Carl or Mitch? How could I decide? How could they decide?  After all the traumas of the recent days I just wasn’t up to any more decisions, any more cares, any more worries. The young huntsman was snuggled up close to my body, and I could feel his firm young flesh warm against me. After our heavy dinner – the first real meal for days – he had fallen into a deep sleep, and his body was lolling in that delicious abandoned way that only very tired, young guys can manage. His arm was lying loosely across my chest, and his head had fallen onto my shoulder. A small dribble of drool had trickled out of the corner of his mouth, and was lying wetly in the little hollow between my neck and shoulders.

Looking at Mitch and Carl I deferred a decision by mouthing half silently “I can’t disturb him….”. They both saw the poor young guy’s exhausted sleep, and nodded their understanding. Carl fetched a blanked and draped it over our bodies, then taking Mitch by the hand, led him off to the bed where Carl and I had spent so many happy nights.  Just as they got there, Mitch suddenly shook Carl’s hand away. In those half suppressed tones you hear in hotels when a couple don’t want to disturb other guests I heard him say, somewhat angrily to Carl,

“I’m not a slave any more! I’m not a bed slave that you can take to your bed to be fucked. I broke away. I earned my freedom. And I’m going to keep it.”

Carl was, I could see, shocked. His gesture of leading Mitch to the bed was only one of kindness, as I knew he understood our position. He whispered back, in the same sort of tones “Fuck you! I just wanted to show you where to sleep the night.  What makes you think I’d want your ass anyway – I don’t find hairy guys that much of a turn-on, and you won’t have been shaved for days – pushing my cock up your ass would be like trying to go through the gates of hell, I should think! Now, if you want to share the bed with me, that’s Ok. IF you want to lie on the floor, naked, like a slave, that’s fine too! If you really are a free man, you’d better start acting like one, and when someone tries to show you a bit of kindness, don’t react like a fucking slave who thinks every guy who is a master is going to want to rape him!”

Going to the chest where he kept his clothes, Carl got out a pair of boxers and threw them at Mitch.  He said ““Now, do you want to share my bed, or sleep naked on the floor like a slave? If it makes you feel better, put these on – perhaps they will make you feel more ‘free’! But, you know, free guys can choose to sleep naked with their friends – you don’t have to fuck, or be fucked, just because you’re lying companionably naked with another man.”

Mitch obviously knew that he had misunderstood Carl’s gesture, because that special grin he has broke out, and he leapt into the bed, without the boxers. Carl climbed in more slowly, and the next instant Mitch had leaned across and wrapped his arms around Carl.  I fell asleep, hearing Mitch and Carl making little endearing sounds at each other, above the gentle slap and slurp as they pleasured each other, unhurried and languidly.

The next morning we were all awake at dawn, and Carl started to make breakfast. “You guys have got a few problems”, he told Mitch and me.

“First, they’ll probably turn on your pain circuits. Although they’re probably assuming you’re dead, it costs nothing, and they may as well make sure. I’ve seen slaves with that thing turned on, and, believe me, you’ll want to turn yourselves in to be rid of the agony.”

“Secondly, what are you going to do with this young guy?”, he asked, looking at the young huntsman who, like us, was sitting waiting expectantly for his breakfast. “He’s a free man, remember. And if he gets back to civilisation, not only will he turn you in, but he’ll turn me in, too, for aiding your flight. So you’d better make plans for disposing of him, to protect us all.”

I gasped in amazement – surely Carl couldn’t be serious! He couldn’t be proposing that we kill the young huntsman.  “Hey, I’m no murder!”, I snapped at Carl.

“Well, what other solution is there? And before you answer, remember what he was trying to do to you – what percentage of the hunt’s prey are allowed to live, do you think?  I went on one of those hunts once, and it sickened me – even if he prey was not torn apart by the dogs, it was ritually butchered at the end of the hunt. They may have told you that without dogs you had a good chance of living, but the chief of the hunt would have slit your throats when you were captured – they like to take the bodies back to base draped over the backs of their horses and the bodies need to be dead for them to be able to do that! Quite apart from anything else, I was appalled at the waste – they always have good, strong, sturdy slaves as prey to give them good sport, and what’s the sense in killing slaves like that – there are much better uses for them!”

The young huntsman had been listening to all this, of course, and broke in:  “It’s true.  We would have slit your throats once we caught you – that’s what we always do with the hunt prey. I had been promised the honour of being allowed to ride back to base leading the pack horse with the bodies of you guys draped over it – we refer to the ‘dead bucks’ from the hunt.  But I’m sorry. I can’t make amends for all the bucks I’ve hunted in the past, but I’m sorry about you two. I do deserve to die, probably.  But in those days in the forest, when you two kept me warm at night, carried me when my feet were bleeding, and kept me alive, I came to realsise that you’re more than slaves – you’re real, honest, genuine, nice guys. You didn’t care for me because you wanted to use me for a hostage, but because you were concerned for me as another guy like you, hungry, cold, naked, and lost. And when you humiliated and punished those cops, I was glad for you and sort of joined in, you may remember!                                                                                                                        But you’re right – I will be a problem, and you’d best kill me – I do deserve it. Just make it quick and painless, will you?”

Then looking a Mitch, he said “Mitch, you told me you were taught lots of ways of killing a man with your bare hands by the marines – do me one last favour, to add to all the other stuff you did in the forest: take me quickly, don’t hang around, and make it painless for me. Mitch looked at the huntsman, and I could see that he had no intention of killing the guy – Mitch had effectively incorporated him into our “platoon”. He was now “one of the men”. And marines don’t kill their buddies in the platoon, whatever the provocation. “Enough of that, boy!”, he said.

“You’re one of us.  There’s to be no more talk of killing.  You will be punished for all the crimes you have committed against other guys in your life – but neither I, or anyone else whilst I can help it – is going to kill you!  We’re going to find a way out of this, and you’re coming along with us – whatever happens, you’re not going back to your former life as a rich slave owner. You’ll take our chances with us, and however we end up, you’ll be the same. Steve and I will need a servant if we get out of this, and you can atone for your past by being our slave for the rest of your life. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir”, the huntsman replied, humbly bowing his head in the way that slaves are taught to do.

“Oh, great””, Carl exploded. “Mitch, it’s not as simple as that! You and Steve will be driven mad by the pain any time soon.  Then what are you going to do?”

We all sat there, glumly, and the remains of our breakfast were untouched.

Later that day we were no better off – we were just sitting around, waiting for the inevitable to happen. It was only a matter of time before new pain controllers arrived, and then they would activate the chips inside us.

I had sat all morning with my own gloomy thoughts – going back to my life as a slave would be dreadful. But I didn’t think it would be a long one: who would buy a slave with a record of escaping, for anything other than some job that would soon result in death?

Then it came to me. “Mitch! There’s only one thing to do. We’ve got to get rid of those pain chips from inside us. Do you remember that the doctor who fitted them said that the only way they could be got out was with an operation – well then, let’s get a surgeon, and let’s have the operation!”

We rushed and got Steve, and asked him to go and find a surgeon. But he shook his head: “It won’t work. There’s absolutely no doctor, or veterinarian, in this State, who would risk his licence by doing it. There have been a couple of cases where doctors have acted to remove slave chips and were caught, and there’s a cunning penalty automatically in the legal code – the doctor himself is then enslaved. A lot of the might risk it for money, but none of them will risk it with the fear of enslavement hanging over them.”

“Well then”, said Mitch, “There’s only one way.  We’ll have to do it ourselves, here”.

“You must be mad! We’ve no tools, no anaesthetics, no skill, nothing.”, Carl snapped. “And if we go to try to buy scalpels, or anaesthetics, it will give the game away. There are only one or two suppliers o this specialised stuff, and they automatically report to the authorities any sales to people who are not legitimately in the medical profession.”

“And, anyway, who can hack around inside you? I only know what the inside of a body looks like from those medical TV shows, and that’s hardly enough to be able to hack you open!”.

“Sir. Sir…”, the young huntsman interjected . “Sirs, I did two years at med school before I dropped out to go into my dad’s business – it was too tough, and it was much better to go home and have my slaves……”

He realised he probably shouldn’t continue describing his life at home like that, so he went on “But I could open you up, get he chip out, and sew you back together again.  If we really honed a couple of those cut throat razors I saw in Master Carl’s bathroom, and you don’t need special needles or anything….  The only problem would be the anesthetic.”

“Hey, guys, you can’t be serious…”, Carl started. But Mitch broke in:

“He’s right. It’s our only chance. And forget the anaesthetic – in the old days they used to cut guys’ legs off on the battle field without anaesthetic – a little cut through our bellies can’t be as bad as that!”

“Yes, they did do that”, I said, “And most of the patients died!”.

The huntsman cut in “But they didn’t die of the pain.  They died from septicaemia, or something – we know about disinfecting and cleanliness now.  And even if we can’t get supplies of medical penicillin or anything, Master Carl could go to a country store and buy animal stock – some masters routinely use it on their slaves, anyway, as it’s a lot cheaper!”

“It will be painful, though. Excruciatingly so. The hard muscles across the belly take a lot of strain, and even after the operation you’ll have weeks of pain.”

“We can take that!”, Mitch cut in in his “marines can take it” voice. Let’s get started!

Later that day, the stage was set.  Inside the cabin the kitchen table had been scrubbed, and a lot of portable lights rigged up over it. The young huntsman had a variety of kitchen knives and razors honed as sharply as we could do them – he had personally sweated for hours moving them up and down a whetstone. And Carl had been and bought vials of antibiotic  and antiseptic, which all now stood there lined up, their labels all ominously saying “Animal use only not for humans”. Still, as we had been told, they were supposed to be all right for slaves. “Ok”, Mitch said.  “I’ll go first.  I can be the one he practices on.”

“No, Mitch”, I said. “You think you’re being brave by going first. But you’re stronger and braver than me. Let me go first – if I see the suffering you go through, I’ll never have the courage to submit myself to it. So I must go first, so I don’t know what’s coming”.

And Before he could argue further, I got up and lay on the table.

The huntsman said to Mitch and Carl “You won’t be able to hold him down. It’s essential he is kept absolutely still, so you need to tie him down. Ropes around his arms and legs, or course. But under his ribs, and across his hips – it’s essential that the stomach can’t writhe around at all when I cut in to it.”

Carl tried to make a grim joke about “the ultimate bondage experience” as he and Mitch lashed me to the table, but none of us felt like laughing.  Carl knelt down so his head was close to mine, and said “Ok, Steve, this is it.  We’re ready to start.  This is your last chance, buddy – you could still give yourself up, you know. Don’t worry about me – I’d rather be enslaved for helping you, than have you suffer and possibly die at the hands of this untrained butcher!”

I shook my head – I knew that Mitch could never live as a slave again, and we had to take this as our only chance.  So I whispered “No, Carl.  Go ahead”.

Carl bent closer and gently kissed me, then, as he stood up, the most awful pain I have ever experienced hit me.

You can’t really describe pain. Not pain that’s all consuming. Pain that blots out everything else from your mind.  Pain that is somewhere in your inner being, and from which there’s no escape.  Pain that goes on, and on.

Somewhere in the dim distance I heard screaming – tortured, animal howling from deep in the throat. Cries that cut across any feeling of humanity. Somewhere else I realised it was me that was doing it .

I had lost all control. I smelt a dreadful smell, and realised my bowels must have evacuated. But the pain went on and on.

Mitch had told me of his experiences in the pain palace – but nothing could compare with this. Hovever painful “recreational” pain is, inflicted by a pain master in the controlled surroundings of a dungeon, it can’t possibly compare to the awful agony as our body is cut open and your guts exposed.

I lost consciousness.

When I came to, there was an agonising ache from my body. I was soaked in sweat.

Then little stabs of pain – short and sharp, driving down deep into my brain. I heard myself screaming for it to stop, begging to be put out of my misery, imploring Mitch to end it for me.

But Carl and Mitch just stood there, one gripping my hand, the other with his hand on my forehead.

And then it was over – there was just the background incessant ache that spread from my stomach all through me. An ache so intense I could hardly think of anything else.

Carl and Mitch were sponging me with cool, wet cloths. Then they were untying me. Mitch picked me up and with a huge effort carried me over to the bed, and laid me down gently.

“Lie still, Steve”, he said. “The worst is over. You’ve survived the operation. Now be strong, and don’t move so the wound can start to heal. Just lie calm. It’s my turn now, and I know I’m going to howl like an animal when they cut into me: but promise me you’ll do nothing.  Don’t try to interfere.  Just lie there.  Promise me… Ok?”

I nodded, weekly, and he walked off to lie on the table. I could see the huntsman and Carl sta rt to tie him down, and realised that their bodies were covered in blood – my blood. But they knew what had to happen, as did Mitch, and went about their tasks unhurriedly, testing the tightness of the ropes and the efficacy of the knots with a grim professionalism.

And then I heard Mitch start to scream. I wanted to go to his help, reflexively. But I knew I must not. It went on and on – evidently even Mitch’s days of agony in the pain palace had not prepared him for the ordeal of an operation under these circumstances.

I drifted in and out of sleep.  I was too weak to move.  I wanted to piss. I did. I slept.

Morning. Light. Pain. I lay there trying to remember what happened, then made the mistake of trying to move – agonising pains from my wound spread through my body.

The young huntsman was bending over me “You must lie still”, he said, “So the wound does not open.”

“How’s Mitch…?”

“Just like you.  Surviving! In pain! We’ve had to leave him tied to the table, as neither Carl nor I could carry him here to the bed.  But he’s Ok.”

I looked across the room, and saw Mitch’s body lying there nude on the kitchen table.  They had untied his shoulders, and when he heard me, he managed to turn his head towards me. I saw him give a small gesture with his hand – his thumb raised in the air, in the “thumbs up” guys use when they know that everything is probably going to be all right.

Three days later Mitch and I were back on our feet – we were walking – just – although every step was painful as our stomach muscles moved in spite of our efforts to keep them rigid.

The young huntsman was pleased with his work – he carefully inspected our bellies, and said “Sorry, Masters, there will be scars! I’m not expert enough to have been able to sew you back together without it. And scarring is always worse when you haven’t been able to use really sharp scalpels. And I couldn’t go in through a small aperture – I had to slash quite a big gap.


“Shut up, will you!”, said Mitch, not unkindly. “You did your best. We can’t ask for more from a slave” And anyway, look at the bodies of Master Steve and me…. Look at all the tattoos…

One scar is not going to make the difference! If anyone gets us in bed past the look of the tattoos, a bit of a scar isn’t going to stop them!”

The young huntsman beamed with delight. He was learning that praise from a master is the sweetest thing that  a slave can hear.

We started to exercise. Mitch forced me – shouting at me if I tried to slack, and didn’t keep up with him. He was back, doing the thing he loved most – building up the bodies of his men to turn them into strong, proud marines! Carl went off to work every day, but the young huntsman joined Mitch and me as we ran and did push-ups to get our bodies back into shape.

He was turning out well…. The harsh time in the forest, and his healthy diet now and forced workouts had got rid of the thin layer of fat from under his skin, and the start of a small fat belly had been turned into the beginnings of a proper six pack. His biceps had formed hard balls, as they do in young guys who exercise, and his back muscles had thickened to show he was developing proper strength there. His long legs had nicely toned thighs at the top now, and his whole body had taken on a dark tone from exposure to the Autumn sunlight.

We hadn’t resolved the fundamental question of who wanted whom in this foursome – I wanted Carl and he wanted me. I loved, admired and respected Mitch, and he wanted me. Mitch and Carl were fuck buddies, but that’s all it was I think – one man seriously enjoying another’s body, as strong unashamed guys can, without any real emotional commitment. All three of us had fucked the young huntsman, without asking him, and without allowing him the pleasure of fucking us in turn: we wanted to show him that we considered him to be a slave (even though we did not subject him to most of the indignities that slavery would otherwise imply). But it was clear that the young huntsman idolised Mitch – although he respected Carl and me as masters, he worshipped Mitch.

When he was serving us dinner, he served Mitch first. He stood in the bathroom in the morning, in the hope that Mitch would allow him into the shower to soap and clean Mitch’s body (sometimes, arbitrarily, Mitch did, and sometimes he didn’t. Always, of course, without explanation – a slave has to learn that he waits for his master’s command, and his master is under no obligation to give him any explanations). And in the evening, when we were sitting in front of the fire, he sat on the floor so he could press up against Mitch’s legs; if he was not rebuffed, his hand would creep in towards Mitch’s lap as he sat there talking to us, and the young guy would try to fondle and stroke Mitch’s cock. Sometimes Mitch would let him, and sometimes Mitch would kick out with his foot and shove the huntsman away – but we could all tell that this was done playfully, and Mitch did not want to hurt him.

He was in heaven if Mitch allowed him to sleep with him – Carl, Mitch and I shared the bed, of course, and the slave was made to curl up on the floor (although we did give him a blanket). But sometimes Mitch growled at the two of us to move over a bit, and allowed the young guy to get in beside him and press close to his body. Mitch always kept him on the outside of the bed, so it was only Mitch’s body he could experience, and we sometimes woke up to hear the slave gasping, with that special mixture of pain and pleasure, as Mitch thrust his cock rhythmically in and out of the slave’s ass.

The slave was of course available to Carl and me whenever we wanted, and Mitch often urged us to fuck him to emphasise our superiority if we needed sexual relief. And, of course, we did, as we understood how important it was for the young guy to learn his new station in life quickly: it was doing him a favour, to et him used to the idea that a master could at any time simply order him to his knees, and take him doggy fashion.

Three weeks later, and we were all fit and well. Carl reminded us one morning that Billy would be home from school for the holidays soon, and that we really ought to decide on the future before then – Carl was very concerned that we might still be taken as escaped slaves, and that he would be enslaved, too, for aiding us. Whilst that was a risk he willingly took because of his love for me, he didn’t want to expose Billy to that risk – one night, as we lay in e ach other’s arms, Carl said that he thought it was more than he could bear if Billy’s lovely l6 year old body were to be exposed on the auction platform, and he was sold off to some old pervert who simply wanted to fuck young boys. Or, even worse, Carl could imagine Bill being forced to service the succession of clients in a sex parlour, living out the remainder of his young manhood as a toy for the rich of Arkansas.

So it was important that we resolved something…. Probably Mitch, our slave, and I should quit totally and move to the East Coast or West Coast, where our chances of being detected were zero (provided, of course, we never took our clothes, or even our shirts, off in public!).  But we didn’t want to leave Carl, and he couldn’t come with us – he really did want Billy to grow up in Arkansas, close to his grandpa, his uncles, and his cousins.

“Look”, Carl exclaimed, “It’s impossible. I can’t give up you guys. But I can’t tear Billy away from his family. These next years, until he’s in his twenties, are really important for a guy:  if he doesn’t bond properly with the rest of the family now, he’ll always be an outsider to some extent.   I’ve seen how my brothers in law are, and even though they join in all the family games, it’s just not the same for them as it is for someone who has learned the true joys of being an intimate member of the family all the time he was growing into full adulthood.”


It truly did seem that we were in an insoluble dilemma, and we all racked our brains for a solution – what was really right for Billy? Should we all leave for freedom, but tear Billy away from his family? Or stay, and risk the enslavement of Carl and Billy?

Although we argues it every which way, we just couldn’t decide what was the best thing to do for all of us.  How could be balance the needs of some of us against the needs of the others?

Mitch and I were going over the arguments again late one afternoon, sitting on the porch of the cabin whilst the Autumn rains thundered down. It was getting chilly now, and Carl had bought us shirts and jeans to wear, although we liked to still go bare footed. We had also allowed our slave to wear a T-shirt and shorts, when we had seem him shivering slightly one day as the weather turned:  to his credit, he hadn’t complained, and had waited for his masters to recognise his discomfort.

As the rain thundered down and it got darker and darker, we wondered where Carl was – he couldn’t still be working, given the weather.  But then we saw the headlights of his pickup below us on the steep trail up to the cabin, and we knew he would be back in about l0 minutes after negotiating the hairpin bends of the rough way.

But he wasn’t, and after 20 minutes or so we decided we ought to go and see if he had broken down – or, if the lights we had seen on the lower  trail weren’t Carl’s, we ought to see who was trespassing!

So we set off through the drenching rain, Mitch and I walking hurriedly together, and the slave tagging along behind. We turned the corner – and there was no longer a trail… A landslip had washed it away, down the hillside. And then we saw the pickup, headlights still on, lying drunkenly against a tree several metres below us.

All three of us scrambled down the wet, slippery slope of dirt and rubble, and found Carl lying trapped under the steering wheel of the truck. We opened the door, and Mitch was trying to pull him out as we were concerned that the truck might at any time start to slip further down the mountainside, when the slave told us to stop – the emotion and worry of the situation broke his conditioning, and he ordered Mitch and me to stop pulling at Carl in case there was a spinal injury and we ended up by making Carl permanently paralysed.

So what to do? Mitch said that he would go down the mountain for help. I protested, as the rain had soaked his shirt and his slave tattoos were clearly visible.

“You’ll be captured”, I said.

“I know, Steve.”, Mitch replied. “But you can stay here with Carl until the rescuers arrive, then slip quietly into the woods. I will say I had been hiding in the woods, and found the pickup.

When Carl gets out of hospital, you can simply resume your life living with him: I know you two really like each other, and I’m just in the way. Let me do this one thing for the tw o of you”.

“No, Mitch! You can’t go back to slavery. They’ll soon kill you!”

“Steve, some things are perhaps meant to be. Perhaps I am meant to die a slave. Perhaps you and Carl are meant to live your lives together. Who can say? But if we do nothing, Carl will surely die, whereas I might survive slavery, and in l0 years time we can all be together again”.

Then, to stifle further argument, he stripped off his shirt and jeans (so there would be no questions asked as to who had clothed him, and strode off, proudly, naked as slave should be, down the mountain.

Our slave went to follow him, but I put out an arm to restrain him. “No, boy, it’s no use. They’ll take Carl, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Better you come back to the cabin, then in a weeks time, walk out of the forest and resume your old life – perhaps there will be something you can do to help Mitch.   If you go down now, they’ll know you are in some way connected, and it will make it worse for everyone – you might even end up becoming really enslaved, and totally unable to help.”

“But, Master, if I were a slave I would be with Master Mitch…”

“Don’t be stupid! You’ve been to slave auctions. Even if you were in the same auction with Mitch, you wouldn’t be bought by the same master. Mitch is destined for the hunt again, or something similar. Whereas you’d be snapped up by a sex parlour, given the way your body has come on these past weeks.  No… Go back to the cabin. That’s an order, slave!”

He went off, reluctantly, uphill. And I knelt down to try to comfort Carl. But then there was a rushing sound – I saw that he pickup had fallen into the bed of a dried-up creek, and now the heavy rain was causing it to start to fill up. The water was rushing along the bed of the water course, with sound like thunder, and soon my ankles were covered in the swirling brown turbulence.

The noise increased, and the volume of water.  It rose higher and higher.

Carl came to, and we spoke. “Don’t worry, Carl. Mitch has gone for help. Rescue is on the way”, I told him.

He whispered tome that he was in pain – which he said was a good thing as it meant that there was no permanent damage to his spine. But he was totally trapped, as the engine had moved forwards when he had crashed in to the trees as he had dropped down the mountain after driving onto the non-existent trail where it had washed away.

The water was up to my chest, and I was having to brace myself against the pickup to be able to remain there, but it was almost covering Carl’s face. Inexorably, it rose over his mouth, and I could see from the terrified look in my lover’ eyes that he knew he was going to die.

As the water rose further, I did the only thing I could – I filled my lungs with air, bobbed under the surface and clamped my lips over Carl’s, and filled his mouth with air. Then I went up above the water, breathed in, and did the same thing….  Over and over.  As Carl’s emotional life had been given life by the kiss of our lips, so now his physical life was sustained as we continued to share the same air.

After what seemed an eternity, at last I saw other lights coming up the trail. The local Sheriff and the fire and rescue truck appeared. I saw Mitch, naked and cuffed, standing there looking utterly forlorn in the light of the headlights of the vehicles.

They saw what I was doing, and in a few moments the rescue people had taken an oxygen supply to Carl. The sheriff came over to me as I was standing there, panting and trying to recover my breath.

“What have we here?”, he asked sarcastically. “Get those clothes off, boy! I don’t like to see slaves standing around wearing men’s clothes!”

There was nothing else for it, so I complied, and stood there with the icy rain stinging on my bare skin.

“Cuff him with the other one”, the Sheriff commanded one of his men, “Then put them in the car and drive them back to the Auction House – they’ll know what to do with a pair of escapees!”.

As Mitch and I were bundled together naked into the trunk of the patrol car (the officer had not wanted to get the interior wet from our bodies), we saw the rescue services getting Carl out from under the water – at least he seemed to be alive still!

We lay there naked, our bodies pressed close. We were both very cold from the rain and the water, and it was good to have the warmth of each other for mutual comfort.

“Well we’re in it now”, Mitch said. “They’ve got us both back. Do you know what they do with  escaped slaves?”

“Not really – I don’t think the death penalty is mandatory, although I guess we’ll be sold to something where death is a near certainty in the not too distant future – back to the hunt, or to one of those grossly unsafe mines, or something. ‘Normal folk’ won’t buy escapees, in case we run again!”

“Steve, man, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got you into all this. Now I’ve got you killed, instead of taking our chances at the hunt.”

“No, Mitch.  We had no chance there anyway – remember what the huntsman said.  And I’m not sorry about a bit of it. Without the escape, I’d never have been as close to you as we’ve been these past few weeks. If it is all to end, at least I’ve known you. We could have gone all our lives without ever discovering what real buddies can be to each other.  Don’t blame yourself – I’d rather be here with you, in the trunk of this patrol car, than back with my bitch of a wife as a ‘free’ man.” And to reassure him, I wriggled around so I could kiss him.

He responded hungrily, and our tongues were soon intertwined. Our cocks were erect and jutting into each other as we thrashed our bodies around, but with our hands cuffed behind us we could do nothing to ease each other’s ache for real sexual contact.

After a bit, I said “Mitch, whatever we do, we must protect Carl, and the young huntsman. I think he’s suffered enough, don’t you?”

“Yes. He’s a decent guy really, and I don’t want to see him enslaved. Let’s tell the cops we’ve been wandering for days in the woods, and just came across the pickup and the trail out.”

“We won’t say we even knew there was a cabin up there – we just stole the clothes from another empty vacation cabin, two or three days ago – they may doubt us, but they won’t be able to search every vacation home in the county!”


Back at the Auction Hall it was the familiar scene – naked slaves arriving and being processed. Some back from ongoing work assignments, standing proudly naked with their bodies darkened by outside work. And some new slaves, feebly attempting to hide their genitals behind their hands as they were ordered to strip naked for the first time.

We were given special treatment – normally, once the slaves were in the reception hall and naked most resistance vanished and the guards were relatively relaxed. However with us the guards clustered around, cattle prods at the ready, and herded us not so much like a crowd of docile sheep as they did the other slaves, but like dangerous stud bulls who might at any moment go berserk and attack their handlers. But in truth, Mitch and I were both so tired, exhausted and dispirited that we had no more fight in us than any of the others.

We were showered and given a good internal wash out with the enema hoses as usual, and told to shave each other so that our pubic hair had the proper slave trim – this wasn’t difficult, because even during our period of freedom we had found we liked our balls shaved – like a lot of guys, we actually found it much more sensual to be able to really feel our own balls properly without a coating of wiry hair. And of course for our sexual partners it was infinitely preferable who wants to end up with pubic hairs in his mouth when he’s been sucking his partner? So in the cabin we had shaved each other, and Carl, and had of course insisted that our young huntsman “slave” had undergone the ritual shaving to which all slaves were subject.

But then instead of being taken to a cell or dormitory, we were herded along into the tattooing room. I was told to stand against the wall whilst they took Mitch and made him lie on the tattooist’s table, and I heard the whine of the electric needling machine start up. I didn’t see what they were doing, and then it was my turn.

All tattooing hurts, to some extent, and those on my ass, pecs and arms had been mildly uncomfortable, shall we say. But the tattooist was putting something on my forehead, and this hurt like hell – there’s no deep cushion of flesh below the skin, and the pain was intense as the tiny needle stabbed up and down. But it was soon done, and not really as bad as some of the stuff we’d had to endure – it certainly didn’t compare to the operation without anaesthetic!

The real “pain” was waiting for me when I saw Mitch, and realised that I was the same as him: in large black letters, right across my forehead, it said “Slave”. How could they have disfigured my handsome Mitch in this way – I had got used to his body being tattooed, and indeed we each found our tattoos rather sexy. But the stark reality of this public marking, in a way that could never be concealed even if we were one day to be free and allowed to wear clothes again, was the ultimate humiliation and symbol of how the Programme controlled and debased all who entered it.

A senior guard, seeing our looks of horror, commented “So if you get away again, there’ll be no hiding now!”.

We were taken to an isolation cell – it was the first one I had seen in the Auction House where the doors were solid and not made of bars: evidently there was no thought that prospective customers might need to walk along and have an informal inspection of the stock for sale!

The cell was completely bare – there wasn’t even the usual sleeping pad on the floor, just bare concrete.  And after the guards had closed the door, it was pitch black, as there was no light. But Mitch and I didn’t care – we had each other’s bodies for warmth and comfort, and spent the night caressing each other and gently fucking and sucking.  We thought it would probably be the last time that we would ever be able to share such a time together, as the likelihood was that we would be sold to different projects when we were put up for auction.

The next morning we were proved right –  the guards came and took Mitch away, and left me in the cell. I suppose it must have been for about half a day (although without light, it’s difficult to say) because of the growth of the stubble on my chin and the ominous rumblings of my stomach before I was collected and given a quick shower.

I was led into a small private preview room, where a couple of buyers were seated with a representative of the Auction House leisurely sipping coffee. The guards motioned for me to get up on to the inspection block, and told me to assume “display”, which I did, and I heard the Auction House guy saying “This is one of those celebrated escapees. We think he and his partner killed one of the huntsmen, but we can’t be sure as the body hasn’t been found – we’re giving them the benefit of the doubt at the moment, else they would have of course been executed immediately for harming a Master. However we recognise that they won’t fetch high prices and so they’re a bit of an embarrassment to us – we don’t actually want to put him into a regular auction at all, as the presence of such a menacing hulk tends to put buyers off the whole idea of slaves, and all the prices in the auction that day will be somewhat depressed. So if you want to take him off our hands, we’ll gladly give him away….”

The buyers got up and came over, and started to subject me to one of those humiliating intimate examinations that only experienced masters are capable of. Without any shame, without any hesitation, and with absolutely no concern for my rights or thoughts on the matter, they hefted my balls (conveniently at the right height as I was on the inspection block) and rolled them around, feeling the size and shape of them.

“Of course we’ll have these off, and that’ll calm him”, one said.

“No it’s not worth it – he won’t last that long, and we don’t need any additional expense!”

I was of course wondering what they had in mind, but then I was told to get down off the inspection block, and stand with one foot on it and the other on the floor. This  had the effect of exposing my ass fully, especially when I was told to bend over from the waist, and slipping a latex glove on, one of the buyers expertly slipped a couple of fingers up me to test my ass hole.

“He’s been well fucked in his time, I see”, he commented to his colleague. “But that hardly matters.”

Then after telling me to stand up straight, both of them ran their hands lightly and expertly over my body, testing the muscles for tone and firmness. With a final tweak of my nipples, they were finished.

“Yes, we’ll take him off your hands”, one said. “A nominal dollar, isn’t it?”

“Yes”, the Auction house representative seller replied. “We need some sort of sum to make it a legal contract, so a dollar a month is fine.  Shall we say for l2 months?”

“Yes, but he’ll be gone before that – they usually only last a couple of months at the most. And we’ll take the other one, too. Where’s he?”

“Oh we needed a pacifier today, and he’s the biggest, ugliest brute we have, so we’ve pressed him into service.  But he’s a big strong brute like this one. If you want, I can get him in here….”

“Yes, I think we had at least better give him a cursory inspection.”

I was left standing there next to the inspection block waiting for Mitch to be fetched, and the three men carried on chatting.

“So what do you use these slaves for?”

“Well, it’s a variation on the hunting theme, with a bit of medieval jousting thrown in. We find a lot of our younger clients can’t ride horses, and don’t have all day to waste on all the formalities of a formal hunt. A lot of young guys can ride trail bikes – not as expertly as they imagine, of course, but they can make a reasonable attempt at it. And they’re looking for a bit of hectic relaxation in their busy schedules.”

“ So we turn the slave lose into an arena – it’s about the size of a football pitch – and the client is on a trail bike. He then tries to run the slave down – it’s quite good sport, to see the slaves trying to dodge the bike: some of them get very expert, rather like bulls in a bull fight, and can survive many ‘passes’ at them by the rider. But sooner or later they make a mistake, or tire, and then it’s curtains for them.”

“But usually they manage three or four weeks. It all depends on how much time the rider buys

  • if he’s only got an hour, the slave will probably survive for another day. If he buys all morning, then he’ll usually succeed in getting a kill, as the slave does tire.”

So this was to be my end – sport in an arena, for a motor cyclist!! And again, no concern or thought for me – just a question of how long the rider bought off them. My life depended on some rich guy’s diary: if he had a packed schedule and could only spare an hour, I’d probably survive. Otherwise…

Just then the door opened, and Mitch came in. His lovely cock was rock hard, and sticking firmly out in front of him. As he strode over to stand next to me, it swayed from side to side in time with his steps.

“This is the other one – do you want the pair at the same price?”

“Ok”, the buyer replied. “I see now – they’re that chained pair that were on the run for weeks. I read the story in the papers, and about the only thing that was never made clear was how they managed to get out of the chains. It doesn’t matter to us, as we don’t go in for pairing – each of them will take his own chance separately in the arena.”

“Yes, you’re right”, the auction house guy said. “We couldn’t understand how they could get free of the chains either, or avoid the pain chip when we activated it. They must have got help from somewhere, but I guess we’ll never know from whom. The police have closed the case now they’re back here, and even if you hadn’t taken them, they would not have had another chance to try to ‘pass’ in normal life – see their foreheads!”

He gestured to the guards, and we were taken back to our cell.

“Fucking hell, Mitch – you’re still sporting that hard! Come and let me do something about it.” “No, Steve.  It’s no use.  And I just want to be left alone for a bit.”

“What’s the matter, buddy?  Did they hurt you badly today?”

“Not physically, no. But they totally humiliated me and used me in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible.”

“Would it help to tell me….?” “No”.

“Come on, Mitch, you can share everything with me. Tell me what they did – get it off your chest, and maybe you’ll start to feel better.”

“It seems they had a whole lot of new slaves in, mostly college boys. It’s ‘hell week’ at the State college, and there’s been a lot of public disorder and illegal drinking. Under the new tough liquor laws in the State, they were warned – but they still did it. And one of the real bible-thumping ‘drink is sin’ judges sentenced them all to six months slavery.”

“When they got here, they were all together, laughing and shouting, and calling for their families, and their lawyers. Even when they were stripped naked, they didn’t understand the seriousness of their situation and their new status. So the guards decided they needed pacifying.”

“They get the biggest, meanest looking slave they can, and make him rape one or two of the ring leaders.  That quietens the whole lot down!”.

“And I was it. Not only have we got old-style tattoos, that make us look especially fierce anyway, but the new one on our foreheads adds a special touch, the guards said. Coupled with the scar on my belly, and my huge muscley body, they thought I would scare the shit out of the boys, and would only have to rape one or two of them.”

“You didn’t…..”, I interjected, planning to ask him if he really did rape a fellow slave.

“I had no choice, Steve! I refused point blank to rape them of course.  I was led into the cell with about l2 college boys – some of them were football players and track eventers and had quite reasonable bodies for l9 and 20 year olds, but some of them were a bit flabby and under developed. They’d all got over their initial shyness at being naked, and even though they still were not at ease with touching each other’s naked bodies, they were past that coy stage where new slaves try to cover themselves.”

“When I went in, all the talk and laughter stopped. The guards pulled one of them out of the pack – I guess he was an athlete of some kind, goaded him lightly to bend over and touch his toes, then told me to fuck him.”

“I told them to fuck off! There’s nothing left they can do to me, after all, so I can afford to disobey. The worst they can do is kill me, and they’re going to do that anyway. I told them of all the things they might make me do, fucking another guy wasn’t one of them – I wasn’t going to get a hard on, and so it didn’t matter what they did – no hard on, no rape!”

“They were pretty pissed off, and dragged me out and along to that doctor’s office. He got out a needle and injected something into the base of my cock – he muttered something about it being a long-lasting derivative of Viagara. After a couple of minutes, I got this hard on, and it’s been there ever since.”

“They took me back to the cell, got the same boy, and told me to go at it. When I wouldn’t, they stabbed me with the cattle prod… And I still wouldn’t. I puked of course, and after I had come around from the third prodding, they knew that wouldn’t work. So instead they pulled out one of the college boys, and told me they would prod him for every refusal of mine. They had the poor boy stand at the side, and they put the end of the prod up his ass. Then they told me to go at the stud still there bent in front of me.”

Mitch started to shudder and half sob.

“What could I do, Steve? I didn’t want the college boy hurt – you know what a prodding is like even for tough guys like us.  And for a l9 year old, and directly up his ass….”

“So I went up the slave in front of me, as gently as I could. It wasn’t a really forced rape – I tried to slip it in gently. But instead of relaxing, the boy fought against it, and when the guards threatened again, I just had to apply more pressure. The bastards hadn’t even let me try to relax him a bit first with a finger, or lube him with spit: they just wanted to see me stick my cock in his ass, as hard and as quickly as possible.”

“I didn’t cum really – just pretended to, and after about eight thrusts came out and said I was done. But then they made me do two more – they were laughing, Steve, about the fact that I couldn’t cum that quickly, but it didn’t matter- all they wanted was the college b oys to feel a real cock up their asses!”

“All the college boys were silent by now of course, except for the ones that were snivelling. One of them called out at me ‘bastard’, but the guards heard and he was the next one forced to submit to me.”

“After five, they decided the boys now understood what slavery was all about, and I was allowed to stop. But I’ve been used, Steve – it’s just as if I am a dildo. A big, warm, dildo – nothing more.”

I took Mitch into my arms, pushed his head down into my shoulder and stroked his head.

“There, there, Mitch – you couldn’t help it. These slave masters are real experts at controlling and humiliating slaves.  Don’t let them win – they didn’t really humiliate you – you held out.

You withstood the prod three times. You only went ahead in order to save the young college boy.  And you tried to be as gentle as you could with your cock in their asses – after all, some of the slaves they could have chosen to do it would have actually gone at it with enthusiasm and hurt them more.  You at least tried to minimise the suffering for everyone”.

I could tell Mitch knew I understood, and we stood there with his cock jutting into mine. Of course, having Mitch this close again made me erect anyway, so we lay down and gently made love.  But even after cumming inside me with a series of great shudders as his balls that had been teased so many times that day finally got their fulfilment, Mitch’s cock remained rock hard. What bastards those guards were, to treat Mitch in this way – even a slave has he right to let his cock subside when he’s cum – a continuing hard erection really gets painful after a time.

We were expecting the transport to come and take us off to the arena at any time, but a couple of days must have passed before we were taken down onto the loading bay. As usual, there was the usual paperwork and computer input to transfer us formally to our new owners, with us as the hapless merchandise being shipped just as if we were a couple of packing cases. And we were almost like packing cases – we were crammed into a couple of “transport cages”, barely big enough to hold our big bodies, and put into the back of a small white truck.

We didn’t even have the comfort of being able to hold each other as we set off on what would probably be our final journey from the Auction House, and the truck sped on.  It made a couple of other deliveries of caged slaves, as they seemed to have used a “UPS” service rather than sending a dedicated truck for us, and we were the last two cages left on board.

Imagine our surprise when the doors opened and we were unloaded to find that the person who then opened our cages was Carl – but a changed Carl!

Gone were the shorts and bare chest, now Carl was in a crisp white shirt, silk tie, dark business suit, and black wing tips! We wondered whether to go up and embrace him, as we would have the Carl of old, but both Mitch and I thought that perhaps he might still under some suspicion for helping us escape – so we stood there, eyes cast down as slaves would to a master.

How odd it felt – instead of being able to have the feel of Carl’s familiar body against mine, there he was immaculately dressed as a real master, whilst I was humbly naked.  But the tension lasted only for a moment – Carl threw his arms around me and hugged me, and I could feel an erection under his clothes pressing into me. Then he went up and greeted Mitch in the same way – although I felt that perhaps it was a little less warm, as Carl still really loved me most of all.

o our amazement we were at the slave entrance to Jase’s mansion, and Carl told us that we had been brought there to avoid any nasty suspicions that might have been reopened if we had been taken directly to the cabin.

Later we learned that in order to save us, Carl had done a deal with Jase. He had sacrificed his freedom and his integrity for the sake of us slaves.

In return for giving up his freedom to work as a contractor, and make his own way in the world, Jase had agreed to use his influence to get he slave contracts with ‘the arena’ transferred to Carl. As the owners of the Auction House, and with his many political friends and rich patronage, Jase could do this:  but there was a price to be paid.

Carl had to agree to go back and work in the family bank. Jase was fed up with his sons-in-law and Carl’s brothers, and had always thought that Carl was the only real businessman in the family, worthy to lead the bank on into the next generation when Jase retired. He had been bitterly disappointed and wounded when Carl had left to strike out on his own, but there was nothing he could do as Carl had made it clear he was renouncing all the family’s wealth and keeping his assets in trust. Jase was also concerned that Carl would not make Billy understand the family’s position and importance in Arkansas – if they skipped a generation with Carl, would Billy really ever be able to take over the firm?

So, against his will, but seeing that it was the only way to save us, Carl had returned.

It was actually quite an erotic experience: in his bedroom in the mansion that evening, Mitch and I stripped Carl of his fancy clothes: normally he had just shrugged off his shorts when he got back to the cabin, but that night all three of us giggled and laughed as Mitch and I tried to undo the buttons on Carl’s shirt (you try doing that, when you have not undone buttons for months and months!). Then it was really sensuous to undo Carl’s belt, unzip his fly, and push his pants to the floor. We let them lie around his ankles, as we felt his cock straining through his tight white cotton briefs and then pushed down the elastic waist band to let it spring proudly free.

“Fucking hell…!”, Carl said. “If I’d wanted a couple of wanton whores, I could have gone to a sex parlour!”, and he tore off the remainder of his own clothes so we could all three be totally naked together, as real men are amongst their true friends.

As the three of us lay in bed that evening, in that comfortable after-sex mood you have when you are satiated with pleasure and are slightly drowsy, and your lovers’ arms and limbs are all mixed up with yours, Carl told us of our new life.

He had to agree to work at the bank, five days per week. And on Sunday through Thursday nights, he had to live in the mansion, go to business dinners, parties and receptions, and do all the other things that the deputy head of the most powerful bank in Arkansas was expected to do.

But from Friday evening through to late Sunday afternoon, he was free to live his own life. The Bank now owned the remainder of our slave contracts, until the day of our freedom. But

Carl had agreed that he wouldn’t live with us as lovers during the week, only at weekends.  Jase

had pointed out that he would be expected to go to sex parlours, and possibly pain palaces, after some of the dinners, and that Arkansas society considered it inappropriate for a leader of the social scene to be living as a true couple with a slave. So we were not to stay in the mansion, but to go to the cabin – which, as Carl pointed out, we all loved.

Carl had decided to set up a small business, so we could feel more independent, and was going to do some logging on his acreage (but hidden from the cabin, so its tranquil views would be protected). We would run the business, and could continue to live the healthy outdoor life, doing hard physical labour. Carl would spend every weekend at the cabin with us.

Then, as a surprise, he told us of another concession he had wrung out of Jase – Jase had to but the contracts on Dave and Jim, too, so they could join us – Carl remembered how we had told him of our bonding with these guys from our first moments of slavery, and how Mitch had protected and cared for Dave on the road gang.  He was a good negotiator and hadn’t wanted to give in to Jase too readily, so by adding in these extra conditions to his ‘deal’ he felt that he had maintained some measure of his own independence, whilst doing something extra for Mitch and me.

“What’s more”, said Carl finally and sleepily, “It’ll be great for Billy. Not only will he have his dad during vacations, but four of the best looking studs in the State! What boy could want more for his enjoyment?”


I was still worried about how I would resolve my dilemma of wanting Carl desperately as my lover, but adoring Mitch, too, and knowing that he relied on me. But I need not have worried, as things turned out.

The first weekend when all five of us were in the cabin was tough – although in the excitement of so many bodies to explore, and so many combinations to indulge in two, three, four and five way sex, we got through it.

Jim was delighted to be able to make love to real men again – after all those months of only being allowed to jerk off to donate his sperm to the clients of the stud farm, they had finally made maters even worse by the introduction of fully automatic milking machines: “It was just like being a cow being milked”, he told us. “This rubber-lined metal tube with a suction line attached was slipped onto my cock every morning, and it milked me! They went to this system because some of the clients wanted to completely distance themselves from the slaves, and mechanical milking was the ultimate way of treating us like some form of animal, rather than as men”.

Mitch immediately took Dave under his wing again – he was the youngest and had always had the slightest body of us all, and it was only Mitch’s strength that had got him through that time on the road gang.  Now, although his body had filled out to a large extent and he was immensely more self confident after his time as a dedicated sex toy to a number of wealthy and influential scions of Arkansas society, he was still the “junior” of us all.

Mitch organised all the work during the week, and bossed us all around just as if we were his old platoon. He usually referred to us collectively as “Men” when giving orders to run the timber business.

During the week we all slept in the same bed, and had whoever was next to us quite haphazardly. I think the pain of losing my very close relationship with Mitch was tempered by my seeing him so very happy again.

But the weekends were a riot!  As soon as Carl arrived on Friday nights, we stripped him naked. We developed a ritual where anyone who wanted to could fuck him, and he then had “first pick” of who he slept with first on Friday night. But Saturday night was reserved for me – we always had each other first, surrounded by the bodies of our companions, before turning to any of the others who were interested in joining in. This is how a true group of men behave – men who have lost all the inhibitions that society imposes, and who have learned to rely on each other and enjoy their buddies in the way that only men can.

Although the Arkansas winter was now upon us and it was cold, we had all decided to carry on being naked at the cabin: although we were effectively free, it was slavery and its enforced nudity that had brought us together, and we wanted to keep that very special bond.

And, of course, we had a slave of our own! The young huntsman had eventually returned to “real life”, telling of how he had been thrown from his horse, then had lost his clothes whilst bathing in a stream, and had been hopelessly lost in the dense forest for weeks. I guess they believed him!

But one Friday night Carl had appeared at the cabin with the young man in tow – he had tired of his life of pleasure in the city, and was missing his masters desperately. He had been to see Carl and said that he was thinking of committing a crime, so he could be enslaved – and Carl had had to fight hard to dissuade him as he liked the guy, and did not want the worst excesses of the system meted out on him.

So Carl had brought him to the cabin, to see if we would accept him as our slave. We weren’t sure at first, but then Mitch pointed out some of the advantages of having someone to keep the cabin clean, and to cook for us whilst we were out logging so that a proper meal was ready when we got home. “And”, he went on, “he has got a cute ass! And when we get tired of each other’s beefy muscles, he’ll be a juicy morsel to fuck”.

The young huntsman – because that’s how I’ll always think of him – had blanched at this a little, but then I think he saw that this was Mitch’s way of emphasising to him that slavery to us would really mean – it wasn’t a soft option, that he could pick and choose – this was to be for real!

And he really understood it when Mitch roughly stripped his clothes off him, then told him to jerk off so his new masters could inspect his cum. The poor boy was blushing with embarrassment as he stood in front of the five of us studs, frantically jerking at his cock. And when he did cum, Jim inspected the small pool of cum he produced and said that he wouldn’t have done very well at the stud farm!

Talking together, all five of us agreed it would be good for the boy to get a real taste of slavery by working for us. We agreed that we would treat him just as we were treated: he would not be allowed to share our bed, and would sleep on the floor by the side.  We would have sex with him, of course, but casually – we agreed that every day at least two of us would fuck him at some point – throwing him on he bed, or across the kitchen table. He would of course have no choice of which of us did this, or when and how we chose to take him. We wouldn’t give him a name, and would make him recognise his station by always referring to him as “boy” or “slave”.

And finally, of course, it wasn’t right that he should have unblemished skin whilst we were all tattooed. So we branded him that night, with a waffle iron heated to a bright red glow in the fire.

Billy was amazed when he next came home from college and found he had to stay at Jase’s mansion. But he too revolted, and told Jase he would never come back to Arkansas after college unless he was allowed to live his own life.

He spends every vacation now at the cabin – it’s really crowded in our bed on Saturday night!

How strange life turns out.  Mitch, Dave, Jim and I are still nominally slaves, but live a glorious life of good honest toil in the open air, without a care in the world. We enjoy the real pleasure of true male companions and lovers. None of us would want to go back to the boring world of families and kids – once you’ve known what it is to have a real man as your lover, who would want anything else?

Carl is a free man, but has to slave away all week in his dull office in the city. It’s only at the weekends that he can join us and become a “slave amongst slaves”.

The young huntsman is still a free man under the law, but is a total slave in life. He has learned that there is a real pleasure and fulfilment in totally serving masers who are just: we punish h im for the slightest transgression of our rules, of course, or if he does not work hard enough. But we’re not gratuitously violent with him, and would not cause him permanent harm. If only all masters treated their slaves this way, it would be a perfect world.

But my story is not meant to be a moral homily. And it’s Saturday night, and the other guys want me in bed.  So I’ll end.

– The End –


I originally posted this as a “Part l3” in some places where the story appeared:

There has been debate elsewhere in some writer’s groups about the degree to which “real life” is depicted in stories.  How do you write about experiences you haven’t had?

Well, I guess that’s the writer’s art. I have been fucked (many times, pleasurably), and have fucked other guys, And of course I have spent many, many happy hours sucking and being sucked, jerking off and being jerked off, kissing and cuddling, and generally exploring the bodies of my companions as we lie in bed either before or after a bout of energetic sex.  But I’ve never been raped, and have never raped another guy.

Neither have I been whipped, caged, put on public exhibition, been forced to jerk off in front of a group of clothed buyers….. or subject to any of the many other humiliations our heroes suffer.

There are many other stories that cover these topics, and after extensive reading, I hope I have managed to convey to you, reader, some of the erotic possibilities of these other activities in the same way as those with which I am familiar. That does presuppose that those writers are practitioners of what they describe! But if you are experienced in these matters and I don’t have it right, let me know so I can get it better next time.

Before anyone asks, let me also say that yes, I have been to Arkansas (I’m only missing Hawaii, Alaska, and Nebraska from my visits to the USA).  Sadly on my visit there were no slaves, naked or otherwise, visible. The Arkansas Programme is obviously being kept a close secret by the real rulers of the State – the five or so “top families”, with all the money and re al power. I could have chosen any relatively isolated, backward, rural state, I suppose, but Arkansas appealed to me because of the sparseness of the population, and the scenery (I needed hills and forests). Most of the “desert” and “plains” states were unsuitable as venues because I needed the scenery and the closeness to a large-ish city (Little Rock) that has almost no redeeming features! (Sorry, any Arkansaurians who are reading this – but you must have the only state capital without a reasonable art museum!).

In my writing I deliberately refrain from giving descriptions of sex that are too graphic: if Steve is passionately kissing Mitch, I want you to know that their tongues are deliciously intertwined. But I don’t spend paragraph after paragraph telling how they nibble each other’s lips, run their tongues along each other’s teeth, break off mouth to mouth to sensuously kiss and lick each other’s noses, gently bite at each other’s mouths with their sharp teeth, and so on. Each of us knows how we like to kiss another guy, and if I’m too explicit, I’ll spoil it for you – if I say they’re kissing passionately, I trust your own brains are adding in the rest of the experience from your own knowledge of the guys you’ve been with. This ought to heighten, rather than detract, from the totality of the story.

And finally, one of the most important questions is what do the characters look like? Again, I don’t want to be too explicit as I want you to build your own pictures in your minds eye about the characteristics of our heroes. Each of us fancies a particular body type above others, has preferences for body hair, eye colour, size and shape of cock, and so on: you can to a great extent supply your own heroes from the pointers in the story. Sometimes it is important, for continuity, to have the details right – is Mitch hairy or smooth? is his hair dark or fair? is he cut or uncut? None of this really matters, as he could have almost any characteristics that please you; but I have an ideal Steve in my mind, and I hope you have one, too, in your mind’s eye by the end of the story. But if the details aren’t right they nag (at least they nag at me, if not for you).

Some writers keep a list of the physical characteristics of their characters, but I find this is boring so I keep pictures on my PC. Mitch, Steve, Jim and Dave are all guys w hose photos I have browsed on the web. Two of them at least are fairly well known porn stars (I have a penchant for great looking guys with toned muscular bodies! Any readers like this who would like to share my bed for a night please apply to the author!).

That’s the end of the Arkansas Programme. I won’t add to it, as there are other ideas I wish to pursue and once I’ve finished a story, it’s over.