I needed to make a success of Trent, as many of the slave owners we’d spoken to had been sceptical about the idea of hiring a firm like ours to do it for them. It seemed that the model for our business, based on racehorse training, might be inappropriate as the world of slave showing was more akin to that of dog breeding and showing. But I thought we had a chance – after all, the major prize at Cruft’s was always presented by a “royal personage” of some kind – not the king, but one of those rapidly spawning “second tier” royals who needed to be seen to be doing something to justify their grotesquely state-subsidised living. And there are always enough silly people in society who want to meet “celebrities” and even scrape and bow and curtsey to minor royalty, and who might therefore find this an opportunity. But even as I lay in bed, lonely and alone, making these plans, there was one hurdle that first had to be overcome: Trent had to be turned into a winning slave.
Theoretically it should be easy enough, I thought. After all, the lad had won prizes as a pup, and it was only his incompetent, weak-willed owner who had allowed him to become idle and indolent and to slouch around avoiding exercise whilst eating inappropriate foods. So a programme of hard – some would say harsh – physical training was implemented for him, together with a minimal diet that would enable him to work and work, but only by dint of burning his reserves of fat. It wasn’t so bad for me, actually, as I like working hard and I know it does me good, but I did have other things to do as well like fetching Dan from the station and talking to owners, but then there was always Joe: he needed to work out, so could “supervise” Trent as he did it. Mind you, I was not wholly convinced that Joe kept up the remorseless pressure on Trent that I did, and I suspected that although he knew it was in the lad’s best interests to get really fit, the moment I disappeared off on an errand the pace would generally slow. I also had to speak quite sharply to Julie who “felt sorry” for Trent and accused me of bullying him! She tried to compensate for this by almost “mothering” him, even though he was nineteen, and sneaking little “treats” to him, like a slice of cake, or a scrap of bacon left over from my breakfast.
One sure way to regain control of a slave is of course to exert your power over him sexually, and this at least was one thing that I could focus on myself. There was little chance of making love to Dan in this time as we were always “at home”, and, anyway, Dan was so exhausted from the commuting that most evenings he wanted only to slump in front of the TV. Consequently it suited my purposes to simply fuck Trent, once in the evening, and once first thing in the morning – I decided I didn’t want to keep him in my bed overnight as he needed to know that he was just being “used”, and there was no affection or tenderness between us: he was playing the part of my hand, providing a convenient way of bringing me to climax instead of wanking (although, I have to say, a way that was perhaps more enjoyable!). He was given no choice in our sex, and I barely spoke to him: he had to wait outside my door after dinner, and then I called him in and depending on my whim, either pushed him belly down onto the bed and kicked his legs apart so I could enter him, or forced him down onto his back, then grabbed his legs and put them around my shoulders. As soon as I’d cum he learned that he was required to clean my cock with his mouth, and then leave. I deliberately avoided speaking to him, or asking him if he was OK, or if he had enjoyed it – it was to be clear to him that he was there for my sexual relief, and his feelings on the matter were utterly inconsequential. He soon learned, too, that when I woke in the morning I would shout for him and that he had better be there instantly – one morning I found him and Joe curled up together in Joe’s bed, asleep, and so was forced to punish them both. It was tough on Joe, I know, as he was only trying to be nice to the lad by giving him a little human comfort, but it was more important to train Trent properly. I therefore commanded them both to lie on their bellies on Joe’s bed with their arses in the air, and used my running shoe to spank both of them soundly – for Joe at least it wasn’t so much the physical pain, but the humiliation of being treated like a naughty young slave, that was so terrible. I suspect Trent found the pain more of a problem.
As those of you who use a gym regularly will know, there’s a potential problem with exercising your body in this way: somehow muscles built working out against machines are just not “natural”. Of course it’s better to have muscles like that rather than an expanse of flab, but so many slaves on show were exercised to a point of perfection that way that something else is really needed to make a slave truly stand out from the crowd. I think one of the reasons why Dan had had such a success with me was that my muscles came from years of rugged hard work in a practical sense, firstly in the army and then on the construction site, and I therefore determined to make use of this knowledge in our general training and showing venture. One of the advantages of the house and stables we’d invested in (as well as its low price as it was such a wreck and so far out of London) was the acres of land attached, and I thought that we could use this to build an assault course of the kind that I was always being trained on in the army – you perhaps have seen TV programmes about that sort of thing (or might even have been put through training yourself): there are obstacles like walls, high walls, to scramble over; pits full of mud that have to be leapt across or clawed out of if you fail; ropes to swing from; walkways suspended between trees, swaying perilously, that you have to cling to if you are to make progress; strands of barbed wire suspended a foot or so above the ground that have to be crawled under on your belly; and stuff like that. Provided the “recruit”, or slave in our case, is driven around the course fast enough by the sergeant, or trainer, it’s totally exhausting and extremely good for all parts of the body.
We didn’t have such an assault course initially, but the building of it was a further way in which Trent could be got up to speed – he, Joe and I worked away digging the mud pit, building the foundations for the wall, scrambling up the trees to sling heavy ropes for the walkway, and so on. And because I was so intimately involved there was no chance that he could “slack” and fail to do his proper share of the work – each morning I’d cut a switch from one of the many scrubby bushes that covered the place, and at the slightest sign of him letting up in his work, he’d feel it across his back or bum. It was good for Joe, too, as he tended to be one of the “gym” muscled men, and this introduction to the way that “real men” got fit was useful for him. And, if I’m being totally honest with you, it was good for me, too! Since leaving the site I’d got idle, and although the running and football and stuff has kept me pretty fit, I was really just “ticking over”. I had to set a good example to Trent and Joe now, so, if anything, I had to work even harder than they did, and many nights it was a real effort to fuck Trent as the muscles in my thighs and bum were so sore from all the effort I’d put in during the day.
Dan almost never stopped worrying about whether we’d be successful or not, and kept telling me that I’d wasted my money in buying the place with him. But as the work progressed and the place began to look smart, and the assault course cleared the wasteland around us, he did seem to get a bit more cheerful. It was even better when, two months after we’d started, we took Trent up to the Norwich Show. It’s not one of the major league, as you may know, but Trent was “best in show”! Mind you, it was a huge effort – all Friday afternoon was spent in trimming and grooming Trent, and from the Wednesday I’d tied his hands to his bed head to prevent him from touching his cock (and had even taken Joe into my own bed, as I couldn’t really trust him not to “help” Trent – actually, it was good to have “proper” sex again, rather than just a mechanical fuck). And on Friday night, in spite of being exhausted after a week of work and commuting, Dan spent three hours “schooling” Trent, getting him to understand the subtle signals that Dan sent him down the leash when they were running, and to “present” himself properly when on display. Trent seemed eager to learn – or, more likely, he was worried that I might hit him if he failed to respond properly to Dan (he need not have worried – the last thing I could do then was punch or slap him, or even spank him, as we needed his skin in perfect condition for the next day!).
As we drove to Norwich with the two slaves in the back of the car, Dan and I were both so anxious that we could almost not speak to each other. So much depended on this, and we were both worried that something could go wrong. In the end, though, it was a triumph: Joe won best in class, and then Trent beat him to best in show. And it showed me the value of a slave like Joe, who remained calm throughout (he was, after all, very experienced at showing) , and exerted a good, steadying influence on Trent (and on Dan and me, I think!). When Dan and I were talking to prospective customers, I noticed Joe had his arm around Trent’s shoulders in the rest and preparation area, talking to him quietly, and I’ sure it helped. Afterwards Dan told me that the only time he was really worried during the judging was when the judge ran her hands over Trent’s, and make a muttered remark about the “callouses somewhat spoiling the texture of the skin”. As Dan said, “I had to be very respectful in pointing out that Trent was a proper working slave, not some mere body that had been prepared just for show”, and she nodded, and then saw it as a good point. It seemed she was also very impressed when the moment Trent’s shorts were pulled down and she touched his cock, it became instantly erect, so his forced abstinence had been worth it. And she also bothered to pull on a latex glove and feel his anus. “I thought we’d got a real rapport going then”, Dan told me. “He’s not only eager for sex”, the judge had said, “But he’s well used, too. Very commendable for a beautiful young slave like this.”
The next week, Jason excelled himself – the new method of owning and showing slaves not only made the specialised trade press and the magazines aimed at “the fancy”, but he managed to get us four pages in one of the Sunday colour supplements – and after that, the phone never stopped ringing! Within weeks we were able to be selective in choosing the slaves we took on – after all, we were not miracle workers: there’s no way that we were able to turn some gross, fat slob into a lithe, muscled stallion within a few weeks. But success in these things tends to lead to success – because we were first, we could pick and choose to some extent, and so we chose slaves “with a chance”, as they say in horse racing circles. And some of those were indeed winners, which further enhanced our reputation, which meant we could be even more selective in choosing the next batch of slaves.
In a way I really liked Trent, and even began to occasionally let him spend the night with me. As you do in these circumstances you are a bit more free and easy with the slave when you’re lying there companionably close, and Trent joked “Steve, I think you only want to sleep with me because I’m a champion again!”.
“Actually, it’s because I like nice firm young bodies, mate.”
He went quiet, and seemed kind of sad. “So do I, Steve. And soon I’m going to have to go back to my owner, aren’t I? It’s disgusting, Steve, to have to lie there engulfed by his rolls of fat, as he tries to get his tiny cock into me….”
I couldn’t allow that, of course, so I sat up and slapped him very hard across the face. “Steve, what the fuck…”, h shouted, as he rubbed the bright red patch that was forming on his skin.
“You’re a slave, Trent. Always remember that. And slaves don’t criticise their owners. Not ever.”
“But he’s so disgustingly fat, Steve. Sex with you is great, feeling your hard body against mine, but with him it’s awful. Do you know what it feels like to have great rolls of fat, covered in sweat, lolling all over you…?”
Well I had to seriously punish him then, didn’t I? I’d warned him, and clearly a slap wasn’t enough. So I kicked him out of bed and sent him back to his own, and then the following morning as he and Joe were getting ready to start work, I made him bend over the pile of blocks they were using to build a wall on the course, pulled down his shorts, and thrashed him with one of the switches from the bushes – and not just once or twice, as I did to “encourage” them when they weren’t exercising hard enough, but on and on, until my arm was tired. Trent just lay there sobbing, and Joe was clenching his fists as if he was having trouble in controlling himself. Fortunately, though, he is a properly trained slave and even though he clearly thought I’d gone much too far in punishing Trent, he made no movement to actually stop me.
One day I might write in more detail about those early years of our business – suffice it to say that within months we were making so much money that Dan could easily afford to give up his job on the site and join the training staff full time. And we decided that it was better for the slaves to be fed “proper” food rather than slave chow – Julie couldn’t cook for twenty slaves, of course (and anyway, her own part of the business was thriving as owners wanted her to style their slaves). Consequently we bought a chef, or, rather, a cook – a slave in his early twenties who had just graduated from catering college, and who might have ended up working in a pub restaurant had he not been enslaved for beating up a bloke who had supposedly offended his girlfriend during some alcohol-fuelled argument in a night club. He was told to turn out good, nourishing, wholesome, plain food and we instituted a clever form of quality control: each week the slaves in training were allowed to vote as to whether they were satisfied or not, and if he’d failed to provide sufficient variety or quantity so they were unhappy, he was strapped to one of the beds and they were allowed to beat his bum with their training shoes.
One week, when it seemed he’d failed as Julie, Dan and I could hear his screams from the stables as they others beat him as we ate our supper, Julie turned to me and asked me, quietly, in that way she has “Steve, are you sure that’s fair? I’ve been past the kitchen extension at the back of the stables several times this week and it all smelled, and looked, delicious.”
I shrugged, and she went on “In fact, it was so good that I got him to make extra portions, and you and Dan chomped your way through it tonight without any complaints!”
“Well it’s not just that, Julie. It’s a bit of fun for the slaves in training, too – they have to let off steam a bit, after a hard week out on the course.”
“Steve, that’s wrong! I insist you sort it out properly.”
Well, Julie doesn’t put her foot down very often, but when she does, you need to do something. So the next morning I called the cook into my office. He stood in front of me looking extremely nervous, and I ordered him to drop his whites, so I could inspect his bum.
They’d really laid into him, and the neatly rounded globes of his bum were black and blue from the bruises. And unlike the other slaves, of course, he wasn’t used to standing there naked in front of another man, and he shifted nervously from foot to foot as I inspected him and ran my hands over his flesh. “So why don’t they like the food?”, I asked. “I understand you cooked extra for mistress Julie, and it seemed all right to me.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s fine for the majority of them, sir. But sometimes there isn’t enough of it – they work so hard out on the course, and they’re ravenous. And the amount of meat and vegetables you buy in isn’t always sufficient, sir, and they hate having to fill up the cracks with spuds and rice and bread.”
“We buy enough – some of them are meant to be slimming down, and they need far less.”
“…but they still pile their plates, sir, and then there isn’t enough for the others. And then there are the special diets, sir. It all makes it more difficult to use the materials effectively… Those that won’t eat meat, or pork, or want only vegetables…”
What on earth are you going on about? Special diets….?”
“We’ve got a fair number of slaves who won’t eat meat, or pork especially, for religious reasons, sir.”
“They do from now on! I don’t want you wasting your time, and my money, pandering to silly superstitions. And slaves need proper protein for their muscles. So from now on, you cook one set of food, and it gets served to all the slaves.”
“But they won’t eat it, sir, and then they’ll complain, and then you’ll let them beat me on Friday nights.”
“We’re suspending that system temporarily. From now on, you’ll give me a list of any slave who fails to clear his plate, and they’re the ones who will get beaten.”
“Sir, please, sir…. You can’t expect me to rat out on my fellows….”
I grabbed his balls as he stood there, and squeezed them hard, causing him to yelp with the sheer unexpectedness of it, and the pain. I thrust my face close to his and snapped “You’re a fucking slave, remember? And, what’s more, you’re my fucking slave! A slave has only one loyalty, and that’s to his owner. And if I tell you to do something, you do it! Is that perfectly clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
I relaxed my grip on his balls and instead let the palm of my hand hold his penis, and I rubbed it gently with my thumb. I’d not looked at the slave closely before as I’d bought him as a cook, rather than as a slave to be used sexually, but in fact he had quite a nice cock – a little longer than I might have expected from his general body size, and he hadn’t been ‘skinned. I carried on toying with him, now sliding his ‘skin off as his cock hardened under my ministrations.
“I hadn’t thought of using you sexually, as the slaves in training keep me pretty busy. Are you a virgin?”
“No, sir… Before I was enslaved I had a girlfriend, and we lived together, and we were going to get married….”
“No, you idiot. I’m not interested in whether you ever used our cock in some woman or other. What I meant was have you ever taken a man’s cock up the arse?”
“Sir, no, sir!”. He sounded shocked, and I guessed he was telling the truth, therefore. I felt my cock stirring in my jeans at the thought of taking his cherry, as it’s not often that you find a slave who’s a virgin – well, not amongst the kind of slaves I’d met and been involved with, anyway. And I suppose it’s something everyone wants to do, isn’t it? I mean, to be able to thrust your cock where one hasn’t been before is kind of exciting.
I let go of his cock and went and sat in my office chair. The cook remained standing there, his erect cock jutting out from under the top of his whites, and his trousers still crumpled around his feet. He looked embarrassed at being aroused in front of me, and perhaps a little scared.
“OK, wank. And be sure to catch the cum in your hand.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me! Wank. I want to see that cock of yours shooting cum.”
“Sir, please… Not with you watching….”
“Why not? You’re my slave, I own you, and I own your cock. And if I want to see it in action, I will. Now, unless you want me to punish you again, start wanking.”
He really was so embarrassed, and he’d almost lost his erection as he reached down and began to stroke himself. It’s no all that difficult though, is it? I mean, it’s a perfectly natural thing to do, and I’ve never really understood why blokes are shy about wanking in front of each other – they piss in communal urinals, after all, and it’s not so very different, if you ask me. But the cook was really making heavy weather of it, blushing bright red and staring at the floor as if by avoiding my eyes I’d in some mysterious way perhaps not be able to see him!
I watched him closely, though, and as his knees sagged and his breathing got faster so that he was on the edge of shooting, I reminded him that he was to catch his cum in his other hand, and told him that any drops that spilled on the floor would have to be licked up – by him.
When he did shoot and then stood there looking helplessly at his hand filled with a reasonable amount of passably thick cum, I found my desire for him had got stronger.
“OK, bend over my desk, and spread your legs. Make sure you don’t spill that cum….”
“Sir?”
“You heard me! You must have seen the other slaves having sex – so bend over and spread them!”
“Sir, please, no, sir… I don’t have sex with men, sir….”
I just laughed. “You mean you haven’t had sex with a man before. You do what ever I want, as you’re a slave. And I want to fuck your arse, and that’s all there is to it. Now, bend over and spread them, before I decided to add to those bruises on your bum…..”
Almost whimpering with embarrassment or fear or whatever, he shuffled towards my desk, and half lay on it. I got up from my chair and walked around behind him, then ran my hands over his bum slowly and calmly, feeling him flinch under my touch. “Easy, boy”, I whispered. “Try to relax, and you might even enjoy this.”
As I’ve often said, I’m not a heartless monster, unlike some slave owners. After all, I know what it’s like to have been a slave, and to be utterly powerless when faced with the demands of my owner. So I didn’t do as some might have, and basically rape him – no, I dipped my fingers in his cum, which he was still holding in the palm of his hand, and then gently spread his cheeks and started to push a finger up into him.
There’s a fantastic feeling of power, isn’t there, when you’re preparing a man for sex and he doesn’t really want it? As my finger went into him his feet shuffled uneasily on the floor, and he made little whimpering noises. Then, as I used more of his cum to make it as easy as possible for him and got two fingers inside him, he began to moan softly “No, please, please don’t…..”
“Shhhh….” I lowered my voice to a whisper, as somehow you feel like being supportive and intimate in these circumstances, don’t you? Well, I do. I suppose some blokes might have slapped his bum and shouted at him to shut up, but I felt the need to be supportive.
It seemed to calm him a bit, though, but when I went into him with three fingers, and then opened them out to really get him stretched, it sounded as if he was almost crying as he began again “No, please, please don’t do this to me….”
Actually, having a man totally in your power is a real turn on, I find. And then having him beg you not to fuck him just adds to the excitement – I reckon that if you ever find yourself in that position you’d be much better to stay silent and just take what’s coming to you. But as he carried on pleading, he also bean to shuffle and move as if to try to stop me, so I needed to reach forward and press my fingers into his neck, to make sure he understood that he was totally in my power.
I felt the excitement surging in me and I almost ripped my fly open and scrambled frantically to push my jeans and boxers down as I was so eager to begin. And then as my cock first touched his skin a sensation shot through me, and I thought I was going to cum there and then.
Look, I know the cook was a virgin, and I had taken a lot of trouble to properly lube and stretch him, and I had intended to go into him slowly and gently, giving us both the maximum pleasure. But it’s just not possible, is it? I mean, I had him totally under my control – my fingers were telling me that he was being held securely down; and my cock was throbbing with excitement and anticipation. Once my cock head had grazed his virgin pucker I was simply unable to contain myself – I was no loner thinking, no longer in control, no longer capable of the slow, languorous entry I had planned. Instead my hips thrust and my powerful thigh muscles rammed my cock into him in a single fluid motion. He screamed, and somehow that only served to excite me even more. I pulled out and slammed in again, and as he cried out and began to try to get his body out from under me, my passion was even more inflamed and without being able to stop – and not wishing to stop, actually – I fucked and fucked and fucked him as hard as I could. I knew I was covered in sweat. I was vaguely aware of the feeling of my polo shirt sticking to my torso. I knew drops of sweat were flying off my belly and legs. I heard the slap, slap, slap sounds of my body slamming into his, adding a counterpoint to his cries of distress and pain. And then it was over. I wanted it to go on for ever. I wanted to continue to revel in the power and control, and in that primeval feeling of maleness that was flooding my brain with excitement. But the body has other needs, and millions of years of evolution have taught the balls to fire when the cock reaches a certain level of stimulation. I now gave a great shout as my back arched and my thighs thrust one last time in a desperate attempt to get the last millimetre of my cock into him, and I stood there, as if frozen, as my balls pumped my cum up and out along my cock and deep into him.
I fell forwards, enfolding his body with mine, and began almost savagely to bite at his shoulders and neck, needing to leave another mark of my subjugation of him on his flesh. I lay there then, panting, feeling his body feebly writhing under mine, and I knew it was over. Almost reluctantly I pulled out of him, and went into my bathroom to wash my cock – it was a long time since I’d fucked a bloke who wasn’t nicely clean, and to some extent it spoils it a bit for me as I enjoy the way that Joe cleans me off with his mouth after I’ve finished with him. But it’s not fair on a man, especially when it’s his first time, to make him clean his crap off you, is it?
When I came back, zipping up my jeans, he was still lying there sprawled across my desk, and I gave him an affectionate light slap on the bum. “Come on, then – off to work for you! And remember what I said about reporting any slaves to me who refuse to eat. What are you cooking for tonight, anyway?”
“Roast belly of pork slices with apple sauce and roast potatoes, sir. But at least five of the salves won’t eat pork, sir….”.
“Good. That will be a real test of the new rules here. I think I’ll come and supervise dinner myself and weed out the superstitious trouble makers personally.”
Although I make it sound easy to manage all the slaves we had, that night was a real test for me. Some of the owners had been remarkably lax in maintaining control of their slaves, and had allowed those who were Jewish or Muslim or something to follow their superstitious ideas and eat special diets. Those slaves dared to defy me when I made it clear that it was me who set the agenda now, not the mythical nonsense written in so-called sacred books, and sat there refusing to eat the delicious strips of belly pork in their savoury sauce. I really don’t like using unnecessary physical force on slaves as it seems to me that a master ought to be able to impose his will without it, but exceptional disobedience calls for exceptional measures.
I told Joe and three of the other larger slaves to hold the slave who looked as if he was some sort of ring leader down, then squeezed his balls to make him open his mouth and wedged it open with a couple of wooden spoons from the kitchen. I dropped pieces of the delicious meat into his open mouth, followed by some water, then simply held his nose closed. He tried to thrash around and get free but the four big slaves held him tight, and of course sooner or later he had to swallow the contents of his mouth to avoid suffocating. I repeated it two or three more times, then let him up.
“I could carry on until you’ve eaten all the meal”, I told him. “But we’ve established the principle, I think, that you’ve not been struck dead by your ju-ju in the sky by eating a few mouthfuls of proper food. You can eat the rest or not as you please, but if you fail to eat you will get weak, and then you won’t be able to exercise properly, and then you will be punished as you make your way around the course. Now, who’s next…?”
It was regrettable that three of them had to be forced in this way as I think it slightly lessened my authority, and it took a few days for most of them to understand that there was no food other than the “standard”, before their silly superstitions were fully overcome.
But what of Dan all this time as our business was growing, you are probably wondering. Well, it was good, and it was bad. It was good as we now worked together and I saw him for long periods every day, and we were so different that we hardly ever quarrelled about business matters – I liked to get stuck in and make things happen, and he liked to plan and monitor the numbers. So rather like Jack Spratt and his wife, it all worked. It was terrible in another way, though, as we seemed to have less and less privacy, less and less time when we could be together. Clearly I couldn’t fuck him in the house or stables, even when Julie and the boys were out, as there were not so many pairs of eyes always watching. And it got more and more difficult when we went to Shows, too: now we generally had two or three slaves at least for Dan to “show” in the arena, and we needed to house them somewhere if we were at a distant venue, and that “somewhere” often ended up as the floor or our bedroom in a local hotel – dearly though I wanted Dan, needed to feel his body against mine, was desperate for his kisses and the sensation of his hands on me, there was just no way we could do it in those circumstances. As often as not a weekend away now resulted in frustration and cross words, rather than the excitement of two men sharing themselves with each other.
Well it couldn’t go on like that, so I thought of a little innovation: I bought an old caravan and mostly ripped out the interior so it could just house some simple beds and a table for preparing the slaves on, and now we towed that behind us if we were at an “away” event. We left it parked at the venue overnight with the slaves locked snugly inside it, whilst Dan and I took ourselves off to a hotel. Dan was worried at first, saying that there might be a problem if there was a fire or something with the slaves locked in, but once he was lying in my arms and we’d kissed and stroked and fondled each other, and then made passionate love, these worries seemed to evaporate. Mind you, he did have a point, and after some discussion we started to take Joe with us, whether he was showing or not – he was a kind of “trustee”, and we let him have the key to the caravan door on the strict understanding that the slaves were to remain locked in overnight.
To be continued …
