A kinky story written by Pete Brown | Chapter 8 of 16

Click here to see all published chapters. Illustration by Theo Blaze.


The Overseer’s friend’s visit continued for several more days. Each morning the friend accompanied the Overseer on his rounds, and I ran pulling them from site to site on the Sheikh’s estate, inspecting the various operations. And it was fun for me, too – although perhaps that’s not quite the right word for it – because I could listen to their conversations and hear more about the reasons behind some of the ways in which slaves’ bodies were used. Hearing English again started to make me feel almost human.

In spite of the heavier than usual load in the morning, overall it was a kind of holiday for me, too, as most afternoons the two men went to the luxurious Club in the grounds, or the large Pool. I of course pulled them there, and then was left tethered outside to wait to take them home. The Overseer was kind enough to tether me to the posts conveniently provided outside the Club and the Pool by a longer length of chain than he needed to, and this enabled me to squat down whilst I was waiting, rather than having to stand. This was a rare luxury, as normally from the time I was unclamped from my stall in the morning until the time I returned there at night, I was constantly on my feet. And there was less time to spend in the gruelling sessions in the Exercise Room in the afternoons, and that was a real treat!

Each morning now the stable-lad slave led me to the Overseer’s bungalow to wait for him and his friend to emerge, whereas previously the Overseer had come to the Stables to take me out for the day. I didn’t usually have to wait long, as the Overseer needed to get off on his rounds, but one day there seemed something strange when I arrived and was tethered to wait – the place seemed somehow to be quieter than usual. Eventually, through an open window in the bungalow, I heard an alarm clock go off, and then the Overseer and his friend talking to each other in muted voices. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but from the tone of voice and the little laughs that punctuated the conversation, it was obvious that they were engaged in a very friendly, close, quiet conversation. The voices dropped away, and then there were the unmistakable sounds of love making – the little cries of ecstasy that you make as you climax, and the throaty grunts of satisfaction. I thought that they must have a couple of women in there, and they were staying in bed late to pleasure themselves before starting work.

However as the morning went on, I realised that it was the Overseer and his friend who had been fucking each other – I saw their bodies silhouetted against the filmy fabric of the curtains as they got out of the same bed, and then their pink and brown outlines in the frosted glass of the bathroom window next door as they shared a shower. There were only two people in there and clearly not a woman in sight.

They came out of the front door some time later, laughing and talking with each other, and carrying towels. As we set off, it was clear that the Overseer was not planning to work at all that day, as they discussed plans to “do something different”. We set off down familiar tracks across the estate, but eventually turned off into raw sand. The pulling was now very hard indeed, as not only was it more difficult to get a proper grip with my feet, but the wheels of the rickshaw were sinking into the sand and hugely increasing the load on me. The Overseer “encouraged” me as usual with the light carriage whip, but it was just impossible for me to keep up the pace, no matter how many times it stung down onto my back and backside.

The friend told the Overseer not to be so harsh on me, as it was a lovely day and they were having fun, and “it would be nice to give the pony a break, too”, but the Overseer just snorted and told him that he had still not realised that I a not a man, with feelings and aspirations, but a slave. Slaves did not “need breaks”, as their only purpose was to serve their masters. However the friend’s words did have some effect, as I was allowed to slow down and drag the rickshaw across the loose sand as best I could. I now felt rather like Hans and Mike in the large wagon, as my body strained almost horizontally as I tried to get a purchase with my feet and drag the rickshaw through the sand. Every muscle and sinew in my legs and thighs was pushed to its limits, and gallons of sweat were pouring off me.

However the ordeal did not last that long, as the sand started to go firmer, and then even damp. After a few more yards we were at a small stretch of open water – a water-hole in the midst of the desert, an oasis. Whooping with surprise, the Overseer’s friend leapt down, and ran to the edge of the pool and scooped some of the water over his head.

“Let’s swim”, said the Overseer. “It’s better than the Pool, as it’s completely fresh water. No one else ever comes here, and not many people know about it.”

“So that’s why you told me to bring a towel”, his friend replied. “But you didn’t tell me to bring my Speedos”.

“Aw, come on”, laughed the Overseer. “We’ve just spent the night naked in each other’s arms. You’re not going shy on me now, are you?”.

“It’s him”, said the friend, pointing at me. “I don’t like to strip in front of other guys. With a lover, it’s different.”

“Will you cut that out?”, the Overseer responded. “Once and for all, get it into your head that that is not a ‘guy’ – it’s a slave. You should no more concern yourself with stripping in front of a slave than you should in front of, oh, a sofa. They don’t have feelings, it doesn’t matter what they see or feel, and, in any case, with the tongue restraint he’s in no position to tell anyone about what he saw!”.

So saying, the Overseer dropped his cut-offs and for the first time I saw his whole body. His upper body and legs were always on show, of course, as he never wore anything else other than the brief denims, and all those visible parts were tanned a deep, deep brown by the sun. And they were covered in tough, dense, wiry brown hair, bleached by the sun. But underneath the cut-offs he was also brown, except for a small, dazzlingly white strip across his ass and at his crotch. It was obvious that he usually wore a very, very brief bikini with string sides when he went to the Pool, of the sort you usually only see on “Europeans”, not on regular guys from the USA. To go with his generally muscular build, he had a thick-ish cock, and this was mounted on top of the sort of ball sac that is crammed tight with large balls and doesn’t hang down. The cock was almost horizontal, lying on top of the balls, even though he wasn’t erect.

He ran across the sand, and plunged into the water hole, shouting encouragement to his friend. After a moment’s hesitation, the friend bent down and shugged off his trainers and socks. He dropped his jeans, and stood there in a T-shirt and boxers. Then, without looking at me, he pushed the boxers down to join the jeans on the sand, and peeled off the T-shirt over his head, to stand there naked.

It’s curious, isn’t it – I remembered from the locker rooms back home that the shyest guys usually take their clothes off in the most provocative way. You’d think that if you were embarrassed about appearing nude in front of other guys, you’d take off your T-shirt first, then drop your jeans, and then your boxers. Taking off the T-shirt last causes you to stretch your arms up, your stomach goes taught, and your cock tends to be pulled upwards. And whilst your T-shirt is covering your head, everyone else can take a good, long look at your apparatus, without you knowing.

He ran off over the sand, and joined the Overseer in the water. They frolicked and shouted with pleasure, and it was obvious they had a deep and intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies, as they embraced, moved apart, dived and swam between each other’s legs, and generally did all the things that a guy does with a woman when they think they’re alone in a warm pool with no one watching!

I was desperate – it was extremely hot under the desert sun, and there was absolutely not a drop of shade. I had sweated gallons, pulling the rickshaw over the loose sand, and unlike our normal trips around the estate, there was no slave anywhere near with a water bottle to let me replenish my body. I could feel myself continuing to dehydrate, and I wondered how I was ever going to pull the rickshaw home.

After some time, the Overseer and his friend walked out of the water, and flopped down together onto the sand, embracing and kissing. Obviously the Overseer’s advice to his friend seemed to be taking effect, as neither of them even thought about my presence any longer! They lay there, looking into each other’s eyes, and languidly jerked each other off in a very tender way.

Then the friend said something to the Overseer, and they both got up and came over to me. “Come on”, said the friend, “Let him in to the water. He looks very hot, and he anyway needs a drink – he must have sweated buckets with all that running.”

The Overseer thought for a moment, then came right up to me and went to open the shackles around my wrists.

“No!” said the friend. “I meant let him walk into the water hole.

Won’t he escape if you undo him from there?”.

“There’s no escape”, the Overseer said as he turned the catches holding my wrists. “In the first place, we’re in the middle of the desert, and without a water supply, or a car or helicopter, he’ll never make it to the nearest town. And in the second place, he’s microchipped. If we lose him, we only have to send a signal to the satellite and we can pick him up when it next transits the area. And all the slaves know the penalty for an attempted escape is a painful death.”

“So why is he shackled?”, asked the friend, “if escape is so impossible?”

“Just for show, really”, said the Overseer. “Think of it as a chrome strip on the front of your car at home. It doesn’t make any difference at all to the way the car runs, but it makes it look better. He doesn’t need to be shackled, but most pony owners think that seeing them helpless and unable to use their hands for anything other than gripping the shafts makes the whole thing look better. You will have noticed that on the big farm cart, where the horse-slaves need to use their hands to load and unload, they aren’t shackled – the chains joining their harnesses to the cart are only hooked on, and they can hook and unhook themselves at will. They know it’s useless to try to escape.”

“We only tether the field gangs together because with so many of them, even a tiny percentage trying to escape amounts to about one a week, and it’s just boring. And a waste of the Sheikh’s money, when we catch and execute them.”

With that, he released my wrists, and came up even closer and unhooked the reins from the end of my bridle bar.

“Don’t be so mean”, said the friend “Take that bar out of his mouth, so he can swim properly. With his mouth open all the time like that, he’ll drown!”.

The Overseer was obviously trying to please this friend, because he released the elastic holding the bar down in to my tooth sockets, and slid it out of my mouth. I stood there for a few moments, rubbing my wrists with my hands and working my jaws up and down – it was amazing to feel my body free. I think this was the first time that I had not been chained to something, except when the stable-lad slaves were washing and milking me at night (when I anyway had to hold my hands bove my head) since I had arrived at the Sheikh’s estate!

Then, as the Overseer nodded towards the water, I ran across the sand and threw myself into it.

The warm water was bliss on my hot dry skin, and I put my head down and drank what seemed like gallons to slake my devastating thirst. Then I experienced again the sheer pleasure of being able to swim free, and thrashed up and down the small water hole. I’d always been a good swimmer at school and college, and it was something I had enjoyed hugely. Now to experience the silky water again all over me was ecstasy. And after months of hard, hard exercise, it was sheer joy to be able to relax and swim up and down, with the water taking most of the strain from my aching limbs. It was particularly nice to be able to swim naked – at home, I’d only been able to do that once or twice taking skinny dips in rivers and so on, as there were no “men’s nights” at the local pool and so you always had to wear a costume. I liked having my cock float as I stood in the water, and seeing it bobbing freely up and down when I did the backstroke.

The Overseer and his friend then came back into the water and we all three swam around together. To an outside observer, it would have looked just like three regular guys having an illicit dip in the middle of a Summer’s afternoon. But we were in the middle of the desert, I was a slave and my tongue was still held firmly down and I couldn’t speak, and one of the guys in the water next to me held absolute power over me.

But while it lasted, it was fun. The Overseer and his friend left me in the water whilst they went onto the sand again, and this time it was no gentle mutual masturbation – they fucked each other in turn up the ass with great shouts of pain and pleasure, then lay in each other’s arms for a few minutes whilst they recovered.

The friend saw me standing there in the water watching them, and laughed. He said to the Overseer “And to think I was concerned about undressing in front of the slave. I’ve just fucked you, and taken you up my ass, and all the time he’s been standing there like a voyeur at a peep show. Shall we teach him a lesson, and give him a good fucking now?”

I was horrified by this, because I have never been with a guy in that way, but I was saved, at least for a time, when the Overseer told his friend that it was not possible. I was being kept in reserve until the Sheikh had visited the estate next and inspected me. He liked to be the first to fuck new slaves, and until he had inspected new arrivals and decided whether they were to be taken to his bed, no one else was allowed to.

“Of course you can have him give you a good blow job”, the Overseer continued, “but I don’t find that very pleasurable. I don’t like the way my cock sometimes catches on the tongue restraints as I try to get down the throat. It doesn’t seem very natural, somehow. Or you can suck him off, but why would you want to take his sun-browned prick into your lovely mouth when there’s mine here willing and waiting?”

This discussion of me as a potential sex toy was again very disturbing. It’s probably the ultimate form of slavery to make a man perform sex when he doesn’t want to. And as usual they were talking about me as if I simply wasn’t there. My cock seems to have a mind of its own sometimes, and to my horror I felt a massive erection building as their conversation continued. As my hands were free, I moved them down loosely to my side, then inched them around to try to hide my erection – this was so different from anything I had been able to do for months, as I had never been able to touch my own cock because I was always clamped or manacled.

“Well”, said the friend, “He’s been watching us, and I’d like to watch something to entertain me before we head back. Look, he’s trying to hide an erection!”.

The Overseer was clearly very angry, because he roared at me to assume the display position, which, almost by reflex, I did as my feet moved apart and my hands went behind my head. “I won’t have slaves feeling false modestly in front of a master”, the Overseer said. “What gives you the right to try to shield your cock from view? Slaves must always be instantly accessible for masters. I keep your body trained to a peak of perfection and your hair trimmed away because I like to look at a man showing his muscles – all of them!”

“An erection is part of the show, and there’s something still clearly lacking in your training if you even think of covering it. You’re still living back in your former life, when your body was your own, and your cock was a secret between you and your lovers. I know American men usually don’t have erections in front of each other, and there’s a whole genre of erotic fiction about guys trying to cover themselves when they feel a hard-on in the locker room. But you’re no longer a ‘guy’, you’re a slave. And this isn’t the USA, it’s the Sheikh’s estate. “

“Now, squat down.”

I obeyed, with my toes curling into the sand. My long thighs caused my knees to spread wide apart as I hunckered down, but in spite of my hands still being behind my head I was able to do this from standing up because I had very good muscle control. I crouched there, waiting for what would happen next. My erection wouldn’t go away, though, and my cock stuck up, reaching for the sky, jutting out from between my two horizontal, long, lean, smooth thighs.

“Now milk yourself”.

I was amazed by this, and ashamed. But I didn’t dare disobey, as I knew the Overseer always carried his stun gun in the rickshaw with him. I took a hand away from behind my neck and reached down to grasp the rigid shaft of my cock. Although I was used by now to being milked by other slaves in the shower each night, with several other ponies and stable slaves watching, not to mention the guards, somehow jerking myself off in the middle of the desert with two other handsome men watching me, was quite different. It was so arousing that it only took about five strokes to cause me to climax massively, and my jism shot out to leave a long, rapidly-drying seam on the hot sand.

After that, the afternoon seemed over. The Overseer pulled his cut-offs on, and his friend dressed. I then had my bridle replaced, and went back between the shafts. The Overseer shackled me in as usual, saying to his friend as he did, “See, it does look better with him like this, doesn’t it!”.

I was fresh when we set off across the loose sand again, and the return journey didn’t seem quite so bad. But when we reached the first estate track and I expected to head for home, the Overseer instead pulled on the reins to guide me in the direction of the quarry. I heard him say to his friend that perhaps they both deserved a bit of variety that night, and I wondered what he meant.

We went right down into the quarry, and I was made to walk up and down through the operations whilst the Overseer and his friend looked at the various slaves tethered crushing stone, or drilling into the solid rock with hand drills. Finally, we stopped in front of a pair of slaves who were using heavy hammers on long shafts to pound a chisel into a small fissure in a massive boulder, to try to split it. They stood on each side of the boulder, and pounded away in turn. Each swung his hammer high in the air, then brought it crashing down onto the chisel, raising the hammer again instantly, as his companion’s hammer descended. They were obviously very skilled at this, as the timing necessary to ensure neither was hurt was very precise and they needed to work together with the same rhythm.

The Overseer was describing the process to his friend, pointing out what almost perfect exercise it was for the two slaves. They didn’t just use their arms for swinging the heavy hammers, but their asses and thighs flexed as the motion of their bodies raised and pounded the tools up and down.

Each of the slaves was indeed clearly well exercised and muscled – they were the sort of guys you usually only saw in gay magazines in the USA – not huge muscle hunks taking part in Mr Universe competitions, but good quantities of hard, sinewy muscle, got from continuous hard work, rather than from artificial exercise in the gym. They were about 6’1″ tall, and I guess about 30 years old. They were grimy from the dust and dirt in the quarry, and their hair was unkempt and long-ish. Each had a very good seven-inch cock, and each was circumcised. They had about a five day growth of stubble covering their cheeks, and they had moderate amounts of body hair.

I’d noticed in the locker room that in the USA guys with hairy legs quite often have very little on their asses, and I always thought that this was natural. But since coming to the Sheikh’s estate, it seemed that guys were either hairy, or they weren’t. If a guy had hairy legs, then the same amount of hair generally covered his ass. I don’t mean in their ass cracks, but over the rounds of their cheeks generally. I had come to suppose that in the USA this is because the hair on the ass wears off from friction against trousers and chairs, and here, where the slaves were nude and did not sit down at all, it simply grew naturally. These two were no exception to this general rule, and there was a light covering over their legs, arms and asses.

“How about these two”, said the Overseer.

The friend didn’t seem certain, and said “Well, their muscles look good. But they’re filthy. I like their cocks, and they have great asses, and I particularly like the little dimples at the base of that one’s spine where his butt starts to flare out. But aren’t they a bit hairy for you – you’ve almost got a hair fetish, and are always going on about pubic hair straggling all over the place. These two suffer from that – it goes almost from one side of them to the other t crotch level, and there’s a lot of it hanging down from their balls”.

“We can have all that fixed quickly and simply “, said the Overseer “If you’re happy with their basic body type, let’s stop wasting time and go with these two. Unless you’d like to look around some more. There are some blacks at the other end, who are about 6’6″ – that might be a different experience. And if you’d rather go for something more compact, we can find a couple of 5’10” slaves almost anywhere, with almost any musculature that you like – body builders, swimmers or athletes – take your pick!”.

“No, these two have great bodies, and providing they can be cleaned up, they’ll be good sport”, said the friend. “It’s been a long day, and I’m tired after all that swimming, Let’s head for home, and relax a little with each other before the evening’s exertions.”

The Overseer then called out to one of the guards, and gave him a string of Arabic instructions. The guard went away, and soon came back with handcuffs, and the strong wires that were used to tether slaves. He barked at the hammering slaves ,who had not been allowed to stop work whilst all this was going on, and they stopped work and had their wrists cuffed behind them. He undid the wires that had been holding them at theri work positions, leading from their heavy neck chains to anchors in the floor of the quarry. Then he threaded a new wire through their neck chains, looped it around the back axle of my rickshaw, and coupled it back to the neck chains so that the two slaves were tied loosely behind us.

The Overseer barked at me to start off and flicked his whip to encourage me, and I started to jog up the steep incline out of the quarry, followed by the two slaves who had in turn to jog to avoid being dragged off their feet.

The Overseer was clearly in a hurry, because he kept urging me to go faster, even though we were going uphill, and when we got to the top I was made to run in “top gear”! It must have been agony for the slaves behind, because it doesn’t matter how fit you are, medium-distance running at high speeds is very specialised and if you’re not trained to it, your muscles simply can’t cope.

We did however get back to the central complex, and I was tethered in front of the main building by my reins whilst the Overseer and his friend went inside. I could hear the two slaves at the back of the rickshaw gasping for breath, but I couldn’t easily turn around to see them as my head was held firmly by the tether – this time the Overseer had not been his usual considerate self and allowed me some slack. Eventually two guards came out and took the slaves away, and I was left standing there.

The sun went down, and I got colder and colder as the desert night advanced. It must have been about two hours later that the guards came down the steps in front of me, with the two slaves, now transformed! They were obviously beautifully clean, and their bodies gleamed softly under the lights with that sheen you only get on a slave’s body when it has been lightly oiled. Their hair had been cut short, like mine, and I could see that their pubic hair had been trimmed down to the simple, small bar on top of the cock that the Overseer favoured in his slaves. I heard the guards again fastening them to the back of the rickshaw by wires, and we then all three waited in the cold night air.

The Overseer and his friend then appeared, got into my rickshaw, and I was driven back to the bungalow. The Overseer tethered me at the front door as usual, and said to the friend that he was giving me a long leash as I would have to stay there all night as the Stables closed at 10 p.m.. They undid the slaves from the back of the rickshaw, and the two nude adonises were led into the bungalow, with their cocks being used as a convenient handle to guide them.

A few minutes later the Overseer’s friend came out with a sweatshirt in his hand. He unshackled one of my wrists, and threaded my arm through a sleeve. Then I was re-shackled, the other wrist was unshackled, and my other arm guided into the second sleeve before my wrist was again shackled. Finally, the friend untethered me, and struggled to pull the sweatshirt down over my head, before re-tethering me.

I stood there in the sweatshirt, and the friend looked pleased. “I don’t care what the Overseer says. It’s dammed cold out here at night, and you would certainly give a real pony a blanket in weather like this. I’m sorry I can’t help with anything for your legs, but the Overseer won’t allow me to use any of his stuff from the house, and you have such long legs and huge thighs, and such a great ass, that I simply couldn’t get any of my trousers on you. But at least the sweatshirt will keep your top half warm”.

I felt both ridiculous and erotic standing there in the sweatshirt, shackled to my rickshaw. The sweatshirt just came down to the top of my pubic hair in front, so that my cock and balls were still completely exposed. But instead of being “naturally” exposed as I had got used to, they now looked faintly obscene, I thought, as they jutted out below the fabric. Rather like some of those “candid” shots you see on the internet of guys half-dressed in hidden-camera locker room shots, half naked seems worse than totally nude. And at the back, a couple of folds of fabric were lying on top of my ass. I had got the perfect “bubble butt” from all the exercise and running, and there was no way that the normal sweatshirt could stretch over it. It’s funny how such a small part of the trappings of normal life had changed my opinion of myself from a proud, naked pony slave, into a simple sex object.

Still, it was cold, and it did help. I crouched down and tried to minimise my body areas exposed to the night air.

But it proved impossible to sleep. Throughout the night I heard the Overseer and his friend laughing and yelling, and the “swish” of whips and “slap” of paddles. They were clearly abusing the two slaves, who themselves could make no sound because of their tongue restraints.

I was glad when the sun rose, but then I had a problem. First thing in the morning I usually crapped, as this was one of the only times in the day that I was allowed to position myself over a shit hole. And I was conditioned to this – the regular feeding, at the same time, with the special slave meal had trained my guts to let go at the same time each day. What could I do? Pissing in public had become the norm, but could I leave a pile of faeces on the Overseer’s doorstep?

Ultimately, I had no choice, and I crouched in the grass to deposit my load. I then had no option but to stand by it, because there was no way I could move away, and no way of moving it, whilst I was tethered and shackled.

At about the usual time for our morning’s work, the Overseer and his friend came out, dragging the two slaves behind them by their cocks. They looked very different from when I had seen them last night – there were whip lash marks all over their stomachs and backs, and their asses were glowing redly, in spite of their tans.

The Overseer was telling his friend not to worry – they had taken care not to break the skin with the whips, but, even if they had, it wouldn’t have mattered as they were only low-grade quarry slaves. But on the whole it was better not to break the flesh, as it could lead to infections and loss of the slave’s labour for a few days. And, he added, it also made the bed clothes dirty!

The friend was laughing, and congratulating the Overseer on a great night. “I never realised what a difference a good sauna and a barber could make to a man’s body”, he said. “Although I liked the underlying body style and musculature when we picked them in the quarry, I really didn’t fancy fucking them at first as they were so unclean. And guys with long hair don’t really turn me on. But those slaves you got to work on them whilst we had a drink really did the trick – they were absolutely fantastic male beauties when they came back from their treatment”.

“I’ve never had an unwilling partner before, and it was a real experience to push my prick up an ass that didn’t want to receive it. The way mine bucked around I thought he would throw me off his back, and I’d never get it up. If you hadn’t told me the trick of reaching down underneath, grabbing his balls, and squeezing them until he stopped moving too much, I couldn’t have climaxed. I really don’t know how male rapes usually take place – even with my hand around his sac, I wouldn’t have felt confident unless his wrists had been cuffed, too. And then when we whipped and paddled them before their next fucking – man, was that something else! I’ve never had a body like that slave’s to whip before – usually the men that want to be whipped are rather older, and flabby, and whipping hard, young flesh is really fun.”

“When we pick our partners for tonight, though, can we have a bit of variety? When I took your slave and you had mine, there wasn’t much of a difference. If his ass hadn’t already been slicked with your semen, I could have been starting all over again with ‘my’ slave! It was probably a mistake to choose two of the same build and height. ‘Variety is the spice of life’, as they say, and tonight I think I’m going to have one of those big black 6’6″ bucks you told me about, and I hope you will pick a wiry, small cute blond. Then when we change over, it really will be different. And if we get bored with fucking the slaves ourselves, it will be fun to watch the big black getting it up the little blond!”.

The Overseer then saw me, standing there with my cock jutting out from under the sweatshirt, and he began to laugh. “Oh really,”, he said to his friend “Did you have to dress him up like that! It’s degrading to a slave, in the same way that it is when you put a hat on a donkey with holes cut for its ears to go through. Animals aren’t meant to wear human clothes.”. Then, seeing his friend beginning to look dejected, he went on “But still, it was a nice thought to protect the Sheikh’s property in case it got really cold. But we don’t usually bother – it rarely goes below freezing in the desert, and a healthy slave can survive the night naked provided he can move around a bit and exercise to keep warm. All those slaves who man the pumps to irrigate the fields are permanently chained in position, and they spend every night out.”

The Overseer then saw my faeces, and looked at me. I thought I saw rage breaking out, but it stopped almost as soon as it started, as he said “I’ll have to get that cleaned up. I forgot that these ponies are trained in everything, including when they have to crap!”.

With that, the Overseer called a slave to take the two quarry slaves away, another was commanded to move my mess, and he and his friend mounted the rickshaw so we could begin our day’s work.

To be continued …

Click here to see all published chapters.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.