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Enslaved (4)

They only tattooed your SIN into you at the last minute for some reason I still don’t understand. But after the pain of my ‘skinning and branding, it was a “nothing”, almost, as the tattooist’s needle inked my number high on my right arm, at the shoulder. Now I was certain that no one would ever doubt that I was a slave, and, as Wayne pointed out, anyone could go to an Internet terminal, connect to the bureau of slave affairs, key in my SIN and see the “official” pictures of me to compare them with the slave that stood in front of them. 

I don’t know what sort of deal was in place between that awful centre that turned free men into slaves and the dealer, as I was left in my cage until Julian and Wayne came in with a third man who had a rather sly look, and was wearing the rather over the top garish clothes that I’d seen other dealers wear when I’d been taken to slave “meets” by my uncle. 

“This is Steve”, Wayne told him, rather unnecessarily, “And remember, keep him muzzled until he’s well and truly sold – after that, there’s very little risk of anyone believing his stories, or even if they do, wanting to take a financial hit by possibly losing him.” 

I was hauled out of my cage for one last time, and the dealer pulled a cheap plastic muzzle out ofhis jacket pocket, commanded me to “open wide”, then effectively gagged me. He also slipped a solid leather collar around my neck, snapping it shut and fiddling with some adjustment so that it was relatively tight around my throat, clipped a chain onto the collar, and tugged at it to indicate that I should follow him.  In the yard at the back of the warehouse place where my “transformation” had taken place there was a small, totally enclosed truck. He opened the rear door, and inside I saw that both sides of it were lined with slave cages, small ones, just big enough to take a slave if he was crouched and squashed, and I was told to get in. 

There were twelve cages in all, and eight of them were occupied – I could see the muzzled faces of the other slaves staring out at me. The door was slammed, so that we were in total darkness, and the truck got underway. Conversation was obviously impossible, so I just had to sit there, uncomfortably cramped, as the truck jarred and lurched its way along the highway. I must have drowsed off to sleep several times, I suppose, so I had no ideas how long I was in the truck before it stopped and the door opened.  The dealer stood there with a bucket, and hand pump and a hose, and he snapped “Feeding time! Faces to the front…”. 

He came along the rows, pushing the end of the hose into each mouth in turn through the hole in the muzzle, then pumped vigorously on the hand pump once or twice, and moved on. When it was my turn I found that it was the regular slave chow, but made into a paste with water so that it could be fed without removing the muzzle. And that was it – the door was slammed and we were left in darkness again, and somehow I knew it must be “night”. You had to piss and shit where you were, as had been the case at the training centre, and so it was a relief when the door opened again and the dealer repeated the feeding procedure.  He opened the first cage and hauled out the slave, and fastened a chain to his collar. The second followed, the slave being added to the chain, and so on. When it was my turn I made a token resistance but my muscles were so stiff and cramped that the slave dealer was easily able to overcome me and add me to the chain. 

As we stood there in the morning sun, I looked around and saw we were parked out the back of a cheap motel, presumably where the dealer had spent the night, and he now appeared with a water hose attached to a spigot on the wall, and proceeded to give us all a cursory “shower” with the icy water, commanding us to use our hands to clean our bodies as best we could. Fortunately he then hosed out the inside of the truck, so at least our onward journey would be better, I supposed. 

One of these travelling dealers came occasionally to our local small town, so I ought to have been ready for what happened next! The dealer fitted us with the very short tunics in thin satin-like material that I used to make my body slave Sam wear, adjusting the straps that fastened the two sides over our shoulders so that the hem just exposed the tip of our dicks. I felt much worse, actually, than being totally naked – somehow there was almost something “noble” about a totally naked slave (well, at least one in as good shape as I was!), but now I’d been transformed into some sort of object of interest and curiosity: my genitals just tantalisingly out of sight, and the length of my body totally exposed anyway as this “tunic” was more of a “tabard”. I began to understand how hurtful it must have been for Sam to have to prance around like that all the time. 

Clipping a lead chain to the collar of the slave at the front of our coffle, he led us off on a tour of the only two streets of interest in the town, handing out leaflets saying that we would be on view for the rest of the day at the motel. Passers by stopped to look at us, as you’d expect, shopkeepers came to the doors of their premises, and office workers hung out of their windows as we passed by, and I just hated being paraded around like this as if it was a circus parade coming to town. The dealer never missed an opportunity to excite further interest in us or to enhance his opportunities for a sale, either: if anyone in the street showed even the smallest level of interest in us, he’d halt our coffle, and display the slave there and then. As an obvious really choice specimen, there was a lot of interest in me and I lost count of the number of times therefore that the dealer raised the hem of my smock so that a potential client could see my tackle more closely, or to allow them to feel the muscles in my arms, or test the power in my butt with their probing fingers. To all their questions, though, he only ever answered “believed to be a virgin”, as our laws on the sale of goods clearly scared him into not exaggerating on that point at least: the fact that he was selling a free man, not a slave, notwithstanding! 

For the rest of the day our coffle stood behind the motel as potential customers came by and the dealer tried to strike bargains with them. My body was sore and painful by the end of it, as I had been squeezed and prodded, probed and tested. It seemed I was attractive to women as well as men, and I inwardly shuddered at the thought of being bought by some old hag who might then require me to service her – some of these women, old enough to be my mother, seemed to have no shame when it came to handling my dick, and even discussing amongst themselves how I might perform. I was even more worried by the men, though: at least half of them felt the need to inspect my hole – it was obvious that they were sizing me up as a sex toy, and I hated it. As I’ve told you, I knew men did this, although I never had, and it seemed to me that it was going to be part of my new life as a slave unless something exceptional happened. 

It was obvious that this dealer was operating at he bottom end of the market, though, as in this small hick town there weren’t any customers willing to pay the price he was demanding for me. He did sell one slave, though, and by late afternoon he was unshackling each of us in turn from the coffle chain and locking us back into the cages in his truck. I thought about hitting him then, and running away – but it was just hopeless: almost the whole town had seen me being paraded around, and so where could I hide, how could I escape? Given the very large number of the inhabitants who had come along to “see the show”, it was clear they were strongly in favour of slavery, and it seemed unlikely that I’d find any sympathetic soul who would help me, or would even go as far as to lend me a phone to call my uncle. Still, I suppose you can understand their point of view – would you let a tough-looking naked slave use your phone, however politely e asked? It was really the case that, looking like a slave, I was a slave. 

This procedure was repeated three times more in small towns, and all the time I remained muzzled, being fed mashed chow. The cursory washings at motels or even filling stations didn’t get me really clean, and I felt disgusting – never in my life before had I not been able to shower, or clean myself properly. My beard was making my face rough and sore as it grew as there were no facilities for shaving , and far from being able to achieve the price the dealer was asking for me, it seemed to me that I was probably losing value.  On the fourth day, though, I discovered another facet of the slave business – just as motor dealers do, there was trading between dealers: a more “upmarket” dealer, with a bigger, shinier truck, bought me, and we went off to slightly larger towns, with his stock of around twenty slaves.  I was sold on again, and again, and never did any of these dealers ever speak to me – they only released my muzzle occasionally so that I could shave properly (there were minute basins and stuff in the largest trucks, so that this could be done). It was clear that to them a slave was not a person, someone who had views or needed consideration: they were just a piece of merchandise, to be traded, bought and sold, just as you might do with any piece of expensive, portable property. I’d never thought about this before – to me, slaves where just “there”, always available, and whether they wanted to be, or were happy to have been bought by us, simply didn’t enter into my thinking. 

It must have been about ten days into this peregrination of the small towns and cities of the south when my then dealer-owner released us from our confinement in his truck and we found ourselves at one of the large “slave meets” that were traditionally held three or four times per year where many dealers congregated and all the local inhabitants got together to be able to select from a large range of stock. I used to be taken to these things by my uncle, and we always made a day out from it: as well as the slaves themselves, dealers specialising in whips, paddles, chains, slave clothing, slave chow, and all the other necessities of slave ownership assembled, so that owners could have the convenience of being able to purchase everything they needed in one place. There were lectures and demonstrations on new techniques for slave handling, you could take lessons in caning and whipping, slave dancing and slave wrestling delighted the crowds in the arena, and those with ponies could enter them into the pony show, with classes for dressage as well as the traditional cross-country and track racing. It was very much a “family” affair, with parents and their children enjoying being together, and there were lots of activities to amuse everyone: the fairground rides with their slaves pulling the carousels and powering the swings, and the special ponies for kids where they could sit on tiny saddles on the slaves’ backs and be jogged around the field. The smell of hot-dogs, barbecues and popcorn hung heavily in the air, and many families brought their own slaves with them to serve elaborate picnics in the parking areas. 

This was still the time when there were prohibitions in most towns on nudity for slaves, to protect public modesty, they said (our slaves on the plantation could work naked as they were not in the town, and there were of course sensible exceptions for slaves, like Blackie, where the job demanded nudity). But we could not be offered for sale naked as we would have been these days, and with the throngs of potential purchasers all the dealers were keen to show as much of our flesh off as possible and did not want the annoyance of the tunics that I had become used to. Consequently we were displayed in the minimum possible – a tiny loin cloth. 

My current owner’s stock of slaves was so numerous that it was impractical to have us all lined up in one coffle, so we had restraint collars on with our hands cuffed behind our necks, and short chains held us in place by pegs driven into the ground to a manacle around each of our left ankles. As I stood there one of the dealer’s assistants then came along and strung a thin chain around my waist, or, rather as low as he could get it on my hips so that it had to rest on my butt at the back to stop it sliding off, and then tucked into this a tiny piece of white silk – just broad enough to cover my dick and balls, and just long enough so that, once again, the very tip of my dick peeped from below it. 

With this number of slaves we were a mixed group: not just blacks and Hispanics as you’d expect, but men and women, too. Directly across from me there was a really good looking young black slave girl, wearing, as I was, just the tiny piece of silk to cover her sex and with her firm breasts thrust proudly out as her arms were cuffed like mine. She reminded me of one of the slaves on the plantation that I’d fucked (it was only the male slaves I left alone!), and slowly and inexorably as my mind thought back to those happier times, my cock rose and stiffened, thrusting aside the tiny piece of silk. I’d never imagined that one day I’d be as exposed as the slave girls that I so casually used for my sexual gratification, and that I’d be standing almost naked on public display staring at a young slave who I might otherwise have fucked. 

Because it was deemed that we were “decent”, it was perfectly acceptable for families to stroll around amongst us inspecting our bodies, and I was inspected by several couples who seemed to be considering buying a fit young guy for yard work and stuff like that. Fortunately the presence of the women and children seemed to restrain a little the hordes of young guys from high school who wanted to feel my ass in that way that groups of late adolescents do to try to impress each other, but I noticed that whereas it might be unacceptable to finger a male hole in these circumstances, there was no such restraint for a female slave, and the poor black girl opposite me was the subject of many unwelcome “investigations”. 

It must have been mid-afternoon when, to my astonishment, there standing in front of me was my uncle’s overseer, Straughan. I started to shout in excitement, trying to get the words out through the muzzle and to let him know that it was me standing there, and not a slave that he was thinking of buying. But the words were all fuzzy and he didn’t seem to heed them, although he did snap “fucking shut up, slave”, at me. I became desperate, and when he moved my brief covering aside and started to feel my dick and balls, I became almost frantic: he was an employee, after all, and he shouldn’t be doing this to me! He did a really thorough inspection of all my musculature – kneeling, almost, to test the power in my calves and thighs, then stood directly in front of me. It was more humiliating to have this man that I knew do this to me than it was one of the hordes of total strangers. 

As he stared into my eyes and I carried on shouting in my desperate efforts to make myself understood, suddenly that feeling came over me: he knew who I was, and he was deliberately not saying!  “Hmmm… ‘Believed to be a virgin'” he mused to myself. “How interesting… Bend over, slave, and let me test your hole.” 

I shook my head vigorously, and Straughan just leaned forward, took hold of one of my nipples and bit into it with the nails of his thumb and forefinger. My desperate attempts to communicate with him vanished into a scream, and he held on, causing me waves of pain, and he snapped “Boy, on our plantation we don’t tolerate disobedient slaves. The owner believes in a firm hand for discipline, and I implement it. So now, fucking well bend over!” 

I’d never been so humiliated in my life. My uncle’s overseer, our employer, someone I’d known since my uncle gave me a home all those years ago, was now doing this indescribably intimate thing to me. But then he was finished, and stood up, looked at me again as I was continuing to try to shout stuff at him, and walked away! I didn’t know what to think – I felt certain he had recognised me, and yet he’d done nothing, given me no sign even that things would be OK. What the fuck was happening? 

Not long after, he reappeared, but this time with my uncle! So my message had got through, I was saved! If it hadn’t been unmanly, I think I could have let the tears that tried to form in my eyes really flow. I tried to smile at my uncle (hidden by the muzzle) and make “happy” noises, but something was wrong! As he stood there, immaculate as usual in his mustard coloured cord slacks, silk shirt with a loosely tied cravat at the throat, and an expensive straw hat to shade his eyes from the sun, he made no recognition signal, either. I was hoping that he’d throw his arms around me, or something – but, urged on by Straughan, he too took my dick in his hand and began to stroke it to life. This was vile – this was my uncle, who’d known me since I was a baby: what was he doing stroking my dick? 

Once he saw I was erect, though, he moved on and cupped my balls in his hand!  Look, I’d had my balls examined a lot of times whilst I as on the road “for sale”, but this was different. This was my uncle’s firm hands feeling my manhood, for Christ sake! And as I’d seen him do before at slave sales, he suddenly squeezed – twice – and each time I doubled over as that awful sensation you get when your balls are hurt went trough me. I now know that he was making sure that each testicle was still “mine” and not a prosthetic – my uncle was, as I’ve told you, interested in slave dealing, and always knew the tricks that dealers could get up to, such as replacing an undersized ball with a plastic or steel one. He must have had early warning of the range of “lifelike” prosthetics that became available at around that time, so he needed to nip the ball between his fingers to make sure it was not false, as signalled by the slave’s reactions. 

Straughan ordered me to bend over again then, and I just shook my head in horror, hardly being able to believe what was about to happen to me. He shrugged and reached out for my nipple as he had done before, so I just had to comply…. And he and my uncle together then inspected my hole, gently teasing at it with a finger, and then forcing one in to test my “tightness”. Finally, both men stood in front of me, and my uncle said “Well done, Straughan, for locating this excellent specimen – it’s easy to overlook such a prime piece of stock as this when there’s so much choice. He’s capable of erecting, and both his balls seem alive, so providing there’s no other problem with him, he ought to be capable of breeding…. It’s a bonus, I suppose, that he’s not been fucked yet, but the ability to breed is the most important thing.” 

As he was speaking I was becoming almost frantic in my efforts to shout at them, jigging up and down at the end of the short chain that held me more or less in one place. Suddenly Straughan lashed out and slapped me hard on the butt, telling me to stand still and be quiet: they were debating how much to pay for me, and I was disturbing them! He commented to my uncle that he could soon knock such behaviour out of me at the plantation, as it was not unusual for young newly-enslaved men to be sensitive about being handled. 

What the fuck was happening? The more I thought about it, the more I just knew Straughan knew who I was, and I could almost tell from my uncle’s body language and general demeanour that he was in on it, too. So why were these men subjecting me to this totally humiliating experience? Why was I having to wait one second longer to be released from this bondage, and before I cold be allowed to cover myself decently? And what was all this talk of being good for breeding? Was it some terrible nightmare I was having, from which I would soon awake? It didn’t seem so, as everything else was jus too realistic – I could hear the screams of delighted kids, the music from the carousel, the crack of the whips and the cheering as another pony race finished; the sun was beating down on me, the flies were biting, I needed to piss…. No, it was all too real. 

So I made one last desperate effort to attract my uncle’s attention, falling to my knees in front of him.  “See”, Straughan told my uncle, “This is a proper slave. He evidently has been trained, as he understands that a slave’s position is on his knees in his owner’s presence. He must have realised that there’s a good chance you will succeed in buying him, if the price is right!” 

They simply walked away, leaving me there, almost sobbing, and so tense with anxiety: this was my one chance of salvation, and I just couldn’t read what was going on! Straughan and my uncle reappeared a few minutes later, though, with the dealer. I’ve told you of my uncle’s reputation as a man who liked to bargain and who bought and sold slaves profitably, and now I stood there in an agony of suspense as his negotiations with the dealer raged back and forth. Offers were made and rejected, twice my uncle seemed to be on the point of walking away, until called back by the dealer – why the fuck was all this happening, when he or Straughan could simply say that they knew I was a free man, then the police could come, and all this stuff could be sorted out? But no, the haggling went on, and I felt more and more demeaned as my uncle schemed away to shave every last cent from my price. I was ecstatic when my uncle finally concluded a deal, though – so, OK, he’d had to “buy” me from the dealer, but perhaps he thought that was the easiest way of getting me free, without the need to call the cops or anything. After all, southern gentlemen always wanted to avoid a scandal, and if the papers got hold of the idea that his heir had been branded and ‘skinned and sold naked in public, it might not look good for him. The money I’d cost would be a small price to pay, I reasoned, for preserving the anonymity and dignity of our family. 

Still, it was odd that the moment he had written the cheque he did not immediately acknowledge me in some way, and simply strode off, followed by Straughan. I had to wait another ten minutes or so before one of the dealer’s men came to release me from my ankle shackle and lead me away to the “sold, waiting collection” pen where I stood with the other slaves who had been bought, awaiting their owners to finish all their day’s business and come to pick up their purchases.  As the afternoon stretched into evening and one by one the other sold stock was collected by their owners, I began to worry. Surely uncle Jed had not forgotten me! But perhaps., I reasoned, he had other complicated business to transact at the slave meet, and still wanted to remain a respectable aura of having just bought another slave, and not raising suspicions about that slave being me. But as the lights in all the stalls were being turned out and the dealers were packing up, I knew this couldn’t be so. Finally, the dealer’s men came and, without explanation, took me back to his slave transporter and I was once again locked into the tiny cage. I tried to show them that they were wrong, that I’d been bought, that they shouldn’t be putting me in there, but the muzzle and my cuffed hands to the restraint collar stopped any of this. I began to get sick with worry – suppose the transaction had gone wrong, or there was a mix-up in the paperwork so that some other slave was now arriving at the plantation? Would they ever be able to sort it out? 

The transporter roared into life and set off as usual, and I was in despair! Perhaps I’d been wrong, and Straughan and uncle Jed had not recognised me, and that, having bought me, he’d sold me on at a profit (which I knew he did, as he often returned from these slave meets with no slaves but a handsome profit from his ability to spot undervalued stock and sell it on). As I lay there in my misery, I also started to think “Oh, fuck me! I’m thinking like a slave now, worrying about being sold, and sold on…. I’m not a slave… I’m a free man”. But lying there muzzled, and cuffed in a cage in a slave dealer’s transporter, these thoughts just weren’t convincing!  

I hadn’t gone to sleep before we stopped – unusually, as the thing seemed to go all night between slave meets and fairs. The doors opened and one of the dealer’s men came to release me from my cage. Then, blessed relief, I heard Straughan’s voice! “Thank you”, he was saying. “We didn’t want to have to transport the slave home in the car, and it was good of you to oblige…” 

“Think nothing of it, my dear Straughan”, the dealer’s voice replied. “This plantation is a good customer of ours, and we’re happy to oblige if we can – we’re on the way past, anyway, and it’s little enough we could do for your continuing business…” 

Oh, fuck me – why couldn’t they have just told me that this is what a happening, and saved me those terrible hours of worry? Of course, they thought I was a slave, and slaves should not care about stuff like that, so I suppose that was why; still, I was here now, home, and I’d soon be free.  “Safe journey then, until next month”, Straughan responded, and then, in a different tone, obviously to some of the plantation slaves or guards “Have the new slave brought to my quarters, at once!” 

Straughan actually lived on the estate, in a small house that was always known as the Overseer’s Cottage. I’d met Straughan on its steps many times, but had never been inside. I knew that he had some house slaves, of course, as part of the “perks” of the job – the slaves were actually on the plantation’s books – but they tended not to mix with the other domestic slaves, and little was known about Straughan’s way of life. That he selected his personal slaves from the good looking, fit, white field slaves and had no female slaves in attendance led to the rumour that he was perhaps gay, but then, like many men, it was also possible that he just preferred the sight of male slaves around him, and was perhaps just not interested in sex. To add to my excitement about being freed now, I was therefore also interested in seeing something of Straughan’s domestic arrangements – it would be something to talk about at those endless tea parties, where such things were always a matter of intense speculation and interest. 

Straughan was as ever clad in his canvas jodhpurs, shiny black boots and snowy white shirt and was sitting there when I was led into the small room that was evidently his study. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create an air of calm masculinity, as the walls were papered in dark red and green stripes, thick silk curtains were swagged the window, dark mahogany bookcases held hardback books, and dark leather chesterfields flanked the marble fireplace, which contained a magnificent arrangement of flowers as this was summer and a fire was unnecessary.  I stood there in by bare feet, feeling the luxurious pile of the carpet, and wondering why Straughan was making no attempt to release me. Instead, he approached me and whipped off the tiny silk loin cloth that I was still wearing, and undid the thin chain that had been holding it, so that I stood naked in front of him. 

I saw the Steve Masters slave folder open on his desk, and now he went and looked at it, then came back, looked at me, and said “So, you’re a slave that likes to fuck around – two sons by that mother and daughter.”  I shook my head, trying to understand why he was still sticking to this silly game. “What, Steve? Is your dossier wrong? I looked at that SIN on you a moment ago, and it tallies. And those pictures in there, whilst hardly doing justice to that magnificent body of yours, is indisputably you. So what’s the problem?” 

I shook my head violently. Oh why the fuck didn’t he stop this charade? But now he was speaking again. “It’s interesting that you have two children, slave, and two sons at that. Let me tell you a small secret about this plantation where you are now a slave: it’s owner, my employer, had a nephew who was his pride and joy. He treated him like a son, gave him every advantage, even paid his extraordinary college fees to a fine northern university. Then when that nephew, whose name was Jon, came back, he wouldn’t do the simplest thing for his uncle: he was asked to marry a local heiress, a charming southern lady, after his uncle and her father had spent a long time negotiating a most satisfactory marriage settlement. All he needed to do was to remain with her until there were two sons – the classic heir and the spare – and then he could have done what he wanted with his life. But this ingrate refused, and walked out, leaving his uncle desolate, and the lady’s reputation ruined: it was well known that their betrothal was imminent under most favourable financial circumstances, and as the young man had gone off, it was widely supposed that there was something wrong with her!” 

“So we have Steve here, who produced two sons under unusual circumstances, and a missing nephew, who wouldn’t produce any sons! A curious world, don’t you think? Now, I’m about to un-muzzle you, but before I do, let me ask you if you have ever seen this instrument….” 

He held up something that looked like an electric toothbrush, except that the shaft was much longer and thinner and made of metal, with two small pads at the end. He pressed a button on the side, waited a moment, then held it near my face: the two small pads were hot, very hot.  “This is an electric cauteriser. A very quick and easy to use instrument. In fact, I’m something of an expert! We had a new slave here a few months ago, nothing out of the ordinary, just something we bought to keep up the numbers in the field gangs, but he kept saying that he wasn’t a slave, but a free man! He claimed that he’d been abducted and illegally enslaved, and it was most upsetting for all the other slaves who thought he might be getting special treatment as a result of this status, even though he wasn’t: the plantation had paid good money for him and we needed his work, and it was clear that all his particulars matched his dossier and that he was indeed a slave. In the end, in order to stop him continuing to spread unrest, we had to stop him speaking – this little instrument inserted down the throat burned out his vocal chords in only a few seconds, so he was permanently muted. He soon settled down after that, and now you can’t tell him from any of the other slaves in his coffle, except that he can’t laugh and joke with them, or join in any of the working songs properly!” 

“Now, before I remove the muzzle, J…. Steve”, he smiled evilly, “Let me remind you of this cautionary tale. I don’t like having to permanently mutilate slaves as it reduces their resale value, but I won’t hesitate to permanently mute a slave who spreads seditious rumours about his origin – especially when that origin is so clearly documented and defined. If any slave came in here and pretended to be a free man, perhaps even someone important… I’d need to use the cauteriser immediately. Is that clear?” 

Oh, what the fuck was going on? He clearly did know who I was, but was playing this elaborate game for some reason. I thought I’d better go along with it, as I’d soon get to see my uncle and I knew it would be then easy to fix things as he’d be overjoyed to have me back. So I just nodded my head.  Straughan came and loosened my muzzle and I was able to push it out of my mouth at last. As I was running my freed tongue around, loosening my lips and cheeks and preparing to speak, Straughan went on “Now, Steve, as that’s your name, isn’t it, Slave? There’s one little ceremony we like to go through here – your owner, the owner of this plantation and everything on it, interviews all new slaves personally; but he’s away at the moment for a few days , so your interview will be postponed. We’ll put you to work, of course, but I don’t want you mixing with the normal field slaves in case your owner decides to use you in the house, or around the pleasure grounds. Consequently we’ll lodge you at first in the stables – and let me caution you again about spreading seditious stories: the slave who really rules the stables is this missing nephew’s personal pony. That pony has some unresolved issues with the way his owner trained him and used him, and it would be particularly unwise to get him to even think that he might be able to take some kind of revenge…. Still, as you’re a new slave, never been here before, that can hardly affect you, can it?” 

I looked at Straughan, so confidently sitting there, and wanted to scream and shout at him about the stupidity of this whole thing – he clearly knew who I was, so why wasn’t I free, back in my suite with Sam ministering to me? Then I understood – my uncle was cross with me, and was going to make me spend a few days actually as a slave as “punishment” for walking out! Still, I could handle this: I was a tough, strong guy, and life here on the plantation couldn’t be nearly as bad as what I’d endured so far, could it? We were, after all, known for the exemplary way we treated out slaves – I could certainly survive a few days of hard work. 

“I don’t know how you were trained”. Straughan’s words brought me out of my reverie, “But I asked you a question, boy. And slaves always answer. I think you need a small lesson in discipline, as I run a tight ship here for the owner.” 

He clapped his hands, and three of the big handsome slaves he had selected as his personal servants appeared as if by magic. “Put this one on the horse”, he commanded. 

Two of them grabbed hold of me, and before I could protest or do anything to stop them, they had me strapped down onto the same kind of antique punishment horse that there was in my uncle’s study. I lay there, my arms and legs strapped to its legs, but with my body relatively free on the leather top of the horse. I felt Straughan’s hands resting on my butt, and squirmed as if to make him take them away – what the fuck did he think he was doing? This was taking this charade too far!  “A very good butt, slave”, he said. “Extremely well muscled and a good shape. You’ll be an asset to the work force here. I always thought the nephew could benefit from more exercise and toning… Now, I’m only going to give you two strokes of the cane, just as a reminder of your slave lessons in the polite ways of dealing with and addressing free men! And be careful what you say from now on…. Once you’re on that horse, you know, it’s easy to leave you there and continue your education – I’ve not much else scheduled for this evening…” 

Even though I’d now been caned before, I still wasn’t prepared for the stinging blows that Straughan laid across my butt. I howled with anguish, and lay there gasping and sobbing when they were over.  Straughan bent low near my head, so that only he and I, and not his personal slaves, could here. “Think carefully, J… Steve, about what’s just happened here. I only punish slaves with the owner’s approval, you know. So think carefully, very carefully, about your position. You’re a slave, remember? A slave who has just cost his owner a great deal of money. A slave over whom his owner has complete and absolute power – you are a ‘lifer’, as we know from your dossier, and that lovely brand laid on your butt. I would be very unwise of you to act as anything other than the perfect slave! Do you understand?” 

My brain was working in overtime now, and I said, as humbly as I could, through gritted teeth, “Yes, master.” 

“Excellent, Steve! I think we understand each other. Now, I’ll have you put in the stables as I said, then tomorrow you can join one of the work gangs to keep you from getting bored… Ennui was a problem for the nephew, I think, which is why he wanted to leave. I’d hate you to be in that position!” 

He left the room, chuckling, and his two slave released me from the horse. “He’s not a bad old stick”, one of them said. “He treats us quite well, considering what a tyrant he is to the field crews. Come on with us, though, as if we’re not back soon, he’ll cane us…” 

“Yup!”, the other slave commented. “He really gets off on caning us… He’s always looking for an excuse to do it – he can’t get it up otherwise!” 

“What do you mean?”, I asked.  “Well, he fucks us – that’s not the problem, as he’s only got a tiny dick and it’s not a problem even if he thinks he’s really fucking us hard! No, it’s that he can’t get it hard in the first place unless he’s just finished caning someone. Usually it’s one of us who has to get beaten so that he can then fuck one of the others…. But you’ve done us a favour, Steve: he’ll still be thinking about tanning your hide if we can get you over to the stables quickly and get back here soon, so he’ll be hard as a rock and he can fuck us without any of us getting hurt. So let’s get a move on….” 

I learned then an important lesson: slaves talk freely amongst themselves, even about their masters’ most intimate and private doings. I hadn’t just found out about the inside of Straughan’s house – they’d told me something that none of our circle of acquaintances would ever have guessed at. What fun I was going to have at that next tea party, once uncle had finished working his little joke on me: the ladies would all be clustering around as I whispered Straughan’s little secret to them (although I’d better be careful with the language I used, as our southern ladies really are just that, and it’s easy to offend their sensibilities). 

I followed them almost happily to the stables – at least I now knew I was safe, even though the next few days might be tough. When my uncle had had his little games, I’d soon be back in my suite and life would get back to normal. Although would he still have that stupid idea that I should marry that Marie-Louise? Surely he’d see that I was a man capable of making my own decisions, and that if he didn’t give me some freedom of choice, I’d have to take it by leaving again?  

To be continued …

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