Julie was really pleased for me, and said that she’d be sorry to see me go! She’d almost got used to not being able to use the back garden because of the tent that Joe and I shared, and “she liked to see two big men with hearty appetites who really appreciated her cooking” as “Dan was always so tired and never really tucked in like we did.”
I think it was only then that Dan realised I could leave, and on our way to the station the next morning he was really “down”, and finally blurted out “How long have we got, Steve?”
“I’m not leaving….”
“But you’ve got all that money now…. You could go off, start a new life….”
“Without you, Dan? No way. And you’ll never leave Julie and the kids, even if I asked you to. I reckon I’ll be around here for ever, mate.” He almost ran up the station steps then, looking much happier. Or perhaps it was just that our conversation had delayed the very tight morning schedule we ran to in the mornings, and we could hear the train screeching to a halt.
It did get me thinking, though, and two Saturdays later I loaded Dan, Julie and the two boys into the car after I’d taken Joe off and got him started working on a garden, and drove then about twenty miles further out. We stopped in front of a ramshackle house, with all the windows broken, tiles falling off the roof, rubbish piled all around.
Dan and Julie looked at it, as I said “This is it! Our future.”
When they looked dumbfounded, I went on “Look, Dan’s stuck there doing that junior job, waiting for someone to die so he can be promoted, and all the time killing himself with the commuting. The boys are growing up never seeing Dan. And I can’t get work except for this gardening stuff – it’s OK, and it keeps me fit, but I want to do more. And we’ve got the opportunity now – I’ve got all that compensation, and if you sell your house and take the profit once you’ve paid off that ridiculous mortgage, I reckon we could just about afford this….”
“It’s a wreck…”, Julie started.
“Yes, but a very interesting wreck! The main house has four big bedrooms, which is what you need for your family. And downstairs there’s a big kitchen and a huge living room, and another room that I reckon we could use for business. But out the back there’s the old stables block – it’s in pretty bad shape, too, but I reckon it’s mostly superficial and it’s a lot better than it looks at first sight – there’s no structural problems. Some really hard work and we could have this place habitable in a few months. And then there’s the land – it comes with ten acres, as it was a smallholding or something, but they can’t make that pay any longer with all the huge farms running on slave labour.”
“So I sell the house”, Dan started, “And we do this up. But then what? I already spend half my life on the train, and this is twenty miles even further out, and there’s a worse service here…”
“But you won’t be commuting. Look, I reckon there’s money to be made in training and showing slaves for rich owners: like we do for the Captain, with Joe. We approach rich owners and get them to pay us to get their slaves into tiptop condition, and then to show them to their best advantage. Think of it like race horses: owners never do anything to them – they pay a trainer to house the horse and keep it fit, and a jockey to ride it. Well I reckon we could find some people who’d like to show slaves, have all the fun of collecting the trophies at Cruft’s and stuff like that, but who don’t want the bother of training the salves and keeping them up to the mark. I’ll get them fit – and that’s where the land comes in – and Julie will groom them, and you, Dan, will show them. You know that you ‘handle’ a slave well, and that makes a huge difference to how well the judge sees them….”
“You’re mad, Steve! It’s a wreck…. We don’t have any contacts…. It’s too risky…..”
“Dan, mate, think, will you? Do you want to work for someone else for ever, and maybe never get promoted? Never spend time with Julie and the boys? This way we’ll be our own bosses, with any reasonable luck we’ll make a lot of money, and you’ll be working from home, seeing the boys all the time, working with Julie….”
“But the risk…. I can’t….”
“Daniel!”, Julie cut in. “Stop that. You always are a worrier. This is a fantastic chance that Steve has come up with, and I think we should almost fall on our knees to thank Steve for getting even this far! I worry too, Dan, but about you – you’re wearing yourself out with all that travel every day, and we hardly ever see you…. I married you because I wanted to be with you, Dan, not because I wanted to run what’s almost a hotel for a man who just comes in late at night, and who is then too tired to do anything… Dan, we’ve got to do it – for both of us, and for the boys…. I want them to have a father who’s involved with them, for Christ sake!”
“Jules, it’s too risky! If it fails, we’ll have no home, nothing. And I’ll get indentured….”
“…and it’s Steve who saved you from that already, remember? He got Joe from the Captain, and all the gardening work. You were going to be indentured because of debt anyway. So you’re no worse off. So stop being such a wet blanket.” As she said this, Julie put her arms around Dan and hugged him and kissed him, and I felt, for a moment, an insane pang of jealousy.
I made it sound easy, that we’d fix the place up, and get slaves to train – but it wasn’t! It took months to get the place in shape, and during that time Dan and Julie and the boys had to live in an old caravan on the site as their house had been sold. Joe and I stayed in the tent, now pitched inside the old stable block. And Dan was away even longer, as we couldn’t afford to let him give up his job immediately. The lads from the Sunday football were fantastic, though, and came most Sunday afternoons to help with the plumbing and rewiring and carpentry and stuff, and we made it into a sort of “family” thing as they brought their wives and girlfriends and kids, and Julie made a big lasagne and stuff, and organised games on our fields.
I’d decided that I ought not to sleep in the house, even though there was a spare room as, frankly, it was just too painful for me to hear Dan fucking Julie all the time. So when we re-did the stables block I designed it so that at the end nearest the house there was a big room for me with a small private bathroom, and this opened into the main space where the slaves would be kept, with a big communal shower at the far end for them. It took almost the last of our money to minimally kit the place out with narrow beds suitable for slaves, and by keeping them close together we fitted in twenty (well they don’t really need privacy, do they? And it encourages a proper feeling of “community” if you can hear the bloke in the next bed to you wanking). Joe slept in the bed just outside my door – well, nominally he did, but most nights he would end up in my bed.
Julie worked so hard, cleaning everything and choosing the paint and stuff like that (although I made her paint the slave quarters white, as slaves don’t need fancy conditions), and as soon as we could we cleared out the ground floor room in the main house and fitted it out with a table and some cupboards, and “Julie’s Slave Grooming” was open for business.
We’d taken Joe to a Show in Norwich, as both Dan and I needed a break from the months of work we’d put in, and because we needed another “success” to please the Captain, and to launch our career: Jason had visited us occasionally and had promised to “place” and article about this new method of slave owning when we were ready, but said he needed a “handle” for it. He thought that if we won at Clacton with Joe, he could tell the world that this was a tried and tested system, and that owners ought to be queuing up to use our services.
There was the usual crown of owners and slaves we knew, and as we all swapped information (and we handed out our business cards, as we wanted word of our new business to spread), we asked where Trent was – he’d moved on from being a “pup” as he had been when we first met him and was now a “youth” as he must have been nineteen at this time. It seemed that he and his owner had dropped out from showing about six months ago, though, and I filed this away in my brain, wondering why – there was no time to ask more as we needed to get Joe properly prepared.
Joe did us proud, of course, and I spoke to the compere so that when they announced the winner he told the audience “Joe, owned by Captain J Mainwaring, and trained and handled by Dan from Essex Slave Services.” We then spent quite a lot of time receiving the congratulations of the crowd and letting them photograph Joe as he stood there naked, using it as a good opportunity to tell even more people about how easy it could now be to own a prize slave.
“Fucking hell, Steve!”, Joe complained to me that night as we lay together in bed. “You might have let me put my show shorts on after the prize giving, before all those bastards started to take photos. The shorts are revealing enough, but it’s a bit much being starkers….”
I gripped his cock companionably, and laughed. “I reckon you find it a turn on, Joe! It’s even turning you on just thinking about showing this off to the world. Pity we didn’t see Trent, though – he was with us that first time I was showed, and I’ve kind of followed his career.”
“Oh, the other slaves said he’d gone ‘wild’ so he can’t be shown any longer.”
“Gone wild?”
“See, you trainers don’t know everything! I was talking to some of the other blokes in the rest area when you and Dan were going around pressing palms, and they said that he’d been getting more and more difficult. You know how it is when lads start to mature – he was sixteen when you first met him, so that must make him about nineteen now, and it’s tough controlling a man as he matures like that. A lot of lads have family rows, get drunk, that sort of thing. Well it’s worse for slaves in a way, as their bodies are maturing but they have to learn to subjugate their feelings of wanting to grow and mature mentally as they have to stay as obedient slaves. It takes a firm owner to teach a young slave to continue to behave properly whilst at the same time letting his body mature properly…. And I guess that fat slob who owned him couldn’t do it – I mean, a man who can’t control his own eating so he stays in reasonable shape isn’t likely to be able to discipline a slave properly, is he? So I reckon Trent went ‘wild’, as we call it – normal late teenager development for a free lad – and started to disobey, and therefore he’s no good for the show ring.”
When I’d taken Dan to the station the next morning I rang up the British Society Of Show Slaves and did some research – they had Trent’s records of wins, and were able to give me his owner’s address. I decided on action, rather than more phone calls, and drove the thirty or so miles to the house.
As I walked up the path I could hear loud rock music booming out, and when I pressed the bell there was no let up in it – there was some shouting, and then nothing, so I rang again. Finally the door opened, and there was Trent’s owner, sweating and looking ill at ease, and I could see there was a vacuum cleaner standing there and surmised that he’d been using it. “You’re that freed slave Steve”, he said, and I nodded.
“Can I come in?”
He took me into a small morning room or study, whose small size was made worse by the clutter of trophies, papers, books, and assorted slave training paraphernalia that covered every surface. The rock music continued to boom out, and I looked at him, cocking my head to indicate that it would be good if we could actually hear ourselves speak.
“I’m sorry… But that’s Trent’s favourite…”, he began. “He’s still in bed, and he likes to play his music whilst he thinks about getting up.”
I looked at my watch instinctively, as you do when someone mentions time. “Still in bed? A slave? It’s almost eleven – did you keep him up late last night?”
“He was out until about midnight, I think – some of the young slaves from around here get together to play their music and drink. But fortunately it’s not at this house until next week….”
He saw me looking in astonishment, and went on, uneasily “It’s so difficult, with these young slaves…..”
“I take it you’re not happy with his behaviour then?”
“No. But what can you do? Short of whipping him, there doesn’t seem to be a solution. And if I have Trent whipped, he’d be no use for showing again ever, as however careful they are they always seem to leave some permanent scarring.”
“So you would like to show him again?”
“Oh yes! I miss the shows. It was my hobby. But Trent’s so out of condition….”
“Can I see?”
He nodded, and gestured to the stairs. I bounded up them, and pushed open the door where the noise was coming from. There was a body lying curled up on the bed, and I marched over and turned off the CD player.
“What the fuck…. I’ve told you to knock before coming in here, and never to touch my things…..” As he said this, Trent turned over and saw me standing there.
“Who the fuck are you? I told Fatty to bring me a mug of tea…. Where is it?”
Frankly, I was incensed. I almost snarled at him “Slaves stand up when a free man comes into the room….”
“Fuck off! And tell Fatty to be quick with my tea….”
I took one step towards him and pulled the covers off the bed. He was lying there in boxer shorts, although they were tented at the front as I suspected that he’d been wanking. “On your feet, Trent.”
“Hey, fuck off, will you? I’m tired….”
I grabbed his arm, and pulled him across the bed and kind of dumped him on the floor. He sprang up then, coming at me with fists flailing.
Well, I was stronger and fitter than he was, of course. And I was a skilled fighter from my army days. So he didn’t have a chance. Within seconds I had him immobilised with my arm around his neck, and I hissed “Stop struggling, or I’ll choke you….”
“Stop it… You’re hurting…”
My other hand reached into his boxers and grabbed his balls, and gave them a squeeze. He screamed, and I hissed again “Now, stand still and stop struggling! Or do you want more?”
He went limp as I held him, and I said in a calm voice “That’s better. Now, you’re a slave, right? And a slave obeys a free man. So I’m going to tell you now, and tell you once only, that when I let you go you’re to stand up straight in front of me, then strip off those boxers so I can get a good look at you.”
I loosened my grip on him and he moved away from me, then made a dash towards the door, shouting “Help!”
I’d been expecting something like that, of course, and simply tripped him up so that he sprawled on the carpet. Looking around the room for something suitable to use, I saw one of those magazines that covers new wave music, and reaching for it with one hand, I grabbed hold of Trent with the other, sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled him across my knees, and ripped his boxers down.
“Now, slave, I told you what to do, and you disobeyed. This is what happens to disobedient slaves…”
At first the sheer unexpectedness of what I’d done held him still, but he almost immediately tried to get up from across my knees. So my fingers probed into the back of his neck until he screamed, and I then kept my grip so he had to lie there. A rolled up magazine makes a most satisfactory instrument to beat a bare bum with (we used to do it in the army to “haze” the new recruits), and it has the advantage that it doesn’t hurt the palm of your hand as a bare-arsed spanking does. And after eight strokes Trent, like almost all the young lads new to the army, was sobbing away and begging me to stop.
I let go of his neck and pushed him off my lap onto the floor, where he slowly turned over. “Bastard…”, he muttered.
“Boy, if I hear one more word like that from you I’ll take you to the bathroom and clean your mouth out with soap. Now, I gave you an order a couple of minutes ago – stand up, stand up straight, and get those boxers off so I can take a good look at you…”
He slowly got to his feet, and reluctantly pushed his boxers from where they were marooned around his knees, to the floor.
“Inspection position, slave! You’ve been to enough shows to know that!”, I snapped, and I was pleased to see that he parted his legs, bowed his head, and put his hands behind his head.
Trent’s owner came into the room then, having kept out of the way before, and I started to go over Trent’s body with him. “He’s potentially a very good show slave”, I muttered. “He was an excellent pup, as I remember, and he ought to have matured well. But look at this….”
As I said it, I pinched a roll of skin between my thumb and forefinger at Trent’s waist. “Gone to fat! How on earth did this happen? A man of nineteen ought to have a hard, flat belly, even if you don’t want the six-pack look. A man’s belly can be firm without being over muscled, but this is disgraceful.”
My fingers cupped his left tit and squeezed his nip, causing Trent to flinch and making me snap “Steady!”, before I turned to the owner again and commented “…and the same here, too. Fat, just under the surface. A young man’s peeks ought to be something that feels good under your hand.”
I skinned Trent back, and it was good to feel him coming hard under my hand. “I remember him as having a nice-sized cock. But why hasn’t he lost this yet? It’s the breed standard now, you know…”
“Well, Trent didn’t want it….”
“I see. And how is he to fuck – is he good? Is it worth me examining his arse?”
“He won’t let me fuck him….”
I took the owner by the arm. “Please go downstairs, and I will be with you in a moment.”
After he’d left, I saw Trent shaking slightly. “You ought to be afraid, boy! I’ve never seen such a disgraceful display! In bed at this time of the morning, loud music, calling your owner names, expecting him to serve you rather than you serving him…. And then this nonsense of not letting him fuck you! Now, bend over the bed, spread your legs, and pull your bum open for me….”
“No, please…”
“I’ve thrashed you once, boy, for disobedience. Do you want more?”
Trent went and stood there, and lay down, his bum overhanging the edge of the bed and his cock actually looking quite interesting as it hung between is spread thighs. I unzipped my fly and let my jeans fall to the floor, but didn’t bother to take my boxers off, instead just letting my cock poke through the fly. “Right, boy, this is just a trial! I want to see how eager your arse is, so I’m not going to fuck you properly, just enter you. I haven’t got time to ease you or anything, so if you want to scream, go ahead – but bite on the sheets or something, as if you make too much noise it will anger me!”
Frankly, although he had a nice arse I didn’t particularly want to fuck him as I like to make fucking part of a proper experience in bed. But as those of you who own them know, there’s nothing like your slave feeling your cock entering him for reminding him of what he is – your chattel, to be used as you please. And so I did think that I needed to do this now to get him readjusted to the idea that he was slave. And he did squeal a bit, even though I was in fact very gentle as I forced my way into him, so I had to use a bit of force to hold his head down into the mattress.
Although I didn’t fuck him, when I pulled out of him I did make him kneel in front of me and suck my cock clean of his ass juices, before allowing him to tuck it back into my boxers.
“Shower and shave”, I snapped at him. Then wait in the hall downstairs.
The owner was delighted with the proposition I had for him: a six month contract for us to get Trent back into “show condition” – nicely toned and toned, trimmed, etc. He was to pay extra for the ‘skinning, and agreed that the slave could be used sexually and punished in any way that we considered appropriate. As with Joe, we were allowed to enter him into competitions, provided we gave prominence to his owner, with the prize money shared fifty-fifty. I shook hands on the deal, and said that I would take the proper contracts around tomorrow.
“I think it might be better if I took the slave now”, I added at the end. “In his state, he might be tempted to run, and that would be very bad indeed….”
“Oh quite… Now he knows I’m done with him…”
“Oh please don’t think of him like that, my good sir! Essex Slave Services will deliver him back to you in six months, totally transformed: you’ll gasp at his beauty, and marvel at his obedience. And, with a bit of luck, he’ll have been re-established on the circuit as a prize winner. We’ll enter him for shows until the end of the year, too, so you’ll be able to resume your enjoyment of slave showing immediately.”
I went into the hall then, and Trent was standing there, half tearful, half angry. He’d pulled on some sort of disgusting T that I would never let a slave wear, with a big logo on it saying “Fuck the world!”, and his fashionably baggy jeans were slung low on his hips.
“Please, sir, please don’t let him take me….”, he started to whine at his owner.
“Shut the fuck up, Boy!”, I snapped, raising my hand as if to strike him. “And I told you to shower and shave. Who told you to dress? Get naked. Get naked NOW!”
Still looking pleadingly at his owner, but scared of me as I was looming close to him, Trent pulled ofd the T and let the baggy jeans fall to the floor. He had on small, expensive, designer briefs that actually did emphasise nicely his cock, but the sight of his flabby belly above the waistband, which would not have enhanced a free man of his age, was grossly objectionable in a slave.
“Does naked mean something different here, boy? You won’t be needing clothes for the next few weeks whilst we lick you into proper shape!”
You wouldn’t have thought he’d have been worried by stripping in front of his owner and another man, given his history of being shown, but he clearly hated it. And he hated it even more as I led him down the drive into the car. When we got there he seemed still to be in a truculent mood, and so I said calmly “Trent, are you going to behave, in which case you can sit in the front seat, or shall I put you in the boot?”
“Steve, you can do what you fucking well like…..”
I slapped him, hard, on the face, and he staggered with the blow before turning and hurling himself at me. It was stupid, of course – not only am I a better fighter than he is as I was trained and poised whereas he was untrained and angry – but I had clothes on, including my heavy work boots, and he was naked. As the old saying goes, “Age and experience will always defeat youth and enthusiasm”, and so it was now: I simply parried his hurtling body and flailing fists and pushed him, holding out my leg, so that his own momentum caused him to go flying to the ground. Then, to show him that such behaviour wasn’t acceptable, I kicked him a couple of times – you learn in the army how to do that to prisoners on the battlefield, so that you kick hard enough to really hurt them and incapacitate them, but not so hard that you break any ribs or damage their internal organs.
As he lay there writhing and gasping, clutching his chest and belly with his hands, I remained icily calm. “I’m sorry about that, boy, but you’ve got to learn again how to behave as a slave. I slapped your face as I’m a free man, and unless a free man has given you permission to do otherwise, he’s always referred to as ‘sir’. But I’ve hurt you now deliberately, in the hope that your body will remember that you never – I repeat, never – retaliate physically when a master punishes you! This is your only and final warning, Trent: if you ever – I repeat, ever – raise your fists to me again I will have you castrated.”
“You can’t do that…..”
I kicked him again, causing him to cry out and writhe around once more. When it subsided and I thought I had his attention again I went on “Castration is sometimes the only remedy for a slave who is physically belligerent, Trent, as once the hormones stop raging through their systems they calm down. And, yes, I can have it done: the agreement I will take to your owner tomorrow to authorise your retraining and showing, specifically gives me as the trainer all the rights than an owner possesses in you. That includes the right to punish you physically, and to apply to the Courts for whatever harsher remedial measures are deemed to be necessary – and it may interest you to know that the courts rarely refuse a castration request, especially when it’s for a strong, young slave who has a history of physical interventions. The courts take the view that a master would be right to be concerned about what such a strong young slave might go on to do, and will order the castration in the greater interests of society as a whole.”
I reached down and grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet. We stood there then, face to face, me calm and him grimacing with pain, sweating, and angry. I purposely gripped his arm very firmly, to exert my control over him, and went on “You may hate me now, Trent, and I don’t like having to hurt slaves – but you are dangerously close to being out of control. I saw how little respect you have for your owner, and then you went on to attack me: you need to be retrained and reminded of the proper modes of slave behaviour. In a way you’re lucky that I came along today, although you may not see it like that just at this moment – if you had gone unchecked for much longer I fear that you might have become irredeemably bad. We used to see a lot of lads like you joining the army – almost no-hopers, who’d thrown away their chances of a good education by not working hard at school, and who were idling their time away living on the dole and falling into sloth and petty crime. It was amazing how some proper discipline and good hard work could change them into proper soldiers, proud of themselves and confident in their role in life. So this is your chance, Trent – I will turn you into a proper slave, happy and content: you’re going to have to work at it, but I know you can do it, with some ‘encouragement’ from me!”
He was still glaring at me, but hadn’t said anything. I finished by saying “It can be frustrating for a young bloke to have to buckle down and obey, but if you ever feel like hitting out at me randomly again, don’t! If you want to lash out at me, as I represent the authority that you resent, tell me so and we’ll square up properly and fight – but I warn you that I’m hard and tough, and there will be no holds barred and I’m likely to hurt you, hurt you a lot. But if you have to do it, do it that way: bruises heal, in time, whereas there’s no way of replacing lost testicles.”
He still stood there silent, breathing heavily and glaring at me. “Is that all clear, Trent?”
“Yes”. The monosyllable was almost spat out.
I pushed him away from me slightly, still holding him firmly by the arm, then slapped the other side of his face hard, the “crack” ricocheting around the suburban road. I felt his body instantly tense, but my firm control held and he stood there glowering at me.
“Trent, I told you to show proper respect. Now, try again. Was that all clear?”
“Yes. Sir.” The “sir” was a long time coming, but I knew I’d won this round of what might be a long battle.
“Good, Trent. I think you might be getting a little sense. Now, if you’re going to continue to be good, I think I’ll let you ride up front – the boot gets pretty cramped, and hot and sweaty on a long journey.”
Like a lot of blokes, Trent had a series of erections as we drove along – it affects me that way, sitting in cars or on coaches or trains, but mine were decently covered by my jeans whereas Trent’s were exposed – he made some attempt to hide them with his hands as he sat there, but he was well hung and didn’t succeed. And when I told him to ‘skin back at one point so I could get a better look at his cock head, he did so, but glared at me. He’d have to be ‘skinned, of course, as the new breed standard meant we had little hope of winning prizes with his cock head concealed, and I was pleased to see that it looked good – so many blokes have a big, thick shaft but a slightly undersized head, and I always think that looks a bit odd. Trent, though, had a head just that important fraction larger in diameter than the shaft, making for a most pleasing sight.
Once we got home, I took Trent into the former stables and pointed at the bed next to Joe’s. “Joe’s out working, but will be back later. In the meantime you can clean this place up – there’s a bucket and mop in the cupboard, and I want it gleaming by tonight with the floor polished, all the blankets neatly folded on the other beds, and the showers and lavatories pristine and gleaming. I’ll inspect everything when Joe gets back, and if there’s any dirt anywhere, you’ll lick it up with your tongue! And if everything is not absolutely square and perfect, you’ll be spanked and go to bed without food – not that you’re going to get much anyway, as we need to get you back to a proper weight for a young bloke: that belly of yours disgusts me!”
I turned and went to walk out, and he called after me. “Sir, please…. Where’s the TV? I like to listen to the music videos….”
I just laughed. “You mean you used to like to listen to music videos, Trent! Now you don’t need distractions like that – you’re here to work, and I want you to focus your mind totally on that.”
Julie was in the kitchen, and I told her we’d acquired a new trainee and she at once began fussing about not having enough food, and finding space for him at the kitchen table, which is where we all usually ate.
“Don’t worry too much about the food – he needs slimming down, and for the first week at least I’m going to give him only a small, measured portion of slave chow. And I think it’s time we began how we mean to continue: it was OK to have Joe in here, but as we take on more trainees it will do them good to remember that they are slaves, so we’ll feed them out in the stables. When we come over to eat tonight I’ll send Joe back with his food and he and the new boy can eat together.”
“Joe will be hurt, Steve – he’s almost like one of the family…”
“Yes, Julie, but he’s not! He’s a slave. And I’m going to make him a kind of ‘head slave’, to actually supervise most of the training when Dan and I are busy and away at shows. So he’ll need to be there, keeping a close watch on the others, and, as I said, we may as well start as we mean to continue.”
I’d been in the army long enough to observe how the sergeants and officers struck terror into the new recruits by their “inspections” of kit and the barracks, and I used those same tactics on Trent: I made him follow me as I ran my finger over the window ledges and the tops of door frames, closely inspecting it for signs of dust. And in the showers and lavatories I did the same thing to the gleaming porcelain – fortunately I discovered that Trent had not cleaned right under the lip of one of the lavatories properly as I detected a faint smell of piss on my finger. I held it under his nose, and said quietly “Do you remember what I said you’d need to do if I found any traces of dirt, boy?”
“No, sir…”
“Don’t lie to me, Trent!”
“Sir, you said I’d have to clean it off with my tongue.”
I smiled at him. “I’m glad to see you’re learning, boy. So get to it. On your knees, and around the rim of that lavatory with your tongue…”
“No, please, sir….”
I slapped his bum hard this time – and I am very strong, you will remember.”
“Are you defying me, boy?”
“Sir, no, sir….”
“So get to work.”
I watched as he slowly got to his knees, then gripped the edge of the bowl with his hands as he lowered his head. I could see his body making heaving movements, and he was making a huge effort to stop himself from retching.
The point of this is not to actually clean the errant item, of course, but to humiliate the recruit to get him to understand that he has to do it properly in future, so I only kept Trent there a few seconds before I told him he could get up. Then I made him follow me as I poked at some of the folded blankets on the unused bunks, deliberately pulling some of them open to check there were no creases, and slapping his bum again when I found some supposed flaw in one of them.
“That was tolerable for a first attempt, boy”, I said at the end. “But tomorrow you will clean and polish this place again, and this time I want to see it twice as bright and shining.”
He just stood there, looking miserable, and I knew he would come through this – the recruits all went through rebellion, then dejection, before learning pride in their work.
Joe was, as Julie predicted, really unhappy though when he was handed his dinner on a plate at the back door and told to go and eat it in the stables with Trent, and to take a very small bowl of slave chow over for the boy. And I wasn’t all that surprised when I snuck over a few minutes later to see that Joe had cut off a portion of his roast beef and was feeding it to Trent to supplement the chow. I know it’s insubordination, and less experienced trainers might at once wade in and punish both of them; but those of us with some experience of taking the indisciplined young and turning them into properly schooled and useful members of society know that “bonding” and “esprit de corps” is important, too. In the terms that I understood, I could be a hated officer, whereas Joe could be a sergeant, faithfully obeying the officer but at the same time showing a little compassion for the raw recruit.
I followed this strategy that night, too, when I turned away Joe as he came into my room to bed. “No, Joe – sleep out there. And if you want to fuck that Trent, get stuck in!”.
Please don’t think that I was unduly harsh in my dealings with Joe and Trent – it hurt me as well, you know, to have to lie there an wank myself without the comforting feeling of Joe in my bed. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do, if you’re really going to make thing happen in this life.
To be continued …
