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The Making Of A Ponyslave (14)


Knowing I was now his pony slave completely, the Overseer immediately reverted to using me just as his animal to pull him around the estate.

Life became a simple round of running, working out in the Training Room to keep my upper body in the same perfect condition as my ass and legs, being washed in the showers and then “milked”, sleeping in a stall in the stables, then starting the next day again.

Compared to the first months in the stables, there were a few differences in my routine, and I now knew them to be important, because they signalled the understanding of my change in status. My wrists were no longer locked in to the top of my stall at night, because I had been ordered not to touch my own genitalia, and it was now inconceivable that I should. I was milked each night, and this was sufficient to keep my balls in perfect working order. A new rickshaw was provided for me, without the manacles built in to the shafts. I no longer needed these, as from the time I left the stables in the morning until the time I returned each night, I would never let go of the shafts anyway now.

Overlaid on this regular daily routine were a few occasional changes: the Overseer would leave the estate for a couple of days, to go on slave buying trips, and then I would simply spend the entire day in the Training Room. Every two or three weeks my hair would be cut and my pubic hair neatly trimmed – the Overseer liked to see “hard edges” where hair joined flesh, and did not like to see new hair growing too long. Every two or three days my face, chest, sac and ass-crack were shaved. Every month I went to the veterinarian, who carried out a detailed examination to ensure there were no problems building, and to take blood, semen, and urine samples. Every three months I had an X-ray and ECG.

My diet never varied – the totally bland slave meal, and water. I was now properly in balance again, and the masters knew exactly how much slave meal I was to be fed each day to make up for the energy I had expended the previous day, and the feeding machine measured this out precisely as my tattooed number was keyed in. I always felt hungry and my stomach felt “hollow”, but things were exactly right because after I had reached my optimum weight to give the best mix of power for pulling, speed, and endurance, it then never varied by more than a few grams from one veterinarian’s exam to the next.

The invariance of my diet and the constant routine allowed my guts to fall into line properly, and I never crapped again except at the morning and evening crap-hole session. My masters knew of course of the importance of drinking a lot to replace the copious amounts I sweated in the desert heat and to compensate for the dry slave meal, and never stinted me on water. Often when the Overseer had halted me whilst he conducted his business, a slave would run up and let me nuzzle my fill from a water feeder. I therefore pissed copiously, and did this whenever I needed to during the day, simply standing there between the shafts.

The Overseer worked seven days a week, but on one of them he finished at lunch time. It became his habit to go to the water hole to relax away from the cares of the estate, and even though it was very hard for me, I found that I could pull just one man in my rickshaw through the loose sand. For the rest of the afternoon he would then lie of his towel, or float in the water hole. He usually commanded me to leave the shafts during these sessions, and allowed me to squat in the sand, in “display” position. Very occasionally I was allowed into the water, but it brought me no particular pleasure now – I half remembered at one time feeling the joy of the water flowing over my naked body, and comparing it with other experiences in swimming pools somewhere, but now it was “just water”.

I was very far away, almost observing my superb body being used every day for the Overseer’s convenience. I was sort of proud of my physique, I think, and was glad that it could be of service to the Overseer.

One day the Overseer came out of his bungalow with a familiar figure – I say “familiar” because it seemed as if I had seen him before. The figure came up to me and spoke to the Overseer, but I could not understand what he was saying – it was in a “foreign” language. This second man could not be a regular on the estate, as he was pale and not sun-tanned, but he recognised or remembered me and was puzzled when I did not respond to him.

The second man stayed with the Overseer for about three weeks, and during that time accompanied him on his rounds, and to the water hole for the Overseer’s afternoon’s off. The two of them clearly enjoyed the water together, and also lay entwined on the sand, masturbating, sucking, and fucking each other. Then the second figure disappeared again.

I was given a particularly thorough examination by the veterinarian shortly after this, and the next day the Overseer drove me to the Sheikh’s stud farm where I covered three breeders. I remembered this happening to my old self the year before, and looked for Hans and Mike, but they were not there. The session I was at was for eight slaves, and although some of them seemed to be enjoying the task, I did it with mechanical precision. As had happened the previous year, I covered the same three breeders again the next day, and the day after that.

My routine continued, and time slipped by without any perceptible changes. The Overseer, the veterinarian, and the third man who came to stay with the Overseer spoke some incomprehensible foreign language. The Overseer used Arabic when commanding me and I had a good knowledge of the 100 or so words he needed to use for this.

My time for covering the breeders came again, and then the next time I was used for this and I had covered the three breeders on three consecutive days, there was another change: three more were presented to me for covering on the next three days, and then another three, and another three, and another three.

I think it was the breeding that somehow set a time base for me. I “remembered” an explanation of the Sheikh’s stud policy : four years for the slave to cover three breeders per year, and the progeny to be tested. Then in the fifth year he was used for covering breeders to bring the total of his progeny in the herd to about 25.

Had I now therefore been on the Sheikh’s estate for five years? The little of the old me that remained realised that I had. I had gone from being a 23 year old American jock to a 28 year old pony slave. As my body went about its daily round on autopilot, I had lots of time to reflect, and my mind started to return. I once again started to regain control from the total “dumb pony” persona that been in charge for five years. There was no struggle, and I was neither sad nor elated – I simply got back some of my memories and faculties from the past.

But this was strange – the returning “me” was as content as the “dumb pony persona” had been. I did not feel even the tiniest degree of rebelliousness or shame at anything my body did now. And I even got some language facility back, and started to understand parts of that foreign language – English – that I had not been able to comprehend.

I was in the veterinarians for one of my regular monthly inspections, and the veterinarian and the Overseer were discussing me. They did not know that I could again understand them, and I had not the slightest desire to indicate in any way that I was still anything other than the perfect “dumb pony” – the Overseer had detected the change that had driven the “me” away following my use as a fuck toy and a urinal, and thought that it would never come back. But he need not have worried – it did not matter. I was a slave, and I now knew it. It was as if my flesh had had the slave habits so ingrained in those five years, that they had spread to my brain in some mysterious way.

“Look at him”, said the veterinarian, “he really is magnificent. I remember when you first brought him in here five years ago as a 23 year old. He had a good ‘college jock’ American body then, and I know he was bought specially for the length and potential strength of his legs. And it’s all been borne out in practice – if he was back in the USA, he would be in every nudie magazine for women, and for men! Half the gays in the country would be creaming themselves if he did a photo-spread!”

“I didn’t think his body would improve all that much, but he is now so magnificently ‘in proportion’. We really have got that feeding regime right now.”

“There’s not an ounce of fat anywhere on him, and that deep, all over tan really suits him. His balls have, if anything, got even better – I know Americans are supposed to jerk themselves off a lot, but ‘milking’ him, expertly and regularly every 24 hours, keeps them in first class condition. And letting them hang free gives that extra elasticity to his sac, that makes him a pleasure to look at when he’s running.”

“Well”, said the Overseer, “I don’t see them much myself. That’s a pleasure for the passers by, as from the driving seat I only see his ass pumping up and down.”

“Mind you, I’m still not convinced that I have the hair as good as it could be, even after five years. Maybe this year I will do what I have been thinking about for some time, and have him totally stripped of all his hair. You told me there’s a new skin oil, didn’t you, for slaves, specially formulated so that they can sweat through it. I’d like to have him really sleek and glossy – that rash of hair from his navel to his cock, and the fine covering on his arms and legs are bleached very well by the sun and provide a nice contrast to the deep brown of the skin, but a change might be nice. On the other hand, the sand will stick to the oil, I suppose. And sometimes I do enjoy seeing the sun just catch the hair on his legs – it looks really nice, out there in the desert”.

“Yes, there is a new oil”, replied the veterinarian, “but I usually only recommend it for the ‘comfort’ slaves, and for ponies that are going to be used around here in the central complex on the paved roads. You could indeed now oil him all over, and it wouldn’t affect his performance at running and he wouldn’t overheat. But you take him all over the estate, on rough roads and tracks, and he’d soon be covered in a layer of sand. You could of course have all the hair removed and not oil him – it is becoming fashionable to have

the ‘totally naked’ look on slaves now, at least in the Capital!”.

“No”, said the Overseer, “I’ve always thought a slave totally without any hair looks like some sort of child still. There’s no doubting this one’s attributes, of course, ‘hung like a horse’ seems particularly appropriate in this case. But if I can’t have him glossy, then I think I’ll stick with this minimum hair covering on him”.

“He’s performed well at the stud”, said the veterinarian. “We never had a failure to conceive in the first coverings, and he never had to go back for a revisit the next month because he failed to inseminate properly. And he’s had an astonishingly good record in his progeny – over 76% of them were slaves, and so they were allowed to go to term. We have no recorded birth defects, and he has now sired a total of 25 slaves who all appear to be progressing well”.

“He’s out of the programme on this estate now, of course, as we don’t want too many slaves from one sire. But I wonder if the Sheikh will now sell him on to one of the national stud farms, where he can spend the rest of his life just inseminating breeders. He’d fetch an excellent price, with this record.”

“No”, said the Overseer. “The Sheikh had some friends here a month or so ago and they saw the pony pulling me around. They offered the Sheikh quite a lot for him, but the Sheikh turned them down. I think it’s because he doesn’t want other herds getting too good – providing this one’s progeny continue to do well, he has long term plans for breeding some really exciting crosses from the next generation. If he ever does sell this pony, he will have him vasectomised first. Incidentally, do you know why all the ponies don’t have vasectomies once they are past breeding?”

“No”, said the veterinarian. “It might be a good idea. On average the sac increases in size by about 5% after a vasectomy, and that would certainly improve the ‘look’ of some of our animals – although not this one – if his balls were any bigger, they’d be too big, I think. It’s a really simple operation to do, with no risk. But the Sheikh is for some reason against it.”

“You know”, the Overseer continued, “some people think that the slavery we practice here is cruel and wrong. But look at this pony. When he came here as a 23 year old, he was in a dead-end job in the USA. Sure, he earned a lot of bucks, but he needed them for his car, his apartment, his new stereo, to pay for his girl friend, and so on. And his life could only get worse – sooner or later he’d get one of those women he spent his time chasing ‘in the family way’, then there’d be a kid, and a house and a mortgage…. By the time he was 28, as he is now, he would be worried sick at the end of each month, he would probably have divorced and be paying alimony. He would be working harder and harder to pay all the bills, and he would not have the time and energy to chase the women he felt he needed. He’d have first given up sports, and then stopped going to the gym. And so his body would have lost tone. And all the junk food he eat would have started to lay down layers of fat everywhere, and you probably would not be able to see his six-pack any more. He’d be the typical suburban man, no longer a jock, and worrying and working himself into an early grave.”

“But here, as a slave, he’s in absolutely perfect health. He gets much better medical attention than he would in the USA – what American has check ups every month? And if there’s the slightest thing wrong with him, I know you’d ship him off immediately to the animal hospital because the Sheikh believes in getting the last ounce of benefit out of his slaves.”

“His food is specially formulated not to make him fat, and the heavy work and exercise keeps his heart and lungs in great shape. But best of all, he has absolutely no worries! He simply does not have to think, and providing he obeys every order without question, he won’t be whipped or treated cruelly in any way.”

“And finally, what American now has the chance to pass his genes on to the next generation as prolifically as this guy has? 25 sons, and he has none of the expense or worry of raising them. He can be certain that his characteristics will form an important part of the gene pool.”

“You’re right of course”, said the veterinarian. “but I don’t think the climate is right yet for spreading slavery to the USA. It works excellently here, and the crime rate, which always used to be low, is now almost non-existent. Compare that with any of the big American cities! But look at the numbers of distinguished US visitors the Sheikh has here all the time – if they were just discussing the oil, they’d stay in his palace in the City. But I think they all angle for an invitation to come out here to see the system at work – the US ruling class must be thinking of trying to do something like this there soon. I wouldn’t be surprised to see recidivists sentenced to slavery in one or more states within five years, rather than being constantly in and out of prison”.

“Fascinating”, said the Overseer. “If only that were true. I might be able to go back on a visit then. But if you’ve finished, I’ve got work to do. See you on the racquet ball court at eight tonight.”

He muttered the Arabic for me to leave, and we went outside. I slid between the shafts and gripped them, the Overseer refitted my bridle, leapt up into his seat, and with a gentle slap of the reins on my butt, we went about the rest of the day’s work.


As a properly integrated pony slave I was happy. I gloried in the feeling of my body as I strode along with the Overseer in my rickshaw. Even the times when he was in a great hurry and had to whip me to ensure I continued to run absolutely flat-out, at the limits of my endurance, were good. As I collapsed at the end of such a journey, over the pain of the fire in my lungs and the cramping of my muscles, I felt happy – I knew what it was to really exercise, to drive my body to its absolute limits. How many men can ever know the feeling that they are using their bodies to its maximum capability?

And when I thought on about what the veterinarian and the Overseer had been saying about life in the USA, I knew they were right. Had I not escaped from the Call Centre, I would by now be past my peak, with my body sliding into idleness and my muscles wasting away from lack of use when I took my car on even the most trivial journeys. I had found the stress and tedium of the job bad, even when I was fresh to it – how would I now be, five years on? I think I would have taken to drinking too much every evening to help me relax, to smoking to overcome the constant nervous tension of waiting for the next call, and probably even to soft drugs as I knew so many of my contemporaries at College already had when I was there.

My life on the Sheikh’s estate had everything I wanted. Good, healthy exercise, all day and every day. A proper diet, adjusted to my body’s needs. No responsibilities or worries – even though the Overseer used the whip to drive me fast most days, this no longer worried me, as I knew that he was only doing it so that I could achieve my full potential as an athlete. Whilst the pain was unpleasant as he did it, it was not long-lasting, and did me no permanent harm. And of course I had no fear of impotence or embarrassing failures in the bedroom – the stable-lad slaves ‘milked’ me every evening, and their ministrations were so expert, and my body so used to the regularity of the experience, that I spurted a thick rope of cum every time.

I have now read a scientific report that guys who exercise regularly and hard experience more erections than those who lead a sedentary life – they say it’s because their blood is flowing fast around all their arteries and veins from their strong hearts, and that this helps their cocks to engorge rapidly, too. This was certainly true in my case, and I was usually erect at least ten times a day. But of course I knew of the Sheikh’s prohibition on slaves touching their own cocks, and even though I was no longer manacled to the shafts, did not even consider giving myself any relief. The Overseer had noticed my erections and sometimes pointed out to people the magnificent equipment on his fine stallion. Fortunately a spell of hard running usually caused the erection to subside, as trying to race along with your cock stuck rigidly out in front of you upsets your balance.

I never had any problem sleeping a deep, dreamless sleep all through the night in my stall, and even the groans, sighs and other low animal-like noises of the other ponies in the stable did not keep me awake. Not for me the constant tossing and turning in bed as my mind futilely relived the cares and worries of the world, to be followed by the brain-numbing effects of a sleeping pill.

So I was happy. The Overseer was a good master, and looked after me well. He never forgot when my regular veterinarian’s appointments were due, and if he ever saw any incipient signs of distress in my body (save of course for the usual effects of total exhaustion), he would examine me closely and take me off to get treatment at once if necessary. As part of his duties as an Overseer, he carried out regular inspections of the stables, and I liked to think that he checked the details of its operation so thoroughly because he knew that it would affect my care.

As usual now on his afternoons off, the Overseer ran me towards the water hole. He had taken to going there a lot, and I think he relished the total silence and emptiness of the desert. Constantly monitoring and checking all the myriad details of the Sheikh’s many operations on the vast estate was a huge responsibility for him, and I felt he needed to “get away from it all”. Even though I waited for him many evenings outside the Club where I knew he must be using the “comfort” slaves, and he often took one back to his bungalow for further activity overnight, I knew this could be no real relaxation for him. He was after all responsible for the correct functioning of the Club too, and even as the “comfort” slave pleasured him, I knew that as a conscientious employee of the Sheikh one part of his mind would always be monitoring the slave’s performance to make sure it was worthy of his employer. The only time when he was really able to be away, free from his responsibilities, was on these afternoons at the water hole, and I was happy for him as he swam and relaxed.

The afternoons fell into a regular pattern. I was always extremely tired when we arrived from the additional effort of running across the loose sand, and I was allowed to leave the shafts and squat in the sand to recover. Then he would sometimes tell me to go into the water to cool off for a few minutes before he entered it, and I would run across the sand and dive in. It seemed strange running without a rickshaw behind, as I could pump my arms in synchronisation with my legs. I used to extend the sheer pleasure this gave me by running around the water hole to jump in from the other side – I don’t think the Overseer knew this was why I did it, and I was glad that I was not causing him to worry that running holding the shafts was not absolutely right for me.

I never abused the Overseer’s kindness, even though I was a strong swimmer and gloried in the feel of the sparking water all over my nude body. After no more than five minutes I would stoop down to have my fill of the clear water to slake my thirst, then run out. I think the Overseer thought that this was because I was tired of the water, but of course I could have stayed there for hours taking my own selfish pleasure. I came out because I did not want to deprive the Overseer of his own enjoyment any longer – he really needed to relax after his work. And it would not have been right to have him swim at the same time as his pony slave. Although I knew that the guards and the Overseer often swam in the Pool at the Club with the “comfort” slaves, that was different – the “comfort” slaves were there to pleasure the masters, and that was their function. Swimming with a sex toy is different from swimming with your pony.

I then stood on the edge of the water hole and never made any effort to scrape the excess water from my body with my hands – I just stood there and let it trickle down, enjoying that special sensation as the last drops of water drain down your chest, run along your cock, and drip down from the cock head. There’s also something good about the little ticklish sensations as the water flows between your ass cheeks and runs down the backs of your thighs and legs. Of course I assumed “display” whilst I was doing this, with no need for a command from the Overseer. I knew by now that he liked me to “display” when not grasping the shafts of the rickshaw, as I had heard him tell his friend on the previous visit that allowing slaves to stand with their hands at their sides encouraged them to make gestures to each other to try to communicate. Of course I would not have attempted to do this, but I had heard the Overseer’s views, and would not dream of going contrary to them.

This particular afternoon the Overseer allowed me to hunker down, as he often did – another mark of how he was considerate of me. He then dropped his cut-offs, and walked into the water. As I usually did, I watched his cock bounce up and down, free of the restraint of his cut-offs, then, as he went past me, the movement of his muscular ass and thighs. It was good to have a master who kept himself in shape, and I knew he worked out regularly in the gym at the Club. I was grateful that he had not let himself go to seed, and there was no discernible thickening of his waist, which was a trim 30″ tapering down from wide shoulders, before his bubble butt flared out again. Without all the fat that guys in their 30s put on, he was much lighter and I could pull him faster and further, as he needed.

When he came out of the water, he pulled on his micro bikini and lay on his towel under the hot sun. I remembered that he wore the bikini not because he was ashamed of his nakedness in front of his slave – I knew he never even considered me as another male guy who might be comparing his equipment with my own – but because he liked to retain the brilliant streak of white across his backside and around his genitals. And he did not have to protect these sensitive areas with sun cream, which he would otherwise have had to do. There was no one there to rub it in for him as his friend did when he was visiting, and the Overseer could hardly do it himself – it really is not seemly for a guy to massage his own ass, and there was of course no question of commanding me to do it, even though I would willingly have done so; I was a pony , not a slave to render intimate personal service.

After an hour or so he got up, pushed the bikini off, freed his cock and balls after their confinement with that little “flip” that most guys do when undressing, casually scratched his ass, and went back in for another swim. After that, he got out and pulled on his cut-offs, and commanded me to get back between the shafts for the journey back to the central complex.

Just as we were leaving, we saw a cloud of dust in the distance. He commanded me to stop, and waited to see what it was. As it got closer we could see – and hear – that it was a light four wheel drive truck, being driven fast. The Overseer was of course angry, as no motor vehicles were allowed on the Sheikh’s holdings, and he waited to see who was daring to trespass so flagrantly.

The truck ground to a halt near us, and four Arabs got out, carrying rifles. The Overseer reached for his own gun from the stun-gun and rifle holder on the back of the Rickshaw, but as he went for it, a warning shot caused him to stop. I could understand a lot of Arabic, as well as English, by now, and I heard one of the Arabs command the Overseer to stand quite still.

The Arabs came over, and commanded me to get out from the rickshaw. I did not know what to do, but the Overseer snapped at me “Do what these men say. They are masters, even though they are not your master”. So I came over and stood next to the Overseer, and, by reflex, assumed “display”.

The Arabs started to laugh, and one said “We have a properly well trained slave here, I see. As well as being a muscular pony, he’s been taught good manners.”

They walked around, inspecting me as I stood there, and another of the Arabs said “He’ll fetch a good price in the slave market. It’s a pity about the brands, though, as we won’t be able to put him through the government’s system where we’ll get the absolute top price. Even though we can get his slave number tattoo removed, these brands are so deep that they’ll always be there. The Sheikh who owns this place has obviously thought things through – no possibility of escaping slaves, or of theft, with property markings like this. So we’ll have to discount him, through a ‘fence’. Still, a satisfactory bit of flesh to start with.”

“There’s always a demand for properly trained pony slaves as this one is – look at the ass and thigh muscles on him. They usually command very high prices, but we won’t be able to sell him for that, as no one will be able to use him in his proper role. Those brands will always mark him as stolen property! “

“If we sell him just as a worker, so he’s not on such very public display as he can be kept deep in the middle of a labour gang, we won’t do as well. So I think we’ll offer him as a sex slave – he’s a European, and a blond, and they always fetch good prices. Once his hair and his pubic hair has grown a bit, he’ll be a mouth-watering morsel for those who like the exotic, although it will have to be in a brothel where the lighting is, like the clientele, discreet so the brands are not so obvious”.

“Perhaps he could be tattooed all over”, said another. “If he’s working as a sex slave, some people find that even more exotic. And with a good all-over design, the brands would be much less visible”.

“Don’t be so stupid”, said the first one. “This slave’s value is entirely in the body. Look at his skin, and how it’s that special brown that only blondes, and Europeans, go. If we cover that with tattoos, we’ll cut his value in half. No, he can go to a brothel where the clientele like a bit of spice – fucking stolen property will add that extra bit of fun to fucking a European. Put him in the box”.

They led me towards the truck, and I thought how I had changed. At one time, I could not understand how men could discuss my body in front of me, but now I truly understood that the discussion of slaves was entirely proper for masters, wherever they wanted to do it.

On the back of the truck was a cage, about the size of a domestic chest refrigerator, with the bars made of thin rods of steel. When I had been caged before, it was generally in a cage that was upright, like a phone booth, but I guess this one was horizontal so that it did not stand up above the open sides of the truck. One of the Arabs opened the top, and commanded me to get up onto the truck bed and get in. As I was doing so, another told me to halt, and said “No. I think we should stop here all night – there’s water after all, and it’s going to be dark soon. If the slave is going to be caged all night, we’d better put it down on the sand so that when he pisses it doesn’t go all over the truck.”

I was commanded to help one of the Arabs lift the cage down, and it was quite heavy. Obviously once inside there could be no escape.

The lid was lifted, and I was commanded to get in and lie down, which I did, and the top was lowered and secured. Although the cage was long enough so that I could stretch out fully lengthways, it was quite narrow and my shoulders were pressing into both sides of the cage.

I rolled over on to my stomach, and lay there looking out through the bars, wondering what was going to happen next.

The Arabs were examining the Overseer, saying “This is a real bonus. Another European. Get naked!”

The Overseer made no move, and the lead Arab commanded again “Get naked.”

Still the Overseer stood there. The Arab went across to the rickshaw, got out the Overseer’s stun gun and suddenly jabbed at him with it. The Overseer of course screamed as the tip discharged through him, and fell writhing in agony onto the sand.

He was pulled roughly to his feet, and the Arab said “Now you see how it is for the slaves. We have captured you, and you’re our profit for this trip. We shall be selling you as slave, and you had better learn to act like one quickly – you’ve obviously seen enough of how cruel masters can be if slaves do not obey them. Now, get naked, as I want to inspect you properly and I can’t do that whilst your best parts are covered.”

Still the Overseer made no move, and I could see him bracing himself for another jolt of the stun gun. An Arab was just about to do it when the leader said “No – some slaves do get damaged by those things, and this is a potentially very valuable one for us. And a lot of masters like ‘spirit’ when they first buy a new European slave, and don’t want them broken-in first.”

The leader gestured to one of the others, who was behind the Overseer, and that Arab simply reached around the Overseer’s waist, unbuttoned the top of his cut-offs, and yanked them down to the ground.

The leader then ran his hands all over the Overseer, probing the strength of his muscles as they resisted the sharp pressure of the fingers that tried to dig into them. Then the Overseer was told to bend over, and, when he did nothing, one of the Arabs caught his left arm, twisted it up behind his back so much that the Overseer screamed again, and forced him to bend from the waist.

The leader then rubbed his thumbs on the Overseer’s ass cheeks with his hands on the Overseer’s thighs, as he gauged their strength. Following this, he put one hand on each cheek and pushed them apart, to see into the Overseer’s crack. As a final indignity for the Overseer, I could see the leader pushing one of his fingers up the Overseer’s ass, and probing around.

The Overseer was allowed to stand upright, and I knew that the probing must have touched his prostate because he was now very stiffly erect, and there was some pre-cum dripping from his cock. “He’s not particularly tight down there”, the leader told his men, “but that’s not a problem. No one buying him will expect a virgin at his age. He’s got a good cock, though, when it’s erect. We probably ought to make sure he’s erect when the presale inspections are going on – the fashion this season is for cocks that hang down over elongated ball sacs, and whilst this one’s sac is filled with good balls, it’s a tight one, held high up, and as a consequence his cock lies on it and juts out a bit.”

“Now I want to see you cum”, he told the Overseer. I could tell the Overseer was not going to comply, because the leader almost immediately said “If you don’t start wanking yourself, I can easily get one of my men to do it, or I can do it – we all like slave cock. But I warn you – it will be rough. If you don’t want to end up with a cock chafed sore from a hand used very harshly, do it yourself!”.

Whilst the Overseer was obviously unhappy about having to jerk himself off in front of these guys, I saw him reach down and start to rub himself. It wasn’t just the shame of a master being forced to masturbate in front of other men, but because he simply wasn’t used to trying to jerk off standing up. It was only after I had become a pony slave and was ‘milked’, standing, every night in the showers that I had got used to this position. After all, most guys jerk themselves off lying down, or sitting in a comfy chair.

But he did manage it, and a ribbon of cum was soon hanging from his detumescing cock.

“OK so far”, said the leader. “We don’t know whether he’s fertile, for breeding, but at least his balls are genuine and he does an acceptable amount of spunk”.

Now the Overseer spoke, and said “You’ll not get away with this. You will never be able to sell me as s slave, because I’m too well known in the markets – I go there regularly, to buy on behalf of the Sheikh. And even if you’re on the black market, it’s a very small world in the Capitol, and it will soon be known if I am for sale anywhere.”

“Don’t you believe it”, said their leader. “We will have you stripped of all your body hair, and experience shows that even a guy’s best friend doesn’t recognise him easily the first time he appears in the locker room with his body shaved, especially if we have your pubic hair off, too. Even people who know you well will have doubts. And we’ll make sure you can’t say anything, with a good tight ball gag in your lovely mouth.”

“And even if you do protest through the gag, and squirm and wriggle and make like a free man, the buyers will expect you to do that – most of the Europeans and Americans put through the sale room for the first time do that anyway, so there’ll be nothing special in your behaviour. And you know yourself that even the most persistent protesters can be silenced in an inspection by a good tight grip on the balls!”.

“So don’t expect to escape being auctioned. And when you have been sold, even if you can tell your master who you really are, will he care? He will have spent a lot of money on you, which would be lost if he were to admit you were a free man. And, in any case, what is a free man to someone who purchases slaves? Not some nude guy standing in front of him – that’s a slave, and his past history is of no concern. All the slaves were free men once, except for those bred on the farms, after all. No – your new master will simply order you to be properly trained, so you forget all that nonsense.”

“Don’t think this is just theory. We have captured lots of free Americans and Europeans recently because the price of ‘wild’ slaves is going so high. You’ll just be another one”.

“Sure it’s illegal to enslave a free man unless he has broken the law, or heavily in debt. But who cares?”.

“Now, put him in the cage, too. Let’s go and swim and enjoy the evening and make a meal”.

The Arabs grasped the Overseer’s arms and half dragged, half carried him over to the cage where I was lying. They opened the top, and pushed the Overseer in down on top of me.

I felt the Overseer’s hot, warm chest push into my back, and a slippery sensation from the top of my ass told me that the Overseer’s cum had now finally dripped off the end of his cock. It was impossible for us to move now – I had been able to roll over onto my stomach in the empty cage, but the closeness of the sides and the top with two of us in it meant that we were both immobile.

We lay there, as close as two men can be unless they are actually fucking each other, but we did not speak. I couldn’t of course, but even though the Overseer knew that I was, like him, an American, it simply did not occur to him to address me about anything that is not the proper concern of a pony slave.

Time passed. I could not sleep, because my breathing was very restricted and I needed to focus on keeping my chest moving. The weight of the Overseer, who was quite a heavy guy because he was so well muscled, pressed down on my back, and even though I gloried in the feeling of his moist, hairy body against mine, I wished it had been possible to move so that I was more comfortable.

As ever, the Overseer was sensitive to my needs, and he must have been having the same kinds of thoughts. He wriggled backwards as far as he could, commanded me to position my legs so that he could get his left leg against the bars of our cage, then have his right leg in-between mine. This had the effect of allowing his feet to drop down a little, and as he was as far back as he could go, some of the pressure was relieved from my back.

He was, in effect, straddling my left ass cheek and thigh with his body. After a few minutes this became uncomfortable for him because his cock had no freedom to move, pressed as it was into the muscles of my ass cheek and thigh, hardened by their many hours of running. He squirmed a bit again to give himself the most comfort that could be gained in our very close confinement, and after some experiments to get settled, ended up with his cock nestling in my ass crack.

I was pleased he was happy with this, and he gave a little snuffle of pleasure, and was obviously drifting off to sleep. Even though I was more comfortable, I still could not sleep, however. The sensation of the Overseer’s body pressing into mine was simply so overwhelming. The wonderful softness of his cock in my ass, the spiky bristles of his pubic hair pressing into my ass cheeks, and the animal warmth of his hairy body pressing along me were all too much. His warm breath fanned across my shoulders, as he lay his head against my spine, below my own.

Although it was not seemly, because I knew it was as a result of my feelings for the Overseer, I had a massive erection. The power of my cock pushing into the sand felt as if it was going to raise us both up, like some sort of car jack. But there was nothing I could do about it – even had I been able to reach underneath myself and wank, I could not do this because I would disturb the Overseer, and I wanted him to be able to enjoy his last night of sleep as a free man as much as possible. I lay there in silence, enjoying the closeness of the Overseer and the wonderful sensation you get when an erect cock continues to strain to make itself free of confinement – it was like the feelings I used to get when I had an erection at work, and my cock pushed desperately against my tight bikini underwear to have release, only more so.

As the Overseer drifted into sleep, the inevitable happened. He was a fit, virile guy, and those last minutes as he drifted into sleep brought him erect, and his cock started to make its way further into my ass crack as his erection strengthened. I did not even give myself the illusion that this was because the Overseer wanted me for sex – although he took his pleasure with many “comfort” slaves, and I had seen he and his friend performing the most joyous sex together many times in this very spot, his erection was not from desire for me. It was simply the reaction of any healthy male as he sleeps. I was a pony slave, and a master could not fuck an animal.

But my own needs were now acute. Whereas before my own cock had at least been controllable as it tried to escape from its confinement beneath me, it was now unbearable. As the Overseer’s cock buried itself deeper into my ass, it touched my anus and it was as if an electric shock had run through me. I had become almost insensitive to the feeling of fingers and cocks being forced up into me during the period when the Overseer was breaking me down, and so this wonderful erotic sensation as the tip of his cock, surely moistened with pre-cum, I thought, touched me ever so gently.

Without being able to stop myself, I reached backwards and put my hands on the Overseer’s ass cheeks, then ever so timidly tried to manoeuvre him over my ass so that his cock could slide into me. I was well practised in taking cocks in, of course, and relaxed my anal sphincter so that the Overseer’s cock head would meet no resistance. I proceeded infinitely gently, as I was terrified of waking the Overseer. I had not been ordered to do this, the Overseer obviously did not want to do it as he would have done it for himself, and I felt wickedly ashamed that I was planning to violate the Overseer in this way. I had never before felt that I dare touch a master without being commanded to do so, and my feelings as I continued to nudge and move gently to get his cock into me were I supposed like that of an uncle who tries to violate the virgin hole of an adolescent nephew who is staying with him and who has innocently agreed to sleep in the same bed because the house is full of relatives, without waking the boy. But of course here the roles were reversed – it was the nephew attempting to get the uncle’s cock up him, without waking the uncle!

But it was no use. Even though the Overseer was obviously at full erection, only the tip of his cock head could reach into me. My ass muscles were simply so big from all my exercise, that lying on top of me the Overseers’ cock, large though it was, simply could not reach. Only if he moved his body further down, so he could enter almost from below my ass cheeks, would it be possible.

What was I to do? The thought of waking the Overseer, and trying to encourage him into me, was shocking. He needed his sleep before the horrors of the coming day. And my next thought was worse. I was big and powerful – if I suddenly pulled hard on his buttocks and pushed him down and in, I could have him inside me before he woke. This was monstrous – I was planning to violate my master. How could I even contemplate such a thing? He would lose his freedom of choice about sex soon enough, and he deserved this last night of freedom. Was it so important to me? I was after all used to being a slave and being used and abused in every way possible, but the Overseer was not.

I curbed my lustful desires, and moved my hands off his delightful backside. But even though my will had overcome my consciously-controlled body, the deeper, more primitive reflexes controlling my cock were not so easily conquered. With aching, jerking spasms, I shot a massive load of cum quite involuntarily down into the sand. I had not had an involuntary ejaculation since I was 12 – the first and only one. After I had told a friend and he had whispered to me about jerking off, I never again went for so long without doing it that an involuntary release of cum ever happened again. And, after all, in “normal” life, if you were on an aeroplane, or in the office, or at a party, or wherever, there was always a bathroom that you could quickly retire to if an erection got particularly painful, and give yourself relief before ejaculation happened of its own accord.

I lay there panting slightly, but the Overseer did not wake. But something of my spasming must have transmitted itself through our bodies to his unconscious mind, as I felt his cock ripple slightly, and could feel more pre-cum trickle on to my hot anus.

We lay like that until dawn, when the Overseer awoke naturally. He was stiff and up my ass crack of course, with the morning erection you always expect. He made no comment on this, in fact he made no comment at all. But he reached down underneath him, freed his cock from my crack, wriggled his ass slightly to position himself better, and then, as his erection died, pissed down between my legs into the sand underneath us. The power of his pissing was so strong that I could feel little splashes bouncing off the sand and hitting my balls, and I almost had another involuntary ejaculation with the exquisite sensation this caused me.

We continued to lie there , waiting for the Arabs to wake, and his bristly face rasped across my back as he occasionally moved to adjust his position slightly.

Eventually the Arabs awoke, went and drank at the water-hole, and made their desert breakfast of dates and bread. We both lay there watching them, but were offered nothing.

They packed up their kit and loaded it into the truck, and then it was our turn. One of the Arabs came over and said “We’re not going to feed you, but you need to drink. It’s a long, hot day ahead of you.”

So saying, he pulled up his robes and crouched down at the head of the cage, in front of us. He pointed his penis at me, and said “open wide”. I obeyed, and a stream of his piss shot into my mouth, which I swallowed greedily as I was by now very thirsty.

Another Arab came up to emulate his companion, and it was now the Overseer’s turn to drink. He was ordered to open his mouth, but I could tell that he must be refusing because the Arab leader came up, looked down at him, and said “My friend, you are being very stupid. If you do not drink now, you may die later today as we have a long way to drive across the desert. Remember, whilst there’s life, there’s hope, and whilst you may not enjoy your new status as a slave, it is better than being dead of thirst”.

I think the Overseer must have agreed, because the Arab started to piss, directing the warm golden stream over my head. Of course droplets sprayed down on to me, as most guys’ piss stream is not completely smooth because of small irregularities in the piss slit, and this one’s was no exception. And, of course, as he finished and the pressure dropped, the last few CCs fell over my back, neck and head. The Arabs were all laughing at the way we had drank our rations of piss, comparing me to the Overseer. But I knew what he must be going through – I was used to the warmth, the smell and the taste of all kinds of piss from those fatal days when I was used as a urinal whilst being broken. But the Overseer had no previous experience, and I knew it must be deeply humiliating for him to have to drink in this way.

The Arabs then needed to load our cage onto the truck before setting off, but the four of them could not easily lift the metal structure with both of inside it – we were, as I have said, both big, heavy slaves , packing all the muscle we did. So they opened the cage lid, and told us to get out.

The Overseer stumbled to his feet, followed by me, and stood there flexing his cramped body. I of course immediately assumed the “display” position, as I had been given no other orders and my reflexes as a trained slave took over. The Arabs were lulled by my obvious subservience, and focussed their attention on the Overseer, with all four of them having their guns pointed at him to make sure he did nothing foolish – everyone knows that slaves are at their most dangerous in the first few days of slavery, before they have been given any training in subservience.

We were commanded to pick up our cage and load it into the truck, and as the Overseer bent to obey, I saw what was probably our only chance – I knew that once we were back in the cage and were driven to the slave market, the Overseer’s life as a freeman would be over as there would be no opportunity for him to escape. So I flung myself at one of the Arabs, hitting him hard in the back. My momentum sent him cannoning into one of the others, sending them both sprawling to the floor My body crashed down on top of them, knocking the wind out of them and temporarily rendering them incapable of action.

This so startled the other two that their attention was diverted, and the Overseer snatched the gun from one of them. Everything is now confused, as after my initial decision to act, when I had time to “observe” my action, everything went with a blur. They say that you see everything in a time of crisis, however brief the interval,

and this belief is encouraged by the prevalence of “slow motion” inserts into movies, where the characters have endless time to review what is going on and then do the right thing. But it’s not like that in practice, and everything happened so fast that I’m still not sure what went on. And certainly I did not “think” or “plan” – if I did anything, it was entirely by reflex.

It seemed to me that the leader of the Arabs started to turn his gun towards the Overseer, who got in first and shot him before the leader had finished aiming. This gave the other Arab time to swivel his gun towards the Overseer, and take aim. I saw this, and “thought” that there was no way that there would be time for the Overseer to turn the gun around and save himself. I felt my body spring up from on top of the Arabs I had downed initially. With a huge push from my powerful legs I was flying through the air towards the Overseer and the Arab who was about to shoot. There was a terrific bang, and my world exploded into pain.

I had stopped the bullet intended for the Overseer, who now shot the rifle out of the Arab’s hands. The leader, lying on the floor after being shot, was screaming in pain and shouting commands to his men. The Overseer pointed his gun as the disarmed Arabs, but then decided not to shoot them.

The Arabs got their wounded leader into the truck, and drove off, leaving the cage in the desert. To this day I do not know why the two Arabs on the ground did not release their guns and attack the Overseer. At the time, I did not know why the Overseer did not shoot the Arabs, either, but I was to find out later.

The Overseer was whooping with glee and exultation, but then he turned and saw me. I was trying to get up off the sand, but could not. One arm had forced my body almost upright, but there was blood pouring out of my left thigh in a rich red fountain. I must have looked like that famous Roman bronze of the dying gladiator that’s in one of the world’s great museums.

“Oh my god”, he shouted, “that’s arterial blood”. He rushed over and pinched my leg, hard, so hard that I could feel it even over all the other pain in my body. “Lie still and stick your thumb there”, he commanded pushing my free hand into the hole in my leg. He looked around, saw his cut-offs lying in the sand where they had lain since being stripped off him the previous afternoon, leapt up, got them, and with maniacal frenzy, tore them into strips. Then he rushed over to the rickshaw to get something, and came back to me.

He made a tourniquet from the strips of cut-off, and used my stainless steel bridle to twist it so tight that the blood flow from the hole stopped spurting. “First Aid 101 “, he said “Stop arterial bleeding at whatever the cost, else the patient dies within two or three minutes. Then get immediate medical help, before the stopping of the blood flow to the affected limb causes irreparable damage”.

“Well, the first part has been done, but the ‘immediate medical help’ is a bit of a challenge. I assume you don’t want to die, though, and if there is to be irreparable damage, there’s not much I can do – but I’ll do my damnedest!”.

He half dragged me, half carried me to the rickshaw, and somehow got me up onto the seat. He slipped between the shafts, and started running across the sands. As I lay there, only half conscious, I thought what a topsy-turvy world it seemed. Yesterday I had been pulling the Overseer, like the good pony slave I was. Last night we were both slaves together. And now he was pulling me, as if he were the pony slave and I was the master!

As I saw his strong, hard buttocks pump away, straining as we went across the loose sand, I felt nothing but love for the Overseer. When we got to the road he ran on, faster and faster. I knew from seeing Mike and Hans earlier in the week that the pace was impossible, even for slaves in the peak of condition if they are not trained runners. Even though the Overseer kept himself in good shape, there’s a difference between that and the kind of work you can do when your body has been trained to do nothing but that, day in and day out. But somehow he did go on, a tribute to what the body can do if absolutely essential. I could do nothing, but lie there and watch the two white patches on his ass rise and fall as he pounded along the road.

To be continued …

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