My cock was twitching and straining inside my Speedos as I lay in the warm afternoon sunshine watching the pool boy, Jason, going about the business of sweeping the base of the pool with the long- handled sweeper. He was naked of course, as my Uncle Jed is one of the old school who believes that the appropriate “uniform” for outdoor slaves in the summer months is their bare hide.
“It’s simple, Jon”, he told me “It costs nothing! You’d be amazed how much the laundry bills for even shorts and Ts mount up to, and then there’s wear and tear, as the slaves just aren’t properly careful with my property and allow their clothes to snag and fray. It’s also practical: the slave ought to be sweating heavily as he works at his assigned task, and even loose clothes should get soaked with his sweat, and then it can chafe him and lead to sores, so we’d have higher vet’s bills…. No, my father and his father before him always had the outdoor slaves naked, and I’ll continue that way in spite of what those fancy salesmen say about slave shorts made out of synthetics and so on.”
In this particular instance I was glad of my uncle’s views on the management of slaves, as Jason, like all the slaves selected for duties around the house rather than out in the fields, had been selected to be pleasing to the eye as well as having the strength for the work. I guessed he must have had some Greek or Middle Eastern ancestors fairly recently in his pedigree, as his skin was tanned so darkly that his overall complexion must be rather swarthy, and his hair was jet black and would probably have been curly, had not Uncle Jed’s strictures on such things meant that it was cropped into the usual half inch slave crop. As it was, there was a thick coating of hair on this arms and legs, a very nice thatch on his chest with a pronounced trail leading down across his flat stomach to his pubes, which, I mused to myself, must have been trimmed and neatened as otherwise there would be no way that they would set off his tackle so well. The sweat was gleaming all over his magnificent hide as he toiled away, and as I watched, I fancied I could almost feel those little rivulets of sweat coursing down his body, crossing his belly and running down his cock, to fly off in the air as it swung there as he worked.
Look, I don’t want to give you the impression that I’m gay! Unlike most of my friends I had never fucked any of the male slaves on the estate, and didn’t particularly want to – after all, Uncle Jed thought of himself as relatively liberal and deliberately kept a number of young nubile females on the immediate house staff. “A young man needs experience, Jon”, he was fond of saying. “When I pick out a suitable young lady for you to marry, one who will bring a respectable dowry of some kind, she and her family will expect you to be well versed in the arts of love. So make full use of the slave girls, and don’t go shedding any ‘wild oats’ with the young ladies around here – there’s too many of them who would want to snag my heir with some bastard, just to get wed to you. So take your pleasure in the slave quarters, and leave the free women alone: you want the young lady I pick to be a virgin, don’t you? So you’ll need to know how to do everything on your wedding night. And all you southern gentlemen need to work together to respect our young ladies – so no sneaking off for secret trysts, as you may be spoiling the wedding night for one or other of your friends!”
Uncle Jed had given me that advice when I was sixteen, and you’d expect a young man to obey his guardian, wouldn’t you? So I began easing my aching cock inside the willing slave girls in the household, and other than a few tears from one or other of them when it was discovered that my youthful seed had been very fertile and they were taken off to the veterinarian to be aborted, I’d had an easy, trouble-free period of young manhood not tormented by the need to search the Internet for porn to jerk off to, as are so many young men less fortunate than me.
So why was the slave Jason apparently exciting me? His strong muscular thighs terminated in a most pleasing, muscular well-rounded butt for sure, but I had no desire to have him cleaned up and presented to me for my pleasure in bed. Perhaps it was that in so many ways he was like me: I guessed him to be twenty-three or twenty-four, and other than his skin tone and hair colour, we could have been cousins as we seemed to share the same long legs, the same lean body style, and the same big cock. Of course he had been ‘skinned, as were all the slaves on our plantation, but otherwise I speculated that we were very alike in the sexual department, as, like mine, his balls were low-hanging and swung below the tip of cock as he worked. What twists of fate, I wondered, had led to him toiling away there whilst I lay on this lounger watching him?
My cock continued to stir, and I had to tug at my Speedos to make more room as my member stiffened and thrust itself against the shiny fabric. Life as the heir to Uncle Jed isn’t all fun and games, you know – I almost envied Jason the freedom he had to be naked there in the sunshine whilst my cock was cooped up, but my uncle had always absolutely forbidden me to swim in the nude, even when it was just us two in residence. Another one of those things he was always telling me was that “Free men and women have white bodies, Jon. That’s how you know you’re with a fellow free person, and not with some slave! So no naked sunbathing – in fact, I’d rather you kept right out of the sun so that your skin stays milky-white.”
I’d obeyed him of course, until I went away to college. When a group of us went to the beach at weekends then, my frat mates laughed as I crouched under a beach umbrella and only emerged for a swift sprint into the water, and I soon joined them in lying there under the hot sun with a beer and one of the group of sorority girls who followed us around creaming oil into my skin! Uncle Jed wasn’t pleased when I went home at the end of term, I can tell you, but we’d kind of compromised and I was now allowed to sit in the sun keeping the pale golden tan that I took, provided I always wore as a minimum a pair of Speedos so that there would always be a strong, contrasting band of white across my front and butt. “That’s what comes of allowing you to go North to school”, he’d grumbled. “So much better if you’d stayed down here and gone to the local community college, where you could have continue dating the flower of our local young ladies….”
I guess he’d have been really upset if he knew that I only wore the Speedos at the pool – on the terrace outside my suite, if I was working away on a paper, I ‘d just sit there totally naked and enjoy the sunshine (with my body slave taking the place of the sorority girls, creaming oil into my skin!). As I continued to speculate about the differences between Jason and me – he could probably not read or write, whereas I had an exceedingly good education at Yale – I needed another beer! Just watching him toil away was making me thirsty, so I clapped my hands for a slave, and as usual one appeared at once at my side – my uncle may have had old-fashioned views about education and sex, but still held the view that a man who owned more than a hundred slaves had a right to expect perfect service. One of the waiter boys knelt there, head bowed in the proper position, and I told him to bring me an iced beer immediately. He mumbled “Yes, master”, got to his feet and ran to the house, his young body accelerating smoothly around the corner to where the kitchen block was.
I never bother to keep a particular track of the general waiters and servants as Uncle Jed changes them quite often, and they’re all much alike: probably seventeen or eighteen, average height, slim bodies, not unpleasant faces. You don’t really need to know their names, as they’re all trained to serve generally and wait at table, and are mostly interchangeable. I felt certain I’d seen this one before, but perhaps he was new – still, it didn’t matter, as if one of them failed to perform properly, the whole crew could simply be punished so that you would be certain to catch the guilty one. I’d often suggested to my uncle that he had the slave’s name tattooed on his face or something to help identify them – a job not made any easier by the fact that like all slaves involved in the preparation or service of food they were all shaved totally smooth all over, to avoid any possibility of a stray pubic hair tainting the dish. But he would have none of it, saying that it might affect their resale value – Uncle Jed tended to sell on these servant boys at twenty or so as he preferred seeing lithe young men in the dining room and once a slave acquired the fully adult musculature of a healthy young male, he thought it inappropriate to have bulging pecs, straining biceps and muscled thighs where food was being consumed. Whilst it was a continuing effort to train new slaves, he claimed it was worth it as he made a handsome profit as other owners would always be prepared to pay a premium for a slave who had been “correctly” trained by Uncle Jed, and where all the niceties of “silver service” had been drilled deep into him by the application of the tawse, or the threat of it!.
The young waiter slave reappeared almost instantly, dropped to his knees in front of me, bowed his head and held out the can of beer in his palms with his arms stretched out in front of him, at a convenient height for me, just above his bowed head. His waiter’s loin cloth hung down shielding his cock from my gaze, and I let my left foot fall off the lounger, moved it over, and pushed the covering to one side so that I could see the slave’s genitals – it’s a habit I guess I picked up from Uncle Jed, who always thought that the waiter slaves liked to skimp on their shaving. Even at the most formal of dinners he would occasionally pull a slave’s loin cloth off to run his fingers over the pubic area to test for complete smoothness, and I now ran my toes over the slave’s cock and balls performing this same test. The young slave quivered almost visibly as my toes probed at him, but fortunately for him he passed the test and I would not need to order a punishment for him. It was clearly a strain to hold my beer out at arms length just above his bowed head, though, as I could see his shoulder muscles bunching and tensing as he knelt there, and I felt almost certain that the sweat that covered him was not just as a result of the brief sprint to and from the house and the extreme humidity of the hot afternoon. Some masters would, I know, have left the slave like that for a few minutes to see what he would do – endure increasing pain in all his muscles, or risk the wrath of his master – but this afternoon I felt too languorously relaxed to engage in such games, and reached out and took the can which was covered in a mist of condensation, rather as the slave’s body was covered in his sweat.
Having started thinking about education, I was perhaps somewhat guiltily reminded that my uncle expected me to reach a decision soon about my future. It had been a difficult time for me up north, not because I couldn’t cope with the work (I’m intelligent, even though I say so myself, and can study hard when I need to), or because I lacked the money to cut a proper dash in a good frat (My uncle’s wealth was more than adequate), or because I lacked friends (I’m a pretty good jock, too, and made a lot of good friends on the field), No, it was rather the attitude of many of my fellow students – because I came from the south, they assumed I was some sort of bigot and were always ascribing to me attitudes that I simply didn’t have, just because they knew my uncle was a slave owner! So it was always assumed that I was prejudiced against blacks (I wasn’t – I’d even selected a black personal slave for a time when I was seventeen, and there are not many guys who are so unprejudiced that they can share their bathroom with and be ministered to by a black, are there?), or against women (which was stupid, as you know I only fucked women and left guys’ butts to others. In fact, thinking about it, I had probably fucked more black women than the rest of my class mates put together!).
If ever it was necessary to comment on something in the news on TV, you’d hear a lot of the white liberals say things like “Well, we respect the Arabs, Jon, not that you’d know anything about respect for your fellow men….” Good god, did they think I was some sort of monster or something? Of course I respected human rights and all that kind of stuff – I don’t think I’d ever once made a disparaging remark about the blacks, Arabs, Chinese and other s who infested the campus, and I was the very model of politeness to women – my good Southern upbringing saw to that, as my uncle had rigidly drilled into me that young ladies were to be respected. They seemed to think that just because I believed in slavery, there was some fundamental flaw in my character, and however much I tried to explain that slavery gave the slaves a good, well-structured framework in which to live out their lives, and that all my uncle’s slaves were incomparably better off than most of the poor trash you saw around the world on TV, they just laughed the idea to scorn.
I tried to explain that our slaves were well fed, well housed, and only punished when their performance merited it, but it was no use: I was an illiberal bigot, and that was that! I guess us guys form the south mostly stuck together, therefore, and my own frat was almost exclusively from the south. In fact, I was probably the only true northerner in it, having been born in Manhattan and mostly raised there. It was only after both my parents were killed in a terrorist bomb attack on the plane they were taking to a UN conference on human rights, leaving me an orphan, that my father’s uncle, Jed, had taken me in and given me a loving, supporting, albeit strict, upbringing. I still remember getting off the plane that first day, wheeling my suitcases on a trolley out to where uncle Jed was waiting to greet me: he looked shocked to see me wheeling my luggage, and at once signalled to the huge black slave standing behind him, impeccably dressed in a dark mauve chauffeur’s uniform buttoned high to the neck, to pick up my things. I noticed that the slave was not allowed to use the trolley, but needed to carry my four cases somehow, and uncle Jed never looked back as we strode through the terminal to his limousine, as if it never occurred to him that the slave might not be able to keep up. Uncle Jed seemed cross that the slave was not waiting to open the limousine’s door for us, but it was a relaxing drive to the plantation as uncle Jed was able to focus on me, and not worry about the traffic or anything. It was my first introduction to how easy life could be for a slave owner.
But now I was back from college, and Uncle Jed was pestering me to select one of the local belles, to settle down, and to breed – being unmarried and without children of his own, he was nevertheless keen to see the next generation of our family. He was always scheming and plotting with the fathers of these “belles”, discussing dowries and settlements, and it was almost as if my tastes were irrelevant. “Marriage down here is a true partnership, Jon”, he said one evening after dinner when we were sitting in front of the fire in his study, the slaves silently serving us coffee and brandy in the calm, quiet room. “You marry to get some advantage for the plantation, or to get a slice of new money in to help strengthen the business. You’re both educated, sophisticated people and once you’ve bred at least ‘an heir and a spare’, you can mostly go your own ways – you continue to live together in the same house of course, as we don’t hold with divorce and all that stuff down here as the financials are too costly – but you can have separate rooms, and you can amuse yourself with slave girls and she can take a stud, if she wants: in fact, I know several couples who find it’s a shared interest, with the wife giving the husband a special slave girl she’s picked out for his birthday and for Christmas, and with the husband personally selecting a well-hung young stud from the plantation as a gift for his wife (after he’s ensured the slave is properly tied off, as you’d expect, as they certainly don’t want any half-breeds).”
Look, I know the system worked – several of my buddies from high school and college were settling down, and I guess it could have worked for me, too. But I’d perhaps been too exposed to “northern ways” for too long, and had a desire to use my education to make my own way in the world, rather than relying on uncle Jed’s wealth and position. I thought I might go off and do voluntary work in Africa or South America or somewhere like that for a year or two, and at first uncle Jed had been mildly enthusiastic: he was always complaining about the price of slaves and their availability, and suggested that I could prospect potential new sources of supply whilst I was there – as you’re probably aware, the enormous fortunes made in the high-tech industries of the “Information Revolution” as they were fond of calling it, echoing the “Industrial Revolution” of the nineteenth century, had resulted in many, many exceedingly rich men. After they’d acquired the trophy wife, the executive jet, the mansion in the West and the apartment in New York, what else was there? Regrettably for my uncle and other “traditional” farmers and landowners, they’d decided to acquire slaves, too, as being the ultimate possession that one man can have, the total power of ownership over another, and had caused the prices recently to skyrocket. The supply of criminals and the unemployed available for enslavement had simply not been able to keep up with demand, and there was a desperate shortage of new stock, leading to prices spiralling upwards. Congress had several times debated the possibility of importing criminals and the poor from other countries to help stabilise conditions in the market, but vested interests, probably the big slave trading companies with millions of dollars worth of stock, had used their usual lobbying and bribery to get these sensible measures rejected.
All these thoughts were churning in my head as I finished my beer, and I lay there drowsily in the hot sun until there was a discrete coughing by me ear. One of the servant slaves – or perhaps it was the same one, as they all looked so much alike – was kneeling there. I left him for a minute or two before acknowledging him, as it does a slave no good to believe that his master is at his beck and call, and then allowed him to speak. He had come to tell me that my current “belle”, Miss Marie-Louise, had telephoned to remind me that I was expected to take tea with here parents that afternoon, and so reluctantly I knew I had to leave the pool and go and dress as their property was some four miles away.
One of the conveniences that I’d hugely enjoyed when I was at college was the cell phone, as it was so much easier to just make and receive such calls yourself, but uncle Jed would have none of it: there were slaves in the house to receive calls, and then to find the master and pass on messages – this was the “proper”, refined, way of doing it. The slave continued to kneel there, waiting to be dismissed, until I said “There’s no reply – get about your duties”, when he rose and loped off. It really was a bit much of uncle Jed to complain about ruinous slave prices and then waste prime male flesh like that on such trivial tasks – the young slave had a good, firm body and well- developed muscular buttocks, and could surely have been used as a labourer on the plantation, or even sold off and a more muscular work slave bought if that was what we needed. These slaves in their early twenties with pleasing bodies were much in demand by the “nouveau riche” as adornment to their new mansions, and I felt certain that the one I’d just been watching would fetch a high price at auction. Still, I had little influence on such matters with uncle Jed, who I sometimes thought really wasn’t interested in the actual work of the plantation at all, leaving all the day to day decisions about the crop management, harvesting, the operation of the packaging plant for our major customers and so on, to our overseer, Straughan.
Uncle Jed preferred the excitement of buying and selling slaves, sometimes by attending auctions and picking out “bargains” that others had overlooked, but most often by doing “deals” with his wide circle of acquaintances to swap a young slave with a reputedly virgin ass for a field worker, or some such – he told me almost interminably about all this as we sat together over dinner each night, but I wasn’t much interested. I’d been to slave auctions of course, and like most young men in my position knew the proper way to handle and assess slave stock, but I lacked the passion that uncle Jed showed for making the rounds of all the slaves on display at the dealers and taking the time to weigh their balls, squeeze their muscles, and so on.
One of the difficulties of agreeing to uncle Jed’s plans for my future was that it was by no means certain that he and I could ever agree to the way in which the plantation was managed – I thought we needed a more “scientific” approach, with the slaves being set quotas, being measured against them, and then being punished severely if they failed to make the grade, before being culled for continuing failure. This was the basic method described in the excellent “Managing slaves for profit – essays on modern methods of improving productivity” that had been at the top of the best sellers in business books last year and which I’d bought uncle Jed for Christmas, but he would have none of it. He preferred the old-fashioned methods of just whipping all the slaves in a coffle if the coffle was thought to be under-performing, which, as I tried to point out, failed to totally maximise the energy of each individual slave.
It was with a heavy heart that I climbed the stairs in the mansion, towards my suite. I really didn’t want to go to this “tea” and Marie-Louise wasn’t really my “belle” – it was just another one of those infernal things hatched up by my uncle Jed and her parents, to “size each other up”, as both families – apart from me – were keen to make a match. As usual Sam, my personal slave, must have been listening for me – or perhaps the waiter salve by the pool alerted him: these slaves are always whispering and communicating behind our backs – as the door to my suite opened just as I reached it, and there was Sam, smiling as usual, before falling to his knees in welcome. I’d had Sam for about four years, and so there was no need to speak as he knew my requirements exactly.
I’d thought of taking him to college with me, as it was irksome to have to do all my own laundry and stuff, but for some reason they didn’t allow slaves in the rooms and I think I only survived because uncle Jed upped my allowance so that I could send all my stuff out to local launderers and cleaners (who, incidentally, in spite of all their fancy machinery and extraordinary prices, didn’t do nearly as good a job as Sam!). I’d no idea what he did whilst I was away, but every vacation there he was, waiting, as ever. He eased my Speedos down and off me, and I strode towards the bathroom where the shower was already running at exactly the right temperature – this, for those of you who have not tried training slaves, is something of a triumph: for some perverse reason most slaves always adjust the shower temperature to some value they think appropriate, rather than the one that their master has chosen; it had taken me several weeks to break Sam of this habit, and much use of the tawse, but it just goes to show that a lesson properly beaten in to a slave does endure.
It’s funny, really – like most guys in a team at college you get used to showering with your team mates, but you never touch them, and the idea of them touching you is, frankly, disgusting. But I hardly noticed Sam’s ministrations as he soaped me all over, then gently rinsed me off before wrapping me in one of the huge snowy-white bath sheets and rubbing me dry. I guess it’s because I’ve had Sam for so long and have got so totally used to having him around doing this stuff for me – but don’t get me wrong, I never used him sexually, even though he had a nice body and well-formed butt. In fact, I didn’t keep him naked, even though that’s obviously the norm for personal slaves – when he wasn’t showering me, I let him wear a very short, light tunic that mostly covered his body and kept his tackle concealed unless he was reaching up, and siting down. I knew though that he was intensely sexual himself – I’d occasionally overhear snatches of whispered slave conversation, and it was generally understood that he was an extraordinary cocksman, and much in demand for fucking the waiters.
I had to put on one of those ghastly “afternoon visiting outfits” that are much in fashion. I’d have rather worn Jeans and a T, but uncle Jed had told me he regarded this afternoon as important, and there was no way I was going to upset him by getting a report back to him that I hadn’t taken proper care and attention! So I stood there patiently as Sam rolled the skin-tight “hose” over my calves and thighs, not really liking the way the very soft silk jersey fabric crushed my hairs down onto the skin.
“A pouch first, Sam”, I snapped, as he went to roll the hose up further. “Yes of course, Master Jon. But forgive me, sir, but aren’t you going to a special tea….? It’s not considered polite for a gentleman to wear a pouch under his hose on such a formal occasion, sir…”
He was right, of course. I hated wearing these skin tight hose, as once they were rolled up you every detail of your anatomy could be seen. I shook my head in agreement, and he carried on working; it was an example of how close we had become that he had dared to make such a suggestion, and that I had agreed with him. As men and women did not really get together for casual sex in the circles we moved in, I suppose you needed some way of letting the other family see exactly what they were getting, and so the fashion had therefore sprung up of wearing those very tight “hose”, or panty hose, really, I suppose, but made out of very fine silk and wool with some Lycra or stuff in, that outlined the body. I usually insisted on wearing a posing pouch underneath – boxers or briefs were just not possible because of the visible lines they would leave – and this was acceptable if you were going to an evening soiree or whatever. But for an intimate formal occasion, it would be considered grossly impolite, so I had to stand there as Sam smoothed the fabric over my dick and balls, and finally pulled them up to finish just at my waist.
On top I wore a tight Lycra and silk shirt that stretched over my body and which showed hints of my dark aureoles through it. It was vilely uncomfortable, as in the heat you really wanted lose clothes, but fashion is fashion! To make matters worse, it had a high, stiff collar that almost forced me to keep my head up, and Sam now stood there tying a bright cravat around my neck, and fluffing it out a little at the front as if to attempt to conceal my pecs from view. A short jacket – very short, so that my butt was totally exposed and there was absolutely no concealment for my tackle – completed the ensemble, and Sam then fell to his knees to help slid on the knee- high black leather boots made form the softest, most supple leather. Finally, I sat at my desk whilst he brushed my short-ish dark blond hair to shining fitness, then held out my arm so that he could strap on my beautifully thin, very expensive, gold watch.
Thus attired, I felt I could tackle the world, provided, of course, I did not get an erection! I began to understand why it’s rumoured that a PA is called that because Prince Albert, back at the end of the nineteenth century, needed to tie his dick to his thigh in order to avoid such embarrassment in front of the queen and her ladies!
The slaves opened the doors at the front of the house and as I stepped out from the cool of the air-conditioned hall the heat and humidity hit me. I could almost feel the sweat starting to break out, but one has to do one’s social duties, I suppose. My pony, Blackie, had been brought around whilst I was dressing, and he stood there in the shafts of the light, one-man rickshaw, as I went down the steps.
The slaves in the stable are complete idiots, and needed whipping! I always inspect Blackie before starting a journey, and, as usual, they’d tightened the head strap much too much so that the bit was biting in the corners of his mouth. Of course the bit needs to be tight, as it also holds the tongue plate that keeps his tongue down and prevents him from speaking, but if it’s too tight you lose all sensitivity and a gentle pull on the reins goes unnoticed. I pride myself on my driving, and I don’t like to be seen to be hauling of the reins to get the slave to respond – the gentlest of tugs should be sufficient, if the slave has been properly trained. Actually, I have always wondered about the real need for tongue plates and so on: it’s self evident that a pony doesn’t need to speak, after all, so why not just order him to be silent? I know there’s an element of “total control” in the idea of forcing his tongue to be stationary and depriving him of intelligible speech, but perhaps a simple order would more appropriately demonstrate an owner’s power? But I suppose I’m a bit of a conformist, and the “norm” for ponies around by our place is that, in harness, they’re physically prevented from speaking, so that’s how it was for Blackie.
Blackie is the first slave I’ve ever owned myself – uncle Jed gave him to me as a graduation present and I’m really proud of him. It’s one of the only times I’ve really enjoyed going to the slave auction with my uncle – I guess it’s because I had a specific purchase in view – and we’d had almost an entire day trawling through all the big males on offer. Uncle Jed had suggested that I have a pony of my own so I could “visit”, and so we were keen to get a tall, well- muscled slave with long legs and a big lung capacity. Pulling a one- man rickshaw is not so much about strength as about endurance, and long legs and a good heart are almost prerequisites. I’d been expecting to find a black, as those slaves most generally fit the specification, and had almost settled on a really interesting jet- black one, when, lurking at the back of the room, almost as if he were being deliberately concealed, I saw Blackie.
His height and colouring caught my attention – he was six three, and had very white skin, and pale, almost greyish hair. As I approached I saw his eyes were also pale grey, and hanging down in front of his lithe body was a most respectably sized dick and balls which were well in proportion to the whole. He almost trembled as I reached up and read the tag giving his particulars that was hanging from his left tit. I could hardly believe it – he was an illegal immigrant from one of those Eastern places you’ve hardly ever heard of, a genuine Slav type, so very, very rare when most slaves are blacks or Hispanics. He’d been caught after working illegally in the US for a couple of years “to feed his wife and children” it said, although I was inclined to disbelieve that as at twenty one he was hardly old enough.
Twenty one is a good age to start a pony off, as you may or may not know: much younger than that and they just have not got the true adult musculature that is needed; much older, and they’re harder to mould to your precise requirements, and it can be difficult to establish a real rapport between rider and steed (or so says in “You and your pony – the practical guide to all you need to know”.) You may remember that under the Illegal Aliens Act, Congress decided that those who entered our country illegally evidently wanted to be here, and should be given the opportunity to stay permanently therefore. Consequently captured illegals are automatically enslaved – for life! You may also remember that about ten years ago there was that namby-pamby “Constitutional Treatment for Slaves” act, that decreed that those enslaved for less than life (as increasingly happened, as the courts were under pressure to both rid the streets of petty criminals, debt defaulters, and the like, and at the same time to increase the supply of slaves: it had become common for slaves to be enslaved for five, ten, fifteen or twenty years only) had certain rights. And that were held to be “inalienable”, and that these included the “right” not to be bodily modified.
Fortunately these provisions did not apply to slaves for life, who were ruled just to be chattels of their owners and could therefore be modified as required. Turning him around, I almost trembled with excitement as I was able to lean forward and trace my finger along the big “S”, for slave, branded into the slave’s left ass cheek: this was the sure way of identifying a “lifer”, as only they could be branded like this. I rotated him back, feeling him almost quiver under my hands, then, as I looked into his eyes, I reached down and began to stroke his penis. The slave owners’ handbooks always tell you that it’s most important to test a new slave’s reaction to you by closely observing their face the first time you exercise your rights over their sexual organs, and Blackie responded by firstly almost moving as if to strike me (which of course he could not do as his wrists were securely cuffed to his display collar), and then by a quivering of the lips that suggested that he was fighting back tears of despair, or humiliation. Altogether, most satisfactory – a slave with spirit, which could of course be broken, and one who had probably not been “used” so far, so was an empty book waiting for his owner to write his mark in.
Uncle Jed’s familiarity with the auctioneers and dealers came in very handy that afternoon – he called in favours and made trades to ensure that there were few bidders for Blackie, and we got him at a bargain price. Of course it did take a long time to train him, and I spent most of the next two months hard at work, to produce the superlative pony now in my rickshaw. At the same time, I learned some valuable lessons about slaves, and one in particular that has stood me in good stead since. It was in the second month, as I recall, and Blackie was responding well to learning the pony commands, and to running under control. His feet had toughened so that he could run over open country or blacktop equally well, and he was used to the bit (I had had the back teeth removed on his lower jaw, so that it fitted comfortably at the edge of his lips, and after his gums had healed he had adapted well). That particular afternoon it was hot, and I was just wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants, and was exercising Blackie on a long “leading rein” – I was standing in the middle of the exercise ring, with Blackie running around and around me on the end of a long rope attached to his bit, with me varying the pace by voice command and by the judicious use of a long “driving whip” – the sort that doesn’t harm the flesh, but that just stings a little when it makes contact: I’d always thought that you can’t punish a slave seriously with one, but it serves admirably to manage and control a slave, especially one being trained as a pony. I was exhausted from the heat and the humidity as I stood there holding the rein as he raced around, and Blackie was clearly flagging, as in spite of my commands and urging with the whip, he was slowing down: this was meant to be an exercise to increase his stamina at “gallop”, and the most he was managing was probably “full trot”.
I noticed that Straughan, my uncles’ overseer, had come up and was leaning on he rails of the training ring, watching us. Finally, I’d had enough, shouted “whoa” to Blackie, and walked over to release the rein, patting his rump affectionately as I did so. He did look totally exhausted, with his eyes flaring, his chest heaving to suck in air, and tiny veins at his temples pulsing as the blood was pumped around him under stress. “Why are you stopping, Mr Jon?”, Straughan shouted. I walked over to him, fleeing dishevelled and unkempt in my own sweat -stained casual clothes, as Straughan was, as ever, immaculate in his canvas jodhpurs tucked into polished boots, and a dazzling white shirt with a gaudy silk cravat at the throat.
“Obviously, Straughan, he’s exhausted.”
“Nonsense. He’s still standing.”
“But he can’t run any further…”
“Mr Jon, let me give you a piece of advice about training slaves. Even the most willing slave, one who idolises his owner, and who sincerely wants to serve him, gets betrayed by his own body. The slave thinks he’s exhausted because all his muscles are signalling his brain that this is so, but in fact there is always that ‘strategic reserve’ that the body keeps, and never wants to release. A slave is only properly broken when his owner can tap into that reserve, to get the remaining five percent of effort out of him.”
“Oh rubbish, Straughan. I’ve been working him for hours, and he’s totally exhausted.”
“With respect, Mister Jon, you have not been working with slaves for as long as I have. I suggest you learn this lesson, as one day you’ll need that reserve from the slave, and you need to understand how to get it.”
“Well, Straughan…. I suppose I could be convinced….”
“May I, Mister Jon?” Straughan asked, taking the whip out of my hand and catching hold of the end of the training rein. I watched as Straughan made Blackie start to trot around again, then, as I stood there mesmerised by the sheer rapidity and brutality of his strokes, he whipped and whipped away at the poor creature’s back, butt and thighs. I know I’ve told you that the riding whip doesn’t cut the skin, just causes that sharp intense pain to signal to the slave, but under Straughan’s expert hand Blackie’s body was soon running with blood – and Blackie, in spite of his exhaustion, was properly galloping around the ring. Straughan went on and on, way past what I believed was possible, and I watched with fascination. Finally, the spectacle had to stop, as Blackie fell to the ground, and seemed unable to rise.
Straughan came over to me, handed me the blood-soaked whip, and said “There. Now, next time he seems exhausted, just whip a little harder- the body remembers, and I think you’ll find there’s something left in there you can use.”
That advice has proven invaluable on many occasions since, as although Blackie does I believe enjoy his work and is not deliberately lazy, he does need stern “encouragement” from time to time., It took Blackie a day to recover, and much longer for the scabs and scars from his back to heal, but it did seem easier to train him after that. And now, here he was, in front of me, the perfect specimen of a pony – I don’t think I’ve ever had so much pleasure and excitement from a present. He was naked, as you’d expect, apart from his harness, which was at a minimum. I don’t believe in all that elaborate “play” stuff of boots that look like pony hooves, tails rammed up the ass, and odd helmets with mock horse ears on them – in my view a pony slave is just naked, totally naked, and you only need a light rein to join the bit to you as he ought to respond to your touch, and your verbal commands. You don’t need to chain him to the rickshaw or anything either , as a well-trained pony would not dream of stepping out of the shafts unless commanded to, and this is another mans of signalling to cognoscenti that you have a properly trained steed. I had made a slight modification, however, in that Blackie wore a helmet made of thin leather straps that connected to a thin leather collar around his throat by a strap at the back. He has to have his head totally shaved for this to fit snugly, as you might suppose, but you can see his normal colouring as I allow him to keep a neatly trimmed patch of hair to complement his dick, and his whitish-grey hair makes an interesting contrast to the honey-glow of his now completely tanned hide.
After I had adjusted bis bit and “Muffler” (the technical term for the tongue depressing plate, that stops him speaking), I moved my hand to the back of his head and tightened this connecting strap a little, so making him pull his head back: there’s a terrible tendency for ponies under stress to put their heads and shoulders down to try to get more effort into their locomotion, but I think this looks slovenly and prefer to lose out a little on the power in favour of having a pony stepping out with his head held high. I do also attach blinkers to the helmet so that his eyesight is severely restricted – not because I can’t trust him not to look around about him as he’s running, but because it again it signals to those watching that I am a skilled rider: the pony and his rider have to have complete confidence in each other if the pony is to run at high speed over rough ground when he can’t see properly where he’s going. The slave has to rely on his master’s signals and obey implicitly, to avoid falling, and the master in turn needs to understand the pony’s strides, scan the ground, and make the appropriate small course corrections. Of course, if you’re just out for a gentle trot, you can always remove the blinkers and then Blackie, like the exceptional slave he is, does all the work for himself and I can sit back and enjoy the countryside.
I suppose I’d better confess to you that I am a bit of a softy at heart, in spite of my businesslike approach to slave training – I’d let Blackie keep his balls! One of the advantages of a “life” slave is of course that his owner owns him totally and can order whatever modifications he chooses to the slave’s body, and as such I could easily have had Blackie gelded. Most owners of ponies do, of course, as it’s considered “kinder” to the pony not to have the balls swinging freely as he runs, and possibly causing him pain as they are unsupported. Frankly, I think that theory’s something from the past century! Scientific studies have long since shown that the human body is designed to run naked, and that it’s only relatively recently that athletes have felt the need for supporters, briefs, and so on. Of course it’s painful at first when you start to run naked if you’re used to having your balls supported in a jock, but you soon acclimatise. I tend to the view that keeping the balls makes the pony more “alive” and frisky, and he works harder for you – and, of course, you’re saved the expense of all those medications to keep him looking like a real man by replacing the hormones lost when his balls are sliced. But actually, this is all “rationalisation” – I think the real reason is that I like my own balls a lot, and I’d hate to lose them; and at some point in Blackie’s training I wondered how he’d feel if I deprived him of this essence of his manhood.
All in all, I felt pleased with Blackie and my hard work had paid off, as I received numerous compliments from my friends and acquaintances. I got into the rickshaw, gave him a little caressing flick of the whip across his butt to reassure him that I was in charge, and shouted the traditional “Ride on!”. All in all, in spite of the gloomy outlook for the rest of the day when I would have to make polite social chit-chat, I felt pleased with life and my place in it.
Oh, and before I conclude this first part of my narrative, I know many of you are already calling your slaves to take a note to me asking “Why ‘Blackie’?” Well, when I got his enslavement papers I saw his real name was full of C’s, Z’s, W’s and H’s as those Slav names tend to be. I did think of shortening it, but there is of course the school of thought that says that the newly enslaved adapt better to their new role if they also get a new name. I sat with “Five Hundred Slave Names” one night, trying out some suggestions they made, but none seemed exactly right. I wandered over to the stables to take another look at my pony, perhaps to get inspiration, and found him fucking away vigorously in his stall! I didn’t disturb him, but stood there quietly watching his magnificent butt pound his dick up and down into the slave underneath him – an then, whimsically, decided on “Blackie”: it is, after all, a traditional pony kind of name, and the body underneath that was giving my new possession so much excitement was decidedly black – and that’s fairly unusual as most black slaves fuck other black slaves, and the whites fuck the whites, or so it seems to me: there’s relatively little racial crossover, unless a master orders it to amuse himself.
To be continued …
