothing; and slave identification devices, such as branding, body tags,
and tattooing equipment.  Although most dealers were still men, there were
more and more women in the business who, like the men, offered both genders
for the market.  Women had taken the lead in offering body adornments on
the slaves they sold and, even now, usually offered the best 'decorated'
slaves if style was your thing, e.g., fancy tit and ear rings as well as
decorative GPS collars were featured on both female and male sales, while
males often additionally had nose rings and genitals bands fitted for added
appeal.

   Master Winfield, like almost all breeders, wasn't bothered by showing
Aristotle stark nude to his female friends and relatives, nor at the county
fairs or church picnics attended by more women than men. Such prudery had
passed centuries ago as far as slaves were concerned in that slaves by now
were viewed just like any other animal.  The old fashioned notion of
offending someone by displaying a slave nude seemed almost quaint by modern
standards, although, occasionally, you noticed a few of the teen age girls
and boys, not used to the markets, twittering and simpering a little when
an especially well-hung stud or a particularly buxom wench was being
displayed in the buff.  But I never saw one close their eyes, walk away
from the scene, or do anything but get a good eye full. To do so would be
like telling their friends they weren't all grown up yet.  Especially if
the stud was sporting a big hard-on, as he often was when displayed in
public like this when he saw both female and male onlookers staring with
great interest at his manhood.

   Many of the men on those occasions felt obliged to heft the slave's
balls as if to weigh their contents and stroke the slave's shaft a bit to
test "response," usually with comments designed to tell those around them
they were good at "evaluating a stud" as if this were something they did
routinely.  Outside of the dealers who probably did do this on a daily
basis, for the others it was pure fantasy - most of them could never afford
anything half as good as Aristotle if they were into breeding slaves.
Aristotle was used to this and never flinched when his balls were roughly
handled or his huge penis stroked to a full erection once again.  He was
proud of his body and enjoyed the envious looks people often gave him when
they fondled his sex.

   He knew, along with his owner and the rest of us slaves, most of them
couldn't afford any slave worth displaying, let alone something like him.
Most of their own stock weren't worth enough to do anything but keep them
hidden back in the slave quarters and figure out how to get the maximum
amount of work out of broken down, cheap stock.  With this crowd, a lot of
the talk was about just that: the best types of whips on the market,
characteristics of the best overseers, and how old a slave could get before
he wasn't worth his feed.

   "I always use a 3" strap when a property gets lazy," we slaves heard as
we gathered in the background around the showing of the magnificent stud.
Most, like the speaker we had just heard, were into threats and punishments
that they found useful: "I cut rations when they slow down - that usually
gets them thinking twice about why God put them on this earth;" "I've found
touching them up with a hot branding iron puts the fear of God in them;"
"Putting a ring through their dick so they can't pleasure themselves gets
them horny enough to put a little more energy into their work, especially
for those I'd let fuck around a bit or use their hand for a little relief;"
"Me, I use a 12-strand lash on the bastards - you don't know how hard a
slave can work until you use that heavy on them."  But a few took a
different approach: "I throw the bucks a wench when they go over their
quota - works pretty well generally as long as you don't overdo it;" "When
they work extra hard, I make sure they get a piece of salt pork that night
- they love getting to eat a piece of meat once in a while;" "The wenches
will work their head off if you promise them they can take their pick out
of the good looking studs that night - that slave blood runs hot all the
time, I'll wager."

   Aristotle's seed must have been mighty powerful.  You could tell all of
us had his blood in us, no matter which of the broods had actually birthed
us.  If you looked real close, we all looked somewhat alike, more so than
you would expect from just being half-brothers, especially if there were,
as Master Winfield claimed, over 1300 of us now.  I suppose that was
because the broods were all picked carefully too: big, sturdy, good
looking, smooth skinned, and lusty-like with their big titties and their
ability to become quickly aroused, something Master Winfield always tested
with his probing fingers before he bought them when they were of mature
breeding age, as young as 14 and as old as 17 for the late bloomers.
Aristotle's seed was might potent too.  If Master Winfield had it timed
right, most broods "caught" on one or two tries so Aristotle "wasn't
fucking around for nothing," as his owner put it.  In fact, if a brood was
put to Aristotle "in season" and didn't take after 10 tries spread over a
few months (usually three or four a "season"), Master Winfield took her to
market and traded her in on a more promising wench.  He wasn't about to
feed livestock that couldn't produce, he always announced within good
hearing of all the stock on hand.

   The farm did produce some likely looking stock.  We were all
light-skinned, big and sturdy, muscled out well with proper exercise, had
nice smooth skin, little to no body hair, and most people looking us over
generally commented on how good looking we were, both male and female. The
females were big tittied the minute they filled out and generally had real
fine hair and light colored eyes, a very desirable quality in stock
bringing top prices in today's markets.  The males were very well built
with big shoulders and pecs, relatively small well muscled waists, and
invariably, it seemed, were very heavy hung, as the dealers called our
massive sexual organs.  Both the males and females had high cheekbones,
thin lips, straight noses, bright eyes, long curly eyelashes, and creamy
smooth complexions even when we got fully mature and a lot of ordinary
slave stock turned sort of coarse looking. The farm's output ranged from
the pure white looking like Swedes to the light browns looking like
Polynesians to the dark browns of North Africa and Asia to the coal blacks
of Central Africa.  One thing we all had in common: good looks and
magnificent bodies.

   Master Winfield made no bones about the crop he was raising. "Slaves -
biddable and likely-looking," was the way he described his product. "Others
are raising cotton, tobacco, rice, sorghum, pigs, you name it - I raise
human livestock. Always a demand, easy to grow, and most profitable if you
have the patience for it.  Takes a while to harvest a crop - 14 to 15 years
at best - usually up to 18 years or so to sell at the best price - but if
you have the capital to wait that long for a healthy return, there's no
better crop.  They're be a lot more breeding farms around if people just
had the capital to do it, but most don't.  They buy their cotton seed on
loan and sweat it out until they can get some cash in at the end of the
summer and pay their loans back.  Even then, they're totally dependent on
the whims of the cotton market with all its ups and downs.  But human
livestock - price doesn't vary that much from one year to another, other
than it has a tendency to always go up a little each year - the demand is
always a little more than what can be marketed, it seems. And those that
complain about the cost of keeping all those hungry mouths around year
after year - hell, my crop grows their own feed, even builds their own
shelter.  No cost to me at all.  All it takes is a lot of capital for an
exceptional stud and all those broods, writing off the costs of losing a
few to diseases and accidents, and a hell of a lot of patience waiting for
a return on your investment.  Not too many have that unusual combination,"
he used to gloat.

   We in the pens knew that Master Winfield was thinking about a
replacement for Aristotle eventually when he started to lose his ardor or
his seed started running out.  In fact, he had held a few potential studs
back from the market just in case and was testing these 18 and 19 year olds
on a few of the broods already to make sure their seed was as eager as
Aristotle's and they could get it up without any hesitation when they were
put on display for handling or actually taken down to the rutting
shed. When one of them got picked as the farm's main stud, the others would
probably be marketed as proven studs to other farms "coming to their
senses" and going into slave breeding or sold as "practiced studs" to some
rich widows and single ladies looking for a "boy" who understood exactly
why he had been purchased and would consistently bring his new mistress
such bodily pleasures they would never give him up.

   Aristotle himself was already promised to a new owner when the time
came.  Mr. Winfield had given first option to a young technocrat
millionaire in Silicon Valley who had the means to afford such luxuries and
who liked to take his pleasure with very good looking older "boys" who were
accustomed to having owners use their bodies for whatever they wanted.
Mr. Winfield could care less about the sexual preferences of the potential
buyer, never gave a thought as to what Aristotle might think about
pleasuring a male owner, and thought the standing offer of "as much as a
likely-looking, heavy hung 18-year-old would bring on the market" was
something only a fool would turn down.

   Aristotle's sale took place the same day I was sold, along with the 102
others coming of age that year at the breeding farm and slaves 455 and 460,
both older but being held in reserve to possibly replace Aristotle.  But
now that honor had gone to 451, a 19-year-old who was truly exceptional and
had been renamed Socrates to honor the father he was replacing in the
rutting shed.

   Aristotle left with his new young master, an executive dressed in the
latest fashion, who proudly clamped his own copper "slave" collar around
the middle aged slave's neck complete with the name "Aristotle" engraved in
the 3" high collar which forced Aristotle's head up at all times. Such a
collar was the latest fashion in California for a rich executive's slave.
The former stud's ragged old shorts were replaced with a pair of fine light
brown wool trousers tailored to be skin tight and showing off every aspect
of the quadroon's huge genitals and beautifully rounded bubble butt. Other
than a couple of large copper ear rings drilled through the slave's ear
lobes permanently, the costume was complete.  That way, his upper torso,
his beautifully rounded pecs, his well defined abs, and his massive
shoulders were fully exposed at all times for the world to appreciate. His
new owner snapped a leash to his fancy copper collar and led his latest
purchase off into the plush insides of his showy Bentley limousine,
chauffeured by a beautifully liveried copper colored slave whose hide
exactly matched the paint on the limousine. It was hard to tell whether the
slave had been purchased to match the car or the car had been painted to
match the slave.  Probably the former since slaves were certainly more
plentiful to choose from than Bentley limousines. Judging from the skin
tight livery of the chauffeur that revealed and highlighted every aspect of
the slave's sexuality, it could be assumed the slave's duties involved
considerably more than driving the car.  At least, that was the message the
costume seemed designed to convey.

   As the Bentley glided away almost soundlessly, Master Winfield commented
he didn't think Aristotle would have those fancy pants of his on for long.
In fact, Master Winfield opined with a sly look on his face, "that old stud
slave's going to be one getting fucked from now on, not the other way
around" he laughed.

   The rest of us sold that day weren't given anything to cover our
nakedness, including slaves 455 and 460, who were going to be marketed as
potential breeding studs.  There were 104 of us in that lot.  Master
Winfield had shackled us together, put us in big cage trucks (separated by
male and female stock so no unscheduled breedings could take place)
designed just for the transportation of slaves and other livestock, and,
before the sun went down, we were pulling into one of the huge corporate
international slave selling facilities, 'Slave Depot,' that Master Winfield
had done business with for years. In fact, he recent years, he had bought a
sizeable number of common shares of the publically held corporation's stock
in preparation for his eventual retirement. "Can't go wrong investing in
the slave industry," he often said.  "Demands always growing and the supply
is there if its managed right."  Obviously, with his own investments, he
thought 'Slave Depot' was managing it right.

   Once inside the huge warehouse, filled with numerous cages, large cells,
a display area, and a much plusher area for the venue itself, we were
unloaded, unshackled now that we were safely inside the facility's
stockade, and herded into the shower room with some pleasant smelling
shower gel to wash and shave our bodies thoroughly, and even some palm oil
to rub into our skin until it glistened. After that, we were given our fill
of some fresh cool water and good nourishing vegetable stew, along with a
few pieces of rather stale cornbread in some shoulder-high feeding troughs
located nearby, a real treat since we were used to measured slave chow,
always bland and tasteless, and room-temperature water in the traditional
dishes on the floor.  Since we hadn't been fed or watered since before
starting out, most of us were ravenously hungry and completely dried out
and took to the feeding and watering eagerly.  Next we were sorted into
various cells around the perimeter of the building, 10 of a given sex into
each cage with the two slightly older potential studs placed into small
separate "inspection" cages, tightly confining and open on all sides.

   Early the next morning, we Winfield slaves along with quite a few
others, were again shaved, showered and fed and led into a large
"classroom" where we were allowed to sit down on some plank benches before
an "instructor" cracked a long bullwhip over our head to get our rapt
attention.

   "You slaves just in off of the breeding farms," the instructor started
out, "are usually so pampered and spoiled you don't know squat about what's
going on in the real world. So it's my job to get you caught up on what's
going on and what you can expect once we get you sold off."  He coiled his
huge whip and seemingly studied us for a while before continuing with a
scowl on his face as if what he was looking at disgusted him.

   "First off, let's talk about labels.  Your new owners will most likely
be renaming you in that using a number like they do back on the breeding
farms isn't too romantic.  So most likely you'll be getting a new label to
respond to.  So when you do, you listen up and make sure you remember it
and perk up when that new label is called.  It'll be a slave name, of
course, in that the law says slaves can't have names the same as free
persons, so most of them are from Greek mythology, old Roman names, or
'function' names where you're named for what you do or some special
feature.  That way, slaves are differentiated from free persons by their
names as well as their collars, their owner's marks, their nakedness, and,
if they have a few clothes, their unique costumes.  Felix and Fido are
popular slave names as are Rufus, Servus. Olympus, Hercules, Achilles, and
Septimus. But some of you good looking boys will get names describing a
valued body characteristic or a description of what you do primarily.
Examples here are labels like Phallus, Vulva, Clitoris, Shaft, Big Balls,
Fuckboy, or Pleasure. Some athletic slaves get labels like Lightening,
Charger, Racer, and Rock. Whatever it is, you're privileged to have a name
at all - most of the draft slaves they never bother to name since they work
in chain gangs, so you memorize it and respond to it every time you hear it
called. I'm assuming, of course, you aren't sold off as a draft slave in
which case you can disregard all this talk about having a new label," he
chuckled at his own wit.

   "Second, this will probably surprise you, but a lot of slaves being
marketed here aren't bred for market like you animals. Oh, most slaves
nowadays are produced just like you were, but some aren't.  We get them
from the state and federal courts.  They were free persons before they
screwed up and set themselves up to be enslaved - drug addiction, petty
crimes, theft, assault - that sort of stuff that society won't put up with
anymore. Then there are the war prisoners we buy up from one war or another
all over the world where the victors can make a pretty penny by selling
them off to the slave dealers. There's a lot of slaves being marketed now
from the Cameroons and Sierra Leone from that source, for example.  And, of
course, we always have the self-sales and even parental sales from third
world countries hit by famine and other natural disasters. That's where a
person sells himself into slavery rather than starve to death or where the
parents sell their children to get some money to buy food for the rest of
their family. The market's being flooded currently with these kinds of
slaves bought up in Chad, Niger, Rwanda and the Sudan.

   "You bred slaves have two huge advantages as far as buyers are
concerned.  That's why you bring the best prices.  First off, you're a hell
of a lot better looking and your bodies are a lot better.  That's because
the breeders control the genetic backgrounds of you guys so you just have
better genes in you. Second, you don't have to be broken to slavery.
You've been a slave since the day you were produced.  You've never been
free and never will be.  But those not having your advantages have a big
adjustment when they find themselves property all of a sudden under the
total control of others - a piece of livestock, really, instead of a
person.  That, unfortunately, takes a lot of the whip, a lot of the
electric prods, a lot of hunger and thirst, and a lot of getting fucked
before it sinks into their stupid heads that never again will they be
deciding what they will do or that nobody gives a damn what they think or
feel about something and that their body is just a piece of meat for the
use of others.  You already know that, but they have to learn all that from
scratch.  We lose a few in breaking them to their new reality, but that's
inevitable, I suppose.  Some just get whipped to death, some starve
themselves to death, and some are so obstinate the trainers get tired of
them and just sell them off to the slave processors, which I was getting to
anyway. And some, of course, weren't worth much to start with, so why
bother training them?  But the vast bulk of them get broken eventually, and
you won't notice much difference in the way they act one way or the other
from any other slave by the time they're marketed."

   "Third, as most of your know by now, it's a slave obligation to earn
their keep.  When they can't do that anymore, they're processed in that
their owner can still get a little something out of their body even then.
If they've got some good functioning organs in them that can be harvested
like their eyes, their kidneys, their lungs, their hearts, and a few other
things which can be used to patch up free persons willing to pay, they may
be processed even though they are still earning their keep so to speak. In
fact, some parts can be harvested without effecting you too much.  You can
all see with just one eye, you can still keep going with one kidney, for
instance, and your owners may decide to sell you off piece by piece so to
speak.  But the rest of it requires a total processing and when it happens
sort of depends on what your body parts are worth.  But for most of you,
you serve your master until you can't anymore to the degree he demands and
then you're sold off one last time - to a rendering plant where they
salvage your remaining good teeth for dentures, your hair for stuffing
mattresses, your skin for making all those wallets, purses, briefcases and
luggage pieces that are so fashionable currently, your ground up bones for
fertilizer, and the rest of you for chicken feed.  It's good to know you
can profit your master even when you're gone and your rendering value adds
to your sales price even today. But if behooves you to put this final stage
off as long as possible. That's why most slaves put everything they have
into serving their masters faithfully and tirelessly just as long as their
body is still breathing.  Such enterprise on your part is good for your
master as well as good for you," he glared as the truth of his statement
was so self-evident. "It's a good end for a slave - always useful and, as
we tell the buyers out there, always a good investment."

   With that last encouraging statement, he cracked his whip dangerously
right over our heads once again and stomped out of the room whereupon we
were ordered back to our pens for final preparation and positioning within
the warehouse for the upcoming "inspection time."

   Word must have got out fast of our arrival, because within hours,
potential buyers began streaming into the warehouse to have a look at
us. One by one, we would be called out as a buyer expressed some interest
in one slave or another, and, after displaying our body as we had been
taught with our legs spread, our hands behind our heads, and with our
pelvis thrust out appropriately for examination, we were pawed, caressed,
stroked, and fondled until not one of us males hadn't shot our seed at
least once or twice, our nipples were sore and swollen, our balls ached
from being weighted and squeezed over and over, and our jaws ached from
having our mouths forced open over and over. The females were no better off
- maybe worse - as their nipples were erect and their juices running the
entire time as they too were carefully prodded and poked, obviously being
examined for either their child-bearing potential after being put to a stud
slave or as a pleasurable bed mate for their new owner or even as a pure
draft slave.

   By 9 o'clock, the dealer closed the warehouse, turned out the bright
lights illuminating our bodies, and allowed us to settle down in the straw
covering the cell's floor and get some rest.  Early the next morning, we
were aroused with the sound of whips cracking over our heads, told to wash
ourselves thoroughly once again (including taking a series of enemas before
hitting the showers), then ordered to slick our now spotlessly clean holes
with some KY jelly they provided (the females had to put it up both their
holes), and then given palm oil to give our hairless bodies that finishing
touch.  The females up for sale were even given a touch of rouge to put on
their titties and lips to brighten them up a bit.

   After that, the doors were opened promptly at 9 in the morning, and many
more buyers swarmed in to look us over, even little kids with their fathers
and mothers, some middle aged single women with lust in their eyes, some
obviously rich young boys and girls (probably sons of upper class
professionals and businessmen) just beginning to reach adulthood, some
small town slave dealers looking to restock their own local holdings, and
some decrepit old retirees who most likely had nothing else to do but take
advantage of this free opportunity to handle and stroke some mighty fine
looking slave flesh.

   This time, they weren't allowed to stroke us until we shot off, however,
in that the auction was scheduled for 11 that morning and they wanted us
able to show hard and dripping when we were on the block being bid upon.
We all knew that's the way stock sold best and expected nothing
less. Nevertheless, the stroking and pawing got tiresome, especially when
we were told to look perky and interested at all times and, of course, even
though we weren't brought to the point of shooting off, we were still hard
and dripping most of the time due to all the stimulation our bodies
received from practically everyone attending the big event.  Fathers were
showing their young children the "proper" way to examine slaves, including
being shown how to wrap their tiny hands around our huge organs and try to
pump us a bit and, almost comically, having to take both their hands to
heft our balls to "weigh them" as their parents insisted.  The women
 in attendance, even the teen age girls, not only seemed to enjoy ball
squeezing but playing with our nipples until they were erect and swollen.
The adolescent males mainly hovered around the female stock, inserting
their fingers well up their vaginas until the vulva swelled and a gasp was
heard from the wench being examined while their other hand was usually
"milking a tittie" until the wench grimaced in pain. But some young rakes,
like the one who had purchased Aristotle, seemed more interested in the
male stock.  They inserted their fingers well up our backsides after
ordering us to bend over and grabbing our ankles for their convenience in
ascertaining our "tightness."  As soon as this was done, they turned us
around and stroked our shafts with a firm grip until our natural juices
were all over their hands and we were just short of shooting off.

   The two potential studs in separate "inspection cages" seemed to have
the worst time of it, though.  There were long lines of potential buyers
beside each cage, waiting their turn to feel the goods being offered for
the sole purpose of making more slaves. By the time the two hour inspection
period was over, their dicks were chafed with a little bit of blood from
all the handling; their balls were ballooned from over-handling; and their
tits were raw and swollen from all the squeezing and handling they had
received.  Unlike us, however, their holes had been left pretty well alone,
so I guess there were some advantages to being sold as a stud.

   At 11 o'clock sharp, we were all put back into our holding cages and the
"venue" as it was politely called, began.  One by one we were brought forth
onto a small stage, mounted a sales block so all could easily see the
merchandise being offered, told to slowly turn on the block until all parts
of our body had been properly displayed, and then told to assume a full
display position on the block while the auctioneer extolled our various
features, including, of course, our erect organs "ready for any use a
master or mistress desires," our "full to overflowing" balls, our "tits
just begging to be handled," and, turning us around once again and ordering
us to bend over fully with our legs wide apart so our hole was fully
exposed, "a nice tight hole all ready to satisfy even the most
discriminating buyer."  The women being offered varied only in that a whip
handle was stuck up their cunt as well as their open ass hole to show "how
much they enjoy a good fucking," and their bellies were rubbed to
demonstrate how easily it would be to "breed a nice profit out of this
wench, year after year, especially if put to a good-looking stud."

   With 104 properties up for sale, the venue lasted for over four hours
despite the fast pace of getting one slave after another up on the block,
taking the bids, and then getting them hustled away to a holding pen with
their new owner's name marked with a felt tip pen on their front and back
so everyone got exactly what they had successfully bid on.

   By 3 o'clock the auction ended, most of the unsuccessful bidders quickly
left, and soon only the 104 sold goods and their new owners were left.
Payment was made, ownership papers drawn up and witnessed, we were all
placed back in shackles and a temporary plastic collar placed around our
neck with our new owner's name written on it, and by 5 o'clock we were
again fed (this time with slave chow) and watered and then released to our
new owners. Those not able to pay cash were still signing mortgage papers
with the bank agents conveniently stationed at the venue, trying to forget
the high interest rates being charged for the privilege of owning us now,
rather than later.  What repeatedly surprised Mr. Winfield was the large
number of buyers wealthy enough to simply charge us to their credit cards,
obviously with a very high limit.  Banks made a lot of money out of the
slave industry and supported it every way they knew how, including
financing some big research projects in improving the breed both through
genetic manipulations, controlled breeding, and new and improved training
programs. Even the insurance policies offered on human chattel were mainly
backed up by huge financial institutions, who, like the banks, were quite
willing to make all they could off of human livestock when the opportunity
provided itself. That's why, according to Mr. Winfield, slavery would last
as long as those companies stayed in business - in other words, forever, so
he himself wasn't worried about ever losing his retirement stake invested
in 'Slave Depot.'.  Besides, what would society do without slavery?  How
would do all the work no one else wanted to do?  What would you do with
social malcontents and ne'er-do-well's? What would people do to satisfy
their sexual needs?

   I still hadn't been picked up when the two studs, 455 and 460, were
being led off by their new owners.  One, 455, had been leashed by his
collar and then led over to a fancy new van specially outfitted for slave
transit which would whisk him to his new home, a breeding farm, I
overheard, some 20 miles south of Jackson where a good 30 broods "could
hardly wait to get their hands on you, stud.  I'm counting on you to make
some new little slaves for me real fast, boy, and just as good looking as
you," I heard as the new owner fondled the slave's sex organs to another
full erection as he motioned for him to squeeze into a small cage on the
van's floor.  The owner was obviously pleased with his new purchase.

   The other one, 460, was shackled to a jet-back handler, himself a slave
of course, on a huge open bed truck while his new owner got inside the
truck's cab with the slave driver.

   "Master, you want this buck covered while we drive through town," the
handler slave asked before starting out, obviously a little worried at the
stir the handsome boy might create - a strange request in view of his own
total nakedness atop the truck.

   "Naw, Moses," the master answered.  "Everyone knows where he's going
anyway and half the town already knows by now I bought me a new stud today.
Might as well give them a chance to see where their next batch of slaves is
coming from," he laughed.  "But mine you, Moses, that doesn't mean you can
play with the new stud going home.  You keep your hands off him.  I want
him fresh and ready to go the minute we get home, not all drained by the
likes of you."

   "Yes, master.  I was just wondering, master.  I'll keep my hands of this
off this pretty new boy.  This slave boy will be all fresh and ready to
stud the minute we get home, master," the handler answered as he snapped a
whip over the recently purchased slave to assert his authority and the
truck's driver took that as a signal to take off.

   "Come on, boy, I haven't got all day," a total stranger said to me as
she carefully looked me over.  "I live just a few blocks from here, so we
can just walk it, if they will get those shackles off of you so you walk
properly and git rid of that cheap old plastic slave collar they've clamped
around your neck.  You won't be running off anywhere while I'm looking
after you anyway," she said with full conviction.  "It's obvious to anyone
with half a wit that you're a slave, collar or not, especially without any
clothes on, your body marked "SOLD" along with your auction number and my
name with that felt tip pen and hung like you are," she laughed.

   I hadn't been able to see just who had bought me in the confusion of the
auction.  Before me stood a middle aged woman neither fat nor thin and
rather plain in appearance.  She was dressed in black with a high neck
collar and serviceable shoes with her hair drawn back in a severe bun.  In
her right hand she carried my ownership papers and the bill of sale for her
recent purchase.  In her left hand, she gripped a short-handled whip with 5
strands of 18" raw leather fastened into the bone handle, carved to
simulate a very large male organ fully erect if you really studied it.  The
whip, widely used, was generally referred to as just a "slave whip" and was
used frequently but lightly to keep slaves alert and well motivated, for
serious discipline when applied hard and vigorously, and, when the handle
was buried deep in a slave's butt, to remind a slave of his proper station
in life.

   "Mistress, you want to take me out on the street naked?" I pleaded with
my eyes glued to the ground in proper slave attitude.

   "Dealer," she shouted, "give this boy a pair of pants so he won't offend
anyone with his big erection.  I'm walking him home. He won't need that
cheap plastic collar anymore, either. You can keep that for the next sale."

   "Ma'am, thanks for the collar.  I can use it on the next batch like you
say.  I can give you a pair of these disposable paper jocks we have on hand
that will cover him for the trip home," he answered as he quickly produced
an almost transparent woven paper jock strap which barely covered my
genitals and left my ass totally exposed.

   "He won't need that when I get him home," the woman chuckled without
embarrassment as the dealer removed the heavy collar, undid my leg shackles
and I quickly slid the tiny disposable jock on. "I'll have some suits made
up for him that will show him off properly just as soon as we settle in so
he can accompany me outside."

   "Mrs. Harmon, if he doesn't work out like you plan, you bring this boy
back and we'll exchange him for one that better suits you," the dealer said
kindly.

   "I appreciate that, sir.  As you know, I had this new slave titled in my
son's name.  He's my son's surprise birthday present as soon as I get him
presentable and teach him a few things about what my son would expect in a
personal servant."

   "Well, as the auctioneer warned you, Mrs. Harmon, this slave boy is
straight from a breeding farm and is relatively unpolished. For all I know,
Mrs. Harmon, he may not even be housebroken yet, probably picks his nose,
and, worse yet, may fart every time he feels like it. You can see the way
he's wiggling around with that tiny little jock strap on him he's not used
to wearing clothes."

   "He'll learn how to behave himself in polite society right quick under
my tuition," the woman replied sternly as she tapped the mean looking whip
in her hand for emphasis.

   The paper jock strap was about two sizes too small and, once I had it
on, it displayed my sex more than when I was butt naked.  I wasn't sure
exactly why, but somehow I felt kind of embarrassed being led down the
street like this by a woman snapping a whip in her hand periodically, me a
full grown buck twice her size. I suppose it was because all I had known up
to now was Winfield's Breeding Farm where the only women around were broods
and young girls being raised for market, slaves like me.

   Within minutes, we reached my new owner's big house there in Jackson
where she led me in the back kitchen entrance.

   "Shuck out of that stupid little jock strap, slaveboy.  It's so damn
tight you can't even walk right," she announced as if it were my fault,
"and your big dick is already tearing right through it.  You won't need any
clothes for a while anyway.  You won't be going on in public until we get
you properly trained," she added menacingly as she ran her hand up and down
the whip handle in the same fashion I had been stroked so often back at the
auction house. "This whip handle looks a lot like what's between your legs,
slave," she added with a chuckle.  "My son's going to like that, I'll
wager."

   The next three weeks neither of us ever left that house.  I was kept
naked the entire time, even though the two old house slaves she owned - a
butler with white hair and severe arthritis and a cook even older who had
swollen feet - were clothed in a tattered old hand-me-down suit and a
ragged old dress that once belonged to her mistress.

   "Um, um....." the white cook with fading red hair said when she first
looked me over.  "You're a pretty one for the eyes."

   "You the mistress' new bed buck?" the stooped old butler asked as he
stared between my legs. "Years ago, that my job, but I'm no good at that
anymore," the light brown slave said with a sigh.

   "You got that right, nigger," the cook quickly interjected.  "I try and
try to get some pleasure with him, but no matter how much I try, it just
won't get up anymore," the cook added.  "I'd take you on, but the mistress
probably watching her pretty boy like a hawk."

   "You wouldn't know what to do with something like that if you had it,"
the butler scoffed.  "You'd probably just die on the spot if he covered
your old bones," he chuckled.

   "If I did, I'd be in slave heaven, Balls," the cook reared back her head
and laughed deeply.  "Yes siree, slave heaven.  That boy's about as pretty
as slaveboys get, Balls, don't you think?"

   "Got to agree with you there, Pussy.  He's so pretty if I were twenty
years younger, I wouldn't mind bedding him down myself."

   "More like 40 years, Balls, and even then, as I recall, it was the old
master, Mistress Harmon's father, plowing your rear end every night, not
the other way around."

   "I didn't say what I'd be doing in that new boy's bed, Pussy," Balls
chortled with no embarrassment at all in how he had been used in his youth
by a long dead master.

   The jocular kitchen chatter about the use of my body was in sharp
contrast to a series of "instructions" issued by my new mistress somewhat
later in the day.  Already I understood I was to wear the fine new clothes
a tailor had already measured me for whenever I left the house and that
they were to be carefully aired, then folded and stored the minute I
returned to the house where I was to kept nude normally "so I can enjoy
looking at your pretty body."  I was assigned plenty of work around the
house - scrubbing and polishing floors, lifting supplies, etc. - as well as
a good hour of hard exercises a day to keep my body in "pristine shape."  I
was to never bite my fingernails but keep them carefully trimmed, keep my
pubic and ass hairs carefully shaved, my head hair and eyelashes neatly cut
so the curl showed, and wash my body each morning and again before supper
so I never "smelled musky" and I was to keep my "hide" oiled so it was
"baby smooth" and "gleamed like a prize horse." I was to never belch or
pass gas when around others, never scratch myself no matter how much I
itched, and certainly was never to "play with any part of your body" unless
my owner ordered me to do so "no matter how horny you get.  That body's
mine now, not yours, so it's for my use, not yours." When appearing before
any free person, I was to stand submissively with my feet apart and my head
bowed with my eyes "a little ahead of your feet, boy."  If someone wanted
to feel any part of my body, I was not to object in any way but, on the
contrary, cooperate to make it "easier for them to feel you up, boy," and
making sure I thanked them for inspecting me just as soon as they had
finished. I was to address all free persons with a polite "yes, sir" or
"yes, ma'am" whenever appropriate and I was never to talk other than
answering a direct question or acknowledging a command. My current mistress
was to be answered with a quiet "Yes, mistress" whenever appropriate and
her son, my actual owner, was to always be addressed as 'Master.'  If I had
to shit or piss outside the normal time allotted before breakfast and
before going to bed, I had to ask specific permission to do so and then
only inside the slave maintenance room located at the back of the
house. But it was made clear I better not make a habit of asking such
permission - it was better to just hold it in until it was the regular time
rather than "make a nuisance of yourself, slave.  You study all those ugly
scars on Ball's back to see what happens when an animal can't learn to
control himself," she warned.

   "Getting you housebroken and halfway civilized is only part of your
training, boy.  Any slave has to be trained that way, of course, when
they're nothing but a farm animal to start with," she said pointedly,
referring to my origins at the breeding farm I suppose. "The real training
is developing what you were bred for, slaveboy.  You know what that is,
boy?"

   "To be sold at market, mistress?" I ventured since Master Winfield
always claimed that's why we had been produced.

   "Well, that's a start," she laughed.  "That's what all slaves are about.
But's what's special about the products of Winfield Breeding Farms, slave
boy ?" she asked.

   "Master Winfield always said we were specially bred to be appealing so
we'd get top dollar at market," I answered with my eyes carefully aimed at
the ground in front of me.

   "And what makes you 'appealing' as you put it, slave?" she pushed
further, enjoying the tension apparent in my body from the stern
questioning.

   "Mistress, we're pretty in the face, generally, and most of us bright
skinned and powerfully built, mistress," I struggled to answer her. "We've
got fine hair on our heads and smooth bodies, mistress."

   "And what else, slave boy?" she begin tapping the slave whip held in one
hand onto the fist of her other hand as I broke out in a sweat all over my
body.

   "We're heavy hung compared to most slaves, mistress," I ventured.

   "Damn right you are, boy.  That's a good part of that 'appeal' you
mentioned.  Why else do you think boys like you cost outlandish prices in
today's markets?"

   "We're all trimmed nice and neat, mistress," I ventured rather
desperately referring to the fact all Winfield male products were
circumcised at birth.  I felt my own trimmed organ start to stiffen now
that the conversation seemed to be about that part of me.

   "See, even talking about it gets you all excited," she said proudly.
"That's why you bring top dollar in the venues.  Buyers like boys like that
and intend to put it to some use.  That's why I bought you," she announced
as she reached forward and boldly began stroking my dick until it was fully
erect. "I bought you because I knew my son would enjoy using a body like
this and because I would too from time to time."

   "Yes, mistress," was the only response I could think of.

   With that, I was led to her bedroom and began my first 'lesson' in how
to pleasure my new mistress.  She told me how to undress her bit by bit,
massage and stroke her ugly blotchy old body until she was properly
stimulated, and then had me mount her while she held that whip of her's in
her right hand, frequently rubbing it over my back and butt as I followed
her exact instructions in sucking her tits, stroking her sagging old
clitoris, and, finally, entering her while she barked out orders on how
deep I was to go, how fast to pump, when to withdraw, and, always,
admonitions about 'controlling myself' so I didn't "selfishly debilitate"
myself until she was "fully pleasured." She smelled old and moldy as her
body responded and I couldn't help notice the gray pallor on the parts of
her body not flushed in arousal.  After pumping her endlessly, it seemed,
she finally stiffened and gasped loudly as she reached her first
orgasm. This was followed, over the next half hour of exhausting effort on
my part, with three others before she ordered my sweat-drenched body off of
her and down to the slave maintenance area to wash up without a trace of
emotion, let alone any comments on my efforts to please her the best I
could.

   "You smell like a rutting horse," she announced as I hoisted off her
ugly body and, still fully erect and dripping of course since she forbade
me to ever have relief myself, hastened to the slave's maintenance area to
wash.

   These 'lessons' continued over the next two weeks until she thought I
had mastered the necessary skills to satisfy a mistress which now included
oral stimulations of her smelly old sex as well as just humping her on
command.  Each time I was more frustrated than before, not only due to her
aged unattractive body, but mainly because she rarely let me gain any
relief myself, even after I had satisfied her fully.  After a while,
though, when she went to dismiss me, satisfied herself, I generally just
shot anyway in total frustration, whereupon she would loudly admonish me
for being "nothing but a animal" but was too carried away and exhausted at
that moment to punish me for my transgression.

   Nevertheless, I wasn't fed that night, the usual punishment for almost
any mistake, real or imagined.  It was almost standard policy to withhold
food from slaves rather frequently.  One, it kept them nice and trim
without an ounce of fat on them anywhere.  Second, it reminded them each
and every day they were totally dependent on whoever owned them to even
stay alive.  It was a powerful lesson and most slaves were chronically
hungry but not malnourished to the point where their beautiful bodies were
effected.  Slaves were generally were kept on that fine line between a
hungry total obedience and the magnificent bodies their owners were proud
to display.

   A couple of times, I wondered what it would be like if I'd been anything
but a slave and could "pleasure" who I wanted to, but the thought was
fleeting - I'd only known slaves like myself and they certainly were put to
tasks much more arduous than this. It was better to have my back all
scratched from her fingernails when she got all excited than torn to a
bloody pulp by a bull whip like I'd seen done to some field hands when they
weren't working hard enough to suit their overseers.  I reminded myself old
Aristotle was led down to that rutting shed back at the breeding farm
several times a day and had no choice as to whom he was to service each
time.  I'd never heard that he complained despite the fact he always had a
leash attached to his collar while he humped away and had his balls
squeezed to make sure he'd emptied them before he could dismount from the
wench put beneath him.

   After all, slaves did what their masters wanted.  Why else would there
be slaves and masters?  That was the way the world was - great
civilizations, Master Winfield always said, had always been and always
would be slave societies.  Masters made everything work right and took care
of those who depended on them for food and shelter, the slaves. In
exchange, slaves offered what their bodies could produce for those who
owned them like any other livestock, whether it be new slaves, hard work,
or the pleasures inherent in use of their bodies.  Master Winfield always
claimed "slaves were put on this earth to do their master's bidding -
that's why they're only happy when they make their masters and mistresses
happy - it's in their slave blood."  I'd never heard anyone, slaves or free
persons disagree with that.

   After that, Mistress Harmon's 'lessons' were expanded to being trained
for her son's pleasure.  At first, this training consisted of stroking me
to a full erection, then having me bend over a chair and open my ass for a
full insertion of the whip handle which had been covered with KY cream for
its new usage.  Once inserted to its full 12 inches, she would pump the
handle back and forth, raking it across that part inside of me she called
the "prostate gland" half the time and "a slave's joy button" the other
half of the time until I heaved and bucked and screamed out as I shot huge
loads onto the chair beneath me. At first, the pain was unbearable as that
big thick whip handle was screwed into my hole and I felt like I was going
to be split in half if she didn't let up, but, within a few days, I
loosened up and it wasn't quite so painful although my asshole was mighty
sore most of the time.  By the end of the second week of this type of
training, however, I felt no pain anymore and actually enjoyed the chance
to shoot off on a regular basis.

   "You're almost ready for my son, slave boy," she said proudly as once
again I was heaving and bucking as she fucked me with that big whip
handle. "But, just to make sure, I'm having 'Slave Depot' where I bought
you send over one of its trainers."

   I had no idea of what she was talking about as I again went into the
final stages of another pending orgasm as she pumped that old whip handle
deeper and deeper into me.  But the next morning I found out.  A huge
coal-black slave, dressed in an old pair of trousers held up by a rope and
wearing nothing else except a thick iron collar locked around his neck and
a big iron nose ring soldered in the membrane between his nostrils, knocked
on the back door and, after gaining entry, asked my mistress if she had a
slave boy who "needed some breaking in."

    Leading the black slave into the sitting room where I was standing at
the time, she pointed to me, saying, "He's been fucked plenty with this,"
pointing to the large whip handle in her hand, "but he needs to be opened
up properly by the real thing before I give him to my son as a birthday
gift."

   "Yes 'um," the huge black said as he quickly removed his threadbare
trousers, revealing a monstrous semi-erect shaft atop a huge set of
balls. "My master uses me to break in a lot of slave boys headed for
discriminating gentlemen looking for a good bed buck. This buck mighty fine
looking, mistress," he added as he licked his lips in appreciation studying
my naked body.  "This slaveboy about as good looking as bucks get,
mistress," he added as his organ reached a full erection just looking at
me.

   "You want his mouth and ass hole trained, mistress, or just his ass
hole?  Owners vary in their preferences, mistresses," he explained.

   "My son appreciates both pleasures, slave," she answered.

   "Yes, um.  You want me to take the slave boy privately or would you
enjoy watching your slave being trained, mistress?" the black slave asked
politely as if it made no difference one way or the other to him.  "Most
hiring me out from 'Slave Depot' likes to watch," he added, letting my
mistress know it wouldn't bother him if she did.  My feelings in the matter
weren't a consideration, it seemed, to either one of them.

   "I'll watch," my mistress laughed.  "Maybe I can learn something."  With
that she adjusted herself comfortably in a nearby chair where the line of
vision would be unobstructed to the new training.

   The black ordered me to my hands and knees with my legs spread well
apart to "open up my hole" and, after lubricating me thoroughly with a
specially thick KY jelly, unceremoniously ravished me over the next hour
without ceasing. Finally, when I was close to passing out and had even
started to bleed a little despite all the lubricant, he arched his back,
bellowed like a bull, and deposited such a load deep into my rectum that I
actually felt it impacting inside me.  As soon as he withdrew, I was
instructed to use my mouth to "clean him thoroughly," an act my mistress
seemed to particularly take delight in.

   "When did they fit you with that nose ring?" my mistress asked the black
slave as he rested.  "It's attractive on a big stud like you," she added as
she reached over and tugged on it a bit as the black smiled submissively.

   "When I was all growed up, mistress, I was a bit too feisty for my owner
at that time.  He got so disgusted with me, he had the blacksmith ring me
one day and, mistress, soon as it healed up proper, he led me around with a
leash hooked to that ring to give me a proper attitude.  He said I was just
an animal anyway, so I might as well look like one and if a bull can be
controlled with a good nose ring fitted in them, then I could too.  My
master was right about that, mistress.  After being led around by this big
ring in my nose, I soon learned to respect those over me a lot more and
they've never had one bit of trouble with this nigger slave since then,
especially after they told me if I didn't settle down they were going to
cut me."

   "Well, it does make you look like a animal all right - a mighty
controlled animal, I might add," my mistress chuckled as she flicked the
black's nose ring back and forth.  "It's not a bad idea for all the bucks
no matter how they're colored - sort of remind them they'll all just
animals every time they start getting uppity.  But, if you belonged to me,
I'd be hard put to cut off what you've got between your legs.  Oh, I know
it'd calm you down, but it would be a shame to just throw something like
that in the bin to the tanners.  I understand that tanned slave balls are
quite popular for making credit card wallets currently - one of my friends
bought one just the other day."

   "Yes 'um, mistress.  I'd take a nose ring any day compared to getting
cut," the black slave said sincerely.  "I'm grateful to get to keep my
balls, mistress, even though I confess I sure hated that nose ring at
first."

   "Well, it's not what slave's want that matters, is it, black boy?  It's
what good for them that matters, isn't it?" Mrs. Harmon replied
sagaciously.

   "Yes, mistress," the black replied as Mrs. Harmon finally stopped
playing with the huge ring in his nose.  "My nose ring is mighty
instructive, mistress."

   Next, as soon as he seemed to have recovered a bit, I was ordered to
kneel before him and take his organ, fully erect again, into my throat and
"suck like a starving calf on its mother's tit and don't you ever let me
feel your teeth or I'll knock you silly and your new master might have your
teeth pulled out.  You hear me, boy?"

   "Yes, sir," I replied.

   "Well, get that mouth wide open to swallow this big black dick, boy."

   I opened my mouth wide and without hesitation he entered by mouth with
the first six inches of his incredibly thick shaft.  This involved, on my
part, a great deal of gagging, choking, gasping and coughing.  Finally he
lost patience, pulled all the way out, slapped my face until I thought I
would pass out, and then reinserted the entire length all the way down my
throat until I couldn't breathe and began bucking in desperation as he
firmly held my head in place.

   "The new bucks always think they're going to die for lack of air when I
first do this, mistress," he explained, "but they never do.  Their throat
muscles loosen up so they can breathe around my shaft before they pass out,
usually.  If not, we'll try it again when he comes around.  Once they learn
to swallow a big one without gagging, they're all ready for some serious
pleasuring of their master," he explained.  "Just a matter of learning to
stop fighting it," he chuckled as my eyes rolled back in my head and I did
pass out that first time.

   But he was unrelenting, and by the third invasion down my throat, I did
manage to take him, and on the fifth time, he shot off down my throat and I
was unable to do anything but swallow the full load.  He gave me a short
rest before the sixth time, where again he shot down my throat with little
trouble and no resistance on my part.  I was far too exhausted to fight
anything at that point.

   "He's far from reaching his potential, mistress, but he's ready for your
son to teach him the fine points to his own liking," the black slave
explained to my mistress who had certainly enjoyed the little show that
day.  "At least he's been broken in properly," he said as he reached for
his trousers still on the floor.

   "You want me for anything else, mistress?" he asked, almost hopeful.
"Any other slaves around here needing some instruction, or perhaps you'll
like some good pleasuring," he suggested.  "I'm good for a mistress'
pleasuring when I've been drained like this - can last all day long."

   To my amazement, the black slave seemed totally sincere in eliciting
some more business for his owner and viewed his role in it as something all
slaves did to earn their keep.  Perhaps that was the most important lesson
that huge black slave taught me that day.  A slave did whatever was
necessary to "earn their keep" and that was, of course, defined by their
owner. The slave him or herself had no input into that aspects of their
lives.  In fact, slaves weren't supposed to think at all, other than how to
better please their masters or mistresses as far as I could ascertain.
Master Winfield had told us that many times, but I never really understood
it up until now.

   The very next day, I was ordered to my mistress' bed again. Crawling
over her ugly old body I was soon pumping away into her while her scrawny
hands clawed my back in pure ecstacy while I thought of my sire day after
day being led down to that old rutting shed to do his duty.  Life wasn't so
different for his offspring, I reckoned, other than most of the women he
was put to were considerably younger and prettier than my
mistress. Besides, as far as I knew, he never had to service any masters
until, of course, he was sold to that young owner who apparently only liked
to bed down older studs where, if I understood Master Winfield correctly,
that's all he would be doing from now on. I wondered if Aristotle was
hungry all the time back when he was studding like I usually was or if they
fed him more since he was studding so heavily.

   Master Clarkson Harmon, Mistress Harmon's son, was tickled pink when I
was first presented to him on his birthday by his beloved mother,
completely stripped down for the occasion. Within minutes after the
presentation, he had me in his bed trying me out and later I heard him tell
his mother what a great gift I was.

   The black trainer my mistress had hired to "break me in" for her son had
sort of overdone it, although I suppose it's good to break a new slave in
good and proper while you're doing it to prepare him for whatever his fate
might be.  My actual master, Clarkson Harmon, was rather puny by comparison
with the venerable black stud put to me originally.  Although he liked both
oral and anal service from his "bed buck" as I was labeled, his puny little
4" prick was barely felt when he fucked me after being rammed by the black
trainer and the same with offering him my mouth for a good draining.
Besides that, he was only good, apparently, for one round and so I was
quickly dismissed after a mere 15 minutes or so each morning when he
awoke. No wonder
 masters had so few babies if he was any example and little wonder
mistresses always seemed interested in what a lusty buck they could easily
buy had to offer.  With so little sexual pleasure in their lives outside of
what they could buy, I could see where they took a strong interest in the
latest offerings at the frequent slave auctions.  My experience to date
with free persons had made me mighty glad I had some slave blood in me.

   Over the next few months, my master overcame his shyness in showing his
birthday gift off to his friends and I found myself frequently taken on
little trips to their homes dressed in my handsome new wool trousers and
some new black leather shoes he purchased for me.  Usually, those visits
ended up with a thorough inspection of my whole body followed often by a
request to "try your new boy out, Clarkson" and my experience with free
persons steadily increased, both in and out of bed.

   None of his friends were particularly appealing outside of the fact they
were at least young and vigorous and themselves varied in skin tones from
pure white to dark brown, but few seemed to have the stamina and endurance
commonplace among my sire mates back on the breeding farm. Nor were any of
them particularly good looking, what with their pasty complexions often
with some blemishes, their scrawny builds, and some with hairy bodies. A
few ran to fat, but most were skinny made even worse by their lack of
muscle development.  Clarkson Harmon was one of the few with an indulgent
mother who had provided her son with his own personal buck.  Most of the
others had to make do with their father's worn out wenches, a male or
female house staff who wouldn't be missed temporarily, or sneak out to
their parent's slave quarters at night in an attempt to find a likely wench
or buck they could take to the fields or orchards for their pleasure if
they didn't want to do it right in front of the other slaves there in the
smelly, dirty slave quarters.  It was little wonder they were always coming
over to Master Harmon's looking for an invitation to use me if he hadn't
taken me to their house often enough.  One good thing was that sometimes,
if they were really pleased with me, some of them would slip me an apple or
a little sweet, especially if I sucked them off to their complete
satisfaction.  Master Clarkson caught one of them slipping me an apple
once, though, and really admonished that particular friend.

   "How dare you spoil my property?" he demanded as he knocked the apple
out of my mouth. "Don't you know anything about proper slave management.
Slaves are fed only when their master allows.  Otherwise you end up with a
spoiled lap dog always sniffing around you for some scrap."

   It was his mother, Mrs. Harmon, who first brought up the topic of
turning me into a genuine "fancy."  She claimed having a "fancy" or
"appreciato" as they were called in Italy was the latest fad in Rome and,
as she pointed out, Italy tended to always set the style these days when it
came to slaves.

   "Fancies," she explained, were carefully selected for their looks and
appeal.  They were slaves that others would envy if they could afford them
and they were slaves that everyone "found easy on the eye."  Most "fancies"
were being bred regularly in that their bloodlines were considered too good
to be wasted.  In fact, she exuded, most of the prestigious slave dealers
now had separate inspection cells to hold their selection of these highly
prized slaves where only those able to afford these quality goods were
allowed in.  Viewing and then buying the most select 'fancies' was often by
invitation only.  They were seldom auctioned off, but sold privately after
an exclusive viewing and even, if many cases, a trial use overnight in the
prospective buyer's own home.  They were usually paraded around Rome and
other major world cities in either immaculate expensive suits which would
shame all but the richest in the city or, in contrast, dressed in some
outrageous costume that made them look like a true possession, but also
greatly emphasized their sexual attributes as if to flaunt their main usage
for their lucky owner.  "Fancies" (or "appreciatos"), she lectured, were
either male or female, but the majority were male in most cities currently,
and were so popular the main dealers were finding them hard to keep in
stock despite their very high prices.  It was those prices, as outrageous
as their costumes, that restricted them to the very wealthy, and made them
as much symbols of real wealth as anything else, differentiating them
clearly from just a mere "bed buck" or "valet" or "body slave" or the other
titles used to describe the personal slaves of the merely rich or those new
to their fortunes.

   "We should take him up to Memphis one of these days, now that he's been
properly trained for a gentleman's use, dress him up like they do in Rome,
and sell him to some dealer specializing in 'fancies' there.  I bet by now
even Memphis is sporting a few dealers for the new fashion," she ventured.

   "But why, momma?" my master whined.  "My friends love using my birthday
present as much as I do and," he giggled, "I'm getting more and more
friends every day."

   "All that experience will only add to the boy's value," his mother
counseled.  "The fact is, son, we need to take advantage of the market
while we can and I tell you this boy would be prime material up at Memphis
just as soon as they learn about the fashion for these 'fancies' now."

   "But I like fucking him, momma, and I'm as deserving of having a
fancy-boy as anybody in New Orleans or Memphis or Rome, even.  There's
nothing wrong with me making a fashion statement with the boy myself,
mamma," he pouted.  "Besides, I'm partial to the high yellers like you
know, mamma, and this slave boy is nicely shaded - not too niggery and not
too white."

   "Truth is, son, I'm not made of money.  This poor old widow has to watch
her purse and if we can make a decent profit on the boy, it behooves us to
do so before he's all worn out and won't have the resale value of an old
mule.  Those friends of yours, son, will just plum wear him out over time.
Fucking a slave around the clock like you're doing just tuckers them out,
no matter how well trained and sturdy they are.  Besides, we can buy you a
replacement for a fraction of what this boy will bring on the block if he's
marketed right.  There's nothing wrong with you having a boy just reaching
his manhood or one just a little past his peak - costs a lot less and you'd
hardly notice the different in bed - let alone your friends.  All you do is
plug his ass or his mouth anyway.  Most any slave boy will do for that.
It's the looking extra pretty that I'm talking about. Hell, you never look
at their face anyway you're so busy fucking them. "

   "But mamma, I do look at his face.  At least, enough to know he's a
mighty fine looking nigger even though my friends all claim he's so good
looking because of all that white blood in him.  They all want a toned up
nigger as soon as they afford one - at least a mulatto - although these
mixed bloods are getting mighty expensive lately.  My friend Jacob
McWhitfield told me the other day he saw a good looking mustee up for sale
down at the slave pens over on the east side of town where he was priced
tens times higher than a pure black nigger about the same age, build, and
hung about the same. Of course Jacob said that mustee was so non-niggery he
had sandy hair and light blue eyes and, if he hadn't been fitted with a big
iron collar around his neck and if he hadn't been hung as big as the best
of the niggers and if he had some clothes on him instead of being butt
naked, he looked a little like me. But TEN times as much! Having a slave
like that would tell the world you had some real money, wouldn't it,
mamma?"

   "I don't know why Mr. McWhitfield's so interested in mustee slaves.
He's about half white-half black himself, so it looks like he would be
attracted to slaves his own coloring rather than some bleached out mustee.
But what am I going to do with you, son?  You're talking about trading up
and I'm talking about selling off the quality stock we have.  Son, I'm
telling you loud and clear we can't afford the slaves we've got on hand -
we've got to take advantage of a good market for well-hung yellow-skinned
slaves right now - and replace that big-pricked 'yeller' of yours with a
older, darker, but just as serviceable bed buck you can fuck to death for
all I care.  I'm sure as hell not buying you any damn slave costing ten
times as much as other slaves - that's just a pipe dream, so get that out
of your head right now.  If what your friend Jacob says is true, all the
more reason to sell that quadroon I gave you while he's still holding his
value. Isn't that something, though.  A white nigger selling for ten times
what a real nigger cost! Ever wonder what you'd bring up on the auction
block?" she laughed as she saw her son turn beet red in embarrassment at
being compared to a piece of livestock, especially by his own mother. "At
least you'd be bringing in some money for a change instead of always
costing me," she added, once again reminding him she was his sole support.

*******

   I knew by now who made all the decisions in this family and wasn't too
surprised when Mistress Harmon showed up with a new surprise present for
her son Clarkson - a well hung, nicely built 'boy' who she claimed was
"only 33 years old" but looked considerably older when you got up close,
was about as black as slaves got these days, and who was completely
acclimated to being a master's sexual plaything, having done nothing much
of anything else since he had first come of age. He had nice facial
features, sparkling eyes, and a ready smile, which, along with his muscular
trim build, his big circumcised dick which was nicely shaped, and a
compliant attitude toward the use of his body assured him bringing a decent
price with a new owner every time he was put up for sale. The black slave
still took pride in the fact others desired his body and was proud he was
still worth as much as his auction price indicated.

   The day of his arrival I was "retired" from being Master Clarkson's bed
buck, forbidden to empty my balls by any means, and put into a rigorous
exercise program to get my body in top shape "for the Memphis markets."
Clarkson was told in no uncertain terms he was to leave me alone "no matter
how horny you get and that goes for your friends too.  You've got that new
black boy to fill your needs now and he's plenty good enough for those
leaching so-called friends of yours too."

   "But momma," my master whined, "I told you I like a high yeller boy and
so do all my friends.  Black bed bucks are a dime a dozen."

   "It's that or nothing, Clarkson, and I doubt that your friends are going
to turn a free ride down, no matter how black it is.  I know this might be
hurtful to you, but I think the only reason they hang around, son, is for a
free piece of ass, not your charming company. I notice they're all too poor
or too cheap to buy a slave for themselves - they just mooch off of the
likes of you."

   "But momma, they're the only friends I've got.  You want me to have no
friends at all?"  my master continued to whine.

   "In my opinion, it's better to have nobody than those miserable
leeches. Now stop your whining or I'll take this new buck back to the pens
and you'll be left with nothing to fuck but your right hand," she scowled.

   With that he shut up and, hooking a leash to the black's collar, led him
off to show to his friends even then up in his quarters.  Within 15
minutes, I heard the familiar banging of the bed frame against the floor
along with a lot of gasps and moans as my master and his friends obviously
were trying out the new black slave.

   Later in the day, when my master and his friends had been totally
satiated and had left the house to visit a bar, I got to talk to the new
black slave down in the slave maintenance room where he was cleaning
himself out and greasing up his hole once again in preparation for their
return.

   "I heard my master's friends say you're going to get your ass sold up in
Memphis," the black started the conversation pleasantly.  "You'll bring a
good price, boy, as light as you are," he added.

   "Mistress Harmon, the old lady that bought you for her son, plans to
sell me as a 'fancy,' whatever that is," I replied.  "She's saying all the
rich masters want a light-skinned buck to show off in public.  According to
her, we're called 'fancies' because we're so select-like and because we
cost so much. It tells everyone how rich they are when they show us off."

   "She's right," the black slave said.  "We black niggers are dirt cheap
right now because there's so many of us - no matter how pretty we are,
we're lucky to get anyone to feed us properly and put a roof over our
head. Me, I've been one lucky nigger - a pretty face on me, a muscular body
and a nice big dick cut to their liking.  I've had one master after another
wanting a good boy for their pleasure.  The only trouble is, slave boy, I'm
getting a little old and my dick's all worn out - I can hardly get it up
anymore no matter how much it's handled and my hole's so stretched now that
my masters complain I'm too loose to grip them properly when they're
fucking me.  That's why, I suppose, that old lady got me so cheap. She was
the one pointing out my faults to the dealer and he couldn't argue with her
much so finally she got me about as cheap as a decent nigger sells for
these days unless they're real old and ugly. Of course," he added with a
note of pride, "I still sold for a hell of a lot more than some ugly old
field hand or a beat-up athlete slave."

   "I can see where you'd bring a good price," I responded honestly, "but
that other stuff you were talking about -is that what the masters mean when
they say a boy is 'all fucked out'?" I asked.

   "Suppose so," the black slave said, looking a little embarrassed.
"Ain't my fault, though."

   I laughed at his last comment.  "No, ain't your fault is right.  I know
damn few slaves running around asking to be fucked all the time unless
there's a whip over their head."

   "You got that right, boy," the black smiled.  "A whip or threatening not
to feed you," he added, reflecting obviously on his own experiences. "With
me, it's been both, so after a while you just do what they say without
hesitating.  I suppose you're the same?" he asked.  "Pretty boys like you
generally end up being somebody's fuck boy."

   "Yup," I replied smiling, "except I'm a lot younger and my prick's still
easy to arouse and my hole is still sort of tight."

   "I've seen some of those 'fancy' boys the mistress was talking about.
Ran across two of them back in the holding pens before I got sold to the
mistress," the black volunteered.  "Both of them just there for safekeeping
until being shipped down to some special dealer in New Orleans, they said.
One of them colored about the same as you - real bright - and the other one
looked pure white.  Blue eyes, light brown hair real fine and without a bit
of curl, not too much body hair to be shaved off judging from the stubble
around his manhood and real thin lips and a straight nose. But you know he
told me he had a little nigger blood in him.  He had been born to an
octoroon mother and sired by her white master which made him one-sixteenth
black by his reckoning - just enough black blood to make him sexy, he
claimed, although he may of just said that to make me feel more comfortable
around him.  They had him fitted with the biggest slave collar I've ever
seen and he was branded big on the butt and on his chest with a big "S" so
everyone would know he was a slave.  Must of been some confusion down the
line somewhere."

   "For industrial and domestic slaves, seem's like there's more white
slaves now than blacks or Orientals, but blacks still dominate the draft
and athlete slave market."

   "Well, that white boy told me he got top price at market because of his
color, his good build, his handsome good looks and his nice equipment.
Never been sold to be anything but a "house servant," which in his case
meant waiting a master's table, helping his master dress, and keeping the
master's rooms neat and tidy during the day and pleasuring his master at
night and in between.  Never had a master who didn't fuck him steady, he
said, in both holes. And he said he had more woman owners than men over the
years.  Mistresses worst than the masters, he claimed.  He said they fucked
him so much he was always glad when he got sold off to a master when they
tired of him.  Only good thing about a mistress, he claimed, was they were
so fickle they got bored with your body real quick and the next thing you
knew you had been traded in on something else to amuse them.  He said a lot
of boys like him most often bought for the brothels.  But he'd been lucky
and, so far, no one had bought him for that."

   "Not much different than you or me," I noted, "except he's apparently
bringing a higher price at auction."

   "You're right, slave boy.  But he told me something else that might
interest you," the black boy continued as he began putting a nice coating
of oil all over his glistening body making sure every bit of the cum that
had dried on his legs after dribbling out of his ass from being fucked all
afternoon had been washed away.

   "What's that?" I asked with great interest.

   "The reason he had those big slave brands on him," the black said
excitedly.

   "So?  A lot of slaves are being branded these days by one owner or
another to mark their property."

   "Not this one.  He wasn't branded originally for the same reason they
used a lash on him instead of a bullwhip."

   "I've never had the bullwhip on me," I answered. "Always used the lash.
Didn't want to scar my body up - said it would hurt my resale value."

   "Same with me in that I was always marketed as a bed buck and no one
wants a bed buck all scarred up.  Been lashed plenty, though."

   "Yeah, so much I passed out plenty of times," I added. "So other than
the scarring, I don't know what difference it made.  A good lashing makes
me wish I had died first but, I admit, after that, I do exactly what the
masters want, no matter what."

   "Same here, but back to that white fancy.  They didn't want any marks on
his body since he was being sold as a 'sex slave,' but they branded him
anyway knowing full well it would lower his value.  Want to know why, slave
boy?" he taunted me.

   "Why?" I asked.

   "He had run away when he was about 20 or so and they had taken his
collar off overnight to have a new one installed the next day.  He was buck
naked of course, but he stole some clothes put out to dry overnight and by
morning had himself fancied up to look exactly like a master, shoes and
everything, and was smart enough to wear a shirt and jacket with a high
collar so it would hide the pure white skin where his collar had stopped
the sun.  He already talked like a freeman because he was one once, being
brought up free, unlike us bred slaves.  He was from South Africa and the
prisons there had sold him to an agent of Slave Depot when he was just 16.
He told me it took 14 months of heavy training here at Slave Depot to
finally break him to slavery and it was shortly after he started his
training that he ran away.  Like most prisoners in his country, he couldn't
read or write much but got himself a paying job as a bouncer in a bar with
a brothel upstairs because he was big and muscular.  Doesn't take any
reading and writing for that job, he said, and he got paid good wages.
Rented himself a nice little room and ate any damn thing he wanted and
fucked all the girls upstairs in that brothel anytime he felt like it. Was
getting along real well until the bar owner got suspicious after catching
him talking about being a prisoner in South Africa with the slave girls
used as whores upstairs. Now how many prisoners do you know that aren't
made into slaves?  Besides that, he'd heard the whores talking about how
well hung he was and he knew prisoners didn't sell well to the slavers
unless they were very well hung generally. Within a week, that bartender
saw a runaway notice with a decent reward for a good looking slave that was
pure white in appearance that was real heavy hung. The picture on the
notice was him all right.  That night, when he was asleep, he had the slave
police come in and shackle him and claimed the reward.  When he was
returned back here to Slave Depot, he was branded on both sides "so no one
would mistake him for a free man ever again" with that big "S" he had on
him and a huge heavy collar was soldered on him that no one could ever get
off without a metal saw.  Furthermore, from then on, they kept him butt
naked all the time to make sure those brand marks would be visible to
everyone looking at him."

   By this time the black slave was putting another application of oil on
his prick which had chafed earlier in the day from all the stroking it had
received.

   "You mean he wasn't a slave for a whole year after he'd been made a
slave?" I said in amazement.  "He was living like a freeman even though he
was really a slave?"

   "Not only that, he was able to save quite a bit of money from his wages.
Another year or so, he said, he would have had enough to buy a nice looking
black boy or one of those cheap Latinos for himself, or, if that was too
expensive, a nice looking wench to pleasure him whenever he wanted."

   "A slave owning a slave himself?" I laughed.  "Now that would be
something!"

   "Since you're not branded yet, you might be able to pass yourself off as
a free man if you could cover your slave collar somehow," he ventured.
"Ever thought of something like that?"

   "You mean running away from a master?" I asked incredulously.

   "Yes," the black slave responded bluntly.  "Me, I'll always be a slave
because I've got permanent ownership marks all over this black body.  But
you've got possibilities with that unmarked hide of yours."

   "But I'm a slave," I answered.  "Born a slave and always will be."

   "May be," the black answered.  "But give it some thought.  You're going
to be shipped up to Memphis to be sold as a fancy.  Just might be the
perfect opportunity to duck away some night, cover your body with some
decent clothes that hide that collar around your neck and head north."

   "Why north?" I asked.

   "You stupid in the head or what?" the black slave responded as he spread
his legs and again put a dollop of grease up his chute and then begin
shaving his groin as some new hairs were sprouting there.

   "You go north far enough and they don't have slaves at all I hear.
Someplace called Canada doesn't hold with having human livestock.  You're
looked down on because you were once a slave and only get the worst jobs
they tell me, but nobody owns you and you can fuck who you want or no one
at all if you so please.  Best of all for boys like us, no one can fuck you
if you don't want."

   "You just making that up, black boy?" I shot back. "No place like that I
reckon in my lifetime."

   "No, I've heard a lot of talk in the pens about being up North.  Some
runaways have been there but were unlucky enough to get kidnaped by illegal
bounty hunters hired by places like Slave Depot.  Those hunters shot them
full of drugs and when they came to, they found they had been secretly
shipped back to the United States and turned into property again
overnight."

   "Are you telling me if I run away in Memphis and get myself to this
Canada place I could be free as long as I watch out for being kidnapped and
then brought back here to be sold again?"

   "That's right, slave.  You'll always be property here, but up North no
one owns you.  It ain't heaven, they say, and you're still hungry a lot,
and it's cold a lot, but you're not a slave at least and no one is taking
you to their bed day in and day out like around here."

   "You may be right, but it still hard to believe.  Maybe that's just some
slaves with fanciful imaginations making all that up," I replied.

   "I'm telling you what that white slave told me although he never made it
up North, but I've talked to others in the pens who have actually been up
there in Canada, but, like I said, had been kidnaped by the bounty hunters
and returned to their owners.  They said for each one of them caught by the
bounty hunters up there in Canada there were 20 others who never got
caught.  Some of them got so far away in Canada the bounty hunters would
never find them, no matter how much they are paid."

   "Are tou telling me if you gets your ass all the way to this Canada
place you can be free forever and no one can make you a slave again as long
as you're not caught by the bounty hunters?" I asked disbelieving.

   "Believe me or not, slave boy.  Me, I believe it.  And you, as free of
ownership marks as your body is - you could probably pass yourself off as a
respectable free man if you dressed yourself just like them and got rid of
your slave collar and didn't act all slavey-like when you were around
them."

   "Like what?" I asked.

   "You know, not saying 'yes, master' or 'yes, mistress' to everything,
looking the others straight in the eye instead of always looking down at
the ground, and withdrawing a little when someone touches your body instead
of just allowing it - that sort of stuff."

   "You think I could pass for a free man despite the fact I'm 100% slave
blooded?" I asked.  "Bred to be a slave, you know."

   "Some of those free men aren't so smart.  Strip them down, put a heavy
collar on them and a few whip marks on their backs and they'd act just like
any slave would be my guess once they realized where the food was coming
from and who had the whip in their hand now. There's a lot of slaves not
born into it like us and they end up making just as good a slave as you and
me after some decent training."

 *****

     That conversation gnawed at me the whole trip to Memphis.  Mistress
Harmon and I went by train to the big city, her in the regular coaches and
me in the slave car in the back no different than the railcars they used to
haul cattle and pigs except we were hobbled as well as locked in by chains
connecting manacles locked around each ankle.  We were shipped naked to
mark who we were as well as make us easy to clean since the open air car
for livestock dirtied our bodies plenty by the time we got there.
Periodically, a station slave would fill our water barrel where we had to
scoop a drink out by hand and threw us a few pieces of slave chow. One stop
was particularly long as the diesel engine refueled. It was then the
station slaves assigned to clean the train and its contents, including us,
took advantage of the time delay and singled out some of us better looking
boys and a few of the pretty young women slaves and, with a whip in hand,
took their pleasure with us until I, along with all the others, had a sore
hole.  There wasn't much we could do to prevent it, shackled and all, and
they weren't hesitant to use the whip if we didn't instantly cooperate with
them. Even though I bent over promptly and opened my hole the minute I
understood what they were after, I still ended up with a rash of red whip
marks on my back.

     Fortunately, there were only two stops long enough to allow that sort
of thing, and on one of those stops, the owners decided to check their
property so the station slaves there didn't get any relief as they had
planned.  By the time we finally got to Memphis, the whip marks were gone
and all the cum had oozed out of my ass so I appeared to Mistress Harmon no
different than when I had started other than we all tired, needed a good
shave all over as well as a good flushing, and needed our body oiled to get
back our sheen.

     Most of the human livestock was promptly marched from the depot to a
slave pen not more than a block away, still naked and dirty. But Mistress
Harmon and another master hired a delivery van and took me and another fine
looking slave woman to a place advertising "Fancies, Thoroughbred Racing
Horses, and Mules."  There, after a bit of spirited negotiation, Mistress
Harmon stuffed a bank credit slip in her purse with a look of great
satisfaction.  She then turned to me, grabbed my prick firmly, and coldly
told me to "mind your new master, slave" as her parting remark.  Even
though she had bedded me down often enough, it was clear she viewed me as
nothing more than a handsome animal at her disposal.

      The slave pens right next to the horse stalls were waiting for us and
we were promptly douched, shaved, washed, and oiled. It was the first time
I had been douched in front of women slaves, but I was too tired to care
although I got a raging hard-on just looking at them getting the same
treatment.  Both of us were then locked up in one of the two huge cages -
one for men and one for women - with the admonition not to "jerk off, or
fool around with anyone else in the cage.  We want you all fresh and ready
for the buyers tomorrow - no emptying of your balls, boys, or you'll get
whipped until you're raw meat."

     The next morning, I along with all my cage mates were again submitted
to another round of cleansing just like I'd had upon my arrival the night
before.  We were then chained by our collars to rings about six feet apart
in a long brick wall obviously designed to display slaves up for sale.  We
also had a bracelet locked around one ankle which was attached to a very
short chain attached to a link placed in the concrete floor of the display
hall.  Hence, we could only move enough to display all parts of our body,
including turning around and bending over for a potential owner's
inspection of our asshole and hanging balls.  Male slaves were on one side;
females on the other.  Just looking at all that female flesh kept me, and
most of the others, in a constant state of at least semi-erection and I saw
some of the females dripping with their nipples erect as they looked us
over.  Once in place, a slave handler came by and fondled us until we were
fully erect while a handler on the other side stimulated the wenches's
clitoris until they too were fully aroused with their cunt lips swollen and
red.  As soon as they had finished, the doors opened and scores of
specially invited and richly dressed onlookers entered the place, mainly
with pencil and pad in hand to mark down the numbers over each stand if
they were interested along with any notes they made after examining our
bodies.

     It was a very long morning.  By noon, when the last of the 'guests'
had left, my prick was chafed from being stroked so much, my balls ached
from being squeezed and weighed so many times, my nipples were red and
swollen from all the pinching and squeezing they had received, and my hole
had been opened by every finger in the place, it seemed, along with
numerous leather dildos of all sizes and shapes provided to "test our
response," and even, at one point, a huge glass artificial phallus one of
the 'guests' had brought with him.  The unusual dildo drew a lot of
attention from the other 'guests' (who all seemed to know one another) and
their conversation with the dildo's owner revealed he had found it on a
recent trip to China.  As luck would have it, that dildo's owner choose to
demonstrate it using me along with several others chained to the wall that
day. That glass monster was so big that, even lubricated as well as I was
with gobs of KY jelly, I thought it was going to split me in half and I
couldn't stop myself from moaning with the first few inches to screaming in
agony eventually as it was rammed all the way in the first time.  I saw
some of my blood on it when it was finally withdrawn after I had been
submitted to a good long pumping with the monster and the screaming had
subsided to mere groans of painful submission.  One of the slaves up for
sale that day, a handsome young Latino boy, actually passed out when that
man inserted the Chinese novelty up his butt, much to the amusement of the
other potential buyers witnessing the event.  Since no one was allowed to
play with the slaves until they shot off, we were about insane with need by
this time, having been kept stimulated for four hours straight with no
relief.

     We were then again douched, washed, and oiled and given a small
helping of slave chow before being placed in a line according to number to
await our brief time on the auction block scheduled for three o'clock,
still totally naked. I wondered why we had to stand in line so long for an
auction that wasn't to start for a good two hours yet.

     I was soon to find out.  Promptly at 12:45 the doors opened again and
a much smaller number of "select" buyers were allowed in who were given the
privilege of buying us before a public auction at a fixed price. This
allowed them to get exactly what they wanted if they were willing to pay on
the spot; it allowed the sellers to get a guaranteed good price if auction
prices were low that day for one reason or another.

     Again, we were carefully examined, sore as we were, and I, along with
about 23 other males and about 15 females were pulled out of the line by
the time the auction started.  We had been purchased outright and, if the
paperwork on us could be processed fast enough, we would be gone with our
new owner by the time the auction was well underway.  There was some
confusion as the sales receipts were filled out, ownership papers
notarized, and bank drafts and credit cards changed hands.  Some slaves
were being mortgaged on the spot, with banks actually owning them until the
purchase loan was paid off. Sales collars were removed to be replaced with
a collar of the owner's choosing (if they wanted the slave collared at
all), our ankle shackles were removed, and we were issued disposable 'slave
wraparounds' that covered our lower torso if our new owner's didn't wanted
us totally naked on the trip to our new home."

     When my collar was removed and the shackles removed from my foot, I
remembered my talk with the black slave about the place called Canada where
masters couldn't fuck you just because they wanted to because they owned
your body. I wondered if the man who had forced that huge glass dildo up my
rear was the one that had bought me and, if so, if he intended to amuse
himself watching my agony as he pumped me with the horrid instrument or if
the women who squeezed my balls until I gasped in pain and then, looking
pleased, squeezed and rubbed my nipples until they had swollen to three
times their normal size before she seemed satisfied was my new owner. Or
perhaps the young man with pimples all over his pasty white face who had
stroked me until I moaned in agony before turning me around and pumping me
with three fingers stuck up my ass as far as he could get them despite my
groans of pain.  I again surveyed the confusion around me and decided I was
going to make a dash for it, naked as I was, the first chance I got.

     That chance never occurred.  My new owner appeared, ownership papers
in hand, and ordered me to don the slave garment for a quick trip to his
home, just a mile or so away along the riverfront. To my immediate relief,
he was not the master with the glass dildo who had entertained the guests
so well earlier in the day at my expense. He placed a rope noose around my
still uncollared neck and hitched it to the side of his fancy rickshaw,
pulled by a handsome Mexican slave dressed in nothing but his collar and a
full leather harness with a built-in genital ring that displayed his
muscled body and his sexual organs beautifully.  My new owner reminded me
that I would need to keep up or be dragged by my neck down the
road. Fortunately, the rickshaw went no faster than I could run, of course,
although I was panting after about half a mile.  I thought about pulling
the noose off my neck and taking off, but my new owner kept a constant eye
on me and it turned out the noose wasn't easily loosened, especially when
you're running full speed.

     I arrived at his townhouse breathless and the good looking slave
pulling the rickshaw now unhooked me from the rickshaw itself and then
opened the door for his master while holding my tow rope with his other
hand.  The Mexican slave then led me like a prize cow to a rear door which
led directly to the slave quarters showing me a tiny, airless vacant cell
which he said would be mine from now on.

     "You'll be locked up every night until we can be sure of you," he
counseled as he took me immediately to the slave's bathing area and
indicated that I should shuck the tiny wraparound and clean myself once
again while he told me "what's what" at my new home.

     As soon as I was naked again, he took my shaft in hand and stroked it
a bit until I was erect once again.  "Um, Um... I can see why Master Fulton
bought you.  He likes his bucks well hung and pretty in the face.  That's
why he bought me," he laughed as he reached down and hefted his now erect
sex organs to illustrate his point.  He was huge in that area and, when I
looked the rest of him over again, I could see he had a magnificently built
body that matched the size of his sex organs.  He was about as handsome as
slaves get in my opinion and had a beautiful pinkish brown complexion that
was flawless.  He informed me he was the steward of the house in charge of
all the other slaves although, he pointed out firmly, he was a slave
property himself.


     "First off, all the bucks in this house are here mainly to pleasure
Master Fulton and his friends, including me.  We're all mighty fine looking
and well hung so you aren't anything special - every slave in this house is
just as good looking as you are, boy," he said as he continued stroking me,
"and just as big down here where it counts," he added as he gripped my
shaft strongly before releasing me.

     "Every slave in the house is a buck, even those doing the cooking and
laundry, and every single one of us was bought to be a pretty piece of
slave meat for the master to show off as well as pleasure him in bed with
whatever he fancies.  Of course, we do all the work necessary to keep the
mansion spic and span.  This place is so big and fancy, there's barely
enough of us to keep up with all the work so we're busy day and night so to
speak," he laughed at his own little joke.  "Master Fulton is very
demanding as to keeping everything spotless and in its place so we all get
a lot of exercise just doing our chores - some days you're going to be just
plain tuckered out, especially if his friends come over for a little
entertaining. In addition, we do a good hour of special exercises each
morning to keep our bodies just as attractive to our master as they can be.
I'll be supervising those exercises and I'm not afraid to use the whip if
you don't put your all into it because if I don't," he smiled, "I get
whipped even harder by the master and that's not going to happen.  He says
it's his slaves' duty to keep their bodies appealing for their owner and I
can't find any argument with that - remember we're his property, after all.
When we're in the house, we're generally kept the same way you are now -
butt naked.  Master Fulton likes nothing better than viewing a well built
handsome buck in 'all his glory' as he calls it.  That means, boy, you're
going to have to learn how to keep your prick hard most of the time when
he's viewing us, no matter how you might feel about it that day.  It's hard
to do at first, but you'll learn like the rest of us.  Master Fulton lets
us use our hands to stimulate ourselves when it's necessary to show hard,
but after a while, you'll find it comes naturally.  As you've probably
discovered already, slave boys tend to show hard when they know they're
being viewed, especially if they haven't been drained recently. But if you
don't show hard when he wants, you're going to feel the whip until you do -
believe me, you'll learn fast enough after you feel that special snake skin
whip of his wrap itself around your body a few times. Hurts like fire, it
does," the Mexican slave said pointedly wincing a little at the remembrance
of his last whipping.

     "Most days, he likes to show us off around town in that he's mighty
proud of his slave property.  That's when we get in our special 'fancy'
outfits and accompany him to the parks, shopping, downtown, sporting
events, and to his social clubs.  Each one of us has a special outfit
designed to show off our bodies one way or another.  Most of the outfits
make you feel more naked than you are right now without a stitch of clothes
on.  And some of them make you feel more like a pet dog than a slave, but,
of course, we don't have any say in how we're dressed one way or another.
Some of us, me included, have several outfits depending on the occasion.
For example, I have one outfit you see me in right now - this full body
harness that's so tight I can hardy move in it, but master thanks it shows
off my physique and manhood right well. The straps are hot as hell up
against my hide but nobody seems to care about that because the master says
it shows me off better when its wet with my sweat anyway. Like I said, I'm
more naked in this get up than if I didn't have anything on, but that's the
whole purpose of the outfit I suppose. Another outfit he puts me in
sometimes is a just a pair of bright yellow silk shorts with practically no
legs and cut so low they wouldn't stay on if they weren't so tight
stretched across my sex and ass.  Shows my manhood off better he claims
that if I were butt naked like around the house, but, like this harness
outfit, I know I feel more naked with that thing on than if there wasn't a
stitch on me.  And sometimes he decks me out in what he calls an "Arab
outfit," whatever that is, where I wear a pair of thin pants made out of a
loose net you can see right through and a little vest of the same net
material that just covers the top of my shoulders.  Some of the other boys
around here are put into outfits made out of a gold like material, some are
of a bright colored velvet, and a lot of them are silk and that see through
net stuff.  But I tell you one thing, all of them barely cover anything and
most of them are so tight no one has to guess how heavy hung you are or how
big your balls or your nipples are. Speaking of which, some of the boys
with nice big tits are ringed there to show them off, some of the boys with
balls that hang too low are fitted with big metal bands down there to make
their manhood stick out more like I've got welded around my balls.  And a
few of them sport big gold or copper nose rings.  All of us, you included
as soon as the metal smith gets here, will have a nice new 3" gold plated
collar with the master's crest on it along with a "reward for return"
notice soldiered around your neck.  After that's installed, you're forced
to hold your handsome face up where everyone can see it all the time and
everyone will know who you belong to.  Of course, you'll have to learn to
keep your eyes down in front of your betters even though your head is
forced upwards.  Takes some getting used to at first.  Master Fulton hasn't
told me how he wants you fitted yet other than the collar.  He'll probably
tit ring you to highlight your muscular chest and those nice thick tits of
yours, but I don't know whether he'll want you banded or not down there.
Seems to me your balls are pretty snug to your body already so your manhood
sticks out of its own accord pretty well.  Never know, though, he may want
you banded anyway.  Claims its good for a slave, but he's never banded a
few of his other slaves yet.  Course, I'm fitted with these two big gold
ear rings as well as my gold nose ring to highlight my face as well as this
big gold ring forcing my sex out for everyone to see easily.  That's quite
a bit of gold on just one slave if you think about it.  If they ringed my
tits in gold, that metal would be worth more than my body if it isn't
already," he laughed at the idea.  "Our master, he got's endless money, it
seems, and so, if he wants me ringed in gold, I'm going to be ringed in
gold - it's as simple as that.  Besides, he gets it back when he sells me -
they always take all the gold off before they take you to trade you in, no
matter how much it hurts."

     "Are you what they call a 'fancy' slave?" I asked.

     "Damn right I'm a 'fancy,' boy.  I'm about as 'fancy' as they get,
especially with all this gold fastened on me. You're a 'fancy' too, boy.
You were bought at the 'fancy' market along with the prize horses and mules
and you cost enough that everyone knows whoever can afford you has lots and
lots of money.  You're bought not only to bed down for an owner's pleasure
but to show off.  And, if we're lucky, they'll breed us just like those
thoroughbred horses you saw down at the market.  We're too fancy to let our
seed just go to waste, boy."

     "Mistress Harmon said she was going to sell me as a 'fancy' and make a
lot of money off of me.  I guess she knew what she was doing," I mused.

     "A mistress bedding you down?" my mentor asked, obviously curious.

     "Sometimes when she got needful, but her son actually owned me as his
bed buck," I explained.  "Mistress Harmon actually bought me to start with
as a birthday present for her son, but she was the boss of that family," I
giggled.  "She decided to sell me when she heard tell that light skinned
handsome bucks were bringing premium prices if they were sold at market's
dealing in 'fancies.'  She told that son of hers he couldn't have me
anymore - I was too valuable to just be a bed buck for him and his friends
and she bought him another buck to use that was real black and getting sort
of old for a bed buck.  She got that new buck real cheap.  Her son, Master
Clarkson, he didn't like it, but she was paying for everything, so I got
sold just like she said. I imagine that new black buck has already been
fucked raw by Master Clarkson and his friends," I chuckled.

     "You're better off here, boy," the steward said comfortingly. "Master
Fulton labels me 'Steward'.  What's your label?"

     "512," I replied.

     "Oh, that's a breeding farm label. No one's labeled you since then,
even that mistress that owned you and that master you were servicing?"

     "No, neither one of them ever bothered.  They just called me 'boy' or
'slave.'"

     "Well, Master Fulton will probably label you as soon as he gets
familiar with you a bit.  There's five of us owned by Master Fulton who
take care of the master's mansion and his gardens and him and his friends
when they want pleasuring.  We fancy boys all get along and we all get
fucked about equally, so none of us are fucked very hard or too often.  But
still we're busy all the time, it seems. If we're not on our knees sucking
a big one or bent over a chair taking one up our ass, we're scrubbing the
floor, trimming the hedge, waiting table, or doing the laundry.  Then
there's the times we're in our little costumes being shown when our master
feels like it.  We have to douche every morning after getting up, each time
we're used, and every night after the master retires.  We have to keep
ourselves greased up properly all the time because we never know when the
master or his friends might want to use us.  We have to keep our bodies
shaved just in the style he wants each and every day and we have to keep
our bodies spotlessly clean and free of all smell all the time no matter
how hot it is or how much we've been used.  We have to trim our fingernails
and hair every four days however the master wants so we always look tidy
and oil our skin every morning with a scented oil our master buys special
for us.  We get fed just twice a day - once in the morning and once in the
evening unless we've messed up somehow in our master's opinion in which
case we have to skip a meal and generally get a good whipping - not a
bullwhipping or anything that would damage our hides, just a good lashing
that sure makes you want to do better for the master, whatever it was.  We
can't ever shoot off unless our master gives us permission and we're
responsible for keeping ourselves erect and ready like he wants when he's
viewing us no matter what we have to do to get and stay that way.  The
master feeds us well, but just enough to keep us in top shape - you're
always going to be a little bit hungry.  Master Fulton thinks that keeps us
slave boys on our toes and responsive to his commands.  I can't help but
agree with him there, especially since if you do something really, really
well with a right willing attitude and a big smile on your face all the
time, he gives you a little candy treat now and then. The only thing kind
of strange from other masters, boy, is that all our names are what you call
'use' labels rather than a regular slave name like Cicero or Servicus.
But, whatever he labels you, you better learn it fast and respond to it
right away. The master gets real mad and takes his whip in hand if you
don't respond when he wants."

     "So, you were labeled Steward because you are the steward?" I asked.

     "Exactly," Steward answered with a look of satisfaction that I
understood his function as well as his name.  Before that, like you, I
didn't really have a name and like you, I m a product of a breeding farm -
Slave Depot's Mexican Breeding Station right outside Mexico City.  That's
all they produce there - a new crop of slaves every year and just enough
food to feed them."

     "Sounds like we're I was produced. We were all half-brothers and
sisters, every single one of us coming out of one stud."

     "It wasn't that way at my breeding farm.  We had at least two dozen
studs for the wenches.  If they didn't take with one, she got put with
another stud right away.  You never had any idea who you're papa was," he
laughed. "If you had all those brothers and sisters, you ever run across
any of them?"

     "Not that I know of.  I'd probably recognize them if I saw them
because we all looked a lot alike - the breeding wenches were all picked
for having the same body build and looks so a lot of us looked almost like
twins.  One of these days, especially here in a big city like Memphis, I
expect to see some of them if their masters ever let them out."

     "Probably will, slave boy. Lots and lots of slaves here in Memphis - a
lot more slaves than anything else - dogs, horses, mules, and especially
free persons," he laughed.  "Most of them working down at the docks as
cotton loaders but the greatest number these days are working in the
factories here making things for their master's profits.  And then, there's
a lot of public slaves doing all the street work, picking up the garbage
and recyclables, sweeping the streets free of litter, and taking care of
the parks. There's also quite a few slave athletes for the big league
sports events they have here as well as the wrestling and boxing shows.
But the real pretty ones are working in the big hotels, the brothels
Memphis is noted for, and all the mansions and townhouses the free people
own.  Almost all the big plantation owners have a house in town as well as
a big house out on their plantation these days.  This is a big place for
conventions and business conferences as well as tourists so there are lots
of hotels, motels, bars, strip joints, and brothels for their satisfaction.
There used to be lot of porny shops at every corner, but there are so many
slaves in Memphis anymore, you can just have slaves do whatever turns you
on rather than just look at it on a DVD so they're about out of business.
The churches here are real happy about that, claiming they closed the porny
shops singlehandedly. Heard the master tell someone the other day the
newspaper here estimated there were about 29 slaves for every free person
in Memphis anymore, although nobody really counts the slaves of course."

     Our conversation ended when my new master appeared and, with a flick
of his wrist, indicated I was to follow him to his bedroom upstairs now
that I was completely clean and ready for use.  There, nothing unexpected
happened since I was well aware of why he had bought me except now I knew
he was well hung himself, had a trim, muscular body, and was a demanding,
but reasonable man as long as you tried hard to please him every way you
could think of. I was surprised at his endurance.  He fucked me twice to a
full orgasm before he had me suck him off
 for a third emptying of his balls.  Only then, a full hour later, was I
told to go down to the washroom again to clean myself inside and out and
then report back to the steward to see how I could be put to my
chores. Tonight, he announced, unless I got slothful with my assigned
chores, I would get supper and he would assign me a name.

     As soon as I had douched again, I met the three household slaves I
hadn't already met and was startled at how well built and good looking they
all were - easy to see since they were as naked as I was.  To a man, they
were very well hung, all semi-erect with bands around their balls, all
tit-ringed and two, like the slave I had already met, had huge earrings as
well as a nose ring.  All were collared with the tall gold collars that
forced their heads into an upright position.  The brown Mexican who had
explained all the house rules to me earlier quickly assigned all of us
specific chores before I could really talk to any of the others.  Within an
hour, the metal smith arrived and I was called down to the washroom again
where I was unceremoniously collared just like the others, had a band
soldiered around my balls and the base of my cock forcing it into a full
forward protrusion at all times, had both tits ringed with medium sized
gold rings, had one ear pierced and fitted with a big dangling gold ear
ring, but my nose was left alone.  Inserting the ear ring didn't hurt much,
but installing the tit rings was about as painful as anything I'd
experienced up to that point and would take, I was told, a few days to
fully heal.  The band around my sex didn't hurt, really, but rubbed against
my body with each step I took and shifted my body balance enough that I was
mindful of it all the time.  The metal smith explained I would get used to
it soon enough and, as soon as I calloused a little down there, I wouldn't
even notice it after a while other than I could expect a great deal more
fondling and stroking of my prick as well as more cupping and massaging of
my balls now that it was handier to do.  He expressed surprise that my new
owner had decided I didn't need a nose ring, at least not yet. "You must
suck cock exceptionally well," he conjectured, "so he probably didn't want
a nose ring in the way of those nice lips of yours."

     That same day, the steward delivered my first "costume," as he called
it, to put on when the master wanted to display us in public.  Holding it
up for me to see, it consisted of black wool "tights" cut three inches
below my navel to show off my abdominal muscles and stopped just short of
exposing my sex, over my muscular butt and thighs just above my crack, and
then stopping just short of my knees. Once on, it was so tight the outline
of my obviously ringed genitals was clearly visible despite the black cloth
and the huge bulge in the material was the most noticeable aspect of the
attire other than clearly outlining my prominent rounded and somewhat
"uplifted" muscular ass. Attached to my neck collar was a big black bow tie
as if I were formally attired while black kid leather slippers were also
supplied.  My large golden ear ring and matching tit rings completed the
outfit. The steward ordered me to try all of it on and look into a mirror
located in the dining room.  Once encased in the skin tight shorts and with
the bow-tie attached to my collar, I saw myself for the first time in the
full-length mirror and was astonished.
 I knew it was me but I also saw about the most erotic, sexy man I had ever
seen anywhere and immediately became fully erect.

     The steward noticed the response to my own image.

     "Now you understand why we're made to wear these costumes, slave boy.
It makes his properties a lot sexier than if we were just naked as usual.
I'm surprised Master Fulton doesn't have us wearing these outfits all the
time.  If I owned a slave boy, that's the way I'd keep him unless I was
bedding him down right then and there."

     "I'm happy you approve, fuck boy" Master Fulton said sarcastically
from the back of the room.

     We both jumped in that we had no idea he had entered the room and both
of us assumed the usual slave position: legs apart slightly, eyes lowered
in respect and hands in back of our necks to best display our body.

     "It's not a bad idea, fuck boy, except it's harder to tell if you're
keeping yourself nice and hard for me all the time," he chuckled.
"Besides, I'm not sure I want to wait for you to shuck out of these
provocative little outfits before I fuck you when I get the urge."

     "Of course, master," the steward said.  "Whatever you want, master."

     "Damn right, whatever I want, fuck boy.  That's why you're a slave and
I'm the master.  But I was interested to hear that if you were a master,
you'd have your slaves looking as appealing as they could for you. Pleasing
a master is everything for a slave, isn't it?"

     "Yes, master," the steward said smoothly as he thrust his naked erect
genitals a little further out to demonstrate his total subservience to his
owner.  "Is the new slave's outfit to your liking, master, or should I have
him put on another one, master?"

     "It will do for now, fuck boy.  Put it away now that we know it fits
properly and both of you get to your chores if you still want to get fed
tonight."

     "Yes, master," we both said in unison as I quickly wiggled out of the
skin tight trousers and removed the bow tie from my collar. The steward
just as quickly put these two objects, along with the special slippers,
into a special box marked to identify it and then into a nearby closet.  He
then told me to go back into the dining room and start waxing the floor
while he turned to head toward the kitchen.

     "On your knees, fuck boy, in front of me," Master Fulton ordered the
handsome Mexican who complied immediately with his mouth open expectantly.

     "A quick draining into your throat," the master said as the slave
beneath him carefully loosened his owner's trousers and withdrew the large
white organ before swallowing it all the way down his well-practiced throat
before putting his throat muscles into full action while his tongue
massaged the huge organ within his mouth.

     "Nice," Master Fulton commended as he pumped the organ even further
into his slave's throat.

     The slave sucking could only sigh in agreement since his mouth was
fully stuffed.  If he did a great job of sucking his master off, he not
only would get supper tonight but possibly one of the candy treats his
master sometimes had with him.

*******

     Over time, I became good friends with all of Master Fulton's other
slaves. Steward, one of the others, named Phallus, and I were from
deliberate slave breeding farms but the others were just circumstance -
born into slavery of course as products of a slave womb but not scheduled
or planned in any way outside of the usual dollar coin given to most any
slave woman producing a pup for her master no matter who sired it.  All of
us were truly exceptional in the looks and build department. We had all
brought top prices at the sales venues due to our appeal, out bodily
beauty, and our huge, ever ready sexual equipment which, over the years, we
had learned to use to bring our owners maximum pleasure.  The steward was a
rich tobacco brown, I was a quadroon, of course, 'Showboy' was a mulatto,
'Shaft' was a shiny jet black, and Phallus was an octoroon, but was so
white looking with his light brown hair and green eyes and smooth ivory
colored skin he could have easily been mistaken for a pure white slave,
especially since he had the deep brown brands of Master Fulton's initials
burned into his right butt and left pectoral, so typical of pure white
slaves these days. All in all, we covered the full range of hide tones
available in Memphis' current slave offerings.  In visiting the homes of
Master Fulton's friends, we found this variety of skin tones prevalent
among those holding a bevy of premium 'fancy' slaves kept primarily for
their startlingly good looks and the sexual pleasures they could provide
their owner.

     My outfit for show, along with the other slaves, changed periodically
with the master's whims.  Shaft, the jet black slave was once fitted out in
pure white ballet tights that displayed his huge basket in startling
contrast with his black skin.  ShowBoy, the mulatto, often wore only a
small red silk sash cupping his genitals tied to a red silk rope wrapped
around his waist The 'white nigger,' as Phallus was sometimes called, often
wore a tight green tunic with gold trim patterned, they told me, after
slave boys from someplace called Ancient Rome which was so short that if he
did anything but stand straight up, his ass or genitals were exposed.  The
brown Steward was often dressed as an slave from a place called Egypt with
a tiny little ivory colored linen skirt to cover his sex, a linen turban on
his head and a small vest that matched his skirt to best display his
muscular chest.  Those costumes from other places reminded me of what they
always said back at the breeding farm.  "Every advanced culture had slaves,
of course, since day one" Master Winfield used to say. "And all those
millions and millions of slaves over the centuries just proves that this is
the natural order of things - some people are meant to be slaves and some
people aren't - it's as simple as that.  Anybody would be stupid to try to
fight nature by trying to change it. Obviously, it's the way God ordained
it and you can't fight nature or God, now can you?" Now I could see what he
said was absolutely true, though I had never doubted him on anything.

     No matter what the public costume, they all exposed most of our body
anyway and emphasized our sex more than it hid it. Not one of us didn't
feel more naked with our costumes than we did when we were in the house
totally naked, mainly because the costumes were always designed to draw
attention to our sexual attributes rather blatantly.  When accompanying our
master dressed like this, people on the streets, in the parks, and in the
shops invariably commented on our good looks, of course, but also on our
tit rings, our high collars, how well we "displayed" our talents, the nose
rings on those so equipped, and, in the case of the octoroon slave, on his
prominent ownership brands.  All of these features were usually felt for
themselves in addition to the visual inspection: our tit rings were tugged
at and twisted; the nose rings were flicked, our ear rings were played
with, and, with all of us, our sex was felt through the material that
covered it and squeezed and fondled until we were erect and dripping.  Many
a hand played with our muscular ass checks and stray fingers often were
inserted far up our well lubricated holes and pumped a little as they
enjoyed our reactions to these stimulations. Usually, after just an hour or
so accompanying our master on his little forays, the material that covered
our sex showed huge wet spots where the pre-cum was leaking through the
material and making it sticky and easily soiled by the probing hands that
fondled us. Master Fulton viewed this as a good trait, rather than
punishing us, however, in that he said it showed we were "responding
appropriately for a slave being displayed" and never cancelled our evening
meal for this unless, of course, we ever drew away or were less than fully
cooperative in somebody fondling us in public.  He did enjoy using the
little slave whip he carried with him on these forays, however, and we
could expect to be lashed on some part of our body several times during the
little trips, no matter how cooperative we proved to be.  Since he never
really lashed into us hard, we slaves all thought it was just part of the
show as much as our little costumes.

     There were plenty of inquires concerning our costs, however, which
obviously pleased not only Master Fulton but all the other wealthy masters
displaying their stock of fancies like this.

     "If you have to ask, you probably can't afford stock like this," was
one of Master Fulton's favorite responses which he delivered with a little
wink of his eye, but "a king's ransom, if the truth were known," "too much,
I'm afraid, to make any sense at all, my friend," "it's hard to justify
such an expense unless you're into collecting like I am," "well, they say
you can't take it with you anyway," "less than a really good thoroughbred
horse, but a lot more than a decent carriage horse," "it's not just for the
looks, you know, but for their breeding potential although even that
doesn't quite justify the costs in that good studs can be had for next to
nothing these days," or even "I'm afraid I was spoiled rotten as a child
and just never got over it - never had to really," or "I was brought up to
appreciate the very best, and among our slave animals today, these probably
are the best to be had."

*******

     Master Fulton often read and discussed the articles in the prominent
daily newspaper (the Memphis Gazette) with his longtime friends.  This
usually took place in the downtown parks where they too, like Master
Fulton, were displaying their current stock.  Such a multitude of available
flesh usually attracted a sizeable crowd who, with the owners' permission,
frequently fondled us openly and completely while our owners took issue
with or agreed with various articles in the newspaper.

     "Did you see this article on the increased number of owners stocking
boys like we've got - boys kept just for the pleasure they can provide.
Says here the price of pleasure stock is going up due to demand."

     "Yes, George, but the price is only increasing on the very best -
those with outstanding good looks, perfect physiques, and magnificent
equipment.  It says that anything less than that depreciates pretty fast
here in Memphis, so the point is you should insist on buying only the very
best to start with."

     "Only makes sense, George.  Nobody buys a house slave anymore than
isn't something to look at.  Why should they, when you see what's available
these days."

     "The market is well aware of this apparently.  You hardly see a house
slave offered anymore that isn't sexy and pretty.  I think the breeding
barns are wising up to market demands, Henri."

     "Even those not bred specifically for the pleasure slave market aren't
bad, though, Henri.  Even those through the courts and purchased outright
are obviously being carefully screened for the pleasure slave market.
They're picking out the very best looking for that high mark-up market and
sending all the others to the industrial and agribusiness markets.  Only
makes sense - every dealer wants to make as much as he can.  I've got two
pleasure boys myself that weren't bred for market and they've worked out
just fine."

     "So have I, George.  They're so well trained by the time they're
marketed, you can't tell a dime's worth of difference between a bred boy
and a boy broken to his status later in his life.  Once they understand
their only reason to exist is to give you pleasure, who cares where they
came from originally?"

     "Speaking of industrial slaves, the whole market is expanding.  Did
you see the report on the GNP in today's paper?  It's really interesting in
that the whole economy seems to hinge on slaves anymore."

     "Must have missed it, Henri.  Do you mind reading it aloud so we can
all hear it.  After all, it's a healthy economy that makes it possible for
us to enjoy meeting here everyday and giving our boys a bit of fresh air."

     That "bit of fresh air" offered us "boys" involved being pawed over by
scores of people each and every day where we had to pose absolutely still
with our sexual organs thrust out for easy handling while absolute
strangers hefted and massaged our balls, stroked us to full dripping
erections, squeezed our ringed nipples until they had swollen to three
times their normal size, and felt endless fingers explore the innards of
our ass chute before pumping us with those probing fingers to "see how we
took to a good fucking."  It was all part of being paraded around town by
our proud owners.

     Henri began reading the newspaper report:

   "The Department of Commerce issued their annual report late
   yesterday afternoon.  The Gross National Product (GNP) reached
   a record high as labor costs per unit produced steadily decreased,
   a trend found in all slave economies, the only economies able to
   compete in current world markets. This record low cost of labor is
   attributed to three converging factors: (1) increased supply of
   competitively priced labor units; (2) health care costs being
   minimized; and (3) current salvage rates allowing for quick
   turnover of labor units.  Slave availability is attributed to continual
   high output of breeding operations, court decisions leading to
   lifetime enslavement for even minor socially disturbing acts, and
   sustained war operations yielding a steady supply of "enemy
   combatants" who are subsequently sold into slavery following
   "breaking."  The United States continued to lead the world in both
   low prices for new slaves; minimal maintenance costs; and enforced
   output for each 'work unit.'

   "The report cited the auto industry as an example of increased
   productivity throughout the nation.  General Motors, once near
   bankruptcy with one of the industry's highest labor costs, including
   runaway health care costs, is now one of the world's most
   profitable car makers following a 98% switch from free to slave
   labor over the past two decades.  The company now runs its own
   breeding operations to cut labor supply costs even further and
   health care has been eliminated by a liberal replacement policy
   where health problems interfering with full output, where in-plant
   disciplinary measures are no longer sufficient, simply lead to
   salvaging the slave and replacing him with fresher and more
   energetic material. Quality has also increased following their
   highly advertised campaign "Quality based on blood" where slave
   workers are routinely beaten for even the most minor quality
   mishap.  The report pointed to the current General Motors TV ads
   following this productivity strategy which feature slaves standing
   in a pool of blood with permanently whip-scarred bodies fervently
   tending to the smallest detail of their work assignment. Ford
   Motors is also now extremely profitable, exceeding all but General
   Motors in overall profits for the year among world auto
   manufacturers.  Their quality too has reached a rate of 1 defect per
   5,000 cars, unheard of only eight years ago when over 116 defects
   per 1,000 cars was fairly routine.  The Ford program, also highly
   advertised currently, features the famous "two defects and you're
   out" strategy where any slave causing two defects in their work life
   is automatically scheduled for salvaging and replaced with a new
   admittedly fear-crazed worker. Daimler-Chrysler, now also noted
   around the world for extremely well-made quality automobiles,
   uses yet another strategy to obtain record low defect rates- a
   strategy based on innate slave needs.  No defects for a full month
   and industrial slaves are given five percent more food allotment
   above the motivational near-starvation rations normally allotted
   slave workers; no defects for two months and a slave worker are
   allowed a quick sexual release, generally with a co-worker of his
   choice or masturbation - a privilege normally never allowed slave
   workers in manufacturing.  Daimler-Chrysler TV ads now
   emphasize 'Chrysler quality is as basic a need as food and sex.'

   "Administration officials hailed this latest Department of
   Commerce report as proof of the positive economic impact of their
   policies and hailed American manufacturing as the world's best
   examples of 'entrepreneurial leadership, wise management, and
   prudent fiscal responsibility.'

   "Administration officials also pointed out that slaves in the service
   area should not be overlooked as examples of how efficiently slaves
   are currently being trained trained and managed.  The report
   emphasized that 'Almost every American citizen now benefits
   directly from having slaves available in the home to meet almost
   every need' leading, they pointed out, 'to a standard of living equal
   to most other major slave holding societies in the world.  Those
   countries still tied to free labor suffer economically from lack of
   competitively products, poor product quality, and a considerably
   lower standard of living which led to what was described as
   'detrimental citizen malaise'"

     "You're right, Fulton.  That's a great article and pretty well sums up
where we're at," Henri said.  "Since we're all slave owners ourselves, we
can certainly verify the truth of the report."

     As I stood there desperately trying to prevent myself from shooting
off in an onlooker's hand who persisted in stroking my organ for over 15
minutes now, I could certainly concur with the accuracy of the Department
of Commerce report myself.  As a 'service' slave, it was quite obvious we
were easily available at the nearest dealer, were cheap enough to where
Master Fulton and all his friends could afford whole stables of us, and
trained well enough to fully satisfy our owners, no matter what they wanted
us to do.  But the new incentive programs for industrial slaves sent a
shiver down my back.  How fortunate I was to be good looking, well built,
and sexually appealing.

******

     Over the next few years, all of us Master Fulton 'fancies' decided our
owner got even more pleasure out of displaying us in public and taking in
all the envious compliments and reluctant respect for such grandiose wealth
than he got out of us in bed, although that too was a big component of our
lives, especially taking into account we were serving his friends and
business acquaintances as well when he wanted.

     There was a sort of pride, though, in being admired in public like
that, even if it was just for our nice bodies and sexual attractions and we
all enjoyed the status that came, especially from other slaves, in the fact
we cost so much.  And we all admitted that serving our master sexually
wasn't unpleasant at all in view of the fact he was relatively young, good
looking, and fairly easy to please.  Besides that, he allowed us to unload
at least once a day during one sexual duty or another in that he felt a
good discharge helped a slave maintain his body better and kept his sexual
apparatus working properly. That, we knew from bitter experience, was
fairly uncommon with slaves in general where you could go months without
being allowed to ever unload if you had an uncaring master who enjoyed
seeing you in constant need. On top of all that, despite missing meals
periodically for disciplinary reasons, we were well fed as are bodies
radiated good health and, although chastised regularly and painfully with a
slave whip for minor infractions, we were never bullwhipped or caned which
often caused permanent scarring of our valuable hides and from which some
slaves never really recovered. We were simply too valuable to be damaged in
any way that might hurt our resale value and in that sense, were very
spoiled compared to most other slaves who were often so cheap they could be
beaten or starved to death with little economic consequence.

     Such slaves, the vast majority who didn't have the magnificent bodies
and handsome good looks and huge sexual equipment that distinguished us,
were cheap to buy, cheap to feed the poorest quality slave chow, and cheap
enough to work to an early grave under the ever present bullwhip of a heavy
handed overseer.  Most slaves ending up in the enormous agribusiness fields
or even more in the huge new factories springing up everywhere could count
on 18 hour work days under shackles and a heavy whip, slave chow so vile
even pigs turned it down, and nothing in their lives but constant back
breaking work. Most slaves didn't live much beyond 35 or so.  Those sold
"down river" to the car assembly plants in their early twenties, with its
horrible heat, the constant whips of the overseers during their 18-hour
days seven days a week driving them relentlessly on, and the tasks so
demanding and yet numbing that slaves often slid into madness, but this was
unnoticed or disregarded in their close shackles.  Even the sturdiest
slaves there generally had about 10 or 15 years at most in them before
death gave them some relief.  But it was cheaper to replace them with new
stock than "coddle" them with a healthier life style. In the final
analysis, economics determined everything.  Fancies' scarcity protected us
from physical abuse; draft slaves' chronic oversupply meant it was cheaper
to get the last ounce of energy out of them at a fairly early age and then
replace them with fresh meat.

     Any thought of running away and heading to this land of Canada didn't
make much sense anymore.  Where else would I be taken care of as well as I
was right here in Memphis.  I got fed well most of the time, although I was
kept, as they said, always just a little hungry to 'motivate' me properly.
I was admired by others for my beautiful body, and I knew I'd never get
beaten hard or damaged in any way that could be prevented because I was
worth so much at the marketplace.  Even if I got sold, my high price would
ensure fairly good care by another master simply because no one wanted to
lower my resale value if they could help it. Having to suck my master off
when he wanted or take his prick up my backside was easy enough now that I
was well used to it and didn't hurt me really as far as I could see.  In
fact, I'd even come to appreciate the sweet taste of my master's cum and
got all excited when he stimulated me up my ass with his big prick.  Many a
time I got fucked, the master let me shoot off when he got me all excited
and so I looked forward to him bending me over a chair or having me get
down on all fours or laying on my back with my legs swung up over my head
to open my hole for him properly.  I even got to like dressing up the
little costumes and watching all those white men envy Master Fulton for
owning me, wishing they could bed me down whenever they wished. Every time
one of those free men starting feeling my body, I knew they admired and
desired me.  It was a far cry from being whipped to death in the fields of
some agribusiness in some Louisiana hell hole or worked to death close
shackled in a car assembly plant in Alabama.  Up North, if I made it, I
remembered they said I would still be looked down on because I had been a
slave, only have the worst jobs available to do, and would be hungry most
of the time.  All that for just not having an owner use my body.  Not much
of a deal in my opinion.  Besides, if I got caught, there was no doubt I
would be sold off to the worst place imaginable for a slave and my good
looks couldn't save me as a runaway slave with those big brands all over my
body to prove it.  When I broached the subject of this Canada where slaves
were free with the other slaves owned by Master Fulton, they all thought
the whole idea was stupid.  "We were born to be slaves and always will be,
I reckon," they said without further interest in the topic.

     But one day, Phallus, the 'white nigger' hadn't been fed for two days.
He had been loaned out to one of Master Fulton's friends for the weekend
and that had proven to be a real trying time for the slave.  First off,
according to his recount of the events, this Mister Laboune that he had
been loaned to had a huge collection of dildos and he tried every single
one of them out on the borrowed slave over a two day period, including some
that were way beyond human size, being modeled after horse and elephant
dongs as well as ones made of copper, glass, and even woven leather which
tended to tear up your insides if they were twisted around even a little.
After a while, the slave Phallus' ass, despite all the stretching it had
had over the years, was bleeding and so sore he couldn't even stand up.
When this Mister LaBoune started in on the slave's throat with the dildos
the next night, the slave just started howling and crying and wouldn't
cooperate like the master wanted so, naturally, Mister LaBoune got out his
whip and really laced into the octoroon boy.  When he returned the beaten
boy, Master Fulton apologized for his slave's unseemly behavior and
promised to discipline him appropriately over and above the beating he had
already received from Mister LaBoune.  That discipline was being locked up
in a small cage "to think about the errors of your ways, boy" and no food
or water for 48 hours "to learn to appreciate how pampered you are around
here, boy, and we expect your full cooperation for such good care, slave."
It was shortly after this, and the threat of a return loan to Mister
LaBoune to "make up to my good friend" that prompted some radical new
thoughts out of the 'white nigger.'

     "I'm going to run away up North the minute I get out of this damn
punishment cage," Phallus started out. "Once I up in this Canada land, I'm
going to be free and won't have to take any of this slave crap, bowing and
scraping all the time, taking God knows what up my asshole all the time,
and spending half my life down on my knees sucking a big one rammed down my
throat.  You (pointing at me) and me, we're better than half the gentlemen
fucking us and squeezing our tits and making us suck them off.  If we
weren't wearing these slave collars, they couldn't make us wear those
stupid little costumes that mark us as their pets and playthings, no better
than a damn dog.  I'm going to steal me some free person's clothes that
hide this slave collar and nobody can tell just looking at me whether I got
slave blood in me or not, let alone suggest I just a slaveboy underneath
those duds.  When I get up North and I'm free, nobody's going to ram some
huge old dildo up this boy's ass and this boy isn't going to be down on his
knees stark naked begging for a big dick to suck on. No sir, this white
nigger going to be doing the fucking and fucking who he likes for a
change."

     "Leave me out of it," I quickly responded to his rantings, looking
around to see if anyone but us slaves heard his stupid talk.  If they did,
I was sure we'll all be whipped to near death for even listening to such a
spiel or even hung by our necks. 'Abolitionist talk' the masters called it,
I think, and I knew in Memphis they killed slaves for even listening to it.
"I'm not going anywhere and even if I was, I can't escape the slave blood
in me - like the Bible says, it marks me a slave for life."

     "That just free man's talk," Phallus said.  "Who says your blood line
makes you a slave?"

     "Everyone I know," Steward, the beautiful brown slave interjected.
"There have been slaves since anybody can remember and I don't believe this
Canada doesn't have slaves - that's silly.  Who does all the work that
needs to get done?  Who makes them money so they can live properly?  Who
satisfies their natural lusts? Naw, you have to have slaves to make a place
work - can't be no place without slaves. If this Canada place doesn't have
slaves as such , believe you me, they've simply called something else.
They've got human livestock up there under some different name, I'll
wager..  I don't know, but there's some properties up there with slave
blood in them of one kind of another.  Somebody just mad at the world back
in the slave pens made up such a stupid story."

     "Once you get some food in your belly and your asshole heals up,
you'll appreciate what you're got here, Phallus," I counseled.  "We're all
brought up to expect our masters to enjoy our bodies one way or another.
You just got loaned out to a bad master who doesn't understand how much you
would cost if he had to buy you.  I'm sure Master Fulton will never loan
you out to him again, no matter what he might have said - you're too
valuable to get torn up like that."

     "Then why was I caged up to 'think out the errors of my ways' and he
did say he might loan me out to him again if I didn't shape up.  And why am
I so damn hungry I could eat the bars on this cage? And why is my asshole
so sore it's still bleeding a little?  Is that what I'm suppose to be
appreciating, slave boy?"

     All four of us refused to listen to any more of this and, as we
predicted, a good night's rest on a full belly solved the problem.  Within
a week, he was back being fucked on a regular basis without any complaints
and strutting his stuff when being parading around town in his little
costume with no objections but a big smile when passer byes squeezed his
ringed tits, fondled his erect organ and stuck a finger or two up him
periodically.  And, as we predicted, Master Fulton never loaned him or any
of the rest of us to the dildo-lover, this Mister LaBrone, again.

*******

     Over the next few years, nothing much changed except, if anything, you
saw more and more slaves doing all sorts of tasks, not just working in the
agribusiness fields or manufacturing plants.  As their usefulness increased
by ever more factory work and building and repairing the infrastructure,
slaves were also increasing being trained for skilled crafts so they could
be used in jobs that free persons used to have to do.

     One area steadily growing were athlete slaves.  Stock bought up for
their potential in athletics didn't fare much better than industrial slaves
other than the crowds cheering them on and the short-lived fame they got
when they scored in an important game and the fans flooded into the locker
rooms afterwards to get to feel their steaming bodies "up close and
personal."  Usually hyper-masculine and with colossal physiques, they were
often injected full of steroids, growth hormones and testosterone which
gave them a pumped-up 'superman' look and behavior so aggressive they had
to kept separately caged all the time they weren't in competition. Shock
collars were mandatory for a coach's control and their scarred bodies
attested to the bullwhip and hot irons essential as disciplinary devices.
Playing their sport stark naked except for some protective padding in
contact sports, their eyes reflected the drugs coursing through their
bodies as well as the constant fear of a coach's wraith beating and burning
their bodies in his quest for the perfect performance. Often athlete slaves
were thick-skinned blacks who sweated freely and who seemed to hold up
better to the punishments, but even they rarely lived much beyond 30.
During their short lives, they got fucked a lot by fans buying tickets to
do so (carefully chained in position for the fan's protection), but were
almost never allowed to find relief themselves.  Coaches firmly believed
any draining of an athlete's juices significantly lowered their performance
on the field.

     Seemingly in all areas, the demand for slaves was steadily increasing,
including right here in Memphis.  Fortunately, the supply of slaves being
steadily bred throughout the country even exceeded the increased demand, so
prices were holding steady and now, with increased prosperity, even
middle-income tradespeople could easily afford a slave or two to help them
around the house, warm their bed, or even 'lease out' for a little extra
income. Along with the increase in slaves, there was also an increase in
the demand for lighter colored slaves and here again, the slave breeders
were keeping up with market demands.  Pure blacks were bred solely for the
heavy work out in the blazing sun where their thick hides were invaluable
but for everything else more and more white blood was being introduced to
"brighten the breed."  They had done so well with the latest batch hitting
the auction blocks that the 'white nigger' and myself were no longer
exceptional novelties, but more like the majority of slaves being offered.
Who was and wasn't a slave wasn't so much a matter of skin color anymore as
it was a matter of blood lines. Even one-thirty-second slave blood legally
made you a slave, no matter how much you might resemble a freeman, who
themselves now included recently immigrated Africans, Hispanics, Asian
Americans and everything else you might think of whose ancestors had never
been slaves.  Adding to this was the steady influx of newly trained slaves
who had once been free - prisoners of war, court mandated, and self-sales
to avoid starvation. Thus slavery and skin color were no longer correlated
in any way.  Nor was color or national origin associated with being
free. But ancestry and slave blood was everything in determining your
social status. The color of the slave's hide was simply for practical
reasons or owner's preferences.  I overheard one of my master's friends
saying the Memphis newspaper predicted that in 15 years, most industrial
and domestic slaves would be indistinguishable from free persons by
appearance alone but draft, athletic, and farm slaves would probably be
even more black than they were now. Therefore, the newspaper was calling on
mandatory ownership brands, ever bigger slave collars, and legally mandated
unique "slave" haircuts and clothing that would clearly identify a slave
from any distance.  Of course, they also recommended that all slaves be
kept nude at all times as the easiest way to distinguish slave property,
but recognized this wasn't always possible when cold weather hit, some
people were getting tired of viewing all those constant erections in male
slaves which made them look so animalistic, and that some slaves were so
ugly their nakedness offended polite society in which case you had little
choice but to cover them. If slaves had to be clothed for whatever reason
as a last resort, they recommended a clearly distinguishable bright
florescent orange tunic unique to slaves that would be one size fits all,
cheap, easy to launder, and readily spotted even in poor light.

     Out on the streets of Memphis, the change was dramatic. 'White
niggers' as the public like to label light colored slaves, seemed to be
everywhere, all sporting huge collars, highly visible brands to distinguish
them, and naked when they could be.  But, owners reported, they were
"easier on the eye, generally," "easier to train due to their almost
humanlike intelligence," and "most affable in your bed, without the strong
slave musk we had gotten use to over the years."  The pure blacks bred for
the farms and athletes were almost a species by themselves: huge in
stature, almost muscle-bound, and unresponsive to anything but a good whip
or the promise of throwing them a wench now and then. They were often so
frightening in appearance, it was common to work them in gangs where they
were chained together by their thick neck collars with a good whipmaster
over each of the naked chain gangs to make sure they did exactly what they
were told without hesitation.  Interesting, both 'breeds' of slaves sold
for about the same price.  Exceptional pure blacks that possessed towering
strength, raw endurance, and high disease resistance sold for sometimes
staggering prices, especially if you could breed from them.  Likewise,
exceptionally pretty near-white, Latino, Asian, Arab, or pure white bucks
who were already well trained in some useful skills and who were acclimated
to sexually pleasing their owners also brought high market prices, again if
they were proven breeders.

     Even the dealers had partitioned themselves around the differentiated
slave breeds: one set of dealers sold 'niggers,' mules, horses, farm
implements and wagons.  Another set of dealers sold household goods,
light-skinned 'servants,' and house furnishings and hardware. Both sets of
dealers stocked plenty of slaves for a good selection and some were even
guaranteeing their products as breeding became more and more predictable.

*******

     One day five beautiful slave girls were delivered to Master Fulton's
townhouse by a dealer from one of the better slave merchants in Memphis who
specialized in light-skinned 'servants.'  They were delivered to the rear
slave entrance of course where only Phallus, the 'white nigger' was doing
his morning chores at the time.

     Immediately, he went into a panic since women of any kind, even
slaves, hadn't been in the house since he'd been there, maybe never.

     Phallus ran into the front rooms where the rest of us were scrubbing
floors and dusting as was our routine on that particular day.

     "Master Fulton's replacing us all with wenches," he wailed.  "I just
knew this would happen - the master is losing his interest in boys - and
now we'll all be sold and shipped downriver to a car plant or to one of
those brothels downtown," he despaired as tears rolled down his cheeks.
"It's all my fault, probably, not giving him the best sucking he'd ever had
last night.  And you slave boys are probably responsible too - not giving
him the last drop of pleasure you had in your bodies.  It's just as much
your fault as mine, probably."

     "Calm down, Phallus," Steward counseled, "until we find out what these
wenches are here for.  Who brought them over, anyway?"

     "Mr. Hardwick, that dealer down on Beale Street that only handles the
real fancies, that's who.  And he's probably going to take us back with him
to the sales pens," he cried harder than ever.  "I just knew this slave's
life was too good to last," he looked at the rest of us with a growing
erection, a common occurrence when slaves like us got agitated for one
reason or another.

     "You mean you just walked out of the kitchen with Mr. Hardwick there,
not even offering him a cold beer or a Coke?" Steward asked incredulously.
"If he tells the master how disrespectful you were, we'll all get our rumps
beaten still we can't sit down and miss more than just a couple of meals,
I'll wager."

     The brown steward hurried to the kitchen to make amends muttering the
'white nigger' was going to get beaten by more than just the master if he
missed a meal over this shocking lack of decorum on the part of a
presumably well trained house slave. Simultaneously, he told us to get back
to work and for Phallus to go stick his head in a bucket of water to calm
down before he did even more damage than he already had.

     Within two or three minutes, Steward returned with a big smile on his
face.

     "Seems we'all going to do some fucking ourselves," he exclaimed as he
unconsciously reached down and began stroking himself to a full
erection. "Mr. Hardwick made arrangements to have us boys service his
wenches that need a good knocking up.  They're all in heat and ready to
produce some puppies for whoever they're sold to.  You know a wench always
sells better if there's a puppy in her belly.  Sort of like getting two for
one when they sells her and it shows she'll be a good breeder with a new
little pickaninny on the way."

     "We're going to fuck a woman?" the mulatto Show Boy asked, obviously
astonished.

     "That's how you make a new little slave, stupid," Steward answered.
"Ain't you even seen slaves breeding before?"

     "Not that I can remember," Show Boy replied rather sincerely.  "Heard
tell about it, but never actually seen it."

     "Then I guess you've never been put to a wench before?" Steward went
on, still stoking himself.

     "Not that I can remember," Show Boy echoed his previous reply.

     The rest of us broke out laughing at that response.  We all knew the
breathtakingly handsome mulatto was pretty dim most of the time, having to
have most instructions repeated three or four times before he seems to
understand, but this was too much.

     "Oh, even you'd remember it if you were, I reckon," Steward
laughed. "Nothing to fret about, Show Boy, you'll probably like it once you
get going."

     "You saying this slaveboy going to be doing the fucking, instead of a
master fucking me?"  he slowly processed the information.  "Is that
alright, me being a slave?  I didn't know slaveboys allowed to be the ones
doing the fucking - I thought slaves just to be fucked," the mulatto
struggled.

     "You're right most of the time, but once in a while, when the master
wants to breed us, we're the ones doing the fucking for a change,"
Steward's smile got even bigger along with his erection.

     "We're to make slave babies for the master?" Show Boy reduced the
conversation down to the basics since he didn't understand the word
'breeding.'

     "Sure are," Steward responded as he indicated we should all move back
to the rear entrance where Mr. Hardwick had been left with his string of
slave women.

     Once we were in the serving kitchen which was just off the rear
entrance, Mr. Hardwick already had the five light skinned beauties down on
their hands and knees spaced around the floor of the large room with their
legs spread wide and their pussies stretched slightly open.  The dealer's
fingers had obviously been busy as each of the girls were "wet" in response
to his manipulations and were obviously lubricated with some KY jelly he
had brought in a small tube with him. When the girls sneaked a look at us
entering the room, naked and mostly erect, they giggled, unconsciously
licked their lips, and spread their legs a little wider in anticipation.

     "Ah, Jonah," Master Fulton beamed as he strode into the room.  I
thought that was you I heard down here.  Right on time, I see," he
commented as he glanced at his fine pocket watch.  "And I see you brought
those wenches in heat you were talking about.  You're sure they're in
season to get knocked up?"

     "I've been timing them since they last had their period and this
should be their peak for mating," Mr. Hardwick responded professionally.
"If don't take today, we put them to the boys again tomorrow like you
said."

     "And if they still don't take, you bring them back in a month and
we'll get them covered again and again until, my God, they either take or
they've gone sour on you for breeding."

     Mr. Hardwick reared back in laughter.  "We fuck a brood until she
can't remember anything but being fucked before we give up. Rarely run
across a brood who can't be bred properly if some decent seed's put in her.
I assume all these studs proven?" he inquired.

     "Nary a one as far as I know, Jonah.  These pretty boys have never
been the one's doing the fucking as far as I know, but that's no reason to
doubt their seed.  We're talking about virgin studs here - that should make
the seed even stronger," he guffawed.

     "Once I saw you strutting down the street with this handsome passel, I
just knew I needed to use them for breeding. There's a good mix of the
colors we're looking for nowadays in the 'fancy' market, they're real
muscular and powerful looking, they're all well hung like the buyers demand
nowadays, and they're about as good looking as slaveboys get.  Mated to
these light skinned beauties you see here on the floor all ready to go, the
offspring should be top quality and, a few years down the line, bring about
a good a price as you ever see on the venue block."

     "Well, you're paying me enough for their seed," Master Fulton
admitted.  "Of course, I understand I only get paid the stud fee if the
broods take."

     "That's the standard arrangement with stud fees - no one's willing to
pay for blanks," he acknowledged.

     "You pick out who you want with which of your broods if it makes any
difference," Master Fulton said looking around back to us.  "I see they're
all hard and ready to go," he smiled.

     "All my broods are light skinned so it won't make any difference with
this bunch of yours.  The worst I can do is a mulatto with your pure black
and most of the others will end up as white looking as that 'white nigger'
over there with that big dick that looks like it's about to pop off he's so
eager.  Of course, a few of the pups revert back, as they say, and will
come out darker than the stock they've been bred from, but that's tolerable
in that, with beautiful stock like this to start with, even the dark ones
are damn good looking and still have a lot of white features to them.
We're lightening the breed over time, you know, Mr. Fulton, and, along with
that, breeding out some of the things buyers don't like much, like hairy
bodies, flat noses, pimply skin, big fat lips, and that wool like hair.
Another generation or so and, except for the field and industrial slaves,
it's going to be hard to tell a slave from a master by the way they look
except, of course, the slaves should turn out to be a lot better looking in
general," he laughed.  "Nobody's breeding us deliberately, so we just stay
ugly and kind of puny," he slapped his thigh in enjoyment at his little
observation.  "Even those industrial and field slaves are being lightened
quite a bit and certainly being made to have prettier faces while at the
same time making them even bigger, stronger, and sturdier while we're at
it."

     "Slave breeding is becoming quite a science in itself," Master Fulton
observed.  "I read in the 'Memphis Observer' the other day that by the year
2060, slaves will be sold by categories and the slaves in each of those
categories will be so alike they're look almost like brothers if not twins.
Futhermore, the author claimed, by then slaves will be bred toward traits
like obedience, response to authority, and compliance so a lot less
training will be necessary.  But the real surprise was that no matter what
category of slave you were looking at, any of them would be handsome, well
built, disease-resistant, sexually attractive and eager to perform in that
area, and hard working in their particular line of work without much need
for a whip over their head to get the upmost out of them.  Is that too
fanciful, do you think Mr. Hardwick, you being in the breeding business and
all?"

     "Not fanciful at all, Mr. Fulton.  In fact, I think we'll be way
beyond that by then based on the progress we've made over the last 30
years.  Why just a few years ago, slaves were being bred just wily-nilly.
Just put a stud to any old mare and hope for the best, or even worse, in
the most pitiful examples of poor slave management, just harvesting
whatever crop resulted from all the random matings going on at your
place. Slave stock is so randy, there was always a big crop even when you
weren't controlling it in any way. But since we started actually
controlling the breeding of the slaves, in just a few years we've already
got a steady supply of 'fancies' available all easy on the eye and eager to
please their masters in bed and a much better stock of field hands and
industrial workers in the pens that are sturdier, bigger built, and without
a lot of the ugly traits that used to plague that breed.  All that in just
a generation or two.  Imagine what you could do in 10 or 20 generations of
planned breeding.  I imagine by no later than 2075, you could tell them
what you want exactly and they could produce it.  Well, we better get
started with some of this scientific breeding right now before these broods
get all tuckered out pushing their pussies out for a good fucking down
there on the floor."

     Mr. Hardwick then grabbed me and led me behind the first slave girl in
the lineup, put Phallus in back of the next girl, Shaft, the jet black boy,
in back of the next one, ShowBoy in back of the next one, and Steward in
back of the last one.  He then took a small slave whip which had been
attacked to his belt and snapped it to get our attention.

     "You boys been hired out to serve stud for a little while," he
explained.  "Your purpose now is to make a new little slave pup with the
wench in front of you.  I understand most of you are new to this, so let me
explain.  You've all been fucked plenty up your ass yourself for your
master's pleasure.  This is no difference except now you're going to stick
your dick up the wenches pussy in front of you, that's the hole a wench has
below her asshole.  That second hole in the wench is the babymaking hole so
that's the one you use, not their asshole.  Now I want you to get down on
your haunches so you can stick your dick up that hole beneath the wench's
asshole and stick it in all the way and then start pumping, just like the
master's pump their dicks into your assholes - no different, really - it's
just your dick is going up the babymaking hole.  You keep pumping fast and
hard until you shoot a big load up there and don't pull out until every
last drop of your seed is up them just as far as you can shove it up.  Even
then, you stay in them until I've felt your balls to make sure you've
unloaded everything you've got into the wenches to make a good slave baby.
After that, I've give you a short rest and then you'll do the same thing
again and then I've give you another longer rest, and then you'll be
sticking your dick a third time up that baby making hole so we make sure
the wench is pumped full of your seed.  These wenches are wet and dripping
for you and are at the peak of their rutting season, so they're eager to be
fucked, especially by nice looking, big dicked boys like you. I know this
is new to you boys, but my guess is you're going to really like it.  It's
going to be a ride of your life if you haven't studded before.  How many of
you slaveboys been studded before? Just say "yes sir" if you been put to
stud before."

     Only ShowBoy said 'yes sir.'"

     "When was that, boy?" Mr. Hardwick asked interestingly.

     "Master Fulton, he fuck me most everyday, Master," ShowBoy replied
politely.

     "He stupid or what?" Master Hardwick asked Master Fulton.

     "He's stupid," Master Fulton confirmed. "I doubt if he can figure out
the difference between fucking and being fucked.  As he says, he's
certainly been fucked often enough, but I doubt if anyone's ever put him to
stud.  He's been with me since he was just a young kid."

     "Well, we're breeding for looks today, not brains. As you know,
Mr. Fulton, a bed buck doesn't need too many brains to be good in bed and
that's what we're breeding for today."

     With a crack of his whip, we were order to "get going."  Steward and I
were the only ones, apparently, who had been put to a female before and we
proceeded without hesitation.  Certainly, the beautiful young wench beneath
me was more appealing than the crusty Mistress Harmon I had serviced
previously and Steward acted like he was in slave heaven, but, then, he had
told me on many occasions he liked women better than men - not that it
mattered since he was a slave.  But the other three were "virgins" in this
area and Mr. Hardwick had to take their pricks in hand and guide them into
the right hole and start them pumping away with some sound smacks to their
rumps.

     Within five minutes, we had all emptied our balls into the wenches
amid a lot of moaning and sighing beneath us, and then felt our balls being
squeezed by Mr. Hardwick to make sure we had emptied them as ordered.  Only
then, one by one, were we allowed to withdraw and take a rest kneeling in
back of the excited female broods, all flushed and panting from the good
fucking they had just received. They were allowed to stand up and stretch
for 10 minutes or so before being ordered to resume their receptive
positions once again and, with a crack of the slave whip over our butts, we
were ordered to "mount the wenches" once again and start "pumping and make
sure you get it all the way in, especially when you shoot."

     This time around it took longer to pump out a load, and, as I looked
around, all our bodies were wet with sweat and the room was filled with the
strong smell of sex, loud moans, grunts, sighs, and the ever-present sound
of flesh slapping against flesh as we were mated. Seeing all five couples
being forced mated like this reminded me stronger than ever that slaves
were just animals.  Here was indisputable proof - we were even being breed
exactly like animals. Bred with whom our owners chose; when they chose;
right under their eye; and under the supervision of a whip. For reasons I
still can't explain, I started crying but didn't dare stop doing what I had
been ordered to do.  I looked around trying desperately to maintain my
erection and noticed Shaft and Phallus were really struggling to do what
they were told - their main problem being keeping their pricks stiff and
upright despite a steady whip on their butts by the sharp-eyed Mr.
Hardwick, obviously an expert in scheduled slave breedings like
this. Amidst the sounds of the whip mixed with the slapping of skin, the
groans and squeals, the gasps, the panting, the strong smells emanating
from our steaming bodies, and, in my case, the tears streaming down my
creeks, we again emptied our juices into the receptacles beneath us and
were again given a rest to "recharge."  The wenches beneath us were
beginning to tire and stretched their frames to alleviate the cramps in
their legs and arms.  One, put to Shaft's huge black organ, had tears
spilling down her cheeks, but I couldn't tell whether it was from the pain
of having such a huge instrument rammed up her repeatedly, being bred with
a pure black (perhaps for the first time), or, like me, some obscure inner
feeling of shame at "being bred." Master Winfield, back on the breeding
farm, had always told us "slaves shouldn't think - it just gets them into
trouble." I tried to heed his sage counsel now and pushed the thought about
"being bred" out of mind. That made it a lot easier to start concentrating
on getting my prick back hard and eager if I was going to avoid Mr.
Hardwick's whip and some missed meals from Master Fulton. I recalled being
fucked by Master Fulton just yesterday and how I had got so excited I had
shot all over the floor while he was fucking me long and hard with his own
substantial tool.  Within seconds, I was hard and ready for action.

     The third time around took the longest, but we all succeeded
eventually in emptying our balls once again and were allowed to withdraw
after Mr. Hardwick had squeezed our balls hard to make sure they were truly
empty.

     "Same time next week?" Master Fulton asked Mr. Hartwick.

     "Same time, but with a different batch of wenches to be covered.  If
any of this batch today don't take, I won't bother you with them tomorrow,
but will bring them back next time they're in heat."

     "They should take after all that," Master Fulton laughed.  "Smells
like a barnyard in here - those wenches of yours sure put out a scent when
they're in season."

     "Let's hope for the best," Mr. Hardwick concluded as he snapped his
whip once again and ordered the wenches to their feet. Within a minute,
both he and the wenches were gone and Master Fulton lost no time in telling
Steward to get us busy cleaning first ourselves and then the floor slippery
by now with all the juices and sweat dripping off the rutting bodies.

*******

     We were put to making slave babies for the next five years, each and
every week at the exact same time with a new set of wenches beneath us
outside the occasional one that "didn't take" and was slipped back in when
she was next "in heat." We never knew their names, only had fleeting
glances of their faces since we had to fuck them from the rear like all
other animals, and never got so see any of the offspring, let along hear
about what happened to them or where they were being reared for market. If
they all "took" at a reasonable rate, I figured each of us was producing at
least 40 pups a year, or 200 new slaves every year if you counted in all
five studs.  Shaft always wondered how many of his pups turned out to be
black, Phallus wondered whether his output were all white, and ShowBoy
still couldn't understand why we were put to women slaves once a week when
he strongly preferred men partners. Steward was the only one who actually
seemed to enjoy the breeding sessions in that he still, after all these
years, resented being fucked and having to suck off men although he had
accepted long ago he had no choice in the matter and just accepted his
fate.

     "I just love those soft bodies of the wenches and the smell of a hot
cunt," he confided in me. "Never have learned to appreciate having to take
a really big one up my butt or having to swallow a big one down my throat,
although, as a slave, I know I have to pretend I'm just loving it not to
offend the master.  In fact, if you never tell anyone, I'll tell you I just
hate it really, but I know slaves can't hate anything their master is in
favor of."

     In contrast, Phallus and Shaft both confided they hated being put to
the wenches and found it all they could do to get through the forced
matings without losing their erections and the ability to shoot a good
load.  They especially hated the smell a rutting wench put out and
sometimes threw up once a session was over and the master was out of
sight. They, like myself, had either learned to enjoy what we slaves were
bought to do primarily - service other men - or we were just that way to
start with. In that respect we were lucky, especially as compared to
Steward who just had to grin and bear it each time he was bent over a chair
or ordered to his knees. ShowBoy seemed to like anything that kept him from
missing a meal or getting his rump whipped.  If they were breeding for
smarts, Mr. Fulton used to say, ShowBoy would be the first to have his
balls cut off.

     I overheard Mr. Hardwick tell our master one day while we were humping
away that while slaves were being bred "up" toward lighter and lighter
skins, more muscular and appealing physiques, certainly more handsome
faces, and always bigger and bigger sexual organs.  Simultaneously, slaves
were being bred "down" in brains.

     "Just enough to take to their training well and understand the
instructions given them," Mr. Hartwick said.  "Anything over that tends to
make them unruly and obstinate."

     Master Fulton was in full agreement and used ShowBoy as an example.
"Sexiest body in Memphis, damn good looks, one of the biggest pricks in
this part of the state, minds his master like he was God Almighty, can last
forever in bed doing any damn thing you want, never gets sick, is holding
his looks over the years, and yet - stupid as a sheep."

     "Point well taken, Mr. Fulton," Mr. Hardwick laughed.  "That's exactly
what we're aiming for with our future bed bucks, except they'll be a little
lighter than he is and, hopefully, even bigger between their legs."

*******

     Most of our time wasn't spent breeding, of course.  Most of our time
was doing what we had always done - serving as bed bucks round the clock,
keeping the house clean and tidy at all times, and being paraded around
Memphis mainly naked to have everyone and their mother admire us and envy
the Master who owned us.

     But time takes its toll, even when you are rigorously exercised each
day to prevent your body from deteriorating. Eventually, age catches up
with even the best maintained slave and we were no exception. By the time
most of us were into our early thirties, there were little winkles around
our eyes, our hair was thinner and hints of gray were showing up, and it
was getting harder and harder to maintain those constant erections our
Master demanded.

     We weren't too surprised then when our Master hooked a street leash to
all five of our slave collars and walked us the short distance back where
he had bought us - Slave Depot. There, after being thoroughly examined by
their appraisal expert, we were unceremoniously traded in on five new boys
still in their late teens, fresh from the breeding farms, and, like us, of
unusual handsomeness, hugely endowed, easy to arouse, and of varying skin
tones.  Mr. Fulton had to pay a lot of money to "freshen his stock" like
this, but we were still worth a little it seemed for the work that could be
wrung out of us as industrial workers now that our sexual appeal had faded.

     After a single night in Slave Depot's holding pens, we were sold as a
lot to the Hyundai plant right outside Memphis which manufactured light
trucks. By the end of the next day, we were chained by both a newly fitted
shock collar and a manacle attached to our left ankle to a work station
complete with a slave chow and water dispenser, a slave boy that came by
with a chamber pot twice a day for us to crap in right there chained to the
station, and a urinal jug attached right to the work station so we could
relieve ourselves when the chamber pot boy wasn't there.  The ankle manacle
kept us from going anywhere ever, the shock collar kept us at full
production.  It was a clever arrangement worthy of our Korean masters.  If
we ever faltered in any way doing our assigned tasks in assembling the
trunks, an ever watchful supervisor, in an air conditioned booth high above
us, simply hit a switch and the next thing we knew we experienced the worst
pain we had ever experienced in our life - the electrical jolt was so
severe it usually resulted in severe skin burns around our collar.  If the
inspectors at the end of the line ever found a quality fault attributable
to our assembly tasks, we weren't fed or watered for two days and a
whipmaster was assigned to our particular work station to administer some
of the harshest, cruelest beatings with a genuine bullwhip that I had only
heard about up to this time.  After such a beating, quality was usually
perfect from then on, although the slave doing the work was left chained to
his work station with an entire body, front and back, permanently scarred
and often with torn muscle tissue from then on.  Sometimes, the slave being
"trained" in "quality control" died as a result of the training session,
while others were left crippled for life, while a few others went insane.
Most didn't die, however, and were kept chained to their work station in
that they could still produce with all the control devices in place. There
was no air conditioning and the heat inside the plant was like Hell itself,
but other than the sweat in our eyes all the time, that was the least of
our worries.  At first, we were in constant need and showed hard all the
times - before a week of the exhausting work, we seldom ever thought about
sex, let alone have an erection as all our efforts were attuned to just
surviving.

     We worked like that for twelve years, right next to each other but not
close enough to where we could ever touch each others bodies - 18 hours a
day seven days a week, 365 days a year.  Only when the production line shut
down for 6 hours each night from midnight to 6 AM were we allowed say a few
words to my colleagues chained next to me, sink down to the floor, find a
place to curl up as far as our chain would allow, and fall into the deepest
sleeps we had ever had - a result of total exhaustion. Other than that, our
only rest was to crap when the young slave boy can around twice a day, and
a four minute break every hour to get a drink, take a piss, and wash down a
little slave chow.  It was all scientifically arranged for maximum output
with minimum loss from the rather cheap slave meat chained to the work
stations.  Our Korean owners called us "work units" when they took visitors
through, but always referred to us as just "slave meat" when we were
subjected to "quality control training," shocked to maintain output, or
fucked when an engineer or plant manager felt a need to unload right then
and there. For some reason, Shaft, the jet black slave, seemed to be their
favorite to fuck who stoically bent over his work station or sunk down to
his knees to accommodate them without a word one way or the other.  I
suppose he was too tired to comment.

     At the end of 12 years, we were in our mid-forties and our bodies were
clearly worn out.  Our joints were stiff and sore from sleeping on the
concrete floor and being on our feet the rest of the time, our flesh
beginning to sag despite the heavy muscular demands of our work, our eyes
red and blurry from years or sweat and squinting, our sex organs atrophying
from lack of use, and our posture permanently stooped from being
permanently chained to the work station by the heavy chains attached to our
collars and the result of being bullwhipped periodically. Most of us had
lost a lot of hair on our head, but lack of any shaving left out bodies
hairy and unkempt, especially since we were never allowed to bath. We were
a far cry from the beautiful bodies being paraded on the streets of Memphis
just two decades ago, something we found hard to even remember now.

     When recent whippings left us half dead but not more productive and
when the shock collar, no matter how long they kept holding down the
button, didn't increase our immediate output but simply left us quivering
in neurological shock, we were unchained at long last from the work
station, leashed by our collars, and taken down to a waiting slave delivery
van, barely able to walk at all after all those years chained in place.

     We knew where we were going.  The final journey for any slave - the
rendering plant.  By that time, it was a relief and we actually welcomed
this last trip.  Our leashes were locked to the
 bars lining the sides of the delivery van and when we arrived at our
destination and were fastened upright to a conveyor belt by our neck
collars, we witnessed, one by one of those in front of us on the conveyor,
the final jolt - an electric prod set so high it looked like lightening
when it touched the slave's hide.  I watched Steward, then Phallus, then
ShowBoy, then Shaft all twitch and quiver as death was delivered and their
hide sizzled a bit where the prod was placed at a spot that wouldn't ruin
the appearance of their hide once it was tanned. Whip scars added to the
value as you tell from the most expensive luggage and attache cases these
days, but recent tears and burns made the hides difficult to tan properly.
It was my last thought - a thought I tried to blot out.  As the prod
approached, I remembered the advice of Master Winfield, even more
appropriate at this time.  "Slaves shouldn't think - it just gets them into
trouble."


THE END

[Comments are always appreciated, even if only to let me know someone is
actually reading this story. Readership always makes the time and effort of
posting worthwhile. Send to anonymous4371@juno.com. Thanks. Bill Smith]