A Modern Helot

A MODERN HELOT

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part One

I'd gone on holidays to Greece with my mates - six of us, just finished our university courses and deciding to take time off before we started work proper. None of us took our girlfriends - we wanted this to me a last "male bonding" kind of thing, and we'd booked up to do all sorts of diving lessons and water skiing and sailing, where we'd all agreed that having the girls along would just slow us down as they'd want to go off sight-seeing, and shopping, and stuff like that.

Look, we all had long-time girlfriends, and most of us were nearly engaged. Some of us thought we'd look around for rings at the duty free, and maybe even pop the question when we'd got back. We'd had no intention of fucking around, honestly. But you know how it is - six blokes in a bar, then you meet a hen party, and after a whole lot more drinks (mostly paid for by us) there'd be a bit of dancing, and that leads to some close body contact when they play a slow one, and after a few more drinks.... Well, I woke up the following morning with a blinding headache and no clear recollection of what had happened. I at least had got back to our hotel as I was in the right room, but there was no sign of the rest of my mates (I assumed they'd got lucky, and scored!). As I lay there in my misery, my stomach churning and my mouth tasting foul, I could at least manage a small smile at the thought that some of them must have got laid, even if I hadn't. And I put my lack of my usual morning hard-on down to the fact that I felt so fucking miserably ill, all over. Well I was kind of erect, but it was more with piss, than from a need to wank.

I vaguely heard the thunderous knocking at the door of the room, and tried to pull myself out of my still-drunken state to go and do something about it, when it burst open, the lock shattered, and six tough-looking local police broke in. They shouted stuff at me in Greek, which I didn't understand, then as I still lay there, pulled the sheet off me so I was stark naked in front of them. Look, I've got nothing to be ashamed of - I've got a tough, hard body as I play rugger for the university, and I know from seeing my mates in the showers and stuff that I've got a better than average set of tackle. But you know how it is in the morning, even when you've got the hangover to end all hangovers - I had a morning erection, albeit not very much. The police guys shouted more stuff at me in Greek, and I think some of them were half laughing at seeing me erect like that. Then they literally dragged me off the bed, and only allowed me to pull my boxer shorts on before bundling me out of the door and throwing me into the back of the police van.

Sitting in a filthy cell in the local police station I needed a long drink to quench my raging thirst, some aspirin, a shit, and someone to tell me what the fuck was going on, and not necessarily in that order! I sat there on the edge of the hard bunk in just my boxers - boxers which, like me, smelt a bit. I shouted at them to tell me why I was there, but they just came along to the cell door and shouted back in Greek. Mind you, after about an hour they did at least come and take me along the corridor to a foul-smelling lavatory, so at least I felt a bit better after that.

It must have been late afternoon when I was allowed out again - and now hunger was gnawing at me. I'm very tall and muscular and all the sport and stuff I do gives me a fast metabolism, and I eat a lot, and the last meal I'd had was before we hit the bars the night before. But there was no food - I was sat down opposite a small table in another cell-like room, and my wrists were cuffed to the chair arms, in spite of my protests. After a few more minutes a bloke came in, wearing a perfectly pressed cream suit, his brown shoes sparklingly glossy. He sat down opposite me, and said "Steven Masters?"

"My mates call me Steve."

"Well, Steve, I'm Wilson, from the British Consulate. I assume you don't have a lawyer yet?"

"Why do I need a lawyer?"

"You really don't know?"

"No.. Why the fuck am I here? Those police, breaking into my room, not even allowing me to dress...."

He sighed. Deeply. "Her Majesty's Government is tired of thugs like you, Steve. You come out here, swill down the local ouzo as if it's water, cause all this mayhem, and give Britons a bad name generally for your loutish behaviour. And then every now and then, some particularly stupid one, like you, goes beyond the bounds of what is acceptable. And then you cause work for everyone."

"Look, I don't remember.... We were having fun... We'd met these girls.... Had a few drinks.... A bit of a dance.... A few more drinks.... And that was all."

"Sadly, it wasn't. The Greeks look on rape as a particularly serious crime, Steve."

"Rape? Oh, come on! They were a load of girls on holiday, like us. They were asking for it...."

"Apparently not! After you'd 'had your way' with one of them, she fled to the police station. They did the whole works - rape kit, everything. Severe vaginal bruising, it says. And lots and lots of semen up there - didn't you even use a condom?"

"It wasn't like that! She was begging me for it. She couldn't wait to get her knickers down and me inside her...."

"I thought you said you couldn't remember!"

"Well it's sort of coming back to me now...."

"...and what about the bruising?"

"Well, I am quite big" I blushed as I said this, as a bloke doesn't like talking about fucking like this. "..and she was really eager, as I said. And I might not have done all the foreplay and stuff, as I was a bit turned on....."

"Well that's as may be. The fact is, you're in serious trouble. Very serious trouble. And they don't hang around here for crimes like that. You'll be in Court tomorrow morning, and in jail tomorrow night...."

"No way! I want a lawyer...."

"You'll have one, of course. But the evidence is pretty damming. A young girl, only nineteen, lots of semen, lots of vaginal bruising.... And a drunkard, someone who was too drunk to remember what had gone on, at first...."

I sat there, my head in my hands. Despair swept over me. I just might have been a bit over enthusiastic, I suppose - I do like sex, after all, and most of the girls who throw themselves at me know what they're after - my big strong body, and my big strong cock! I reckon that at home they all talk about it, and I never have any problems finding someone to fuck after a big match at the Club, if my girlfriend's not around. "So what do you reckon I ought to do?", I asked.

"If you lie, if you try to make out it was her fault, it will go even worse for you. I'd talk to my lawyer, then pled guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the Court."

"This lawyer...."

"I've got n English-speaking one outside - do you want to see him?"

I nodded, and the elegantly dressed Englishman got up and rapped smartly on the door and called out something in Greek which soon got the guards to come and let him out. I sat there, sweating and dishevelled, in my sweat- soaked boxer shorts, and wondered what the fuck was going to happen to me. And when the lawyer came in a few moments later, I wasn't made any happier - he was middle aged, fat, balding, sweating even more than me (if that was possible), and had only a rudimentary command of English.

We sat there, and I told him again that I could barely remember what happened, but that she must have wanted it or else I'd never have fucked her, and he shook his head sadly. "Yes, my dear Steve, but then she went to the police....."

"So what do I do?"

"Well the sentence for a convicted rapist is a minimum of twenty five years...."

"Twenty five years? You've got to be joking...."

"No, not at all. We Greeks value the ideal of chaste women, and if you interfere with that...."

"I'll plead not guilty, of course...."

"That is unwise, my friend. I said it was a minimum of twenty five years. A lying convicted rapist can get life imprisonment.... And you've seen the state of this police station - what do you think our jails are like?"

We talked some more, but it seemed hopeless. I wasn't allowed to shower or anything that night, and neither was I given any clothes. When they took me the next morning onto the Court, therefore, I was in a terrible state: I stank of sweat, I looked mean and dangerous as I had a big growth of stubble on my face, and standing there, cuffed, and in dirty boxer shorts, with a big, strong body, I looked as if I was a rapist and not the clean-living ex-university sporting stud I really was!

I didn't understand much of the trial, but the girl was fresh and clean-looking in a demure, virginal white cotton dress, and she clearly made an impression on the judge. They listened to the evidence, and there was a doctor person who presented medical testimony and even showed them a glass slide with a smear of spunk on it! I got a chance to have my say, but all the useless lawyer did was lead me through questions I couldn't answer, as I had been so drunk I could barely remember what had gone on. It was as if he was the prosecuting counsel, rather than my defender, when he finished by saying "So, Steve, you don't remember. You don't think you raped this girl, but you easily could have, as you like women, you had been without female company for several days, and the drink had made you especially sexy?" Then the jury retired, only for a few minutes, and came back and pronounced me guilty.

There was a break in the proceedings at this point and my lawyer met me in a small, airless room at the side of the Court. It was difficult to know who was sweating more - me or him. He looked at me and said "This is different from your country, I think..."

"You're fucking right! I didn't even get a chance to bring character witnesses who'd say I'd never do things like that.... We must appeal...."

"That's not possible. The medical evidence and the girl's testimony is irrefutable. All we can do now is enter a plea for mercy from the Court, before sentence is pronounced. With luck, you might just get the minimum twenty five years in one of our jails. Unless you want to volunteer for the helot programme, of course."

"What the fuck's that?"

"You can serve your sentence working as a helot, or labourer. We have a long tradition of that in Greece.

The Romans called them slaves, but before them we gave our helots some rights - for example, you can't be killed, or mutilated...."

"What kind of labourer?"

"Well it depends who takes up your contract - the State contracts you out to defray the cost of maintaining you. It saves money on prison costs, and makes something from the person you're hired to. And the hirer gets a hardworking labourer, who doesn't need pay and who can live simply, close to the job site.... Everyone wins, really..."

"Except the helot!"

"Oh no, Steve. He wins, too, as he's not in some stinking prison cell, locked up for twenty three hours a day with nothing to do, no access to the sun, terrible food, little exercise.... Most prisoners emerge from our jails in a very, very poor state... If they come out at all: quite a lot of them succumb to illness, or commit suicide."

"It sounds as if I ought to be one of these helots, if you're sure there's no way I can overturn the verdict."

"Don't think it's an easy option, Steve! The person who buys a helot's contract from the State has the right to get work out of you - a lot of, generally, very hard work. And if you fail to work, he has the right to punish you. It's not the easy option at all."

"But at least I get to work, get to exercise, get to be outside...."

"Yes. But have you thought about working in the sun, here in Greece? You northern men are not good at it...."

"But I can learn - I've seen those labourers working on buildings and so on as we came to the hotel in the coach from the airport. If they can do it, so can I...."

I wished I'd asked him more about it. I wish I'd insisted on waiting, and getting a "proper" lawyer rather than this poor specimen from the local town. As it was, we'd stopped discussing how I might avoid this unjust charge, and had gone on to whether I'd be better serving my sentence in a jail or as a helot! But now things were rushing on a pace, and the guards escorted me back into the courtroom, where there was a lot of gabbling in Greek and I heard that I'd been sentenced to fifteen years as "the woman I had taken advantage of was not a local but a tourist, and perhaps she had not been a virgin when I had used her."

My lawyer then made a plea where I thought I heard the word "helot" mentioned several times, the judge said something and banged his gavel, and that was it.

I was furious when they cuffed me to the chair to meet my lawyer again, but perhaps it was indicative of my change of status from "innocent" accused to convicted felon; as he came in I bean to shout at him. But, seeing I couldn't physically attack him, he smiled. "We done good, Steve!", the odious lawyer told me. "Only fifteen years, and as a helot, too. It was lucky you didn't go for one of the local girls - I couldn't have saved you from jail then."

"Saved me from jail? Look, isn't there anything we can do? Fifteen years seems a lot - especially when the evidence was, to say the least, a bit 'her story - my story'?"

"Be advised by me: you appeal it, and they'll think you're just trying to drag her name through the mud. The Courts here have the power to increase sentences, as well as reduce them, you know. And being a helot isn't all that bad.... Well, not compared with being in one of the prisons, anyway."

"But surely there's some European law - using prisoners as helots or whatever can't be allowed? And don't I have the right to serve my sentence in an English jail?"

"Firstly, Greece has been given what we call a derogation from the general laws on prisoner rights - all European governments are worried about the rising numbers in jail, and so they're watching the Greek 'Helot' experiment with interest as they may do something in their own countries. And secondly, yes, if you were in jail, you could apply to be moved to a British jail. But you're not in jail, Steve - you're a helot now."

"You idiot! If you'd told me that a jail sentence could be served in England....."

"Steve, be reasonable! Twenty five years, at least, in jail, even if it is in England? Or fifteen years working here in beautiful Greece, in the sunshine, with the lovely fresh food...."

I carried on protesting, though, and finally the elegant Wilson, still impeccably dressed, came to see me. I asked him what the British Government was going to do to help me, and he looked at me faintly in surprise. "Nothing at all, Mr Masters. Nothing at all. I told you when we first met that Her Majesty's Government was tired of the bad reputation that the country is getting when drunken louts like you go abroad, drink too much, and then believe you can break the local laws with impunity. Well it wouldn't look good, would it, if we were to petition the Greek Government to be lenient to you? It would be as if we were condoning rape...."

"...but it wasn't rape!", I shouted, getting to my feet as best I could, restrained by the chains, and banging the table.

"I would advise you, Mr Masters, to learn to control that temper. Being a helot means that the person who buys your contract can punish you if your behaviour is unacceptable, you know." He gave a thin-lipped smile as he said this, and continued "We have a young gardener, about the same age as you, at the embassy. He was a bit of a tearaway when he first arrived, and really upset the ambassador's wife with his constant swearing and lack of proper respect. Some of the other staff and I had to teach him how a helot behaves, and now he's really good at his job - works without stopping, and is unfailingly polite. We enjoyed 'teaching' him manners, but I don't think he found it quite so pleasant... So I'd advise you to avoid the necessity of your contract owner 'educating' you, if I were you...."

He got to his feet, and I scrabbled to try to grab his arm. "Wait...."

"Young man - two lessons you'd better learn.... One, never touch a free man like that. And two, be respectful. 'Wait, sir', would be more appropriate...."

"Sir, please... Look, is there nothing that can be done for me?"

"Not by the British Government, Mr Masters. All that can be done for you needs to be done by yourself. Calm down, accept your sentence. Live through it. It's only fifteen years, and you'll still be a relatively young man when it's over."

It was evident that the "interview" was over at that point as he pulled the sleeves of his shirt down so that they were just showing from the ends of his jacket, and tapped on the door for the guard to let him out. I sat there for a few moments wondering what was going to happen to me, but I didn't have to wait long to find out: the guard came back almost immediately, and he and another one bundled me along a corridor and out to a yard where there were a bunch of blokes standing around rather disconsolately - mostly young, mostly pretty scruffy looking (as I was, as I still only had my grubby boxer shorts), and mostly looking as if they all needed a good shower and a shave, as did I. We all stood there, watched by the guards, until a small minibus pulled in, belching diesel fumes, and we were herded on board. And that was it - we sat there, cramped together as you do on those small buses, the door was locked, and it drove off.

I tried to talk to the other blokes but it was difficult - I was the only Englishman, but there were Spaniards, a couple of Arab-looking men, and a whole lot of Greeks. None of them had much English, but I gathered they were all, for various reasons, sentenced to various periods of being a helot. The Greeks looked most worried by this, and I did wonder what they knew about the whole thing that I didn't.

The sun was strong and the temperature high, and there was no air conditioning or anything on the bus. We had the windows open as much as they would go (they seemed to be locked so as not to go right down, perhaps to stop us jumping out) but it soon got stiflingly hot, especially when the bus had o slow down for traffic and stuff. We were soon all sweating like pigs - I cold feel those cold rivulets you get running from my pits down my ribs, and others trickled across my belly, and my boxer shorts felt all clammy and damp. The smell of unwashed bodies got stronger and stronger, and I know we all felt uncomfortable, but there was nothing we could do about it.

After about two hours, though, the bus turned off the highway onto what looked like a dirt track almost, and we bounced and joggled along for a few minutes before pulling into the yard of a complex of buildings that had probably started out white, but which were now streaked with grey and those dark stains that affect concrete buildings. They opened the door and we stood there in the hot sun, watched by eight guards - big, burly-looking men who seemed to know what they were doing, and who I certainly wouldn't want to tackle.

An order was shouted, which I didn't understand, and then when no-one seemed to be doing anything, the guards almost screamed it again, followed by a stream of what could only be invective and threats. Reluctantly, at first one, and then the others, started to take their clothes off. I looked about me and apart from me and the guards there seemed to be other people crossing the yard carrying papers and stuff, and I wondered why on earth we were being made to do this here, in public. I stood there, wondering what to do, and suddenly one of the big guards was right in front of me, his face directly in front of mine, about two inches away. He screamed at me, flecks of his spit flying out and landing on me, and I was in no doubt about what he wanted - I was to do the same as the others! I only had my boxer shorts on of course, and as I looked around I saw that the others were still mostly pulling off their shirts and jeans. Surely they couldn't mean for us all to get naked out there, exposed as we were? But they did - I saw one of the other guards punch a young thin-looking Arab as he hesitated to drop the grimy shorts he was wearing - and the reason became obvious as he finally let them drop: his bum and cock was revealed as he hadn't been wearing any underwear.

The guard was screaming at me again now, and after the shock of seeing the guard punch the Arab boy, I realised that the one in front of me was about to do something physical to me - well, I mean, you don't think it can happen to you, do you? I'm pretty violent out on the rugger pitch, but you expect to get the odd punch and so on during a match, especially when the ref can't see, in the scrum, and I reckon I give as good as I get. But to see casual physical violence administered deliberately, by an officer, well, that's completely different. I'm not a coward, but I sensed that these blokes had all the power here and were practised and experienced in using it. I dug my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my boxer shorts, and pushed them down over my hips. Somehow feeling the fabric against my feet, in the open air, was so odd - it was as if my whole body was more acutely aware of things than normal, and as this thought came to me I began to feel the gentle breeze stirring the hair on my chest, and I even got a bit of a sensation from my legs and thighs, too. The sun felt hot on my cock, and I wondered how long it would be before it, and my dead white bum, started to get sunburn!

We all stood there then, and we were kind of sheepish, shuffling around nervously, keeping our eyes cast down. Well, you know how it is in changing rooms and places like that - you want to take just a quick glance at the other blokes, not because you fancy them or anything, but because I think it's programmed into men to need to compare their tackle with each other. But you don't want to be seen doing it, do you? It's kind of OK to take a casual glance, but you don't want the other bloke to see you looking at his cock. Well, I mean, he might think you're some sort of queer. It was a bit like this here - we all wanted to look at each other, but out in the hot sunlight, with not a shred of cover, it wasn't easy to hide your glances. The guards didn't seem to mind, though, and I did watch in horror as one of them used the tip of his "swagger stick" to gently lift up the cock of the young Arab lad, as if to get a better look at it. The boy looked utterly embarrassed, and went to try to push the stick away and then to cover his genitals with his hands, and this had the effect of driving the guard into a frenzy. The "swagger stick" was brought down several times across the naked shoulders of the young Arab, and he fell to the ground screaming in pain and terror from this attack.

Well, you can't stand by and see something like that, can you? A big guy attacking a defenceless young bloke? I moved and grabbed the guard's arm to stop the next blow falling, and the next moment my world exploded into pain - two other guards immediately set about me with their sticks, not only thrashing at me with them, but using them to stab at my belly, and even at my balls! I too fell to the ground, and curled up into the foetal position to try to defend the most sensitive parts of myself - this was a mistake, as they stopped using their sticks and instead put the boot in: four hefty kicks from their boots had me whimpering with pain, and rolled into the tightest ball I could make to try to stop myself being seriously injured.

There was a lot of shouting then and the young Arab and I were dragged to our feet, to stand there covered in the dirt from the yard where it was all sticking to our sweaty bodies. All the other blokes were looking at us, and the guards rapped out some stuff which I took to mean that this was a lesson for them all, and that the same thing would happen to them if they didn't obey. The guards then went around to each of us in turn and made us take off wrist watches, bracelets, and necklaces and stuff like that - they collected them in a little basket, and I reckon they were going off to sell them as there was no attempt to label them with who they belonged to, or anything. One of the Greeks really protested when they ripped a crucifix on a thin gold chain off him, and the "swagger sticks" fell on him then, to silence him. I think we all got the message.

They kept us waiting there in the burning sun until they were ready - clearly our needs were totally unimportant to them. And then, with a lot more shouting, we were lined up in single file and marched into the building. It was hot in there too, but at least we were out of the burring rays of the sun, and I actually thrilled as I saw there were shower heads on the wall - I hate being dirty and having the stench of my own body with all that two-day sweat, and so I looked forward a lot to being able to get under the water and cleaning myself up.

Look, I'm no prude. As I've told you, I play rugger, and I'm used to having showers with other blokes - and in some of the older club houses they still have those old-fashioned communal baths: there's nothing as good as a sing-song after a hard game, all naked together in the bath. But you don't go out of your way to touch your mates, and here the rule was very much the opposite: as the water was turned on the guards screamed and shouted at us to all cluster tightly together under the three shower heads, and then, when they threw a couple of bars of soap at us, it became clear that you were not allowed to soap yourself and had to rely on another bloke doing your body, as you did his! Well it's OK when you're doing his back - who hasn't helped a mate out like that in the showers sometimes? But we were dirty and sticky with sweat all over, and the guards watched us, and prodded us, to make sure we were really clean all over: a thin, Spanish bloke had to put his soapy hands down the crack in my bum, and then I had to do the same for him. But there was no way I was gong to let another bloke wash my cock and balls, and I did my own, even though that meant I got hit a couple of times by the guards. Look, I know it sounds as if I'm being really stupid, but have you ever had a complete stranger start to soap your cock? And, anyway, I knew there must be a horrible build-up of smeg under my 'skin from the sweat, cum and piss I'd have been leaking, and you don't want another bloke messing around trying to 'skin you back, do you?

They did at least give us clothes again after that - loose, baggy shorts with a drawstring waist so they mostly fitted, and a loose vest that left our shoulders bare. No shoes or anything, though, and then we were herded along a corridor and pushed into what I took to be a holding cell - just a blank space, really, with a concrete floor and bars making up one wall.

One by one we were taken out of the cell and medically examined - well, what passed for a medical examination! Some parts of it seemed very thorough, and some a bit superficial. There was a doctor, or what I took to be a doctor, as he was in a white coat, at a table in front of the bars, and he did the routine sort of stuff with a stethoscope to listen to our hearts. He timed our pulses, and took blood, too, and we also had to stand there and piss into a small tube. I've had a rectal exam before - they did it to everyone at the compulsory medical on entering university - but there it had been private. I could hardly believe it when, as the first guy was being examined, he was told to drop his shorts, the doctor pulled on a plastic glove, the guy bent over, and the doctor went up him there and then in front of all of us. When my turn came I tried to protest, but the doctor had some English and simply said "It is compulsory for all helots", and that seemed to be that. I mean, it's bad enough having another bloke's finger up your arse, even if he is a doctor. But to have it done to you with a lot of other people watching is totally humiliating.

After that, the guards made us stand on scales, and there was a measuring stick with a sliding scale on it so that they could take our height. And that seemed to be it - it didn't take long to process the eight of us, and we were once more back in the holding cell. They fed us then - just some Greek bread, hard cheese, a few tomatoes and a load of olives were tossed in. I don't like olives much but I was so hungry now (I've told you I've got a fast metabolism) that I ate everything I could - it was good to see, though, that we were "fair", sharing the stuff out between us so that even the smaller guys got something.

That night we were transferred to a dormitory block - a long room with bunk beds stacked two high down one side. There were about twenty blokes already in there, and as we were led in by the guards, they gave some sort of ironic cheer. I got one of the bottom bunks and just lay there, wondering just what the fuck was going to happen to me: the casual violence of the guards towards us had really shaken me, as I thought that sort of stuff was forbidden under European law, but the ache in my ribs and belly where I'd been kicked seemed to powerfully suggest otherwise! There was a lot of chatter from some of the other blokes who gathered together and sat close on the floor, but it was all in Greek, or Spanish, or Arabic, so I had no idea of what they were talking about and I couldn't join in. I felt all disoriented and odd, as I wasn't used to being locked up, wasn't used to being kept with a lot of other blokes, and wasn't used to being unable to join in. I mean, even when we went on trips with the rugger club and I had to share a room with the other blokes, it wasn't like this - we'd usually had a few pints, and we all laughed and joked as we stripped and got into our beds - but we knew, of course, that we could get up if we wanted to, could go to the bathroom, or whatever: it wasn't like that at all here. I'd seen a lot of movies about prison life, as everyone does, but they just don't prepare you for the reality of it: the fact that you are no longer free, that you can't just get up and leave if you want to.

The guards turned the lights out eventually, causing the talkers to eventually give up and climb into their own bunks, and there was then a different type of noise entirely - the unmistakable sound of blokes wanking. Look, everyone does it, I know. I do, of course, as you'd expect a fit young bloke to. But doing it when other blokes know you're doing it? My own cock was rock hard as I lay there, and I stroked it slowly and slid my 'skin on and off my head, causing those lovely waves of pure pleasure to go through me. But to cum you've got to really work at it, I find, and you just can't help making some noise - the noise that I could hear now through the darkness from all the closely-packed bunks around me. I thought about joining in, as no one would know it was me making the noise, but as I started to stroke myself it suddenly occurred to me that there was no way of getting rid of the cum - there were no sheets or blankets or anything on the bunks, so, like the other blokes, I'd just lain there in my shorts and singlet. I suppose I could have got up and gone to the end, where there were some lavatories and lavatory paper, but my cock was so rock hard that it was tenting the front of my shorts and I didn't want the others to see me like that. So I just lay there and "suffered in silence", until sleep finally overtook me.

Mind you, it was no better in the morning - you know how it is when you wake up with a huge erection! And not just a piss hard-on, either: no, my cock knew it hadn't been exercised properly for a long time, and my balls were aching, too, as they weren't used to being full of cum for so long. Still, as a guard came down the row of bunks banging on the posts with his stick, I saw that a lot of the other blokes were in the same position as I was - almost all of them had the fronts of their shorts sticking out, so I didn't feel so bad about joining the line of us shuffling along the room towards the end. I suppose it was just like any group of blokes in the early morning, really - some were wide awake, like me, as I'm a "morning person", and some still seemed half asleep, yawning and rubbing their eyes. A lot of us had that sort of reflex-like scratch at our pits and our crotches as we first got up, perhaps almost forgetting that we were not alone or with our girlfriends.

We had to strip to go into the communal shower, and mercifully my erection had almost subsided, and I was thankful, too, that although it was very crowded, it was acceptable to wash yourself (although there was so little privacy that I had to 'skin back to wash my cock head without being able to turn away from the others, which I always did at the club of course). We even got to shave - or, rather, one by one, as we stood there drying off (there were no towels), we were told to sit on a small wooden stool as an old guy with a cut-throat razor quickly and very expertly shaved us. It did feel good to have a smooth face again, as I think you always feel kind of scruffy if you don't shave, and they gave us fresh shorts and singlets, too.

By the time we'd been fed - lots of water, some very strong coffee, fresh bread rolls, some figs and some cheese - I was almost feeling human again and my spirits were rising. After the traumas of the police station and the Court, and the beatings and stuff the day before, I had been a bit dispirited - but I'm generally an optimist by nature, and I started to think that if this helot stuff was only like this, it might not be all bad.

There didn't seem to be much going on, really - after we'd been fed we were all herded out into the exercise yard in the middle of the buildings making up the place, and just left there. Well I suppose it was a bit more than a yard - the whole place was surrounded by a ring of bars, stretching up ten feet or so. I suppose we could have climbed over them if we'd made a concerted effort and built a human pyramid or something, but there were a couple of guards on watch towers, with rifles, and that was a big discouragement. I don't know if Greek guards would actually shot prisoners, but I wasn't going to be the one to find out. And, in any case, even if we got out of this place, what then? I hadn't the fuck of an idea where we were, and I had no money or anything, and no passport - so even if I did manage to make it to an airport or something, I still couldn't get back to England.

I got hot as the day went on and we all sat around doing nothing in particular. But mercifully there was always some shade on one side of the yard or another because of the shadows cast by the buildings. All of us tended to huddle there, and some of them who had a few words of English talked to me and told me that we probably wouldn't be there long - there was an "open period" every afternoon when prospective "buyers" could come and look us over, and it seemed that, typically, most of us were out of there within three or four days. In spite of the heat it was fucking boring, though, and it was pretty bad for me as I'm an active sort of bloke. So I cleared a space in the shade - pushing some skinny Arabs out of the way - and did some of my stretching and general fitness routines: trunk curls, jumping jacks, running on the spot... That sort of thing. It cheered me u pa bit as I worked away, as exercise always does, although I soon realised my vest and shorts were completely drenched in my sweat.

In the middle of the afternoon we all sat and lay or stood and watched as a few men came out of one of the buildings and walked slowly around the perimeter of the barred area we were in. They were accompanied by a guard, and from time to time one of them would point to one of us, and the guard would shout for him to go over to the bars. Sometimes that was all there was to it, but about half the time the guard rapped an order and the prisoner had to go to the gate to be let out, and led off into the buildings, and they mostly didn't come back. One of the English speakers told me that the men outside were the gang masters who were looking to make up work gangs for the quarries, or the fields, or whatever - they did a quick visual inspection to see if the man might be suitable, then he could be ordered off into the building for a closer inspection if required. "And if he doesn't come back?", I asked.

The Spaniard who was telling me this gave one of those sort of characteristic shrugs. "He's been selected, and his helot contract starts."

"They're the lucky ones then...."

"Possibly!".

End Of Part One