This story is (C)Copyright 2006, by TM. All World Wide Rights Reserved. This story may not be sold or made part of any collection without prior written permission.
A Lesson In Time, Chapter Eight
I had apparently lost track of time, let alone my surroundings, while talking to `616'; as the door to the building opened up and an employee of Mr. Trumbull came out, followed by what I assumed was the doctor.
Both men smiled, introduced themselves and lit up cigarettes. They began speaking with me, in generalities, about how my stay was so far, how I liked my personal slave and things like that. I started to feel quite comfortable around them, when my cellphone `buzzed' in my pocket.
There was a text message from old Mrs. Mudfart which read; "Call me the FIRST
chance you get." Well, I instantly knew that something was important, because of the way she capitalized the word `first'. It was a pre-arranged signal that something important was going on that I needed to know.
I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and talked for awhile longer with the two gentlemen, while they finished smoking. I at least learned that the four newly indentured wouldn't be ready for their physical exams for at least another hour.
I sent `616' back up to get our buggy, while the two men went back inside the building. This gave me the chance to contact Mrs. Mudfart, in private.
I walked away from the building, scanning the masses of `out buildings' to the rear of the compound and called her.
"Kevin", she started right in; "Your father got a call from Mr. Trumbull a few minutes ago. He is concerned that perhaps you are taking to many pictures of his organization. Remember what I told you! Take only a few pictures which others won't object to and the remaining photos you'll have to take when you feel it is safe to do so. Taking too many pictures there, or anywhere else just might land you in some serious trouble; trouble that your father would have a hard time explaining... let alone bail you out. So just be extra careful, okay Hun?" I assured her that I would henceforth be cautious about taking any and all pictures and I also thanked her most politely for her commanding supervision over my internship.
After putting my phone away, I tried to recollect who might have seen me taking the five or six extra pics of the new slaves. It gave me a creepy feeling deep inside; as if even I, myself, was being watched.
I walked towards the three or four, identical looking buildings. They all appeared to be in good condition on the outside, with well kept lawn and trimmed shrubs. I wanted to go into one of them, but opted not too; just in case I was being watched.
Off to the end of the last building, I noticed the apple orchard and saw that a number of slaves, naked, were clearing the vegetation from between the rows of trees. I guess even in an orchard, that slaves have to keep it looking pristine. The faint fragrance of late blooming apple blossoms filled my nostrils and that seemed to take the edge off of any misgivings I had at the moment; as I made my way back to the building which I needed to see next.
Even though the slaves were not yet there; I went inside and was immediately greeted by the `doctor'. He showed me around, pointing out the basic things like the tables, implement, testing equipment and so forth. He brought up the topic of the SIMS machine which Mr. Trumbull had so nicely purchased, and began telling me all that he knew about it. He had no idea that I knew as much, if not more about it than he did.
He began to explain the procedures he used to do the initial exam on the slaves, by going over step by step the list of things he looked at and tests that he performed.
My butt kind of squeezed together when he showed me his instrument which was used to expand the sphincter muscle on the slaves so that he could implant the required GPS, Slave Identifier Chip. From the look of the damn thing; if he opened it all the way, you could fit a baseball bat up a slave's ass.
Further down the line, he showed me where a slave would get any and all body rings; should his new Master require them. It was also, in this same area where some slaves received a treatment to permanently assure that no more body hair would ever again re-grow.
One part of his job was to do a minor' surgical procedure on any of the pony slaves who were required to have a more permanent' tail. He picked up a long length of horse hair that was attached to a silicone plate; which he normally implanted just under the second layer of the slaves skin just below the tailbone. I couldn't imagine having to live a life with a tail of such dimension hanging down between my legs. It was awkward enough seeing the one slave, earlier, with a temporary tail attached to a rather simple butt plug.
Finally he spoke of some of the atrocities which some of the slaves went through in the first building, upon their initial induction. He told me that no matter what group of slaves was being processed on any given day that he had at least one rectum that he had to stitch up after the slave had be subjected to a cruel regimen of sodomizing, cuts needing attention and welts that needed ointment.
The baritone voice of Mr. Wilton filled the room, as he led the group of four slaves in; followed by two other employees. He looked at me, straight in the eyes; as if trying to determine the need for my being there.
"Why don't I have one of the men take you down to the Carriage Training' building; where they are working with two new ponies this morning. I'm sure that you'll find it much more interesting and enlightening than watching doc'
and his boys do their normal routine on this lot of scum", Mr. Wilton said in a tone of voice that was more like he was ordering me to leave versus asking if I wanted to. "I'm sure that a few pictures taken in there, won't be of any consequence."
I nodded my head, as I verbally accepted his offer and one of the men led the
way back outside. As I walked passed the four slaves, it was easy to see that each of them was in some degree of pain or discomfort and all of them had dried tears making streaks down their faces. The poor slave that had the pony tail, even had what appeared to be traces of blood on the inner portions of his legs. I felt as if I truly had be `transported' into a world in which I knew little or nothing about.
I motioned for `616' to follow us, bringing with him our pony slave. He had a look on his face of either dissatisfaction or concern. I couldn't tell which, from the distance he was away from me.
The next building seemed to be nothing more than an indoor arena. Earthen floor, and no place to sit. Just two pony slaves, four employees and nothing else.
Each of the ponies was hitched to a cart. Each cart was commanded by an employee; and on the back of each cart were layer upon layer of cement blocks. I later learned that the blocks were to help build the strength in the slaves' legs as he pulled his cart. One would guess that the added blocks represented the possibilities of pulling and extra human around.
One of the ponies, only wore those all to familiar blinders next to his eyes, while sporting one of the doctors implanted horse tails. Even his hands were covered in what appeared to be padded leather mitts.
The remaining pony had his entire head covered in a leather hood. He seemed to be the worse for wear as the man atop the buggy was yelling obscenities at him and flailing his pony whip across the slave's back and rump. This particular pony was simply maneuvering around the outer boundary of the ring, learning proper speeds, direction of turns and of course need to pull the added weight.
The pony wearing the blinders was more or less in the center of the arena; following commands such as each simple word instructed him to follow. He wasn' t receiving any verbal abuse; but he was getting his fair share of whip marks laid upon his butt cheeks.
I watched both slaves, as they worked to learn and prefect their new lives. It was truly amazing to see how each of them was learning, albeit at different paces.
As the one pony circled the arena, he came within three feet of me and I could see the enormous amount of perspiration his body was producing. I looked down at the ground and discovered the depth of the tracks which the cart was leaving as a trail. I almost, almost, thought that the added weight on the cart just might have been a bit more than that equal to an added free man.
As both of the ponies were pulled to a stop, they were each given a bucket filled with cool water for them to lap. It must not have been unusual for the employees to see the pony slaves pissing directly onto the ground; as each of them so amicably did. One could only assume that even their bodily functions were to `mirror' that of the animal which they were now well on their way to becoming.
The two men switched carts, and the ponies were also switched as to their training. Each assuming the others place within the confines of the arena. The totally sightless pony struggled with the commands, the constant whip on his flesh and the menacing tugging on the reins attached to his mouth bit. I could
see where the corners of his mouth seemed show the initial signs of minor bruising.
There was just something about these and my pony slave that kept me mesmerized for quite some time. I couldn't help but to envision the pony I was using going through this same sort of training.
I had to commend their instructors, as from my novice knowledge of such things, they seemed to not only know how to train a pony but they also seemed to have some understanding as to what and how the pony was thinking.
Time had gone quite fast, and before I knew it; Mr. Wilton appeared, standing
right alongside of me. I honestly didn't know if he had just arrived or he' d been there for some length of time.
"Young Kevin Latimore is quite intrigued with the way we train ponies here" , Mr. Wilton said; breaking my thoughts about the ponies.
"Well.... Ahh.. well yes, I suppose; I'm captivated by the ponies desires to not only learn but to please their trainers as well", I responded.
"These two ponies, didn't start out as ponies. They originally came to us for training as male pleasure slaves, but their body structure was so suitable for pony work, that Mr. Trumbull bought... I mean exchanged them... for two other slaves."
"Oh, I see", I replied; "I thought that all pleasure slaves were those such as my slave. You know, the ones which are born into slavery, and learn from an early age?" I hadn't realized that I phrased my response in a vague form of a question, until Mr. Wilton responded.
"Well Sir, you're partially correct; however, there are so many needs for pleasure slaves over the last eight or nine years that we have to educate some of the indentured slaves into the ways of pleasing a male or female. With the amount of `criminally enslaved' doing a majority of the hard labor and the
illegal immigrants doing so much of the `domestic slave' work, there is a shortage... a need if you will... of slaves who are superbly trained in the ways of sexual pleasures."
"Yes, but don't you find it difficult to ... say ... take a man or a woman who is a normally heterosexual individual and `convert' them into a life whereby they might strictly serve someone of the same sex?" I asked in earnest.
"Once again your thinking is rather precise Sir. But, with the methods used these days, it doesn't seem to take more than six months of hard, constant, and firm work with such individuals to show them their new world. But you are correct as to the breeding program to produce sexually adaptive boys and girls. After your lunch, why don't I meet you at the insemination building or the `milking barn' and I can show you more of what I'm speaking of and them we can go to the training building and you can see for yourself how we train those not born into slavery."
"That sounds great", I responded with a degree of excitement. "I'd like to see that and learn what I can from viewing such delicate work."
"Well then, what say you about meeting me in the `milking barn' at two and between the three buildings you'll just about fill up your afternoon", Mr. Wilton inquired.
I hastily agreed, and then Mr. Wilton and I left the pony barn. Mr. Wilton climbed atop a beautiful cart, being pulled by two of the most magnificent ponies, I'd ever seen. He didn't even have to say a single word to them; except to make a certain sound and the two ponies took off on a dead gallop, as I stood there in awe.
`616' was smiling at the way I had been so mesmerized by the sights and sounds of the two ponies; as I turned towards him and my pony slave.
I had `616' sit on the back of the cart, as I shook the reins for my pony to take me back to the cottage. I almost had the urge to crack the whip above his head just to see his response; but decided not to, as I rather preferred looking at the pony as he cock and balls bounced in accordance with the way his legs moved up and down.
At the cottage, `616' got a pail of water and a bucket of slave chips for the pony to eat; while I went inside and began making notes on what I'd seen and heard this morning.
Lunch was simple and quick, which allowed me ample time to finish my notes, and rest for a little bit. I didn't pay to much attention to `616' as I really wanted to replay, in my head, all of the events of the morning. I still found myself enamored by the pony training and couldn't help but wonder about the four new slaves.
Just before leaving to meet up with Mr. Wilton, I availed myself of 616's' mouth and relived myself. This time I had 616' trot alongside, as my pony slave took me up to the `milking room'.
I was met outside by Mr. Wilton and Mr. Trumbull. I was given a few simple ` rules' about how to behave inside; with the main rule... "Silence".
Upon entering the building, we seemed to be in a small room where a slave quickly put little disposable coverings on our feet, and handed each of us a small paper filter mask to wear. The slave that tended to these things appeared to be about twenty years old, rather handsome; even though most of his body was devoid of hair and the standard slave collar and cuffs were present. His cock had the largest Prince Albert ring I'd ever seen and there were even rings lining the entire length on the underside of his magnificent looking penis. He smiled at me, once he noticed that I was looking at his `package'.
Inside the room, well lit and very sterile looking; were two rows, of three, slaves. Three slaves on each side of a sparkling clean and tiled walkway. There was one man, dressed in a white laboratory coat walking towards us. I knew, from Mr. Wilton, that this man was going to be the only voice I would hear while inside the `milking room'. He would explain the process and the equipment.
The only other sound, or sounds I should say, were the weird hissing and piston sounds from some machine, and the muffled moans and groans from the slaves.
My eyes were like a sponge, absorbing everything in the room; most, if not all, was totally new and strange to me.
Each of the slaves was kneeling on the floor, his knees spread wide and his hands and head were being kept in place by what appeared to be lightweight aluminum stocks. Their eyes had been covered, so they couldn't see other slaves, or anything else; not even us. I noticed that each of them had actually had their knees in some sort of indentation on the floor which was apparently well padded.
The man never introduced himself; but at least he did shake my hand before he began speaking.
"It's not often I get a visitor to the `milking parlor' and it's my pleasure to explain what takes place here and why', he said with a sparkle in his eyes.
"Each of these slaves remains here from three to four days until the required amount of sperm has been extracted from them. Their only purpose in life is to be donors for the eggs of females. As you can see, the slaves are either black or Latino; as we seldom get to many calls for a white man's sperm. When we do get such a call, well... we have the means to gather it, without the use of measures such as we use here."
The man looked at Mr. Wilton and Mr. Trumbull who, even behind their filtered masks seemed to be smiling. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the few white slaves such as maybe `616' were hand milked for their sperm or maybe even some of the rather handsome and sturdy employees volunteered their semen.
"The bags of liquid you see hanging next to each of the slaves is their nourishment. It flows down and into the orange tube in their nose, which goes down into their esophagus. This way, we don't have to stop the procedures just to allow them time to eat. It's a well balanced meal, much like they use in hospitals and nursing homes to feed the ill and infirmed."
The man took hold of my wrist and brought me right alongside the first of the
slaves and pulled me down towards the floor as he began pointing to the slave 's appendage.
"As you can see, we have an elaborate system here which constantly manipulates the penis up and down in the standard `masturbatory' manner; keeping a certain amount of rigidity to the penis."
I was amazed to see the similarities in this equipment compared to the SIMS unit. It looked much like it, or at least I should say, it worked much like it. However, the sleeve which covered each cock was a clear cylinder, which made it quite obvious what the slave's cock was doing inside the cylinder.
There was something that caught my attention, just behind and below the cylinder that I wasn't exactly sure what it was; but I had an eerie idea that I was going to find out soon enough.
I watched and listened as the slave's body jerked, and a small amount of sperm came oozing out and was sucked into a smaller tube alongside the cylinder. It was the first time that I'd actually seen something like this work, as I didn't see much of my own ejaculations, thanks to my sister. And, I don't know why it happened, but my own cock began to stir with excitement.
I was soon helped back up to my feet, and followed the man to a position just
behind the first slave. I was shocked at what I was looking at.
"The small armature coming out of the floor, is connected to a small anal stimulator; which constantly massages the slave's prostate gland, which in turn aides in a higher yield of semen and sperm cells. As long as the slave keeps his knees on those two pads, his ass will remain stimulated. And the other thing we've discovered over the last two years is the simple yet mystifying reason why a man's testicles yield higher sperm counts if his scrotum is filled to capacity with a warm saline solution."
When I heard that, it seemed to explain what I'd seen from the underside of the slave. From where I was standing, the slaves ball sac looked as large if not larger than a farm animals would appear.
"Once a slave is secured into his stocks and sedated, we infuse approximately 1000cc of saline into the slave's scrotum very slowly, allowing his body to adjust. The saline seems to allow the two testicles to float' within the sac unrestricted. This floating effect seems to stimulate his body to produce more sperm cells; sometimes as much as thirty percent more. Combine that, with the prostate stimulation and `Bingo'... more sperm for making more slaves here or we sell it to other slave foundries."
I was speechless, even if I could have spoken. I looked up and down the row and saw that all of the slaves had large testicles, especially the Latino. I glanced over to the other row of three slaves and noticed that they were all Latino and probably had larger scrotums as well.
I turned back to see what the other two men were doing; and saw that they were simply standing there, silent, with their arms folded, watching me as the man explained the entire process.
"I can tell that you are still doubtful as to our extraction procedures, so perhaps you can come back another time before you leave and spend more time with me and then I can perhaps answer some of your questions. But I have noticed your keen attention to the size of the Latino's balls."
All I could do at this point was to nod my head in an affirmative manner; as I was indeed amazed at the size in which they'd enlarged his scrotum.
"There's just something about a Mexican and his balls that makes me enlarge them so much. Mr. Wilton seems to think it is because of all the problems they caused years ago, sneaking into the country and all. I guess I just have this `racist' or bigoted view towards them. Sometimes, well once actually, I enlarged a Mexican's balls so much that the doc had to remove them after I was done milking him. Remind me sometime and I'll show them to you. Doc pickled them for me and I keep them on my nightstand. Kinda helps me to fall asleep every night. I have to keep my emotions in check now, because if I screw up another Mexican kid, Mr. Trumbull will take the selling cost of him, out of my paycheck and outta my ass."
We strode down the line, in back of the other two slaves before crossing over to the remaining three. I got down low and watched, for some time; as each of the last three slaves delivered a sizable load of white cream into their respective receiving tubes. I was totally oblivious to my own erection, while amongst these slaves.
Once I stood up and realized that I had erected, I quickly turned my back to all the other men and tried to adjust my pants and I even pulled my shirt tail out to vainly try and cover myself up. I could just imagine the shit eating grins on the faces of Mr.'s Wilton and Trumbull.
The man motioned for me to follow him, as he went to a door at the opposite end of the room and as I moved towards him, I noticed the two other men coming along as well.
The room we were in was no larger than a decent walk-in closet. Other than the one fluorescent bulb in the ceiling the only other thing in the room was what looked like a stainless steel cylinder.
He unlatched four of five things and lifted the lid off the cylinder, as a foggy air rose to greet us.
"This is the freezer' of sperm", the man said half laughingly. "This is where I keep the slave sperm until the female receptacle is ready to receive it. It is all cataloged and available to anyone who needs it. Keeping sperm this way is quite expensive and that's the reason there is only one other place in the country that does the same as we do. Most of the standard' slave farms just have a slave mount a bitch and hope he can shoot a live load up her. Here, we guarantee the sperm count and can even select which slave it came from, if there is a need for a certain `type' of slave desired or needed."
I watched as he lifted a container out of the freezer. It had to have had at least two hundred small vials of semen in it. Each vial had several rows of numbers which must identify which slave it came from, sperm count and date extracted.
He gently replaced the container and sealed the freezer, before the group of us left the `milking parlor'.
While getting our little shoe coverings removed, Mr. Trumbull asked the man, "how many vials of white do you have available?"
"None Sir, we haven't had a white slave in some time, and as you and Mr. Wilton are aware we've had to resort to using 545', 559' and 590' when we had need of white seed Sir. I haven't thought to obtain additional samples from them, but it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to get a little extra since the new season' of slave auctions and transfers will be coming up pretty soon."
"Well, if I were you I get started on thinking about scheduling at least one or two of them for at least a day's worth of extractions. I have one guest now who is keenly interested in several naturally born white slaves and he's willing to pay my price."
"The three Mexicans are coming off the machines tonight and after I drain the fluid from their balls, they will be on rest for two days, so I could use the white boys for those two days, or even one if that's all I can get." "See to it then, and don't disappoint me", Mr. Trumbull said in a rather strict tone.
We left the `milking parlor' heading next door to the insemination room, when Mr. Trumbull announced that he had to get back to his other guests.
Mr. Wilton explained to me, before reaching the other side of the building that there were no scheduled inseminations taking place today, but it would be a good opportunity for me to see where and how it was done.
The room looked no different than that of a doctor's office. Small, clean and well illuminated; with, I'm guessing, everything they needed to impregnate a female with slave sperm. I was surprised when Mr. Wilton told me that a lot of the females impregnated were between the ages of sixteen and twenty; with few, if ever, any older than twenty five.
Exiting the building, Mr. Wilton looked at his watch and followed me back to my pony cart. Not saying much to me, but rather he spoke to my pony, saying, " Take Mr. Latimore on a proper and casual ride around the entire compound. You know the routes by now and you should have him returned to his cottage in time for him to rest and clean up before supper. You fail to do this and you' ll find yourself pulling a plow for the next three years."
The pony snorted and nodded his head, as Mr. Wilton turned to me saying. " This afternoon is so nice and pretty and it would be a good time for you to inspect the remaining parcels of our estate. Not much else is going on here other than the work on the four new boys, which you'll get to see more of tomorrow perhaps. Take `616' with you and enjoy the hour or two you'll have to tour our beautiful countryside. I'll send one of our runners out to find you and bring you some refreshments along the way. So off you go and have a nice ride."
That's about all he said, as if telling' me to go. I climbed up to my seat and the pony began to trot away as Mr. Wilton gave me a half hearted wave, as he turned towards the building where I assumed the four new slaves were being kept. It wasn't much longer and I had 616' sitting alongside of me, as we made our way down to and through the apple orchard. Slaves toiling away, all naked and beautiful and three of the female slaves appeared to be pregnant as well.
I made good use of my camera, and took pictures mostly for myself; as I wanted to have a good memory of this particular visit.
As my eyes meandered around the vast land, my mind was re-hashing the events, and scenes of the `milking parlor', and the insemination room.
It was only my second day here and already I'd learned more than I had ever thought possible. I could only imagine what tomorrow would bring, but I had to endure another night of formal dining amongst the elite; before perhaps savoring the taste, feel and smell of `616' once more.
To Be Continued...
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