Click here to see all published chapters
Something in me said that I should return to New York, sell Manderleigh, and just let dad go with the rest of the assets. He was a slave, and he knew he was a slave, he accepted it, and that was his destiny. It would have been a neat way of solving a terrible problem for me. But my time as a trader had taught me not to run away from confrontations, and to face up to whatever I needed to do. Consequently after the morning service on Sunday for all the slaves I told Stryker to have dad brought to the study.
You may wonder why we had a service – I’m not religious of course, as before I was enslaved I’d been a clever, intelligent person with no need of these stupid props: I think I gave up on religion as soon as I realised that god was just another one of the myths that kids were told about, like the tooth fairy and Santa Claus. Anyway, one of the worst things about being a slave was the compulsory attendance at these stupid Sunday services: we were all lined up in the yard, and the local preacher came in and told us all about the love of Jesus and how things were going to be better in the next life! When I became owner of Manderleigh my instinctive reaction was to have the whole stupid business stopped, but Miles pointed out to me in his laconic way that it was well known that religion was good for slaves – or, rather, for their owners. “You perhaps haven’t done enough history, Steve, to see that throughout human civilisation rulers have always used religion to oppress the ruled – they get the churches to preach these fairy stories about after life and everything to them, so it makes the life the miserable serfs live here on earth seem a bit less harsh. And all religions preach obedience to authority, too. Your slaves will be told by the preacher that it’s god’s will for them to obey those in authority over them, that they’re to love those who oppress them, and that if they do everything right, there reward will be sure, in heaven. It makes most of the slaves much easier to handle here on earth!”
“Whereas I’ll burn in hell? Do they get told that too, Miles?”
“Oh no. You’ll be redeemed by the love of Jesus, too.”
We were lying together in bed at the time, and I laughed as Miles said this, and flipped him over on to his back and before he could say any more, jerked his legs in the air and pushed my dick at him. “So I may as well sin again, Miles….”
Anyway, I digress, and I had in fact kept the services going as it did, I suppose, keep some of the slaves more subservient. So I was sipping my morning coffee when Stryker brought dad in once the service was over, and his skin had a delightful sheen of sweat all over it from where he’d had to stand in the sun for an hour or more listening to all the pious claptrap. Dad kept his head respectfully bowed – he had become such a cringing slave – so he didn’t at first notice me, and stood there at “slave rest” with his hands neatly clasped behind his back, his feet spread, and his hips thrust slightly forward so that his cinched dick was even more prominent than usual.
I went over to him, and said quietly “Dad…. It’s OK, you can look up… “
He raised his head. “Master….. Steve…..”
“Are you OK, dad?” I know it’s banal, but what else do you say, in the circumstances?
“Sure, son…. Master…..”
“Much the same, son…. Master…. I work, I stud…..”
Look, this was tough going, and quite painful for me. If dad had just said something, done something, told me he hated being a slave, thrown his arms around me – I was his son, after all – things might have been different. But he didn’t. He just stood there, subserviently, calling me “master” most of the time, and showing that he was so deeply mired in slavedom now that it seemed impossible to believe that this was the man who I used to admire and respect. And I saw that there was just no way that I could return him to being my father. As happens normally when your parents get very, very old, it was time for the next generation to assume control and look after them – but dad couldn’t have been more than fifty, and his body was in superb physical condition.
I talked to him for a bit – was the food OK? Was the work too hard? Did he get on with Juan? And so on, but he just didn’t spark, just gave me mostly monosyllabic answers. Finally, I called for Stryker, and told him to take dad back to work, and to return to the study.
“What’s happened to Joe, Stryker?”
“Nothing, sir. He’s just become the perfect slave. It happens – at some point a man realises he’s never going to be free, and that the way to a better life is to accept what he is. And not only to accept it, but to embrace it. Then work is no longer a chore, it’s his whole reason for being. And a tawsing or caning isn’t punishment, it’s what he deserves for not working hard enough. He ceases to struggle, never thinks about disobeying, and we could even remove his collar as it is inconceivable that he would even try to escape.”
“Does this happen t o all the slaves, then?”
“Oh no, sir. Only to the lucky ones, we say! After all, slaves are always slaves, and there is no escape. So if you learn to accept it, life becomes a whole lot easier for you. Imagine how awful it would be if Joe was always fighting the system, was always pushing back instead of accepting things…. As it is, he’s happy, and contented. Indeed, the harder he’s told to work, the more contented he becomes as he understands he’s doing his very best for his owner…. For you, sir, that is.”
I sat here for a moment, thinking about it. And I could see that what Stryker was saying appeared to be right, from the conversation I’d just had with Joe.
“Stryker, you’ve had much more experience of slave handling than me, and you describe a credible scenario. So Joe still works hard?”
“Yes, sir, ‘he works like a nigga’, to use an old phrase!”
“And he still studs?”
“Oh yes, sir. He’s still in demand, as he’s been at it long enough now for there to be lots of his progeny….” Stryker looked a bit embarrassed now and he sort of mumbled “…some of whom might be yours, of course, sir, from those double studding sessions…. Anyway, the progeny show all the traits that owners are looking for – big strong bodies, long legs, and of course a paler skin…. There’s a whole lot of piccaninnies in these parts who are strikingly like each other, sir.”
“Stryker, I’d never thought about it…. They’re my half brothers and sisters…. Or perhaps my sons and daughters….”
“Oh no sir…. No daughters and no sisters…. No owner bothers to breed females, and as soon as a bitch gets in the club, they have her tested and any females are aborted so she can get studded again as quickly as possible.”
“But lots of half-brothers, and sons….”
Stryker looked embarrassed again, and shuffled nervously. “Well, actually not, sir. In law, they’re slaves, as they were sired by a slave and bred from a slave…”
“Well that may be OK for Joe, but I wasn’t a slave, as we now know….”
“Yes, sir, but don’t worry: the dams were slaves, so that automatically makes the sons slaves anyway. I mean, it’s no worse than an owner personally getting one of his bitches in the club, as some owners like to do, is it? The offspring is always a slave, and you have no responsibility for them at all, sir.”
“Well I can see the position in law, Stryker. But I don’t like it all that much…. I think we will withdraw Joe from stud.”
“Sir, please don’t do that! Mr Hawthorne spent a long time building our reputation here – a Yankee coming in and buying a plantation, then flaunting his wealth by flying in from New York on the weekends…. It didn’t go down well with the neighbours. And he only got accepted when the local folk saw how generous he was by making such a superlative whitey as Joe available for stud at the same fee as you’d charge for a normal nigga. Don’t throw it all away, sir…. Folks will talk….”
Yes, I thought to myself. I want to move in society here else the weekends will be lonely and boring, and if I withdraw Joe, they’ll quickly make a connection between him and the new owner of Manderleigh! So perhaps I should leave Joe on stud, as it will make things easier for me. And I did like watching dad in action, after all – those thighs, his butt…. And, after all, Joe enjoyed it! I remembered all those times when I’d been faintly disgusted at having to use my dick in some nigga bitch, but dad had been happy, almost bragging about his prowess at fucking bitches.
“Very well, Stryker. I agree with you. Let’s not upset the status quo at the moment. Keep him on the outside work, and at stud, as usual, and I’ll think about what’s to be done in the long term.”
By that strange coincidence I mentioned earlier, by the following weekend there had been news about Charles. One of my executive assistants at the bank came to me with a rather curious official pronouncement from the New York City Slave Processing Authority “requiring and demanding” that I remove my slave from their care “forthwith”. I didn’t have time to do anything about it – that’s why executives have assistants, after all – but told the man to investigate. It seems that Charles had “recovered” and was considered “cured” although the Authority “strongly recommended” that the slave be assigned duties where “close confinement or shackling would ensure that he had no access to drugs”.
Some “cure”, I thought! Still, it sounded as if he was alive and not permanently catatonic, and I wondered what to do. Although the apartment was massive there were no adequate provisions for caring for possibly troublesome slaves – all the slaves there were properly subservient maids, waiters and so on, and so it seemed reasonable to have Charles transferred to Manderleigh where Stryker and the other overseers would be available to deal with him. Accordingly I told my assistant to make the arrangements to have him caged and carried down with us in the hold of the executive jet the following Friday.
I was enjoying my usual relaxing gin and tonic in my study at Manderleigh before dining when Stryker came in and told me that Charles’ crate had arrived on the slow truck that brought the luggage from the airport. I was vaguely curious to see what had happened to him, and accompanied Stryker to the goods inwards bay in the plantation, and Stryker and I stood on a balcony and watched as the slaves broke open the crate to reveal the transit cage inside. Charles was curled up in the foetal position – I suppose he was used to that, so it wasn’t a particular hardship – but even from a distance I could see that he looked very thin and not in good condition at all. As they unlatched the lid of the cage he stood up, and I could see that they hadn’t cared for his body at all – his hair was long, he had several days of beard growth, and generally looked very scruffy. Still, he did seem to be “functioning” as he began to complain to the slaves, and demand to know where he was!
They didn’t reply, of course, as they were well trained and used to handling new stock. “Have him properly cleaned up – inside and out. Get his hair cut: standard slave trim. Have his pubes trimmed and his balls shaved, but leave the rest of his body hair. Give him some slave shorts, and then bring him to see me after I’ve dined”, I told Stryker. One advantage of having a good chief overseer is of course that you can make these generalised statements and don’t have to explain what a “standard slave trim” is, as he knew how I liked all the slaves at Manderleigh to look.
I left Stryker to give the detailed orders, therefore, and strolled back across the immaculate grounds to the house – dad and the Mexican were doing a good job, I noted with some satisfaction. I finished my drink and went into dinner, and as usual on Fridays Stryker joined me as he updated me during the meal on things I needed to know about the plantation – not much, generally, as he was so competent. But this evening, as we sat wit the last of a rather good burgundy and the cheese (a habit I’d learned from Mr Hawthorne, whose extensive travels had shown him the benefits of the European way of dining), Stryker suddenly said “What are you going to do with Mr Charles, sir?”
“Is there a problem, Stryker?”
“Well, sir, are you proposing to leave him here? Whose orders will I obey, if there’s a conflict – yours, or Mr Charles’?”
I laughed and leaned forward across the table towards him, twirling my wineglass by the stem almost in anger as I did. “Stryker, I am proposing to leave him here. But there’s no question of him giving ‘orders’ – he’s a slave! I haven’t decided what to do with him yet, but make no mistake about it – he’s a slave, just like any other.”
“But he’s Mr Hawthorne’s son…..”
“The LATE Mr Hawthorne’s son, Stryker! And it’s his actions that killed his father, indirectly – something for which he hasn’t been adequately punished – yet. He’s a slave here, just like any other. You don’t have any problems ordering my father around, I know, so you shouldn’t have any problems dealing with this slave either.”
Stryker nodded, and I could see that he understood my intentions. “If you’ve finished, let’s take coffee in the study… And order them to bring Charles in, in a few minutes.”
The study is still my favourite room in Manderleigh – unlike the drawing room which is much too large for one person to sit in comfortably, or the vast open entertainment and reception area which really needs a crowd of at least twenty before it feels “used”, the study is more “homely”. I do sometimes have to work in there on the weekends – people think it’s easy being at the head of a major bank, but even with a good staff, there are some crises that get bounced to me even so – so I have a comfortable desk, chair and PC, and the only changes I’d had since taking over was to have the big couches on wither side of the fireplace replaced – all the activity that Mr Hawthorne liked to indulge in had inevitably meant that the fabric of them had become a little stained, and I thought a fresh start was called for (even though, I suppose, most of the stains were from me!).
Stryker and I sat next to one another still talking business, when there was a respectful knock on the door, and when I’d finished speaking and told them to enter, one of Stryker’s underlings brought in Charles. The slaves had much improved him: his body was clean and glowing slightly with the sheen of slave oil that had presumably been rubbed in to him, his hair had been cropped to the standard half inch or so that I allowed, and he was clean shaven. He stood in front of me, between me and the fire, in standard slave shorts.
“Steve!”, he began at once. “Thank god! At last! You can’t imagine what I’ve gone through. Your fucking slaves have treated me terribly – I want them punished. And get me some proper clothes, will you? It’s not right to have me standing here in these slave shorts. At least a dressing gown, or something, until I can get to the stores….”
I saw Stryker looking with amazement that a slave should dare to speak like this, and his hand reached for his punishment cane that was as always hanging from his belt. I reached out and touched his wrist to stay him, then looked at Charles. “You’re correct, Charles – it’s not right for you to be in slave shorts!”. I looked at the overseer standing behind him, changed my tone, and said quietly “Strip the slave!”
The man reached forward, and before Charles could react, simply yanked the shorts down so that Charles was standing there totally naked in front of us. I remembered now that one of his best features was his dick – nicely in proportion to the rest of him, and hanging down in front of a set of well sized balls that were carried low and loose in their sac. The slaves had done a good job in shaving him and trimming his pubes to the small, short bar that I allowed, so all was clearly visible.
“Steve, you can’t have me naked like this….”, Charles almost wailed.
“Oh come now, Charles! Naked? You’re not naked! You’re wearing your slave collar. A slave is never naked in a collar, and that’s all he needs, isn’t it? You told me so often enough.”
“Oh come on, Steve, cut it out… A joke’s a joke! Tell the slaves to bring me something to wear…” He bent down to pick up his shorts, as if meaning to put them on whilst waiting.
“If you say one more word, slave, or make one more movement without being ordered to do so, I’ll have you punished”, I told him quietly. He stopped, and stared at me, as if he almost disbelieved what he’d heard.
“Let me remind you”, I continued. “A slave wears what his master ordains, and provided he’s collared, that’s sufficient. You kept me naked here, and although my body was a lot more pleasing to the eye than yours is – or is currently, perhaps I should say – I have decided that you only require a collar for your duties here.”
I turned to Stryker. “Six strokes, Stryker. Good, hard ones – don’t break the flesh, but he needs to learn to obey. It’s kinder if we teach him properly, from the outset.”
Stryker got up form the couch in a fluid motion that was pleasing to the eye as his big hard muscular body reacted, took a step towards Charles, then before Charles could resist he grabbed his wrist and twisted Charles arm high up behind his back. Charles bent double and began to shout with the pain, but Stryker just ignored him of course – he’d had enough experience of controlling slaves to know how much pressure to apply to cause sufficient pain so that the slave was helpless but which wouldn’t risk snapping the limb. In itself, seeing Stryker’s tanned, strong muscles contrasting with Charles’ deadly white thin body was vaguely erotic and I felt my dick begin to stir, but as Stryker thrust him down on his belly over the arm of the couch opposite and I got a glimpse of Charles’ balls swinging low between his thighs, I began to get a really strong erection.
Without stopping, Stryker released Charles’ arm but at once dug his big fingers into Charles’ neck to hold him there. His other hand released the cane from his belt, and before Charles could even think about squirming, the first of the blows landed squarely across his thin butt.
It must really have hurt Charles – all that time in rehab had left him thin, with wasted muscles, so the cane had no cushion of flesh to bite on. The red weals appeared across the white skin immediately, and I could only admire Stryker’s skill at getting them spaced out so precisely down the butt. When Stryker finished Charles just lay there, his initial scream now having become a low, pitiful wailing.
I nodded to Stryker, who dragged Charles to his feet and pushed him back in front of where I still sat. I looked at the pathetic object standing there, tears streaming down his face and his puny body all hunched up as he reacted to the agony from his butt.
“Let that be a lesson, slave! We run an orderly operation here at Manderleigh, and slaves behave properly, and work hard. Failure to obey the rules results in punishment. Do you understand?”
Charles just stood there, and I had to snap again “Do you understand, slave? Answer me, or face the consequences.”
Charles looked at me for a long few long seconds. I saw him thinking through what had happened to him. “Yes.”, he whispered.
“You are a slave now. I am your owner. Answer me properly!”
I thought Charles might do something stupid, but after a few more long seconds he whispered again “Yes…. Master.”
I continued to sit there, then snapped “Approach me!”. Charles took a couple of steps forward, and I reached out to take his balls and dick in the palm of my hand. He tried to move back, and I had to say sternly “Are you resisting your owner when he tries to inspect you, slave?”
Charles seem resigned now, and stood there as I weighed his balls and stroked his dick to some sort of an erection. I pushed his ‘skin back with my thumb, and looked at his dick head as it sat there, moist and dark.
“It’s not worth me inspecting the rest of him, Stryker”, I said, now in a business-like tone. “His muscles are almost non-existent and he’s generally flabby and weak. But where it counts, he’s in good condition – once we have him ‘skinned I think that dick will be more than adequate.”
“No….”, Charles whimpered, and I chose to ignore him.
“Yes, Stryker, I think this solves the other problem we were talking about, too. I wish to retire Joe from stud, but, as you say, our neighbours have come to expect Manderleigh to have a nice whitey available for them. This slave will do – once he’s been brought up to scratch. He needs proper feeding and, most of all, good, hard work and exercise to build up his muscles. Work him naked, of course, so that pasty white skin gets a good tan all over. And I think we even have the ideal job for him – I don’t want him on one of the nigga coffles – put him to work with Joe and that Mexican on the ground work. As he’ll be taking over from Joe in the studding barn, he may a well work alongside the man: who knows, perhaps he’ll pick up a few tips!”
“Three of them on the yard work, sir?”
“Oh yes, we really only need two if they’re properly supervised and ‘encouraged’. So to compensate, you can take some more of the plantation land in to the pleasure grounds – that will keep them busy. But be sure this one works hard – he’s got to look good for studding, as we want the guests to choose him as a younger man, rather than Joe.”
“Please, master, no…..”
“Slave, don’t you know that it’s forbidden for a slave to speak unless spoken to? But what are you objecting to? To having to work? That’s what slaves do!”
“Master, no, please don’t make me stud….”
“Why ever not? I seem to remember that you were eager to make me more suitable as a stud, so you clearly can have no objection to a whitey slave studding niggas!” I turned to Stryker, and went on “But that reminds me – our guests can be strange, and there was that issue of the slave looking too much like a free man…. When this slave is more muscled, and tanned, he will suffer from that problem. So schedule him to be tattooed with his name across his back, have him branded of course, and I rather like the idea of studs being ‘banded’ to make them display better. So have him fitted with the same type of bands as Joe has.”
“Master, please, no….”
“I told you to be silent, slave! One more word and you’ll be caned again.” My look seemed to quell Charles as he stood there, and I looked at Stryker again “There’s a problem, though…. That name…. Charles… It’s too long to fit nicely across his back. So we’ll rename him Chas. Yes, four letters, that will do. Oh…. and finally…. Get the vet in and have him ‘skinned: I seem to remember that the former owner’s son thought that that was a good thing to do to studs, as it made them ‘sleeker’ and guests preferred ‘the look’. So have the slave Chas ‘skinned tomorrow – I don’t mind if the vet has to be brought in specially – it needs to start healing so that his dick will be ready for studding quickly.”
I saw Chas start to protest, and Stryker raised his whip threateningly which did however quell him into silence. I gestured in dismissal, and the overseer pushed him, naked, towards the door. “Take him to the mower shed and put him in with Joe and the Mexican”, I called. “He needs to get to know his fellow slaves intimately!”
I turned to Stryker, who looked worried. “Come, Stryker, it’s what’s called ‘poetic justice’, I think.”
“Yes, sir. But what will folk around here think?”
“They won’t think anything, Stryker. They won’t recognise the slave Chas as the former Charles Hawthorne III: take away a man’s clothes, give him a slave haircut, tattoo him and brand him, and what they’ll see is a slave. But to make certain, perhaps for the first few studdings we ought to have him gagged as well as blindfolded, just to make certain he doesn’t cry out.”
“And Joe, sir?”
“What’s the problem there? I’m sure he’s big and strong enough to subdue Chas…”
“No, sir. If, as you suspect, Chas gets selected for studding instead of Joe, he’ll become restless… “. Stryker flushed slightly and almost stammered “If you remember, sir…. When you were put to stud after Master Charles’ ‘modifications’….. They stopped asking for Joe, and he became moody, didn’t work properly, had to be caned more…. And perhaps there was trouble at night, sir?”
“Yes, Stryker. Good point. But I think now’s the time to retire Joe from studding anyway. We talked earlier about all those little pickanninnies with some of my genes in them… Enough is enough, I think. Once Chas is ready, we’ll retire Joe and just use him for normal work.”
“Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Stryker really looked uncomfortable now. “Look, sir, Joe sees himself as a stud. He likes fucking the nigga bitches, sir. If we take that away from him then he’ll become moody, and we’ll have to punish him to keep up his work rate…. I don’t like to have to punish the slaves continually, sir… It’s bad for the overall tone of the place, as slaves ought to recognise that they work mostly without punishment, as it’s their place. And a big, tough whitey who flouts the general principles will be bad for discipline generally.”
I thought for a bit, and realised Stryker was right. It was fundamental to dad that he was a stud, and I didn’t really want dad caned and caned all the time – who knows, we might even have to have him whipped, if things were really bad and he was totally disobedient. And freeing him wasn’t an option – he was too much a slave, as I knew. So perhaps I could leave him – but, on the other hand, I didn’t like the thought of dad’s seed fathering more half brothers, whether they were slaves or not!
As I’ve told you, I’m a pretty clever guy, though, and after a few moments the answer came to me. “Right, Stryker – this is what we’ll do: Joe stays on stud, but our gusts have to understand that he’s always used first. Every one of the bitches gets fucked twice – once by Joe, and then by Chas. But when the vet calls tomorrow, have Joe fixed – get him one of those vasectomies, as I want no more actual breeding from him. That should keep him happy – you can perform perfectly well after a vasectomy, they say.”
“But sir, he’ll know… A lot of men have traumas after a vasectomy even when they have it done willingly. Joe will end up with a castration complex….”
“You’re right, I suppose. Look, tell the vet to do it under a general anaesthetic. Then, when he wakes up with sore balls, let Joe understand that he had to be knocked out as you needed to loosen his cinch bands or something, and we were worried about the pain! I’m told a man’s balls swell a bit after a vasectomy anyway, so the story will all hang together – no pun intended!”
Stryker smiled. “Very clever, sir. If things ever go wrong in banking, you’d make a good chief overseer!”.
To be continued …
Click here to see all published chapters