Author’s note:

I have not written for some time, but yesterday had some thoughts about slave selection and “A bargain” began to take shape.  This was meant to be a story with much more detail about the selection of a personal slave, but as I wrote this rather got swamped as my interest in thinking about how the master would handle a relationship with his existing slave started to intrude.  The “bargain” was meant to relate to the low price paid for the slave, but, actually, now I re-read it, I see that the bargains occur in several place – the original purchase of Steve, between Steve and his owner, the owner and the colonel, and so on.  I could have made the story longer to cover the selection in more detail, but I wanted a short story after such a long absence as I only had a day available to write it.  Unusually, I have written from the master’s perspective, rather than the point of view I usually take – that of the ubiquitous “Steve”.

This story takes as its background the social and political milieu I describe in more detail in “The Spoils Of War” and I do not elaborate on aspects of the continuing civil war.


A Bargain

I’d been invited to our local army base for a dinner to celebrate Republic Day held by the colonel and his officers.  These things are usually a terrible bore, but as a prominent local citizen I consider it’s my duty to attend this kind of thing to show proper support for our men, and as the base runs up to the borders of my own land it’s not that much of a journey, I suppose.  The whole of local society would be there and so there would probably be opportunities to conduct business, and therefore the whole evening would not necessarily be a total waste of time.

I took some time dressing – it’s important to get the right tone for this kind of thing, I believe.  One of my formal dark suits that I wear when business calls me to Atlanta would be out of place here in the country, and although Republic Day is normally pretty informal with the major celebrations in town being a family picnic / jeans and T-shirt kind of event, going totally casual would not be appropriate as I was certain to be seated at the Colonel’s top table because of my status.  It almost drove my clothes slave to distraction as I tossed aside one shirt after another, and commanded him to bring more and more slacks and jackets from the storage closets – I expect he was thinking of all the work involved in pressing everything before putting it all way again, but he’s not got anything else to do, after all, as I do believe in being absolutely immaculately turned out in a way that’s hard to achieve without a lot of manual effort. Some people think I’m extravagant, but he was not very expensive: that’s one of the advantages of living on my plantation in the country as young niggas like him are so readily available – if I’d gone to the market in Atlanta to buy him, I’d probably have had to pay twice as much.

I finally settled on a sharply-cut linen jacket in a dark cream linen and silk mix that I’d bought on my last trip to Milan, pale grey slacks in a fine-textured Marino wool, and soft black leather loafers.  It took me several attempts to get just the right tie to wear with my cream silk shirt – nothing too formal, but not too gaudy, either, as I felt certain I would have to make a short speech on behalf of the town thanking the colonel and the regiment.  The nigga was particularly irritating as he failed to tie it correctly on the first attempt – he knows I like my ties to hang so that the two pieces are of exactly the same length, and you’d think that would be easy to achieve as he has ample time to practice.  I slapped him hard a couple of times across his face to show him my displeasure more tangibly, and told him that if it happened again I’d replace him and he’d join the other slaves in one of the field coffles.

Still, it was one of those perfect early summer evenings we get down here, and as I strode out of the mansion and down the steps to where my trap was waiting, all was right with the world.  Just as the slave was settling me in, my personal trainer jogged around the corner of the house and seeing me at once ran over and stood attentively waiting for me to acknowledge him. He’d cost me a stack of money when I’d bought him three years ago, but I’ve never regretted it – and, after all, a man should indulge himself sometimes, shouldn’t he?  It’s rare to get a white slave so big – Steve was a match for even the biggest nigga on the estate – but what had particularly attracted me to him when I’d seem him in the pens at Natches was his moody good looks: that indefinable “something” about his face and the expression he had that lifted him from being merely handsome into that next indefinable category of masculine beauty.  At another time I suppose he might have made a good living as a model, but the civil war has changed so many things in our lives and it’s no longer acceptable to have magazines and so on devoted to clothes and other fashionable excesses.  Even though he was white, had I not bought him it’s likely that he’d have ended up down the mines as he’d been in the North’s marines: such men are usually considered to be too dangerous for use as general slaves, and need to be placed in environments where their natural aggression and tendency to defy authority can be strictly controlled.  The dealer had even warned me against buying him as he had caused trouble from the moment he had been taken there, and he told me that Steve had not accepted slavedom in spite of two whippings.

That added to his attraction in a strange way as I like a man to show spirit in bed, so I thanked the dealer for his advice but asked that Steve should be stripped anyway as I wanted to see if the rest of his body was as desirable as the outline visible under the slave smock and shorts suggested.  Steve did not unclothe when ordered to, as I’d rather expected, and there was a lot of shouting and swearing before finally the dealer lost patience and ordered the guards to use their prods to render him incapable of resistance so that they could forcibly strip him (I could see the dealer shrugging inwardly as he sensed a lost sale, but he did as I requested anyway as his Atlanta head office had ordered that I should be treated as the valuable client of the firm that I was).  Steve’s body was, and is, a sheer delight – broad shoulders, narrow hips, flat belly, sensuously flaring bubble butt, lovely low-hanging balls with a cock properly in proportion to the rest of him, dark good-sized aureoles, and the whole agreeably furred: not too much, but a nice pectoral thatch, a pronounced trail across that lovely belly, and pleasing manly hairs on arms and legs. His whole body had that air of erotic maturity that a man only gets when he is older – Steve was thirty at the time – and when the muscles are built from hard work rather than exercise in the gym.

Even when he was standing totally nude in front of me It was impossible for me to carry out a proper inspection of him because of the threat of violence. But I’d seen enough to know that he would be a total delight to all my senses assuming he could be properly tamed and used as a personal servant.  The dealer was glad to sell him at a price that he’d get if he had to be sold to the mines, so I knew that in principle II had a bargain.

This is not the time for me to recount how I tamed Steve without breaking his spirit completely – clearly continued whipping was not going to achieve it and would likely only lead to permanent unsightly scarring.  But after he’d been branded (all my slaves carry my ownership mark) I think he started to realise that his life had changed utterly, then when I had him circumcised – without anaesthetic – he could see that my power extended further than he imagined.  I summoned him for a private meeting, without guards there, so that we could talk “man to man” as he might describe it, but more properly, owner to slave.  Of course he was in chains – a short hobble chain joining his ankles, and cuffs holding his hands in front of him.  He stood there when the guards had left and it was rather amusing to see that he tried to cover his genitals with his hands, and I had to order him to raise them so that I could inspect his circumcision.  He hesitated, so I said, casually, “I can order them to take your balls, you know.  Or even that cock…”.  That started to make him think, but when I revealed that I knew he had been married, divorced, and that he had a son, a son who had been abandoned by his ex-wife and who was now living in an orphanage in the North, he started to calm down.  Look, to cut a long story short, I did what an owner should not have to do with a slave – I bargained with him! His twelve year old son could be brought to live on the plantation with Steve, provided Steve acted as a properly dutiful slave: there was no other choice available, actually – if Steve ever wanted to see his son again, and didn’t want the son to grow up never knowing his father, that’s how it had to be.  So now Steve and Shane share a room in the slave quarters, and Shane goes into the local town each day to school.

I’m expecting problems next year, though: Shane will be sixteen then, and I don’t think Steve realises that I can then exercise my rights and have him enslaved as he is the progeny of a slave I own!  He’ll be a really valuable asset, as there are not a lot of very young, handsome white virgin slaves around.  Steve will be outraged at first, but once Shane has been branded with my ownership mark Steve will see that I don’t intend to sell him, and that he will continue to be able to see his son (or, actually, rather more than “see” him: I’m looking forward to taking Shane’s cherry, and then on having both father and son in my bed as my sex partners).

Still, there Steve was, a line of sweat running down the front of his T-shirt from his run – something I find rather sexy – and it occurred to me that I might subtly punish him for not being there when I was dressing to advise me on the choice of tie, and so on.  He’d known of the invitation – it was in my diary – and he should have realised that it was his duty to be there; but then, Steve is not much of a thinker and planner, he’s more of a “doer”, and I suppose that’s another thing that I find attractive about him – it’s not that he’s unintelligent, rather the opposite, but that his intelligence shows itself in different ways.

“Steve, I’m off to the base.  And I want to talk to you – so take off that T – it’s soaked in sweat anyway – and slip between the shafts.  The pony can have the night off, and you can pull me there and back.”

“But sir, I’ve just been running….”

“Oh well, Steve, if you think you’re not up to it, if you’re not properly fit….”

I smiled inwardly as Steve pulled off his T and I was treated to the sight of his belly flexing as he raised his arms to get it over his head.  He’s so easy to manipulate – no need to issue a direct order, just suggest that he’s not able to perform properly and he’ll try to prove you wrong.  I’d let him keep his body hair as I like a man to feel like a man when I’m enjoying his body, and I could see it was engagingly plastered to his skin with his sweat.  He moved over to the pony and told the nigga he wouldn’t be needed, but then as the nigga went to leave, I called out “Actually, Steve, you’d better take the pony’s uniform – your shorts are all sweat-stained anyway, and if you’ve been running, as you say, I might need to help you by encouraging you a little….”

Again I smiled to myself as Steve so nearly lost it, and had to stop himself from making some remark back to me – as I’ve told you, that’s one of the things I find so special about him: that rebellious nature, so close to the surface, and yet usually restrained by his will.  Almost visibly holding himself in check he exchanged a few more words with the pony, and the nigga tugged at the bow on the string around his waist holding his running pouch in place.  Steve dropped his shorts, and probably without realising it, “flipped” his cock to free it from where his sweat was holding it against his balls – so many men seem to do this almost as if by reflex, even though they might otherwise be embarrassed by their nakedness, as Steve was.  It doesn’t matter how many times I explain to Steve that a slave need have no shame in appearing naked in front of others as he is merely a piece of property and not a free man, he still doesn’t get it and is always awkward when there’s someone other than me in the room when he is nude.  So now he stood there with his hands trying to shield his genitals, and I somehow find this a little endearing – it took me ages (and a few punishment sessions on the triangular bar) to get Steve to accept that when he went swimming he had no need of Speedos and I’m glad I persisted as there were no unsightly white patches on his butt or thighs as he stood there shifting uneasily from foot to foot as if hoping that some “rescue” might yet occur.  But I called out “Steve, get a move on!  Put on the running pouch, and do it now as I want to be off.  Or, if you prefer, leave it off – but get between the shafts, and quickly!”

I’m an enlightened owner as you’ll realise, as I let my ponies wear running pouches when they’re in my trap.  They’re all very well-built, and that generally means they’re “well hung”, too, and it always seems to me that a pony runs better when there’s some support for his dick and balls.  It’s not a question of modesty, as I’ve already explained my belief that a slave has nothing to be ashamed of appearing nude – no, it’s a simple matter of practicality: the pouch leads to better performance.  Still, Steve could make up his own mind (yes, I do give my slaves some freedom of action as an owner cannot possibly specify every single thing that they are to do.  I like to think Steve appreciates being allowed these little choices).  But, as ever with Steve, some fragments of his life as a free man were causing him problems: his choice was to run naked and so expose himself to many, many people on the road and at the base; or to take the pouch which the nigga pony had worn and put it on.  It’s strange how some men have an irrational fear of wearing other men’s clothes, especially their undergarments, and this issue was plainly Steve’s concern now.  Actually I do sometimes wonder whether by being an enlightened owner I’m actually doing Steve a favour – he might have hated it if I’d ordered him to run naked, or to put on the pouch, but at least he’d have been spared the necessity of making a decision which he clearly did not relish.  Still, as I watched he took the tiny white triangle of silk and tied the two strings around his waist, then reached to pass the bottom string between his legs, pulled it up his ass crack, and twisted his torso around so e could tie it to the waist strings at the back – actually, I’m glad he chose to wear the pouch as all those movements displayed his musculature to me in a most agreeable way; and, of course, I think that the sight of a male dressing (even if he is a slave) is somehow erotic.

We were off then – I flicked at his lovely buttocks with the carriage whip to tell him to move off and he strained to get the trap into motion.  One of the advantages of slave ponies is of course that after training and familiarisation with the local area, the owner can simply order them “to the club” or “the train station”, or whatever, and they have the intelligence to select the best route for the time of day, and take you there without you needing to do anything more except “encourage” them with the carriage whip if they show signs of flagging.  Don’t get me wrong – the whipping is not cruel as a carriage whip is not designed to punish or mark the slave as a bull whip would.  Rather the sharp sting it administers is to remind the slave to stay focused on his work, and to give of his all and not allow himself to slacken.  I know that some owners go in for bridles, bits, reins, and even complicated harnesses that can force a plug in the slave’s ass as encouragement, but all this seems unnecessary to me: if you’re going to put effort in to “drive” your pony rather than rely on his intelligence, you might as well use an animal.  Again, some owners have their slaves elaborately cuffed into the shafts, but surely one of the purposes of having a pony slave is to demonstrate that you have another man so totally under your control that he will stand there gripping the shafts and pull you.  I use none of these costumes and devices of course, so it was easy for Steve to swap places with the nigga.

Steve seemed to be pretty exhausted when we arrived at the base – it’s only four mile, at the most, but I’d sensed his tiredness and had had to “encourage” him several times in the last mile or so – I expect it was his earlier running as normally this would not have proved a problem to a man with his considerable fitness.  He was sagging visibly as we stopped at the gates whilst the sentry checked my invitation, and I had to snap at him to tell him to smarten up and stand tall as we made our way up the drive to the Officers’ Mess building – and, indeed, he had to be encouraged” several times when I ordered him to “high step” the last hundred yards or so as I could see several people on the balcony watching the scene as we got closer.  Yes, I know ponies hate it as drawing the knees up to navel height on each step is very tiring and somehow unnatural, but I do think it makes for a real “entrance” for the owner and again demonstrates his control over the slave.

It was an unusual reception before dinner as the Colonel and his officers had enlisted men acting as waiters!  It was somehow audacious to have free men serving in such a menial capacity, and yet at the same time clearly demonstrated the difference between army and civilian life – even with my considerable wealth there’s just no way I could afford to pay free men to experience the humiliation of carrying around the trays of drinks and offering them to the guests, as this is something that slaves now do on such occasions.  I felt my cock straining at my underwear at the sight of these young men who ought to be at the front fighting our enemies in the North having to move amongst us like this, and I wondered also at how much time had been wasted in their grooming as their uniforms were immaculately starched and pressed, with the brass buttons and leather belts and boots all shining to perfection – still, I expect they had slaves to do that, as even if the army did not provide them, a bunch of young guys could easily afford to buy a slave themselves for such tasks.

I pursued several of my business schemes as I circulated amongst the other guests, and when a sergeant-major announced that dinner was served, I was, as expected, sitting at the top table and was able to reassure the Colonel of the town’s support of the army: quite apart from anything else, the presence of the garrison so close to hand meant that if there were ever to be another dreadful slave revolt like the one that is described so vividly by one of my favourite authors, Pete Brown, it would swiftly be suppressed. The colonel either didn’t know though, or, more probably, though it was politically unwise to comment, on the current view of the Army Council on the progress of the war.  He asked my views and I was quite clear: for business men like me the war had initially been a near disaster with the loss of our markets in the north (and, to a lesser extend, the loss of international trade following the UN-led sanctions against us as they mistakenly thought that the North was “the member” of their organisation – a situation not unlike that which persisted for so many years after the second world war when they insisted that China was some small offshore island!).  But, as I explained, those of us who adapted our businesses to diversify into agriculture, and into manufacturing in the South those things that used to be made in the North, were now doing well – in fact, exceedingly well!  With labour costs almost nil because of the slaves, we were able to undercut almost any other economy on the planet, and exports were booming – in spite of the supposed sanctions.  Indeed, to some extent, I explained to him, I was in favour of the war continuing for at least another ten years – we needed the supply of fresh slaves it produced to keep slave prices down and therefore protect our profits: it would be some time before the breeding farms that some far-sighted businessmen like me had set up would be producing their first “crop”, and until then there simply were not enough criminals to prevent slave prices taking off because of demand outstripping supply; only the war, with captured soldiers being brought forward constantly to the auctions, kept slave prices reasonable.

“You’ll be glad to hear that there’s a new batch arriving tomorrow, then”, he told me, leaning closer to share this confidence with me.  It was indeed actually interesting economic intelligence, as I knew that in general it took three weeks to take a captured soldier and process him into a slave, so if I held off making purchases in this period I could hope to buy much cheaper when they were released to the markets.  “Yes”, he went on, “The battle of Omaha went well, and they’d thrown a lot of not very experienced men into it – I think the North is gradually being worn down and they don’t have time to train the men sufficiently, as the ones who are being trucked in tomorrow are all in their early twenties and there’s very little real combat experience in there.  Of course it helps that most of the training expertise was down here in the South anyway….”

“Most interesting”, I replied.  “I’ve been thinking about acquiring a new personal slave in his early twenties, and although there are a number of suitable niggas on my plantation, I prefer a whitey.”  He nodded, and I added quickly “I’m not prejudiced, of course, and I’ll fuck a nigga as easily as a whitey, but somehow I find that having a whitey around me in my private quarters is somehow more ‘natural’, if you see what I mean.”

“Quite so, dear sir.  We have something of a similar problem here – the army is fully integrated, of course, but the white enlisted men don’t like sharing barracks rooms with blacks – not that we have many blacks, of course, as so many young black men commit crimes and are enslaved.  But there’s a widespread prejudice that any black skin in the showers must be a nigga slave, and there have been several unpleasant incidents where new black recruits have been abused – no actual rape, fortunately, as the men don’t do that in the showers.  But some of the black recruits have been severely beaten up when they were in the showers and mistaken for nigga slaves, who then refused to service the cocks of the men….”

“Very distressing….”, I added to empathise with him.  “It must make commanding a base like this very difficult.  I mean, you can hardly punish the men for an understandable mistake.  But I expect those liberal newspapers would have a field day if they heard that black recruits were apparently so much at risk.  Still, we all have these difficulties – some people can’t accept my slave Steve because he’s a whitey, and I have some black overseers on my estate who find it very hard to be treated properly when they go into town and want to go into a bar or restaurant… We can only hope for more enlightened times in the future, when people treat all men equally regardless of the colour of their hides…. I mean skin, of course… Only slaves have hides; men have skin.”

“It’s good to see that you are a liberal in spirit, dear sir.  As I am myself.  It distresses me to see young whiteys enslaved, of course, but if they are misguided enough to join the army of the North and then come and try to fight us here, what else can we do?  Only about five percent of those we process here are whiteys, though, as the North’s army is mainly recruited from the ghettos in their cities.  Still, it is a problem for my men, I know, as they dislike….”

This had aroused my interest, so I cut across him.  “So there are some young whiteys in the slaves coming here for processing tomorrow?”

“Yes, fifty or so, I believe.”

“And mostly young, you said?”

“Nineteen to twenty three, generally…. But why do you ask?”

“Colonel, I’d consider it a very great favour if you were to allow me to come and select a slave tomorrow….”

“Impossible, I’m afraid.  Army regulations and all that… They all have to be processed, then sent for public auction….”

“I’m not suggesting that there should be anything improper, of course.  I would naturally expect to pay the price the army gets from the dealers.  In fact, for the right property, I’d pay considerably more.  Or, if that’s too difficult, a generous donation to the mess funds?  Events like this splendid one this evening must be a big strain on the regiment…?”

I could see I had “hooked”, and after I’d made my speech fulsomely praising the regiment on behalf of the guests, making particular mention of the Colonel’s many sterling qualities, we spoke again after dinner.  I was a little surprised at the size of the “generous donation” I had apparently agreed to make to the mess funds, but, he assured me, I could spend as long as I wished looking over the arrivals tomorrow, and “suitable arrangements could certainly be made” to ensure that my choice found its way to my estate via a “friendly dealer”.

Steve made quite fast progress home – he’d rested during the reception and dinner, and I only had to “encourage” him a little.  But when we got back I insisted to took the trap around to the stables before he came into the house, and this seemed to sour his mood – or, at least, so it seemed to me when he ultimately stood in front of me still wearing the tiny running pouch.  Actually it was very erotic, somehow: I was used to having him naked of course, but now the outline of his thick cock and prominent cock head through the thin silk was very alluring, especially as his sweat had made the material almost transparent.  “See, Steve, how sensible I am to insist you keep your pubes close trimmed?”, I said, jokingly.  “That pouch would look dreadful if your pubic hair was sticking out all around it.”

“I might as well be naked, for all the good it does”, he snapped in reply, looking at himself in the mirror through the door of my dressing room. “It’s not right….”

“Steve, I don’t want all that again!  You’re a slave, remember?  And a slave should not feel embarrassment….”

“It’s all right for you, you don’t have everyone looking at you….”

“Steve, stop it!  So what if everyone is looking at you?  They’re admiring you, I think, and wishing they had bodies like yours.  Anyway, you’re all sweaty… Get showered, and get into bed… I don’t want just to look at your body, I want to feel it….”

I watched as he undid the ties holding the tiny pouch on, and was pleased to see that he was semi-erect when he shook his dick free.  But then he disobeyed me, and advanced towards the bed.  “No, I don’t think I’ll shower.  All this sweat is your fault, making me run at such a pace, and I think you ought to experience it….”

For a moment I was scared – he’s big, tough, strong and at thirty three could easily overpower me and do me serious harm before I could hope to summon guards.  But then I saw those little signs of that slightly rebellious nature which had attracted me to him in the first place as his mouth twitched just ever so slightly and his eyes sparkled… Reinforced a moment later by his cock, which began to erect seriously.

He flung himself onto me and pinned me on to the bed, and I was overwhelmed by his weight, and the intoxicatingly sensuous smell and feel of his hot, sweaty body.  He forced my hands above my head and pinioned them there with one of his big hands as he straddled my chest, allowing his naked ass to press down on my belly.  His cock hovered above my pecs, and I cold see a glistening jewel appearing form the nerd of it – not sweat, but pre-cum. “So, sir, I’ve got you.  You’re helpless.  I could rape you, and there’s not a thing you could do to stop me….”.  His mouth was now in that big grin that I find so attractive.

“So you rape me.  But that would be the last time you ever had sex.  Ever wondered what it would be like to spend the rest of your life without balls, or a dick, with just a little tube sticking out from where it used to be?”

As I said it, I realised I’d gone too far.  In spite of his tiredness, Steve had wanted to play.  But my words, even though spoken in the same way, had brought the real world crashing in on to us.  Steve let go of my hands, swung his leg up and got off me (as ever, moving so lightly and sensuously that it was if the weight of his body didn’t exist).  He lay beside me, on his belly, one arm bent and his head buried in the crook of his elbow.  He looked so dammed desirable, his whole body exposed to my view, that it was all I could do not to mount him immediately.  But that would only have made matters worse – Steve still liked to think of himself as a “straight man” and didn’t like proper man-to-man sex.  I knew he never gave himself willingly to me and was only ever acquiescing to being used as my sex toy, and on this first occasion when it seemed he might have been entering willingly into a little foreplay, I’d got it wrong.

It’s important to retain control of a slave at all times, though, and although I wanted to say something soothing and helpful, I judged it more important to assert my authority now.  So I stroked my hand down his spine, thrilling to the way it slid on his sweat and enjoying, as I always did, the feeling of his spine.  I rested it a moment on his butt, then slid a finger down the hot wetness of his ass crack.  I was so aroused now and wanted to fuck him immediately, but then I thought that he’d been out for several hours exercising and then pulling me, and that he had not had time to flush himself out.  I hate getting my own dick covered in shit, so I thought I would be generous – I slapped him on his butt, causing him to stir, and said sharply “Get down on my cock, Steve.  And when I’ve finished, you can spend the rest of the night with your son”.

He’s a good cock sucker, actually – it took a lot of training, but now he can take my whole length without gagging.  But because he doesn’t like doing it, he does it quickly and for me, that is hugely enjoyable: to see a big naked guy like Steve lying there, his head bobbing up and down on my cock so frantically, is really exciting.  I soon felt myself starting to cum, and, as usual, Steve was in tune with this and went to pull his head off – but I’m wise to his ways, and put my hand on his head to hold him down on to me so that I could shoot into his mouth.  Of course there’s no way I’m strong enough to hold him down if he actively resisted, but as in so many matters of slave control, it’s the psychology that’s important: the pressure of my hand on his head reminded him of my authority, and he lay the patiently as my “after shocks” filled his mouth.

I made him lie there for a few minutes afterwards, ensuring he licked my cock nicely clean before I told him to go to his son, then, as he walked across the room with his cock bouncing in front of him, I called out “Be sure to be here early, Steve.  We’re going back to the base tomorrow.”

“I suppose I’ve got to be your fucking pony again…..”

“A good slave is happy to serve his owner in whatever capacity his owner demands”, I retorted.  “But no – I want you fresh as I’m selecting a new slave and I’ll need your help.  You can run alongside the nigga.”

“But why….”

I didn’t want to answer his question as I wanted to keep him guessing about why I was going to have a new slave, and why I needed his help.  Knowing Steve, he’d worry about it most of the night and that would keep him slightly off balance and very alert.  So I said, in a stern, but not unfriendly tone, “Enough, Steve.  I want to get to sleep.  Now get out, before I change my mind and decide to fuck you anyway….”

I slept well, and awoke with a most satisfactory erection as I lay there in the early morning light allowing my thoughts to range over the selection of a new personal slave – should I have a blond or darker hair, a long thin cock or a short thick one, how tall should he be, how old….?  Each attribute has its attractions, but it’s the overall package that’s the point of it, of course.  I was leaking pre-cm and stroked my cock a few times – it’s a long time since I’ve masturbated myself as I usually have Steve do it on those occasions when I decide not to fuck him or one of the other slaves.  The novelty was such that I almost shot my load, but decided that the selection process would be all that more exciting if I was really horny – and, after all, I was almost certainly going to fuck the new slave later in the day, and at my age you do need to think about conserving your cum as older testicles just don’t produce the volume that young ones do. So I told my “dresser”, who was waiting patiently in the corner of the room for me to wake fully, to run my bath and to send Steve away (when I give him the night off to be with his son, he knows he has to be outside my bedroom door early in the morning in case I should need him).

Slave selection is always a manly, rugged kind of business, I think, so I elected to wear a sea-island cotton polo shirt in a medium knit in pale blue, and a pair of well-tailored dark blue jeans.  The dresser held out tailored silk boxer shorts and cotton briefs for me to select, but I decided to “go commando” – when the new slave saw me remove my jeans he’d therefore see my erect cock lurch upwards to my belly immediately, and that should get my session with him off to a good start.

Steve was waiting in the breakfast room for me, standing against the rear wall with his hands neatly clasped behind his back in the traditional “slave rest” position.  I always allow him to sit at the table and eat breakfast with me (well at least when I do not have house guests – most of my friends would be scandalised at the thought of having a slave at table), but I do not want him to consider this to be a “right”, and anyway it’s a good reminder to him of his slavehood to have him wait.  So as I came in I said “Good morning, Steve – help yourself to breakfast, and get stuck in as I want to get off”.

“Help yourself” is merely a courtesy on my part, as you might expect. Steve knows he’s not allowed to pick anything from the chafing dishes of sausages, bacon, eggs, kidneys, black puddings, and finnan haddock that are always waiting there as I am concerned about the health of such a valuable property as him and restrict the fat in his diet.  Likewise he’s not allowed the sugary cereals in their gaudy packages and is restricted to selecting bran or porridge, which he must take without sugar and only with skimmed milk.  He’s always hungry though and took a huge bowl of porridge – almost overflowing – then sat at the table waiting for me to be served by one of the waiters.  I deliberately took my time selecting my breakfast – I had half a grapefruit to begin, as I always do – as it amuses me to see Steve sitting there eyeing his food and anxious to start shovelling it down: he has to finish when I do, even if he has not eaten everything, and, as I said, he’s always hungry as I keep him deliberately a little short.  I find that “big” slaves like Steve can so easily put on a layer of fat, even when they are exercised hard as he is, and I’m determined that this should not happen to him, both as a protection of my investment, and because I find the sight of taut skin and the outline of bones aesthetically pleasing.

He bent over his bowl, wolfing down the porridge, his shoulders moving with the efforts he was making to get big spoonsful to and from his mouth as quickly as possible.  I insist that he always wears a shirt to the table, and for breakfast this is generally a simple singlet which leaves his shoulders bare as I find this interplay of his muscles first thing in the morning particularly pleasing as I eat (this “shirt to table” rule is something I would advise all owners to consider – even when we have our lunch at the side of the pool and Steve has been swimming, I insist he dons a shirt, and his cock and balls hanging down below the hemline then adds a particular frison of excitement).  He soon finished, then sat there looking at me imploringly as I toyed with my fruit, until, smiling, I said “OK, you can have another bowl, as we’ve got a busy day and you’ll need a lot of energy.  But only half.”

He sprang to his feet to serve himself and as ever I enjoyed the sight of his muscular thighs below the simple slave shorts as he stood at the buffet serving himself.  It was amusing to see how he had interpreted “half” – Steve has become an expert at obeying my commands in such a way that I can’t actually complain without an unseemly argument: his bowl was almost three quarters full, but not so much that a dispute about whether it was “half” or not could be seen as a matter of interpretation. My decision would be the one that counted, of course, but somehow having to make a ruling on something as trivial as this debases an owner – and, anyway, as I’ve said, part of the attraction of Steve is the way he pushes the boundaries like that in a way that a nigga wouldn’t.

After my grapefruit I had a single piece of wholemeal toast, freshly-churned butter from our own dairies, and some of the special English marmalade I have specially imported for me.  Steve is allowed toast, too, but he tries to wolf down five or six slices as I eat mine – he’s not allowed butter, and normally I only allow him to have some of “my” marmalade as a special treat, perhaps after a night when he’s been unusually sensual in bed, and the rest of the time he has to eat the peach jam made in the kitchens from the peach trees on the plantation.  I’m hoping that his brain establishes the subtle connection between outstanding behaviour in bed and the mark of my favour the next morning when I offer him marmalade, but I have to say I’m not overly optimistic – it’s rather like training a puppy, I guess: any punishment or reward has to follow the action immediately, and it’s no use punishing it some hours after it’s left a mess on the carpet.

I did let him have a big mug of tea with his food – I take a thin china cup of freshly-brewed coffee.  But in England, on one of my many business trips there, I’d been visiting a building site to review the progress of my investment in it and had been invited into the site canteen for a break. The sight of the rugged workers all sitting tucking into enormous plates of food washed down by big mugs of tea was extremely stimulating, so I’d adopted the practice when I got home: Steve had a half pint thick earthenware mug of tea, with milk, and he was allowed to stir in two spoonsful of sugar, and I always enjoyed seeing his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed the hot liquid in big gulps between his slices of toast.

After breakfast we went out to the front of the mansion and my trap with its nigga was waiting.  I saw Steve begin to look concerned in case he had to pull me again, but I said cheerily “Just jog alongside me, Steve, so I can talk to you as we go.  I’d let you ride with me, but I’m a little concerned about being late and I need the nigga to run flat out, and he can’t do that if he’s got to pull your weight, too”.

“No problem, sir!  It’s a lovely morning for a run”, Steve replied, looking visibly happier when he realised that he as going to be able to continue to wear his shirt and shorts.

I can’t remember what I talked to Steve about on the way to the base – I probably asked him about the finer points of getting a young slave really fit, then maintaining that fitness.  But it amused me to keep asking him more and more questions as he was visibly having difficulties in replying as I’d set a fast pace for the nigga (reinforced with a lot of “encouragement”) and Steve had difficulties in keeping his voice even and calm because of the effort of breathing – as usual, Steve wouldn’t admit he ever had problems with anything physical.

When we arrived and were directed at the gate to head over to the administration block, and I told Steve that he was to accompany me as I needed his advice on the choice of slave – after all, they were going to have to live and work together, and so providing the slave met my exacting criteria, there would be no harm in letting Steve think he had some part of the decision, too.  But before we went in to the building I stopped him and said “You can’t go in like that, Steve!  Look at all the sweat soaking your shirt and shorts.  It will be unpleasant for those we meet to have to stand there and smell your body – strip off, use the clothes to give yourself a quick rubdown, and then you’ll find a fresh set of shirt and shorts in the hamper on the back.”

“Here, sir…?”  I could see Steve looking around at all the men and women coming and going into the building, and starting to be concerned.

“Of course here!  Where else?  I want you being a credit to me when we’re inside.”


“Just do as you’re told, Steve!  There’s no harm in you stripping off out here – you’re a slave, after all, and that’s perfectly apparent to anyone coming past as they’ll see your brand.”

I sat there, amused, as Steve pulled off his shirt and used it to wipe under his pits, mop his face and chest, and then stand there, still uncertain.  “Get a move on!”, I snapped, my tone sharper now, and Steve slowly and very reluctantly peeled down his shorts and stepped out of them, then stooped to pick them up (allowing me one of my favourite views of the male body as he bent), and quickly and sort of furtively scrubbed at his ass crack and then at his pubes with them.  He clutched the shorts to him as he went around to the back of the trap to get the clean clothes, as if they somehow gave him confidence as they concealed his tackle – but of course they left his lovely ass exposed.

A soldier in uniform showed us in to the Colonel’s office, and again I marvelled at how a free man was being used for this menial task, and the Colonel offered me coffee.  The orderly – another uniformed soldier – poured me some and went to offer it to Steve (who had assumed “slave rest” against a wall to the side), too.  I was almost shocked by this failure of etiquette, as not only had the orderly failed to ask me, Steve’s owner, if he could have coffee, but he was treating Steve as if he was a man.  Still, I suppose the quality of enlisted men these days is not all that high, and seeing my face change, the Colonel immediately understood what had happened and offered profuse apologies.

We quickly got the formalities of the proposed transaction over and I gave the Colonel a handsome cheque for the mess funds, and he then led me over to the window.  “The arrivals are just being released”, he said, pointing at a number of those huge trucks that they use to transport livestock standing outside – through the open slats in the side I could see faces peering out, human faces – well, slaves, of course – rather than the cattle they had originally been built for.  As we watched, soldiers opened the rear doors of the trucks and lowered the ramps, and then the men began to stagger out.

“It’s disappointing, Colonel…. So many niggas!  I was hoping for a big selection of whiteys….”

“As I said, my good sir, the North is mostly conscripting niggas from the ghettos in their cities…. But don’t worry, there will be a goodly selection for you – at least ten per cent of the North’s foot soldiers are white.”

“…and the don’t look in a very healthy condition…”

“Well that’s more or less inevitable – most of them have been locked up in the transporters for two or three days and they get only minimal food and water, providing the drivers can be bothered, that is.  But don’t worry – it might be a good thing for you: any slave you pick today can only improve when you feed him properly and so on.”  He paused, seeing my doubtful look, and continued “….but in any event, should you fail to be completely satisfied, you can return the property and come to the next input day, and so on, until you find something to suit.  I do understand how a gentleman of your discernment and taste will want a perfect animal, and I can see from your slave there that you have a good eye for male flesh.  But let me call in my sergeant who is responsible for input processing, so that he can look out a selection for you.”

He used his intercom and a few moments later the door opened and one of those “old time” sergeants, clearly a career soldier, marched smartly in and saluted. His uniform was crisp and neatly pressed, his boots shone, and his physique was a match for Steve’s – had I not already owned a slave like Steve, I’d have been tempted to ask the Colonel if there wasn’t some way that this sergeant could be disgraced and enslaved, then sold to me!  We began to talk about my requirements: “A whitey, probably 22 or 23 years old, and an anal virgin…..”

“Well that will be difficult, sir”, the sergeant said, a smile crossing his face. “Most of those former soldiers won’t admit to a little pleasure in the barracks, and there’s no certain test for virginity…”

“Well then, let’s say someone who has bred – if he’s been fucking women, it’s less likely he’s experienced his fellow soldiers.  And it will also be useful to have a proven fertile male as I will at some point almost certainly want to stud him.  So that implies a properly sized dick, too….. And I like a slave with low-hanging balls so that if I’m watching him fuck from behind, I can see his balls slap into the flesh of the other man… And that ‘slap’ noise you get as they slam forward into the skin is a turn on, of course…”

“Cut or uncut, sir?” The sergeant interjected.

“It’s immaterial.  He’ll be circumcised anyway, as all my slaves are – I don’t believe in allowing a slave to hide any part of his body away from me.”

“…and general size… Height…. “

“I don’t want anything as muscular as Steve there”, I replied, gesturing towards Steve.  Someone more with a runner’s body – slim, of course – and I like nice long thighs and a bubble butt.”

“…hair colour?”

“Dark, I think.  Steve’s sort of blond, and I’d like a bit of a contrast. I don’t mind a hair chest, but absolutely no hair on the back.”

“I think it best, sir, if I pick out the whiteys who have bred, in your preferred age and body type, sir”, the sergeant said. “Then you can come and make a more detailed inspection and selection.”

I nodded, and after a few exchanges with the Colonel, the sergeant departed, and the Colonel and I had another cup of coffee and discussed matters of mutual interest, before the sergeant came back and told me all was ready.

They’d lined up the selected captured soldiers in the gym – around twenty five of them – well surrounded by armed guards, and they well all clearly military as they were in a line, and standing “at ease”.  The sergeant asked me if there were any there I could say immediately I didn’t want, and I shook my head.  “A very good selection, sergeant.  I can see you have an eye for male flesh…”

He nodded, and barked “Prisoners…. Strip to the waist.”

There were some protests, quickly suppressed by the guards who used their rifle butts to club a couple of men to the floor.  I mentally ruled out the fallen as potential slaves, as it’s best to avoid trouble makers – or, at least, those who are bold enough to make trouble publicly.  Once their torsos were exposed I could rule out some of them immediately, as they lacked the kind of prominent aureoles and nipples I prefer, and many had large, unsightly tattoos.  Then, after a short discussion with me, the sergeant ordered the remainder to lose their uniform trousers.

Three of the men were “commando” – a good sign, I thought, and made a mental note to look at them more closely, but soon all were entirely naked – as I’ve told you I always enjoy seeing a man strip off his undergarments, but the sight of over twenty of them doing it almost simultaneously was especially arousing and my cock stiffened inside my jeans.  Steve was standing behind me watching, too, and I wondered what was going through his mind then – had he been part of a selection process like this, I wondered.

It was easy to eliminate those with “unsuitable” cocks and balls then – the long, thin asparagus dicks, the beer-can thick ones, the small tight scrotums with the cock almost mounted on top, and so on. We were left with only three at the end of that, and I decided that a close personal inspection was needed, and after discussion with the sergeant, they were led off into a small office at the end of the gym.

When I went in, followed by Steve, two of the men made some attempt to conceal their nakedness from me but the third seemed almost proud of his cock and I’m sure I saw him almost push his hips forward a little, as if to give it greater emphasis.  The sergeant barked at the other two to move their hands away so I could see them all properly, and, frankly, there was little to choose between all three as they all had the kind of body I was looking for, and were all pleasantly well hung.

I moved to inspect the first slave more closely, and he made no attempt to stop me taking his dick in my hand.  As it lay there in my palm it began to stiffen, and he moved his hips slightly so that it slid slightly in and out.  A smile was playing on his lips – some might call it an insolent smile – and he gave a small sigh of pleasure.  My suspicions were aroused, and I asked “How many kids do you have, soldier?”

“Two, sir.  But that’s before I divorced, and began to have proper sex….”

“Steve!”, I called out.  “Over here…. Down on your knees, and feel this ass for me.”

Steve looked almost rebellious, but I suppose he judged that this was not the time or place to make a stand, and he knelt in front of the soldier, reached around behind him, and started to wriggle his index finger up the guy’s ass.  The soldier grunted and his cock stiffened further.

“Well, Steve?”

“Fairly slack, sir.  Not much resistance…..”

“Not that one then, sergeant.  I really want a virgin.  So that leaves me a choice between these two.”

I ordered Steve to “finger” each if them in turn, and was gratified to see them both protest at the indignity and then give small whimpers of pain as Steve persisted in his examination.  Satisfied that they were probably both virgins, I asked them about their families, and one had a young kid, and the other confessed to having only just got married as he’d made his girlfriend a couple of months before.  So they both had the breeding potential I was looking for, and as I could see little to choose between them, I asked Steve for his views, as you will remember had been part of my plan.

“I don’t know, sir”, he told me, looking worried.  “I mean, sir, it’s such a personal thing.  And if I pick one and it turns out he’s unsatisfactory, sir, you’ll blame me….”

“Have you got a proper inspection horse, sergeant?” I enquired, and the sergeant nodded, opened the door and barked out an order, and soon two soldiers came in struggling to carry one of the solid “horses” with provision for restraining a slave slung across its back by means of cuffs and shackles on its legs.  Why on earth army didn’t use slaves for such work, rather than enlisted men, goodness only knows – but that’s not my problem.

Both slaves were pushed across the horse, side to side – I could see they didn’t like their naked bodies pressed close to each other – and they were securely fastened down.  “Right, Steve – the test.  I want you to fuck each in turn – five strokes in the first, then five strokes in the second, five in the first again, then five more in the second….”

“Please, sir, no….”

This was too much!  The sergeant was carrying one of those “swagger sticks” much beloved in the military, and I gestured to him to lend it to me, and slashed very hard at Steve’s butt a couple of times.

It was as much for show as anything, as it did not hurt Steve terribly and the real reason he started to obey me was because at the same time I shouted “Do as you’re fucking well told!  That is, if you want to see your son again – I could have you taken from her with these slaves, you know, directly to the dealer….”

Steve dropped his shorts, and stood there, a picture of misery as he stroked his cock into a very reluctant erection.  The sergeant leaned towards me and said “Very nice, sir – you’re a lucky man, to have a slave like that…”

I nodded, pleased that my excellent good taste had been recognised. Then we both watched as Steve moved behind the first man and struggled to get his dick down the guy’s crack and into his hole.  The guy struggled – futilely, of course – and began to scream and blaspheme as Steve entered him.  I could see Steve looking really unhappy as he raped the guy, and was really pleased to know that he had moved on so far in his conversion to a slave that now the threat of being sold was sufficient to cause him to do something that was so evidently contrary to his nature.

He didn’t look any happier when he moved on to the second slave, and I suppose this was a bit easier for the guy as Steve’s dick was now slimed with the first one’s ass juices.  It didn’t stop him screaming and shouting, though, and I took this as a good sign as it probably confirmed that he was indeed a virgin.

When Steve had finished, he stood there blushing with shame and embarrassment, his dick jutting out in front of him.  “Well?”, I asked. “Which one do you prefer?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Come on, Steve!  You must have some preference.  Which one’s ass gripped you tighter, which one gave you the bigger thrill….”

“Please, sir, I honestly don’t know….”

I nodded, took a coin out of my pocket, and tossed it.  Then said to the sergeant “the one on the right, please”.  I thought it would be a good illustration to my new slave that I considered him of so little importance that he could be selected at the toss of a coin.

The sergeant released the guy from the horse, and he stood there in front of me.  What’s your name, boy?”

“Private Williams.  3408217.  I’m a prisoner of war, and only required to give my name, rank and serial number”, he snapped.

“Steve – take the slave and spank him across your knee.  He needs to learn to obey me, right from day one.”

Steve looked startled at first, but I do sometimes use him to discipline the nigga waiters and other house slaves, so he knew what I meant.  The soldier – or should I say “my new slave” now – tried to resist but Steve quickly overpowered him, knelt on one knee and threw the slave across his other, and administered six very hard slaps to the slave’s bare butt – I could see most satisfactory red hand prints appearing in the milky-white skin which, presumably, had never so far been exposed to sunlight (something I would soon remedy).

When Steve let him up the slave stood there rubbing his butt with his hands, and I was amused to see that, like so many men who are spanked, he was sporting an erection – something that then caused him acute embarrassment when he realised that the four other men in the room were observing it.  “What’s your name, boy?”, I asked again, and he said, a little hesitantly, “Darren, sir.”  “Good. Well, Darren, you’re no longer a soldier.  You’re a slave, my slave. One of my personal slaves, like Steve there.  We’re going to leave this place now and return to my estate, and we’ll start training you.”

“Excuse me, sir”, the sergeant interrupted.  “But all slaves need to be branded and tattooed before they can leave, in case of escape.”

“Don’t worry, sergeant!  All my slaves are branded with my personal ownership mark, as you can see from Steve’s upper arm.  We’ll do that as soon as we’re home.”

“But sir, those are standing orders….”

“…and didn’t I hear the Colonel tell you to assist me in every way possible?  Shall we go back to his office and tell him that you will not let me remove my property…?”

“But, sir, the risk of escape… These Northerners can be sly….”

“I see you have a pair of handcuffs on your belt, sergeant.  Be so good as to cuff the slave’s left wrist to the right wrist of my slave Steve there. Then there’s no risk of escape – he cannot, as we have already seen, stand up to Steve.”

And that was it, really.  Steve pulled on his shorts, and we went out through the building to where my nigga was patiently waiting by the trap. Darren seemed suitably embarrassed by being naked, but it was good for him to start to learn that if that was how I wanted him to appear, that was it.

Steve and he jogged together behind the trap as we made our way home, and I didn’t particularly care that I could not see their bodies – I am always considerate of other users of the highway, and had they run alongside the trap they would have caused obstructions.  And, in any case, I wanted to lie there with my eyes closed thinking of the bargain I’d got – my generous contribution to the mess would be tax deductible, and I’d ended up paying substantially less for a young whitey slave than I would have probably had to in open auction: a real bargain.  Equally important, though, I had had a choice, and had been able to verify – as far as one ever can – that he was breeder and a virgin.  But even as these thoughts crossed my mind the more pressing ones of tonight’s excitement began to close in – Steve would have to hold Darren down as I began to instruct him in the ways I like to be pleased.  And, after that, I went on to think of the medium-term future: what delights there would be next year when Shane was enslaved and I could “mix and match” from a thirty-four year old, a twenty-two year old, and a sixteen year old, all superb examples of male flesh.  

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