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It was late spring and as usual, as I did every morning, as I’d done hundreds of times before since I was enslaved and brought here, I went into the pool enclosure and dropped my shorts, and began the chore of sweeping the pool. It was a slightly cool morning and the steam was rising from the heated water (Mr Hawthorne kept it usable the whole year around, even though no one ever used it at all!), and my skin was slightly pimpled from the chill. It’s funny, but after a time you get used to going around wearing, at most, shorts, and days when you’d have been pulling on a sweater and stuff now just seemed almost “normal”.
I worked away, as usual thinking how fucking unfair it was that I wasn’t allowed in the water – it was as ever crystal clear and inviting, and I used to really enjoy swimming when I’d been at school but when I’d first come to Manderleigh Mr Stryker had told me that it was absolutely forbidden to slaves to swim in the pool, as free men might think it was “tainted”. So even though no free men ever did swim in it – or, if they did, it was so rare and at times when Joe and me were working on the other side of the grounds – I had never had the sheer joy of racing up and down it’s long lanes, really using my body in a way that I’d used to relish. I had, after all, been on the swimming team, and had even thought I might get some sort of athletic scholarship on the basis of it, if my academic grades were not good enough. Then, as I sometimes did, I fell to musing about whether I could still swim, or would it be like all the “book learning” I had, and be gradually slipping away through lack of use?
So deep in thought was I that I failed to hear the gate open, and so when a voice called out “Who the fuck are you, in our pool?” I almost dropped the sweeper in surprise. I turned around and there was a guy about my own age, I’d judge, standing there in a baggy T and the kind of long shorts that free men wore, and carrying a towel.
“I’m Steve, sir, a slave here…”
“Oh, you’re Steve, are you? Well, you don’t look like a slave – except for that collar, I suppose. You haven’t got a tattoo or anything…”
I turned my wrist out towards him, so he could see the big black numbers on the underside, and he nodded. “Yes, my dad told me about you last night, you and your dad are both slaves here, aren’t you?”
“So what did you do, to get enslaved? Drugs? DUI? Fuck some underage girl?”
“None of that, sir. I didn’t do anything. I was sixteen when dad was enslaved, too old for child protection, and not old enough to be classed as adult, so I was enslaved too as his ‘property’.”
“Tough. But finish up here – I need to practice. There’s a big swim meet when I go back.”
I started to coil the hose and put away the tools, and as Idid so he pulled off his T, and dropped his shorts to reveal a proper “swimmer’s” costume of black Speedo. He walked purposefully to the end of the pool, then executed a perfect entrance, and began swimming strongly the length of it.
I carried on working, taking a kind of professional interest in his swimming as I used to be really good at it myself, but after four lengths he hauled himself out and began to roughly towel himself off. “That was good”, he told me. “A man needs a good exercise in the morning, and I need to keep in shape…”
I couldn’t stop myself. “Sure”, I blurted out, “But that’s no kind of exercise for a real swimmer. I thought you had a big meet, soon..”, and realising I’d been really presumptuous, and he might order me to be punished, I added a “…sir.”
“I suppose you’re right, but just doing lengths is so fucking boring. At school we train as a team, and it’s a whole lot easier with some competition.”
“Yes, I always found that. Swimming with my team mates was the best kind of practice.”
“You swim, then?”
“Not since I was enslaved.”
“So you’ve never used this pool?”
I shook my head.
“Slaves aren’t allowed in the pool, sir. They say it taints the water.”
“Come and swim with me now.”
“But sir, I’ll be punished if Mr Stryker finds out….”
“Listen, you fucking slave – what’s your name again?”
“Well, Steve, I’m Charles Hawthorne, Charles Hawthorne III to be exact. My dad owns this place, and employs Stryker. And one day I’ll own it, and you, too, I suppose… Now, fucking well do as you’re told, or you surely will be punished!”
We strode towards the end, and I followed him. We stood there, and he said “OK, ten lengths. And make sure yo try.. If I don’t think you’ve been trying, I’ll get Stryker to cane you. So on three… One, two….”
As he said the two, he dived in, and so I was already at a disadvantage. But as I dived and the water closed over me, man, did it feel good. I slipped into the strong crawl without even thinking about it, and raced after him down the pool. And when we turned – me a fraction after him – I found here were some advantages to being a slave: I’d always had strong lungs and powerful legs, but now I kicked against the end wall and had enough “puff” to keep streamlined under the water for about a quarter of the length of the pool. By the end of the first two lengths I was ahead of him, and by the time we’d done ten, I was standing at the end, waiting for him to catch up.
He put his arms around me as swimmers do after a good race, and even held out his hand – I forgot what this was all about or a moment or two, then remembered, and shook his with mine. We pulled ourselves out of the water and sat on the edge, feet dangling in, both still breathing hard.
“Pretty good, Steve! But once I get my form back, it will be tougher for you… Or should I say ‘harder’?” As he said this, he gestured down at my dick, grinning: after that time in the water it was rock hard, pointing towards the sky. I know some guys shrivel up in the pool, but for me it’s always been different – it always gives me a hard-on, and often at swim meets I’d be almost too embarrassed to get out of the water, thinking that the whole place would see my dick straining against my Speedos.
“Same time tomorrow, then”, he said, as he pulled himself to his feet, and went to towel himself off again. I watched with envy as he then stretched out on one of the loungers, in a patch of the early morning sun, as he probably had nothing else to do that day, whereas for dad and me there would be the usual work down in the vegetable plot, and Stryker had told us to be at the studding barn that afternoon. Life did seem to be so fucking unfair – my dad had cheated the IRS out of a few hundred dollars, and here I was, a slave. I bet his dad, and that bank he was the president of, cheated the IRS out of millions every year, and here he was, relaxing in the sunshine.
That afternoon, as Amos and Andy were cleaning Joe and me ready for studding, I asked them about the kid. They were a mine of information – he was Mr Hawthorne’s only son, almost eighteen (so he was about the same age as me, as I’d surmised), and he’d spent the last two years living with his divorced mother in Europe somewhere. Now he was back in the USA, as his father wanted him to do US exams and get into one of the ivy league colleges. “He lives in Manhattan, with Mr Hawthorne, but I heard them say that he’d be coming down here every weekend with his old man as Mr Hawthorne didn’t want to leave him alone in the city”, Amos said. “Mr Hawthorne said he didn’t want Charles to be ‘corrupted’ by the wicked folk in New York, but if you ask me….”
“No one was asking you, Amos!”, Mr Stryker thundered out. “And I want to hear no more of this tittle-tattle. Slaves who are allowed in the house should not listen in to private conversations that their owners are having. If I hear you do that once more, I’ll have you flogged. Or perhaps we could have your vocal chords cut….”
I was used to the ritual of the studding shed now, and waited patiently as I was cuffed and collared, then waited submissively as my arms were pushed up my back and chained to the collar. The blindfold held no terrors for me now, either, and, if anything, I preferred not to have to look at the nigga women I was made to fuck: there was nothing wrong with the actual sensation, but, quite frankly, I’d got to the point where I preferred to look at men, men with good hard bodies, as I fucked them. I suppose I was living out that old maxim that “women are for breeding but men are for delight”. In any case, though, there was not much I could do about it, was there? I was a slave, and I now knew that I had to do what I was commanded or else punishment would surely follow.
In some ways it was good to be studding alongside dad – I mean, a guy likes to do things with the father, doesn’t he? And it added a certain interest for the clients in that we’d both be offered for him to choose, if there was only one nigga to be fucked. It always amazed me, though, that I was rarely chosen in these circumstances, as they always seemed to go for dad. He and I used to talk about this sometimes at night, and we had various theories. He thought it was because he was “proven” – they could see that he could breed as I was living proof of it, and they could even see, in me, the results of that breeding. On the other hand, he said, if they bought me, they were buying into an unknown future. Sure, I produced lots of cum – generally we’d been fucking when we had these conversations so there was plenty of proof of that – but how could they be sure I was fertile? And, if I was, suppose I harboured some dreadful genetic inheritance? “But Joe,”, I argued, “I’m sure they’ve thought of that – before they put either of us out to stud they probably ran all kinds of tests to make sure we were both proper breeding material..”
“Yes, I suppose so, Steve. It’s odd, isn’t it – when I bred you, I just did it. Anyone who can find a woman to fuck can just breed if they want to. But if you want to do any kind of fancy thing, like artificial insemination, even if it’s your own wife, they make you go through all kinds of fancy tests to make sure you’ll be a ‘proper’ father.”
“Well, Joe, you sure are a proper father”, I replied, laughing, and giving his balls a friendly, gentle squeeze. “You’ve given me a proper inheritance…”
“Yes, Steve. You’ve really grown into a man to be proud of. Mind you, we have a good healthy life here, lots of proper food, exercise, no stress….”
“Joe, are you trying to make out it’s OK to be slaves?”
“No, Steve… But it isn’t all bad….”
My happy mood vanished as he said this, as, frankly, I didn’t think it was OK to be a slave, however “good” the life was supposed to be. Sure, I had lots of good sex, but I knew I was losing a whole lot of other things: I wondered if I could still remember how to read, for example! I turned over and tried to sleep, but dad knew instinctively that I was upset. “Steve”, he whispered “Look, son, I’m sorry… You know that…”
“Don’t keep telling me that! Being sorry doesn’t help, and you know that as well as I do. It’s your fault I’m a slave, not a free man.” The moment I’d said it, I knew I was wrong. It was true, of course, but sometimes you shouldn’t tell the truth, especially not to your nearest and dearest, should you? It’s better to let things be. But there’s no way of taking back words once you’ve spoken them, is there? I wished I could, but I couldn’t. So dad and I went to sleep unhappy.
Whilst we were lying there, though, Mr Stryker poked his head in through the door of the mowing shed and shouted “Steve, you’re to be at the pool at five in the morning – young master Charles wants to swim again, and he’s got to catch the plane back to New York with Mr Hawthorne: they have to be there for Mr Hawthorne’s meetings. Be sure not to be late….”
He didn’t tell me how I was supposed to know it was five, so I had a really restless night – not only was I upset at what I’d said to dad, but with a deadline like that, sleep was impossible. So I was out by the pool really early – much too early – and it was really chilly in the pre-dawn as I stood there. I started to shiver, and wrapped my arms around myself to try to keep warm, and then looked down at the water, steaming away. There was no one else around, and, anyway, I was there to swim, wasn’t ? So what would be the harm in actually just doing a few “warm up” lengths – lengths that really would “warm” me, I hoped?
I dropped my shorts and dove in, did a coupe of strenuous lengths, and then, revelling in the sensation of the water on my body, flipped over onto my back and just gently lay there ,doing the minimum arm and leg movements to keep me afloat. Suddenly there was shout, a shout of annoyance, which I didn’t hear properly as my ears were mostly submerged. There on the side of the pool was My Stryker, looking angry, very angry indeed!
“You fucking slave!”, he screamed at me as he saw he had my attention. “You know it’s forbidden for slaves to use the pool. Now, get out, get out at once,”
I did a couple of quick strokes to the edge, hauled myself out, and stood there naked in front of him, feeling he water running off my body. I felt instantly chill, as the water evaporated in the cool morning air, and began to shiver slightly.
“You’ve been told often enough, Steve, that you’re forbidden to use the pool. Now, bend over that lounger…..”
“But boss, please, I was only waiting for master Charles…. I was cold, and….”
“Shut the fuck up! I don’t want to hear excuses! It’s simple enough even for a slave to understand, surely: slaves do not swim in the pool, unless they are specifically ordered to. I’m not surprised you’re trembling – you’ve been warned that you’ll be punished for breaking the rules, and you’ve become altogether too ‘uppity’ recently anyway… So now’s the time for me to show you that slaves here at Manderleigh obey, or take the consequences. Now, bend over that lounger….”
I lay there, really shivering now, and feeling the remains of the pool water run down my belly and onto my dick, and then drip to the ground. It must have looked as if I couldn’t contain my piss, as I was so terrified. I heard Stryker before I felt the pain – there was a terrible hissing noise in the air, and then my world exploded as he used a cane to slash viciously across my butt. I screamed with the sheer unexpectedness of it, and then the initial harsh stinging was replaced with that awful after-sensation as a hot, angry warmth from the blow spread through my muscles. He slashed at me again, and again, and the pain got worse and worse – you expect it to get duller and duller as your nerve endings get used to it, but in my experience it just gets worse and worse. And then, with a sickening precision, he moved on down over my tightly-stretched thighs, adding a whole new dimension to what I was feeling.
I don’t know how long it would have gone on for, and I don’t think that swimming in the fucking pool merited this level of punishment anyway – so perhaps Stryker was working out some of his own shame at having me know about his “little secret” – very “little” secret. I thought at first that he’d just give me the traditional six stripes, but it went on and on, until a voice called out “What the fuck are you doing, Stryker?”
“Just punishing this slave, Mr Charles. He was in the pool, without permission….”
“But you’ve beaten him almost raw… Look at the mess you’ve made of his butt… And his thighs….”
“He’s an uppity slave, sir, and sometimes a slave needs reminding of what he is, and deserves a more severe beating to compensate for all the little things he thinks he got away with. That’s the way slaves are, sir, sly…. They take liberties when they think you are not watching them, and this slave is one of the worst at that as he hasn’t still really adjusted to being a slave. So when I caught him in this act of disobedience, I decided to punish him for all the others I didn’t see.”
“That’s nonsense, Stryker! You punish him for things you saw him do, and for things you didn’t see him do…. It sounds really unfair, to me.”
“Sir, with respect, you know nothing about the management of slaves. I can assure you that they all take liberties, all try to shirk work, to cut corners, to cheat your father out of what is rightfully his. Believe me, sir, I’ve been managing slaves for many years now, and they’re all the same, every one of them. And Steve here needs reminding every now and then that he’s just a slave, however he got to be one – he keeps saying ‘it wasn’t his fault’, but that makes no difference: a slave is a slave, and if their defiance and wilfulness isn’t beaten out of them, our whole system would collapse.”
“No, sir. You’ll have to defer to me on this one. Your father employs me to manage the slaves, and until he tells me otherwise, that’s exactly what I will do.”
With that, Stryker turned and stalked off. Charles looked at me as I gingerly stood upright. “Steve, are you OK?”
“No, not really… I can hardly move for the pain.”
“I guess you’d rather not swim, then?”
“Yes, sir, thank you… It would really hurt… I don’t know how I’m going to get through work today, as it is….”
He turned to go, then looked back at me. “Oh, I’ve just remembered: I won’t have time to practice tonight as my girl friend’s coming over, so now’s the only chance I’ve got today. You keep telling me about the importance of regular practice, so I do need a good workout.”
He looked at me again, as if waiting for something, waiting for me to say something. Surely he didn’t expect me to offer to swim anyway, in spite of the eating I’d just had? But he did! “So you’re going to have to swim, Steve. Sorry about that, but you’re a slave, and you know that an owner’s needs come first, don’t you?”
I could hardly believe my ears. A moment ago he’d been arguing with Stryker, almost taking my side. Then he’d said he knew I must be hurting… And now he was ordering me to do something I’d told him was really, really painful for me! I felt my temper flaring, and I wanted to tell him that he was just a rich, spoiled, brat, that he had no concern for others, that he couldn’t know anything about the suffering of others, that… I almost burst out in anger, but then I realised it was no use – he just didn’t see the world my way at all – I was just a slave, and I only existed to serve his needs, and my problems were of absolutely no consequence to him. He wasn’t necessarily cruel or anything, he just didn’t have the frame of reference for his thinking that allowed him to see that slaves were humans, too, humans with feelings, with bodies, with needs.. Humans who could hurt, .. No, to him I was something totally different, some sort of sub-human, an animal who could think, and reason, but still an animal,, nevertheless.
I winced with the pain from my battered butt and thighs as I made my way towards the end of the pool, and Charles dropped his shorts and settled himself into his Speedos. “You know, Steve”, he said conversationally, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “You must like being punished: you’ve got a massive erection even before we get into the pool. I’ve read that men who are whipped and stuff almost always shoot their loads, but I always thought it was just fiction – and here you are, like that, after Stryker has just warmed your ass a bit….”
“It was more than ‘warm my ass’….”, I muttered gruffly, sounding really pissed off.
“Hey, Steve, enough of that! I can see what Stryker means about you perhaps being a bit ‘uppity’. It seems to me that you do need a bit of attitude readjustment, and so perhaps that beating was no bad thing. Anyway, let’s not delay any more, I’ve got a plane to catch. So, on three… One, two….”
This time I was ready for him. I was sick and tired of him going off at two, to give himself an advantage, so as he counted the two, I summoned all my courage to force my body to dive, and hit the water and started to swim. The water felt good on my butt, but I was in agony at having to drive my body as my skin flexed and tensioned over the stripes from the beating. I got to the other end, though, and sensed there was something wrong, so I stopped. He was still standing there, at the far end. “You fucking cheat!”, he screamed at me. “If Stryker was here I’d order you to be flogged again. What do you think you’re doing, trying to get an advantage like that?”
I hauled myself out of the water and jogged down the pool side to him. “Listen”, I said, bluntly “You always go off on two. That’s the only reason you’re ever ahead of me. So today I decided to even things up a bit….”
I saw him blush, and knew that he knew that I was right. But then his temper blazed, and he went to the pool-side phone and pressed something, and a couple of minutes later Stryker was back. “You’re right, Mr Stryker – I’m sorry to have doubted you”, I heard him say. “This slave really is uppity. He’ just been really rude to me, and tried to cheat me…. I can see you’re right, now – he is too damned uppity, and he needs a lesson. I don’t think you caned him hard enough…. Give him a few more strokes.”
“Certainly, sir. But now I look at him, I can see his butt and thighs are pretty well beaten already, and I’m concerned that if I do more, he may not be able to stud tomorrow.”
“That’s not my problem Stryker! He needs punishing. And if he can’t stud, there’s always his father, after all..”
“But sir, I think your father would be upset if we weren’t able to offer the normal service: we offer visiting owners and their bitches a choice, remember.”
“Stryker, I couldn’t give a fuck about the service we offer – this slave needs punishing, now do it!”
“May I suggest, then, that we do it on the front of his thighs, and his belly? We don’t usually punish slaves here like that, s it’s so painful and your father generally considers it inhumane…”
“Fuck that, Stryker! So it hurts more to cane the front of the thighs, and the belly?”
“Oh yes, sir…”
“Well do it, then. Steve deserves it, and when I come back next week, perhaps he’ll remember, and behave a proper slave’s attitude in future. You know what they say, ‘spare the rod and spoil the slave’….”
I saw a evil smile on Stryker’s face as he commanded me to lie on the lounger again, but this time on my back. It really hurt as I lay there, as the beating he’d already given me had made me so tender and sore that it was almost agony to lie like that. But it was as nothing to what I experienced as he began to strike out at my thighs – there’s almost no muscle on the front, of course, nothing to protect your bones from the cut of the cane, and each time I was struck I couldn’t help but howl with the almost indescribable pain that was produced. But after eight strokes, he stopped, and I heard myself sobbing – yes, that’s what I was doing: I was no longer screaming with the pain he’d caused, but my whole being was taken up with this crushing, overwhelming hurt, and this was causing me to lose control completely and just lie there giving great racking sobs that shook my whole body.
I was dimly aware of Stryker and Charles looking at me, and then I saw Stryker raise the cane again. I guessed what was coming, and braced my stomach muscles for the blow. Was this the right thing to do? I don’t know – is it better to be caned across taut, muscles, or let the cane fall onto a softer, unprepared area? But this was like nothing I’d experienced before, and my sobs were simply beaten out of me – my lungs felt as if they were in spasm, and could no longer drive any air out to make any noise at all.
There are only so many blows you can get in on the belly, though, and even Stryker had to stop relatively quickly I was aware of Charles’ eyes shining with excitement as he peered down at the quivering mass of punished flesh I’d become, and he clutched at Stryker’s biceps, and said excitedly “More, more…”
“I’d better stop now, Mr Charles…. I don’t want to damage an internal organs with more blows. And if I go higher up the body with this cane, which is the standard punishment one I always carry, I’m in danger of cracking one or more of his ribs. If you need him punished more, I can of course always go an fetch a thinner, more springy one, one that would sting more, without the weight…”
“Oh, well, I suppose you know best. I doubted you once about the management of salves today, until he showed me how uppity he was, so I’d better defer to you on this, too. I’ll be back next week, and if his general manner hasn’t improved , perhaps you’d give me lessons with that. Now I’d better run – this has taken as lot of time, and if I keep dad waiting, he’ll be really cross….”
He pulled on his shorts and strode off, and Stryker stood over me once more. “Now, Steve, perhaps you’ll learn. Don’t get uppity, don’t think you can treat free men as if hey were fellow slaves. Just because Mr Charles lets you swim with him, it doesn’t mean that he’s your buddy. And just because you and I have…. have fun… It doesn’t mean that you get special rights and privileges. Do you understand?”
“Yes, boss”, I muttered, having to force the words out. I now knew that Stryker had used this incident to really punish me as he’d have difficulty in doing normally – I did, after all, generally work very hard indeed, and everyone knew it. He couldn’t justify that sort of beating on the basis that I was failing to work, and someone might ask him why one of the most expensive slaves on the place was battered and beaten. And he certainly couldn’t say it was because he didn’t really like me dominating him and fucking him, when, by tradition and custom, overseers were meant to fuck slaves, not the other way around. So he’d used this trivial incident with Charles to revenge himself, exert himself, give himself a sexual charge? I didn’t really know, but I knew that I’d better be careful in future, and give him absolutely no excuse for hitting me again as next time he might not stop and might leave me permanently damaged or scarred.
I could see that life was going to be much more difficult in future: up until now I suppose I had never really thought about my life being “worry free”, but I generally hadn’t worried too much about being punished as both dad and me just stuck at whatever we were told to do, and the light slashes we got when we were mowing or doing something difficult were not really punishments, but were designed to “encourage” us in our work. But now I began to realise what a dangerous game I was splaying, in dominating Stryker in the privacy of his apartment. I would really have to take care in future.
To be continued …
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