The Slave Show (27)

Life seemed to resume its normal pattern once more, and in the next year or so Andy really stepped up to being head slave.  I noticed that above his bed just outside my door his own prize-winning certificates on the wall had been “promoted” to be alongside Joe’s, rather than being half-hidden as they had been before, but that was about the only outward sign.

He made a number of good suggestions for changing to the course, too, so it was no longer only sheer power and strength that could get you through – some agility was required as well, and Andy reckoned that this was good for the big hunks that we had as it made them more subtle and interesting to look at, rather than just being big slabs of muscle.

As we’d got bigger, I was having to spend more and more of my time visiting dealers looking for suitable new slaves to train into show champions – it’s not something you can easily do on the internet as so much of a slave’s appeal for this type of work depends on his “presence” – you can have two apparently almost identical slaves, same height, weight, etc., but one clearly has “winning potential” waiting to be unlocked, whereas the other is always going to be dull and unexciting.  It’s probably something to do with intelligence – even though slaves are shown for their bodies, I have this theory that an intelligent slave has brighter eyes, a subtly different curve of the mouth, and that sort of thing:  the small important differences  that judges notice, and which separate a champion form the merely good.  And we were interested in champions, remember?  That’s where we made the real money – we wanted the prize money, and the added resale value of the stock, to turn our profit:  you might think it’s relatively cheap to train slaves ,but you’ve got to remember we were burning a lot of money every month in terms of interest on the capital employed to buy them; the property taxes on the centre; electricity, gas and water (and slaves are not economical at all, taking very long very hot showers when they’ve been out on the course); food; and then all those extras like vet’s bills, transport to and from the shows, and so on.  You can economise on a lot of it, I think : make them have cold showers, don’t heat the slave’s living quarters, that type of thing, but we were in the business of turning out champions, and a happy slave, who feels good about life, shows better. It took a lot of time and energy to go around to the dealers, even when they knew to be on the look out for the kind of material we were interested in. 

Anyway, I was at one of the largest dealers we used, in Colchester, and where, although the quantity of slaves  I bought at any one time was small, I’d been a regular over the years and so was a valued customer. The sales manager had offered to buy me a sandwich and a drink at lunchtime, and we sat in a pleasant country pub, we talked about the business, industry trends, all that sort of thing.  At a lull in the conversation he suddenly said “Would you do me a favour?”

“Ask, and I’ll tell you.”

“Well the problem is my nephew.  He was always a wild one, and all the family was terrified he’d do something stupid as he was growing up and get enslaved.  It was part of his ‘revolt’ that he refused to go to university, even though he’s a bright lad, and I reckon he deliberately made a mess of his exams so his parents couldn’t make him.  We were all glad when he joined the army, as they know how to deal with unruly lads like that – no real harm in them, but determined to prove themselves as men, I suppose. I expect you have some of the same problems with your slaves sometimes.”

I nodded.

“He seemed to be doing well, once he’d accepted the discipline, he began to enjoy it.  He went on a couple of overseas postings, did well in fighting, and was made a corporal six months ago.  Then he did something really stupid – probably proving himself again – he began to fuck the sergeant major’s wife… Secretly, of course.  They were found out inevitably – Colchester’s not that big a place, and everyone in the garrison kind of knows each other.  So the sergeant major began giving him a really hard time,  giving him all the crap duties, bawling him out for trivial things, refusing him leave, all that sort of thing. But when my nephew found out he’d beaten up his wife – well, slapped her around a bit, as men do – he just lost it. The next time they were all practising unarmed combat, he went for the sergeant major and when the instructor told them to ‘break’ he didn’t – just kept piling into the bloke with his fists and boots.”

“As I said, he’s not a bad kid at all.  And the army has its own way of dealing with that sort of thing – the sergeant major came into the barracks a few days later with a couple of sergeants, and really worked my nephew over.  Sort of paid him back for the bruises and stuff on the sergeant major.   Being a bright kid, that ought to have been that – he was over the woman anyway, and he’d satisfied his sense of honour by beating up the sergeant major, and in turn had been ‘punished’.  But something got into him and he went to the commanding officer and ratted on the sergeant major and the sergeants – he said he didn’t mind taking a fair beating, but three on one was too many. You’re not supposed to do that sort of thing in the army, as you probably know – rat on your fellow soldiers.”

I nodded.  “Yes, I was in the army myself.  I can see it all now.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you, Steve.  Anyway there was a court martial, but no witnesses came forward, even though the barrack room was full at the time: they’d all been got at.  So my nephew was found guilty of making a false statement prejudicial to military order and discipline, and got six months in the brig. Even so, it ought to have been all right, except one of the sergeants kept riding him, as he was on the one who ran the lock-up at Colchester:  always made him clean the lavatories, got him extra weeks in the brig for some imagined fault in his uniform, that kind of stuff…. And all the time saying ‘this will teach you not to complain.”

“They can be real bastards….”

“Yes.  And at the first opportunity, my nephew took a swipe at the sergeant… And of course all hell broke loose.”

“Let me guess:  another court martial, ‘unprovoked attack’, a year in the brig this time?”

“That may have been how it was in your time, Steve, but under the new military discipline codes introduced with the involuntary servitude things started, they can throw a guy out of the army and straight into servitude!  My nephew went from being a tough, trained soldier to a fucking slave, overnight!”

“I know the feeling.  It happened to me, too.”

“Yes, Dan told me something of your background. That’s why I hope you can help.  You see my nephew didn’t take it well – at the initial processing centre he tried to escape before he was tattooed with his SIN, and he was given a severe caning for that.  But before he could be auctioned,  and whilst he was still nominally under the army’s control, he broke out again – this time, injuring one of the guards.”

The dealer took a deep breath.  “They ordered a flogging for him – sixteen strokes of the bullwhip. You know how terrible that is.  It normally completely breaks a slave, turns him into a cowering thing that is so totally subservient that most owners find it pretty sickening as they like a slave who’s obedient, but still has some spirit.  But just occasionally it has the opposite effect – the slave goes ‘wild’, and once he’s been flogged, there’s no other punishment left.  And no one will buy a ‘wild’ slave like that, as what are you going to do with him?  He probably won’t obey orders, and there are no sanctions left to make him do so.”

“So where is he now?”

“At Colchester barracks still, waiting to be shipped out to South Africa, to the mines.  The new gold mines there are so deep and so dangerous they can’t even get niggers to go down them voluntarily, as they used to for the old ones, which were bad enough.  So they buy up slaves from all around the world and use them – send them down the shaft one-way and discipline is easy:  send up gold, or we don’t send down food.  The poor bastards never see the light of day again, and they’re worn out within a few years as the quota of gold is so tough, and the conditions are vile:  the mines are so deep that the temperature is thirty five down there.”

“You seem to know a lot about it…”

“Yes – my sister asked me what was going to happen, and I did some research.”

“It sounds as if your nephew’s had a raw deal.  And I do understand….  But what do you want me to do about it?”

“When I say they’re waiting to ship him to South Africa, what I mean is that he’s in Colchester, waiting for the next army surplus auction.  In practice, of course, it’s only the South Africans who will bid as no one else wants a slave like that.  So I’d like you to go along and bid for him.  It’s easy – the sale’s tomorrow, and the process is simple: he’s in the catalogue, along with a lot of surplus PCs, a pile of unused army kit, some jeeps which are being sold for scrap, that sort of thing.  It’s a public auction….”

“So why don’t you bid?”

“Ah, well, there is just one tiny detail.  Just as those who bid to buy guns have to demonstrate they have a legitimate interest in the arms trade, so bidders on army surplus slaves have to demonstrate that they have a legitimate interest in slaving.   His family can’t do it personally, of course, as that’s always illegal for relations to buy slaves.  And I can’t put it through the company, as if it was found out, I’d not only be out of a job but I’d be hauled into court.  So I’m looking for someone who’s not related, but with a legitimate interest in slaving…. Can you help me, Steve?”

“It’s difficult – I’d like to help, but there’s my partner to think about.  We really only take on slaves who have the potential to be winners, you know.”

“I haven’t seen this nephew for a couple of years, but he was pretty good looking even then.  I reckon that after a couple of years in the army he’ll have firmed up his muscles and should be really fit – I reckon he’d do well.”

“So what am I supposed to do after I’ve bought him? Turn him over to you?”

“No… He’s going to be expensive, I should think, and we can’t afford him.  We’d like you to train him, and then, even if he’s not a winner, perhaps you can find him a good home, one where he’s properly appreciated. We’d rather have him here in England, than in those terrible mines which I think would be the only alternative.  It’s tough enough that he’s been enslaved, but we can at least make sure he has as comfortable life, and as long a life, as possible.” He paused again, seeing that I was wavering still, and then looked earnestly at me once more.  “Steve, help me out here, please!  The lad doesn’t deserve never to see the sunshine again. You yourself know how terrible it is to be enslaved, and facing a life in the mines is even worse than that.  And we’ll make it right for you, I promise –  I’ll be forever in your debt, and you’ll get the first pick of the new stock, I promise….”

“Well I can at least go and take a look at him….  If he’s half way OK, I’ll try to help you out….”

So I drove with the dealer across the town to the garrison headquarters, but he didn’t come in with me as he said he didn’t want to get too close to the transaction.  I explained why I was there to the guard, who directed me over to the admin offices, who in turn gave me a little map of the vast place, and directed me on to the surplus sales section.  This turned out to be one of those totally nondescript institutional buildings, and when I went inside there was “stuff” everywhere:  broadly, it was divided into marked bays, and each bay had one of the kinds of merchandise they were disposing off.  A lazy-looking corporal at the door tried to sell me a sale catalogue, but when  I said I was only interested in the slave, he gave a little laugh.  “I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you, mate!  He’s a fucking wild one, and totally out of control.  And after the whipping they gave him, he’s not in good condition physically, either.  If you ask me, he’s only good for scrap – the South Africans will buy him I think, and that’s the best place for rubbish like him.”

“Well you’re evidently not in sales!  I think I’d like to take a look at him myself, though.”

“Bay twenty seven they’ve got him in.”

I nodded and started to make my way down the huge building.  As I counted up the bay numbers, I started to hear sounds of shouting and laughing, the shouting very angry indeed, larded with lots of foul expletives, and the laughter kind of jeering and derisory.    Then, as I got very close, there was the sound of water, followed by more angry shouting and a lot more jeering.

At the bay, I saw what was going on: the slave was not in a conventional cage, but was held in the middle of the space by four elastic cables – one on each of his ankles, pulling his legs apart  by tethering him to the metal supports of adjacent bays, and two to his wrists, holding his arms up in the air and apart, so he looked like a giant “X”.  The elasticity in the cables allowed him some movement, but not much:  he could pull his arms down a little, but it was clearly hard against the tension, and they were soon forced up again.  But what was causing all the invective from him and the jeering from the men was that another soldier was there with a hose pipe, which seemed to be at a high pressure.  Periodically he would direct the jet at the slave splayed out in front of him, and it must have been extremely unpleasant as it was both cold and harsh, especially when directed it at the slave’s genitals!  The slave was shouting and swearing as the water hit him, and this only served to excite the watching men, and encourage them to egg the soldier on to spray him more.

I watched in horror, as the slave didn’t deserve this, whatever he’d done.  He was totally naked, and as I went around the back of him I could see the vivid red lines across his back and bum where the whip had evidently cut deep into his flesh.    I went over to the soldier, and said quietly “Hey, mate, how about stopping that?  The slave looks all done in – that cold water, and the power of the jet….”

“He deserves it, I reckon!  Ratting to the Colonel about blokes in his troop.  And he’s a cocky bastard – listen to him:  it’s a good job there are no ladies present!”  Even as he said this he turned the jet on the slave again, and the man began his useless writhing and twisting to try to get out it, although I must say this activity really did show his body off to good advantage.  He was one of those medium-height blokes with compact bodies – everything in nice proportion, and you could tell he was used to exercising as his muscles were well defined without being obscenely overdone – his muscles everywhere, that is, as you couldn’t say that one part was over developed compared to any other.  In spite of all the water he looked to be agreeably hairy, with a nice thatch on his pecs and a dark trail leasing across his belly to his pubes.  There was no hair on his back, thank goodness, but his arms and legs were glistening with drops of water showing that they were hairy, too.  He had long thighs, always something I like, and his bum flared out rather seductively, with the transition to the bony backbone making a most agreeable sight. He had broad shoulders with nicely pronounced shoulder blades, and a thick neck, corded with muscle and a good sized Adam’s apple.  He wasn’t a blond, but neither was he dark:  his hair was that light brown that easily turns blond in the sun, and at first sight there didn’t appear be anything wrong with his features generally – his head was neither too small nor too big for his body, and there was nothing odd about the set of his ears or anything like that.

I wasn’t sure he was championship material, as there are a lot of handsome blokes with quite good bodies like that around, but there was a certain “something” about him that attracted me: perhaps it was his vulnerability as he continued to be jeered at by the watching men as he thrashed around,  stretched out there, trying to avoid the icy water;  or perhaps he had that ill-defined quality of being “a bit rough”, something that always offers a certain excitement, especially to nice well-off middle class owners.  Or perhaps it was his cock – I’m always drawn to men whose cocks are nicely in proportion to the rest of them, neither too big nor too small, and this was certainly so in this case.  It wasn’t easy to see clearly as he was thrashing around so much, but all did seem to be well there, especially as he had nice low-hanging balls that, when he was occasionally still, seemed to reach the end of his cock.

I could feel my anger rising at the way the slave was being treated, and went to the soldier to remonstrate again.  “Actually, I do feel a bit sorry for him”, he confided, “But the Colonel has ordered it, as he wants to send a warning to anyone else in the ranks that starting a punch-up with a sergeant isn’t on.  A lot of the regiment have been past here, and that’s why he’s naked – they want to emphasise that any one of them can get turned into a slave, like this poor buggar, if they break military discipline.”

“When’s he actually going to be auctioned, then?”

“Tomorrow, at about ten.  He’s one of the first lots.”

“…and you’re going to keep hosing him like this until then?”

“Well, until viewing closes at five, anyway.  I don’t know what they’ve got planned for him then – although I suppose he’ll go back in the cage overnight.  I don’t know which is worse- stretched out like this, or cramped up in that tiny cage”.  As he spoke he indicated a very small barred cage standing to one side, and I wondered how on earth a human body could actually fit in it at all – he’d certainly have to be bent double, and then there’d be no room to move at all.

“Can’t anything be done?”

“Well yo could ask the Colonel, but I doubt he’ll be much help.  No,  I reckon he’s stuck here unless someone buys him first.”

“What do you mean?”

“If anyone pays the ‘buy now’ price, rather than wait for the auction, they can take the slave away immediately.”

“Do me a favour, will you, please?   I want a few words with him, and I can’t do it when you’re hosing him like that.”

“It’s at your own risk, though.  He’s vicious and foul mouthed – there’s not much physical danger with him spread out like that, but he might spit at you…”

I nodded to show I accepted the risk, the soldier turned the hose off, and I walked over to the naked man.  Now the water had stopped a lot of the fight seemed to have gone out of him, and he hung there sullenly, seeming to have slumped.  I could see the strain in his shoulders as they took most of the weight of his body.  Water seemed still to be running, and at first I thought it was just the water draining off him, until I realised he’d had to piss, and that was what was spilling onto the floor between us:  a nice, hard hosing kind of piss, like a real man does, not some pathetic dribble.  He raised his head slightly, and glared at me.

“You might say sorry for pissing on my shoes!”

“You’re fucking lucky to have shoes, not to be bollock naked, like me.”

“For a slave, you’re not very respectful.”

“I’m not a slave!  And I’ve got no need to be respectful of you.”

“You’re up for sale as a slave.  And rumour has it that all the potential buyers have ruled you out because of your foul mouth and those whip marks – so you’ll be knocked down to the South Africans, for the mines.”

“I should care!  How much worse can it get, strung up here, naked?  If I’m a slave, I don’t care if it’s the South Africans or anyone else.”

“You should.  I hear those mines  are tough.”

“I’m a tough bloke.  I’m an infantryman, and they teach you to be tough.”

“Tough enough to never see the light again once you’re down the mine?  To lie there toiling away in thirty five degrees, and die down there?  And tough enough to fight for your share of the food they drop down to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well it doesn’t sound like much of a life to me. There are some alternatives – I could buy you, but then you’d have to give me your word not to try to escape, and to behave….”

“Fuck you!  I don’t bargain with blokes who’re trying to buy me.”

“Suit yourself!  I like a man with spirit, with a bit of fire in his belly.  But not so much that he’s prepared to fuck up his whole future life.”

“I should care.  Just fuck off, will you, and leave me in peace.”

Faced with stupid bravado like that I did feel inclined to simply walk away, as  I wasn’t sure I could tame this slave – the bullwhip had failed, after all.  But something in his defiance reminded me a little of myself, so I stepped back in front of him and gripped both his nips between my thumbs and first fingers, and began to knead and tug at them.  He went totally wild, trying to break away from me – unsuccessfully as he was unable to overcome the elastic ropes, and because the more he tried and twisted and squirmed, the tighter I held on to his nips.  He began to shout and scream at me, calling me a faggot pervert and all sorts of other names, but I kept calm, and simply remained staring at him as he writhed in front of me.  When  I did let go,  I saw his nips were agreeably erect, jutting out from their neat dark aureoles, and just as I was admiring them, he spat at me!

You’ve only got two choices when a slave does something like that, haven’t you?  You can complain to a guard and schedule for him to be whipped, or you can take action there and then.  As you know, I’m pretty much of an “action” man, so without showing any emotion at all I reached down and grabbed hold of his balls, starting to squeeze them gently.   I’d been thinking of examining them anyway to make sure that there wasn’t some scam on and he’d been fitted with prosthetic ones, which makes a slave almsot valueless for show purposes.

“Let go, motherfucker!”, he creamed, and I instead tightened my grip and squeezed gently, not enough t cause him real pain, but enough to signal quite clearly to him that I could do so, if  I wished.

“Now, boy, I want some respect!”, I told him, gritting my teeth so I sounded fierce.  “They’ve tried to break you with whips, and with keeping you tied up like this.  But I’m a skilled slave trainer, and I know, boy, that the one thing that makes a slave like you sit up and take notice is  when a man like me has his balls in my grip.  Now, you can either be civil, or I can hurt you.  Personally, I don’t care which.  But I’m thinking of buying you, and I need to examine your balls anyway, and after that I’m going on to do your cock – I’m going to ‘skin you back and take a good look at your cock head….”

I never got to finish the sentence, as my hand began to feel warm and wet.  I glanced away from his eyes, and saw he’d managed to find more piss from somewhere and was deliberately pissing on my cuffs and wrist as I held on to his balls!  He was lucky I’m not one of those blokes who lose their tempers instantly, or I reckon I might have ripped his balls off.   Instead, I let go, shook my hand to get rid of as much of the piss as possible, and stared at him again.

“You asked for this”, I told him calmly.  Then with one hand I lifted up his cock, and used the other to slap his balls as they hung down between his spread thighs, really hard.

His shout of anguish was half strangled by the way he began retching as the pain shot through him, and I let go of his cock and took a pace backwards and stood there.  It took him a few moments to regain some sort of composure, and then he stood there glaring at me, his face contorted with pain.

“Listen, fucker, and listen well.  I’ve decided to buy you, against all the odds, as there’s something about you that I like.  But you need to understand that you’ve got to start behaving like a slave if you and I are going to get along.   And if we don’t get along, it will be you who ultimately comes off worse from any encounter with me.  I used to be a soldier, too, and I understand fighting.  But since then I’ve trained more slaves than you’ve had hot dinners, and I know something about controlling men.  You’ve had a session with the bullwhip, and I know it will be useless to use that on you again.  But you’re sensitive about your balls, and, believe me, there are a whole lot of things I know about that you probably can’t even guess at when it comes to beginning to control a slave that way.”

He just stood there, continuing to look sullen, but I thought I had won a small victory – a very small one, of course, as he was effectively helpless and I’d taken advantage of that.

I turned and walked over to the admin office, and found that he was astonishingly reasonably priced. The clerk seemed bored, and explained that army surplus never went for much anyway, and there was no effective market in the country for army surplus slaves  – especially not for “wild” ones who hadn’t been tamed by the bullwhip.  “I don’t know why folk wait for the auction”, she told me “The prices three aren’t that much lower than the ‘buy it now’ prices, and you can have the satisfaction of taking the goods home with you today.”

She seemed happy to take my credit card for the slave, then pressed a few keys on here PC once the transaction had gone through, handing me a sheaf of paper as it spewed out of the printer.  “Certificate of ownership, log book showing army history, injections, that sort of thing, six month guarantee against major illnesses or defects, provided there are not caused by you, authority to remove army property from the site…. I think that’s all.”

“What do you mean by ‘illnesses provided they’re not caused by me’?”

“Oh, we’re happy to guarantee that ex-soldiers are fit when they leave here, as far as we know.  But it saves a whole lot of hassle if we agree to take them back if they develop faults. Unless, that is, those faults are caused deliberately – it’s primarily to stop one of the big drug companies who used to buy a lot of our surplus, use them in drug trials, and then send them back when things went wrong.”

I nodded, and thanked her.   “Just show the authority to remove property to the guard with the slave, and again at the gate”, she called after me.

There was a problem when I got back to the guard, though.  He pointed out that the slave I now owned was potentially dangerous, and that although he could release him from the elastic ropes, what was going to happen then?  “At best he’ll run off, and at worse, he’ll attack you, and me, and then run off.”, he told me, almost cheerily.

“So what should I do?”

“Search me, mate!  He’s your problem now.  But if I were you, I might consider making a donation to the mess beer funds, and then I might see my way towards lending you that travelling crate over there:  if we got him inside that, he couldn’t run, could he?”

“How about a donation of twenty quid then, towards the mess funds?”

“Sounds good to me.”

I took out my wallet and handed him a note which he folded and put into his uniform pocket, then he went over and hauled the cage to sit in front of the slave.

“Now you know what this is, don’t you?” He began cheerily.  “And you remember how last night we had a few problems in persuading you to get in it?  Well, if we have any of those problems again now, I’ll adopt the same solution:  I’ve got my electric prod here, and my emergency alarm.  And, as you know, whilst you’re twitching on the floor, my mates can get over here from the mess and they quite enjoy putting the boot in – they don’t have too many opportunities to do that in the brig these days with all the fucking TV cameras everywhere, but most of them became guards as they like a bit of extracurricular violence….  I reckon you were lucky not to get any ribs broken last night, but  I wouldn’t guarantee the same tonight…”

“Look here”, I protested.  “This is my property now, and I don’t want him harmed.”

“Sir, until he’s out of here, he’s my responsibility. And you can always bring him back if he’s too badly damaged, after all.  That’s part of the army’s guarantee, I think.  So please stand away, and let me do this….”

I’ve seen electric prods before, and once watched a demonstration at the Ideal Slave Show.  You don’t see them at the normal slave shows we attend, as the Slave Owners’ Club frowns on them and has banned them at major shows – so as owners can’t use them when they’re probably most necessary, they tend not to use them at all. I think they’re really vicious things, especially when turned right up to “stun”, and we don’t use them at all.  It’s too easy for an owner to get into the habit of giving his slave mild shocks to control him, rather than going to the trouble of properly training him, and then over time you have to start really winding up the charge, which is no good for the slave or the owner.

Although I didn’t agree with it, I stood back as the soldier had said, and watched him in action.  To my amazement, he went around behind the slave who was spread out there, and forced the end of the electric prod up the slave’s arse, causing the slave to break out in a new torrent of abuse, mainly focussing on the slave’s probable parentage.  Having seen the effects of a prod n the normal skin, I could only imagine the agony a slave would experience if it was fired into that specially sensitive area of his anus.  The soldier held on to the end of the prod, using it rather like a handle, then bent down and undid the cables around the slaves ankles.  He then ordered the slave to pull down hard on his left hand, so he could more easily reach the cable on that wrist, and then, finally, did the same for the right.

I noticed the soldier now had a very tight grip on the end of his prod as he used it rather like a handle to “steer” the slave towards the cage.  Then he said, rather menacingly, “OK, boy, now keep it nice and cool, and I won’t have to hurt you again.  You know the form – down on your hands and knees, then crawl in slowly into the cage, and once you’re inside I’ll pull my prod out from your bum, and lock the read door. And monkey business, and I’ll zap you:  even with the prod pulled out of you I can get to some of that bare skin of yours before you can get out of the cage.”

There was another torrent of abuse, but I’m sure the slave had understood the conditions – perhaps he hadn’t the previous night, but his whole posture now said that he knew that resistance was useless at this point.

We don’t use close confinement cages in our training, so I watched with interest as the slave slowly got down to is hands and knees, and then crawled forward into the open end of the cage – it was only just tall enough to accommodate his body and his back almost scraped along the bared top as he made his slow way in.  The soldier had to bend down and kind of follow him, as the slaves bum went inside, and as he carried on crawling slowly forward until his face was pressed against the bars at the front, when his feet were just inside. The soldier then pulled the prod out of the slave, and quickly slammed the door at the end of the cage, snapping the catch shut.

“Here’s the special opener, sir”, he told me.  “And there’s a trolley over there – that slave’s got a lot of muscle on him, and muscles’ heavy… Let alone the weight of the cage…. So I reckon you’d better wheel him to your car.”

I looked down at the slave, now looking really uncomfortable all cramped inside the cage.  He’d tried to lie down, but couldn’t quite make it as there really was no room, and was wedged awkwardly at an odd angle, the bars really pressing into his flesh all over the place, really adding to his misery.  “OK, boy, try and relax.  I know it isn’t easy.  But once I can get you to the car, I’ll let you out….”

“Fuck you!  I can take it.  I was in this fucking thing like this all last night.  Do what you want, as far as I’m concerned.”

I bent down and looked at him, and saw pure hate in his eyes.  “Boy, I’m trying to be nice to you, but you don’t make it easy….”

“I don’t make it easy for fucking slave owners….”

I reached in to the cage, through the bars, and cupped his balls in my hand as they swung loosely.  There was so little space in the cage that he couldn’t move away, and neither could he get a hand to try to stop me.

“I don’t expect gratitude.  I don’t need it – I treat slaves humanely, as I think that’s the right thing to do”, I told him.  “And I don’t care if you hate being a slave, or hate having me own you.  That’s a fact of your life from now on, and sooner or later, you’ll accept it.  But I will not tolerate a slave being rude and abusive to me, or indeed to any free man.”  I squeezed his balls gently and went on “You saw a few minutes ago what I can do to your balls.  Now behave, or, if you can’t behave, at least remain silent.  I really do not like hurting slaves, but if that’s the only way of doing it, I will.  Do I make myself clear?”

He remained hunched there, silent.  “I asked you a question, boy”, I reminded him, gently squeezing his balls, to add a little emphasis.”

“Yes.”

“Boy, you’ve got a lot to learn.  What did yo say when you got an order in the army?”

He remained silent for a long few seconds, then muttered “Yes, sir.”

“Good!  That wasn’t so hard, was it?  Think of me as an officer, if it makes it any easier for you.  But an officer who has complete and utter control of your life from now on.”

Before he could make any further comment and possibly ruin what I hoped had been a good start to his training, I let go of his balls and stood up, and went over and got one of those two-wheeled “sack trolleys” that was standing idle.  I manoeuvred the blade underneath the cage, trying to make sure I didn’t trap and injure any of the slave’s flesh that was squeezed between the bars as I did, then tipped it, and wheeled it out of the building towards the car park.  It did seem almost surreal to be wheeling a man away like this, as if he were some package or parcel, and, what’s more, wheeling a man that I owned.

Outside the gates the dealer was skulking around behind some trees, and he beckoned me over and told me he reckoned it would be better for his nephew if the man didn’t know where he was being taken, and did not know that his uncle had had some part in his “rescue”.  He had a blanket with him, so I threw this over the cage, before the dealer and I lifted the cage into the luggage compartment of the SUV – no easy task, even for both of us, as the slave was solidly build as I’ve said.  It was easier at the dealers, as there were experienced slave handlers there to lift the crate over to my car.  But as they were doing so, a wave of compassion swept over me.

I borrowed some cuffs from the dealer and reached in and cuffed the slave’s wrists together in front of him, then undid the cage and told him he could back out, which he did very  slowly.  Considering he’d been cooped up in such cramped conditions, he was amazingly agile and leapt to his feet, and tried to run off! I’d been expecting something like that, though, and just put out my leg and tripped him up, so he fell with a sickening crunch onto the concrete of the dealer’s yard – it certainly winded him, and may even have hurt him as he was unable to cushion the fall with his hands.

There’s a special restraint harness available – you may have seen them – that buckles around a slave’s upper body, and you can then sit him in the seat of a car and thread the seat belt through it.  Provided you turn off the “inertia” bit of the seat belt so it’s rigid, like an aircraft seat belt, the slave is then effectively immobile.    The slave’s back and bum were still a bloody mess, though, so I had a slave fetch a lot of old newspaper from the dealer and spread them over the seat of my car before he was “persuaded” to get in and was strapped down securely.  I saw his face contorting from the pain as he settled down into the seat, but it seemed he was trying to appear macho, and not make any noise.

He sat there in sullen silence as we drove along towards home, until, after struggling for some time, he muttered “Fucking disgrace – locked in here like some kid!”

“I’ll remind you that you’re a lot better off than cramped up in that cage”, I responded.  “But at the next service station there are slave handling facilities, and if you’d rather go back in to the cage, that’s fine by me.”

He said nothing, and I moved my hand over and rested it on his naked thigh.  I stroked it up and down, feeling the underlying hard muscle, and he winced.

“Painful, where they beat you up yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“What did we say about respect, boy?”

“Yes…. Sir.” He managed.

I thought about letting my hand slide to enjoy his cock and balls, but thought this might set me back in the small amount of progress I seemed to be making.  

To be continued …