A SLAVE'S LIFE, Part 2
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
I stood in my cell, banging frantically at the aircraft window. Perhaps if I could attract the attention of these men - and then I stopped, and realised how stupid I'd been - if there were coming towards the plane, they must know about the cell, and the "cargo" they therefore carried. I began to realise that my chances of escaping had gone - at least until this plane got to wherever it was going.
It was incredibly uncomfortable when the plane did take off - as it climbed steeply I was thrown back against the bars, and they hurt as they pressed into my body. They obviously didn't believe that all the usual rules about being strapped in and so on applied when they were transporting a prisoner (I still couldn't bring myself to use the word "slave" when I was thinking about myself). We'd been airborne for some time when the door from the front of the plane opened and one of the two younger guys came in - he was in a typical air steward's uniform: tight black trousers, showing off his slim bum, short-sleeved white shirt with dark blue epaulets on the shoulders, and a dark blue tie. He had a deep tan, and his curly blond hair was bleached almost white, and cut quite short. If I'd been on a normal commercial flight I'd have thought he was one of those typical stewards that you see everywhere, and would have sniggered at the thought that he was so obviously "queer".
"Hey!", I shouted at him, as he rummaged around in the crates, ignoring me.
He came over to the bars, and looked at me.
"Hey.... Let me out of here!"
"Don't be so fucking stupid!". He had one of those East London accents - not at all what you'd expect from a steward. "If I was to do that, they'd have me in there before you could say Jack Robinson! You're valuable, you know, and we have to take care of the cargo."
"Look, I'm not cargo... I've been captured.... Please help me... Call the police, or something..."
He just laughed! "You're so fucking naive, mate! I work for the boss, the man that now owns you. I like my job flying with him around the world on this private jet - beats dealing with all those cattle-class holiday maker and their whiney kids flying off to Benidorm, I tell you! I get to stay in the best hotels, the pay is fucking marvellous, and the Captain is drop dead gorgeous - I used to fly backwards and forwards between Gatwick and Spain, and never got to stay anywhere, for pay that was peanuts. Do you think I want to go back to that? Now, I thought you slaves knew that you aren't allowed to speak, unless you're spoken to. So shut the fuck up!"
I could hardly believe it. Somehow, seeing someone so "normal" had fooled me into thinking that he wouldn't have anything to do with this whole business, and yet he seemed to be pleased to be a part of it.
"Please...."
"I told you to shut up! See this switch - well, I think you know about electrified floors. This is extra - the whole cell is wired, and if you don't keep that mouth shut, I'll give you something to shout about!"
I just stood there, and I kind of knew he meant it. He'd got a kind of sadistic look on his face, and it was almost as if he wanted an excuse to press the switch he'd indicated. So I watched him, silently, as he found a case, opened it, and got out several of the standard airline trays, and opened packets of food.
"Just the crew today, so it's easy for me", he said conversationally. "No wine, of course, as we're all on duty. So just water." Several bottles of cold mineral water were added to the trays, and as I saw the moisture condense and start to roll down the bottles, I realised I was thirsty still.
"Please...."
"I told you to shut up!"
"I was just hoping you might give me some water.... Please."
He looked over at me, took one of the bottles, and brought it and gave it to me without a word. Then he went off with the trays to the front of the aircraft, and I sat there, hunched in the cell, gratefully drinking the water. It's amazing, isn't it: when you're really thirsty even plain water tastes wonderful.
He came back a long time later with the empty trays from the front, and packed them neatly back into the crate. Then he came over and held out his hand for the water bottle.
"Thank you...."
"Look, you'd better learn! I've been to the boss's place, and the slaves there never say a word except in answer to a direct question. I think you'll be in a lot of trouble if you don't learn the system, and pretty quick!"
He stood looking at me, and went on "This trip is pretty much of a wash out for me, though - usually the slave in that cell is totally naked, and they chain him to the bars, too. So I get a proper look at his body, and don't have to guess what delights are hidden away. Are you cut, mate?"
"Uh?"
"Cut. 'Skinned. Still got your foreskin?"
"Well, yes..."
"Well that's a double pity, then. I like wanking a guy who still has his 'skin. I suppose I could order you to get your cock out so I can play with it, but you wouldn't do it, and I'd have to turn on the electricity... And you still wouldn't do it, so I'd have to shock you some more... And then you might injure yourself."
"You don't want to just drop your shorts, do you, and have a little play, to pass the time?"
"You're fucking right I don't! I'm not some fucking queer, like you...."
"Steady, boy! I can punish you for rudeness, you know!"
He looked at me again, and went on "Look, for some reason, in spite of your manners and lack of co-operation, I've taken a liking to you! So let me give you some advice."
"First, the talking thing. They really will punish you if you interrupt, or ask questions, or comment.... It's strictly acknowledging masters' questions for the slaves at the boss's place. And secondly, if you do speak, always be respectful - if you'd sounded off at one of the boss's guests like you just did to me, your back would be a bloody mess within minutes when he had you whipped."
"You're making too much of all of this - you're very lucky, really."
"Lucky? How...."
"SHUT UP! Don't you listen to what I've said? Anyway, you're lucky as the boss is acknowledged as one of the best and most humane owners on 'the circuit' - the club of ultra rich men who can afford to indulge themselves by ordering men to be captured and enslaved for them. Where did you meet him, by the way?"
He stopped, and clearly was expecting a reply, so I thought I could answer. "I don't know what you mean. I don't know who your boss is, even...."
"Not 'your boss', THE boss, the man who owns the estate where you're going to live, the guy who owns this plane, the guy who's paid a small fortune to have you captured: it's far from cheap, you know. Arab guy, early forties, black hair, dark black eyes... Fucking gorgeous!"
"I've never met any Arabs, and certainly not anyone like that."
"So are you an actor, on the stage, had a bit part in a movie...."
"No, I'm just an ordinary guy, work in an office, go to the Club and play....."
"Play what?"
"Rugby, for a really good club team...."
"Oh well, that's it, probably. Do you play in public - I mean anywhere big, not just some little ground somewhere?"
"Yes - I was in the annual Sevens competition at Twickenham a couple of months ago...."
"That' it, then. I bet he saw you play and was turned on by you, and simply ordered you to be captured and enslaved."
"Look, you're kidding, right? People don't do things like that these days...."
"Look at this plane. How much do you think it costs to keep this in the air? Look at the cell you're in - would anyone have that in a plane like this if they didn't intend to use it? And I can tell you they DO do things like this - about once a month we fly off somewhere to pick up cargo like you, from all over - the States, Australia, New Zealand: it's quite a change to go back to the UK, as most of the men the boss likes are big, brawny outdoor types and there are many more of them in those other countries."
"Anyway", he went on "There's nothing you can do about it now. He's had you taken, and you now belong to him. You'll find there's no escape from his estate - I've been invited there several times, and I see the same faces - or should I say bodies - each time. I recognise a lot of the guys from these journeys, and, of course, I've usually wanked most of them. I can't think why they're shipping you with clothes on - you won't keep them on the estate, of course."
"What.....?"
"Well, the boss has spent all this money on having you taken and enslaved because he saw something about you he liked - I expect it was seeing your bum in those tight shorts rugby players wear! So when he's got you on his estate, he's going to want to see it, isn't he?
So if it was your bum he liked, you can be sure it will be very visible, all the time - only special slaves, like chefs and waiters, get to wear clothes on the estate: all the other slaves are naked, all the time. It's fucking marvellous, I tell you - just like paradise: all that gorgeous male flesh just there to look at!"
"But, as I said", he went on, "You're lucky. Some of the owners are real bastards, but the boss is known as a really good owner. He's not sadistic, so if you're punished it's not for his pleasure, but because you've done wrong (not that he won't watch you being flogged, or whatever - he likes to see it. But he doesn't order it just to amuse himself, as some owners do). And he keeps all the slaves properly fed, you get he best medical attention to keep you healthy, and unless you've been bought in as a sex toy - and I don't think you have been, as you're too big - then you don't even get fucked."
"Sex toy..? "
"Well, yes. Some of the slaves we transport are really cute - young, like you, but not so big. More 'swimmers' type of bodies, under six foot, lithe and not over muscled. 'Extremely fuckable', I think of them as. And that's what they're for - some of the slaves on the estate are just kept for sex - well, not entirely: they spend a lot of time working out to keep in shape, but their prime function is to be available for sex. When I've been invited to stay there, it's fantastic - I can look through the catalogue and order any one of them for a casual fuck, or to spend the night."
"But I'm not gay..."
"Who cares? If they've taken you as a sex toy, they'd soon train you to take it, or give it, or both. But, as I say, I don't think that's why you've been taken: you're too big, for one thing - a lot of men are intimidated at the thought of fucking someone your size, even though they know you're a slave and will obey them totally. And, if you were going to be a sex toy, they'd have had you stripped already, and I'd have wanked you, or got you to suck my cock, or something - the more men that use a sex toy early on in his training, the sooner he loses all his inhibitions, you know.... So I don't think that's what's in store for you - pity, really, as I'm not intimidated by the thought of fucking a really big guy, and I could have had you the next time I'm at the estate."
"Look, can I ask you if there' anything to eat? I haven't had anything for a day at least, and I'm famished..."
"Well, they didn't give any instructions about feeding you. And I'm not a fucking servant, you know. I wait on passengers, and I'm not here to feed the stock!"
"Please..."
He gave a shrug, opened a cupboard and took out a small package. He tope open the plastic covering, and gave me two biscuits, each about the size of my hand and pale brown in colour. I took them off him, and stood there, looking at them.
"That's standard slave chow - better get used to it. That's what all the slaves on the estate are fed, and we keep some on board in case the plane's delayed and the stock needs feeding. They tell me it's perfectly balanced, all the vitamins and minerals, all that crap! I've tried it, and it does give you the energy to work, but it's fucking boring. Still, that's all you'll be getting from now on, so now's a good time to start."
I went to nibble at the biscuit, but it as surprisingly hard - I had to almost gnaw at it to be able to break bits off and chew them.
"See", he said, "Just like dog biscuits! Very hard, so you have to really chew at them - keeps your teeth in good shape, and exercises your jaws properly. I told you your new owner was humane - some owners feed their slaves on swill - boiled up waste from the owner's table - as they think it's more humiliating. But your owner buys the proper food, well balanced, healthy: he wants you to be fit and active, and this is a lot better for you than the stuff the crew and I have been eating. Steak and chocolate mousse tastes a lot better, but yours will do you more good."
I carried on chewing away at it, swallowing the bland stuff.
"Well, it may be doing me more good, but it doesn't taste of anything!"
"Well of course not. They could add artificial flavours, but they're no good for you. But the real reason is to focus your mind - I was talking to one of the trainers the last time I was at the estate and he told me that the food is deliberately bland - they want your mind to concentrate on serving your owner. That's why you don't get any music to listen to, any books or videos, any of that stuff - they say it's just distracting. When there's just you, your body, and your work, you really focus on it. And that's what a slave should do - concentrate on delivering the ultimate in perfect work for his owner."
As he was speaking, I was conscious that after all the water I'd drunk the inevitable was happening - I needed to piss.
"Please.... Look, you've got to let me out of here, just for a bit.... I need to go to the gents."
"Don't be so fucking stupid! Do you think we'd let a slave loose on this aircraft - you might try something foolish, then we'd have to shoot you."
"So what do I do? Piss on the floor?"
"You do that and I'll shock you into unconsciousness. No.... Use this."
He fetched one of the food containers that had been used for the crew's dinner, and held it out to me. I put my hand through the bar to take it, but it was too big to go through.
"Just piss through the bars", he said.
I'd hoped to be able to turn away from him as I pissed - I'm not piss shy, as I'm used to peeing in public lavatories and stuff. And at the rugby club we have one of those long communal metal troughs to piss in, with none of those silly partitions that stop you looking at the next guy - after all, we all bath together naked, don't we? But after he'd gone on about "sex toys" and stuff, I didn't really want to expose myself to this guy - especially as he'd said he liked sex with men himself. It's one thing to be naked with your mates, all good normal guys - but let a queer see me..... No!
But as I stood there, the urge to let go kept getting stronger, I saw there was nothing else I could do. As I went to get my cock out, another problem then presented itself - the tiny shorts were so skimpy and so tight that there was no way that I could just release my cock: I was going to have to push the shorts right down to get it out - and then, of course, with only the too-short singlet on top, he'd be able to see all my pubes, my balls, my bum....
I hated it, but I had no choice. I put the box down on the floor out side the bars, then wriggled to get the tiny shorts down over my cock, so that they were resting on my thick thighs. Then I quickly stooped to pick up the box, poked my cock through the bars, and started to piss.
It was heaven - once it started to flow, I just stood there with my eyes half closed, pissing away and getting that marvellous feeling of relief you get when you've been wanting to go for some time. When finally I finished I put the box down on the floor and shook the last drops out of my cock, then struggled to get my shorts up again.
"Very nice!", the guy said conversationally, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Very nice - one of the best cocks I've seen for some time, and those balls.... I really like a guy with big, low hangers like yours. Once they've exposed them, they'll be a real treat. But I don't suppose the boss saw those - it must have been that bum of yours that attracted him: it's even nicer 'in the flesh' than when it's trying to burst its way out of your shorts, you know. I like a bum like that - muscular, rounded, carried high up on top of those thighs of yours... And that little patch of hair at the top of your crack... Nice, very nice!"
I started to blush as he was talking. I wasn't used to guys talking about my body like this - well, not to me, anyway: like all good looking guys I supposed that gays would look at me and whisper to themselves about me if they saw me in the street, or wherever. Actually, I wanted to tell him to shut his obscene mouth - but what was the use: he could, after all, shock me into silence if he wanted to.
"Yes", he went on, "Very nice. I'll have to look out for you next time I'm invited to the estate. Once you've been trimmed and so on, you'll be truly amazing."
I wanted to ask him what the hell he was talking about, but he picked up the box with my piss in it, and went and emptied it down the sink in the corner where the food was prepared, before throwing the empty box into a trash sack. Then he went through into the front of the plane. I was amazed at the way a guy could treat piss like that - I couldn't imagine I'd ever be able to pick up a box with another guy's warm piss in it, and treat it so casually. On the other hand, perhaps he thought that it was more like keeping an animal clean in its cage - not like real man piss at all.
I sat there thinking about everything he'd said - Jesus fucking Christ.... What sort of a place was I going to?
Well, I found out after what seemed like an interminable wait. We came down onto what was clearly a private airstrip in the middle of desert - there was no fancy terminal or anything, just the landing strip and a small building at the side, from which I could see a big black limousine and a white Land Rover racing towards us.
As I peered out of the window I saw a man in traditional Arab dress go down the steps, and was whisked away in the limousine. Two men got out of the Range Rover, and they looked to be identically dressed. They came up the aircraft steps, and a few moments later they were led into the cargo area by the steward.
Both men were in their late twenties or early thirties, and were fit looking - they wore identical khaki shorts cut very short so that most of their thighs were exposed and their cocks were clearly bunched up in the short body section, and tight-fitting white polo shirts. On their feet they had black combat boots, with white socks rolled over the tops. Around their waists were thick black belts, with a variety of strange things hanging from them - although I did recognise handcuffs as one of the items.
They were chatting to the steward as they came in. ".... And was his cum thick and creamy?"
"Don't know - he's not cuffed or anything, and he's a big strong guy. I didn't like to put my hand in and find out!"
All three of them laughed, and one of the two men in white said "So shipping him clothed spoiled your fun, then! If you're horny, why don't you give that pilot a miss tonight and come over to my quarters and see how a real man does it...? You know what they say.... 'Soldiers do it at attention'!"
They saw me looking at them and listening, and the other man in white snapped at me "Hands in front of you - we're going to cuff you for the journey."
Defiantly I put my hands behind my back, and stood there looking at him.
"Get your hands in front of you now, boy! Don't you know that slaves obey guards?"
I just stood there, and the man casually took a small rod from a holster on his belt and pushed it through the bars and touched me with it. My world exploded - it was as if someone had thrown scalding water all over me. I screamed, and threw myself about, trying to brush the water off me. Only gradually did the pain subside.
"Now, boy, hands in front of you, so we can cuff you. Or would you like another taste of the tickler? Good, isn't it - adapted from cattle prods, and re-tuned to the human nervous system. Lots of pain, no lasting physical harm."
What was the point of arguing? I couldn't escape from the 'tickler', confined in the cage. So I extended my hands out in front of me, and the guy took the handcuffs off his belt and snapped them around my wrists.
They told the steward to open my cell, and then ordered me to follow them. As I was going past the steward he reached out and ran his hand lightly over my backside - I could feel it plainly, trough the thin silken material of my tiny shorts. "Fuck you...." I shouted, as I felt somehow violated. Another man had never touched my body like that before.
All that earned me was a big slap on my bum from one of the two guards, who told the steward, laughingly, that "this is the way to treat a slave's ass - a good hard slap, not a little grope!". I felt so humiliated - no one had slapped me there before, either.
They led me back through the plane and down the steps - as we left the air conditioned interior the heat hit me like a blow - it must have been way up into the nineties. But I didn't sweat - I suppose the air was so dry, as it looked as if were in desert.
They opened the back door of the Land Rover and told me to get in, and as soon as I sat down a cuff was pulled out from under the back seat and snapped shut around my ankle.
"You know", said one of the guards, "We've had slaves try to leap from the moving vehicle as we make our way to the estate, even though they're handcuffed, we're in the middle of nowhere, and they have absolutely no idea where they are. So now we make sure you stay inside - you've cost too much money to allow you to injure yourself doing anything stupid. So just sit back and relax - I would say enjoy the view, but the scenery's not much!"
We sped through the bleak landscape, mile after mile. A blob appeared on the horizon, and it turned green as we approached - it was one of those things I'd read about: an oasis. But this wasn't the traditional kind with a pool surrounded with palm trees - there seemed to be a vast areas of green in the desert, surrounded by a mesh fence about four feet high. The track curved around, and we went through a gate, that opened as the men touched a radio control on the dash.
"See that fence, boy?" One of the guards said. "Mark it well! It's not so high that you couldn't jump it easily - but don't ever try. Apart from the fact that you'd never survive walking across the desert to 'civilisation', that fence marks out the placing of the sensor cable for the slave collars - you'll get one as soon as we arrive, and it's an update on the technology used to keep dogs in gardens - they get a mild shock when they try to cross the buried sensor wire to make them go back. But if you cross the wire, the shock will kill you! You get a warning jolt if you go within three feet of the fence, but don't try any more. Understand?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Look, boy, if you're going to get on well as a slave on the estate, you'd better start learning proper manners! All guards and overseers are addressed as 'Sir' by slaves, and your only reply to my last question should have been 'Sir, yes, sir!'. Do you understand?"
"Yes... " and then I hesitated as I don't like acknowledging that men are superior to me - I never call my boss at the office or anyone else "Sir". But I thought I perhaps ought not antagonise these men. So I added "..... Sir."
The guard who had been talking to me turned around in his seat to face me, and leaned over and slapped me! His open-palmed hand hit me hard, on the side of my face, and I fell over sideways with the surprise, and the force of the blow.
"Look, boy, I don't think you understand yet what you're in for. You're a slave. Slaves are always polite, and always eager to obey and acknowledge masters and guards. So it's not 'Yes' and then very grudgingly 'Sir'. It's 'Sir, yes, sir!" - with vigour and gusto - you really want to acknowledge your master, and you need to show it. Guards enforce the house rules with physical punishments, and if you want to avoid them, you'd better start learning now. So do you understand?"
I was still reeling with shock from what had happened - the completely casual way he'd been so violent was a complete surprise. But I had the sense to know not to antagonise him further, so I snapped "Sir, yes, Sir!".
It was like being in one of those Army films, where all the recruits have to chant that as part of their subjugation to the communal life in the army.
"That's better, boy. Remember to answer like that and you'll avoid a lot of beatings!"
Whilst all this had been going on we'd pulled up in front of a long, low building tat was around the back of a bigger, slightly better looking one - although neither of them was particularly lavish: Whitewashed blocks, and small windows. I guessed they didn't need a lot of glass in this blinding hot sunlight. The guards got out, unlocked my ankle restraint, then told me to follow them.
Inside it was much cooler than the furnace-like heat of the air outside, and I could tell it must e air-conditioned. In my skimpy shorts and revealing top I even felt slightly chilly. There was another guard inside the door, wearing what I now saw must be their "uniform" - the tight, short shorts, and the white polo top. Like the two who were with me, he looked fit and alert, and he reached up and pulled the "tag" that was still around my neck down, so that he could scan it with one of the instruments that had been used before.
"Right", he told my guards, as he glanced at a PC screen on the desk in front of him. "This is the one we've been expecting. Take him and collar him and tattoo him, get him clean, and then take him into the boss - he's eagerly awaiting the arrival of this purchase."
We went down a featureless corridor into a mostly empty room - just a table with a chair next to it.
"Sit down", I was ordered, and I went and sat in the chair next to the table. All three of us waited, until the door opened and another guy, in the same "uniform" came in, carrying a kind of tool box.
He greeted his two companions, but ignored me - it was almost as if I wasn't there. The tool box was opened on the table, and a big pair of pliers was used to cut off the tag around my neck. Then he got some links of chain out of the box, and draped them around my neck and experimentally pulled the ends together. They felt cold against my flesh, and I shivered inwardly.
"It's about right", he told the others. "I've put the extra link in as although it will be a bit loose initially, it will soon tighten as he works here and his muscles fill out generally - it's so messy to have to re-fit the collar after a couple of months. Now...."
As he was speaking he got a tube of pungent-smelling stuff out from the box and used it to hold together the two ends of the chain around my throat. It just hung below my Adam's apple, and it was one of those very chunky chains, with thick links. It felt tight already as it lay there around me - I wasn't used to having anything around my neck usually, and I could feel its dull weight on me.
After a few moments he slipped a finger between the links and my neck and tugged experimentally - the chain was firmly in place.
"Listen, boy", he told me, "That's your security collar on. You've seen the fence around this place - don't ever try to cross it, or even get close to it! You're expensive stock, and we'd hate to lose you. You're lucky you've got such a considerate owner - a lot of slaves have to wear rigid collars and then they get sores and all sorts of stuff where it rubs them - but these links do accommodate themselves to you a bit, and there ought not to be even any chafing."
Turning to his companions he went on "It makes him look good, doesn't it - I always think the slaves are enhanced when they're collared - we know they can't run for it as there's no way of getting these tough collars off without special tools, all of which are locked up, and it's the real symbol of their servitude. Now he's 'safe' and can't escape, you can take him out of the cuffs..."
One of the guards took the key to my handcuffs off his belt and went to unlock me. "Now, boy, don't do anything stupid when your hands are free! There's no escape from this place for you as you've heard, so there's no point in attacking any of us - quite apart from the fact that three against one isn't good odds, even if you got out of the door there you couldn't get off the estate and we'd soon hunt you down. So just continue to be silent and co-operative, and it will be easier for all of us."
Well, what could I do? He was right - three against one was terrible odds, and even though I was fit and strong and used to a bit of rough stuff in the ruck on the pitch, all these guys looked as if they were used to taking care of themselves.
"Elbow on the table, and brace yourself!", the guy who had chained me now said, and when I hesitated slightly as I didn't know what he meant, he impatiently pushed my left elbow on to the table and kind of flattened my hand on the area between my pecs.
"Right, boy, no flinching!", he went on. "I'm going to tattoo your shoulder here with your inventory number, and your name, so that all the guards on the estate know who they're dealing with."
He got a machine that looked like one of those label makers that usually squirt plastic tape out from his tool box, and fiddled with it, turning the dial on the top this way and that, and pressing a green button every now and then. He pressed the flat end of the machine against the flesh right at the top of the arm, and pressed a red button on the machine. I felt a great stinging sensation in my arm, and pulled it away.
The man was grinning at me. "There, that wasn't bad, was it? That's your inventory number done - these new rapid tattooers are clever, aren't they - five digits all at once, and no need for a specialist to come in."
I went to rub my shoulder as it was hurting, and saw blood everywhere!
"Hey..."
"Shut the fuck up, slave!", he snapped. "Haven't you learned yet that slaves only answer questions, and don't speak unless they're doing so? And don't touch!
That's only blood from the needles - it will soon dry. Just sit still, whilst I dial in your name."
He was fiddling with his machine again, and soon pressed it against my shoulder again.
"Right, boy, you know what's coming - just sit still as we don't want it blurred...."
The sharp pain again as the button was pressed, and he took the machine away.
"Right, Jon, that wasn't so bad, was it? You're lucky your name's only three characters...."
"But I'm not Jon, I'm....."
The man looked at the two guards who'd brought me in, and the one who had hit me in the Range Rover came up and struck me hard again across the face, with his open hand. I fell off the chair half in surprise, and half from the sheer unexpectedness of the attack.
"You haven't learned, have you?", he said. "Remember - you only speak when you're answering a question. Didn't I tell you that as we were coming here?"
"Yes..."
He drew back his leg, and went to kick me, just stopping so that his boot rested against my head.
"And how do we answer guards? Remember? So you don't speak, unless spoken to, do you, slave?"
"NO, Sir, no." I was terrified actually - as I say, you're not used to being hit, and to the casual use of force against you, are you?
"Now understand, Jon", he went on, "As that's your name now! We don't care what you were called before. The owner likes his slaves to have short, easy to use names as it makes commanding them easier. The last Jon was sold last week so that name is available on the estate - there's no duplication amongst the slaves here, so that when we guards are talking about a slave, it's absolutely clear which one is being spoken of. Start thinking of yourself as Jon now, as if someone orders 'Jon' to do something, and you don't jump to obey, you're likely to get punished. Actually, a lot of slaves find it easier being re-named - it makes a separation from their old lives and their new slave lives. But for the first few days listen hard to make sure you don't miss a command!."
They led me to a second room where there was a shower head in the ceiling, told me to strip, and shower. I'm not prudish and at the Club I was used to showering when there were other guys around - in rugby clubs they don't have those silly little individual cubicles, as you all shower together (after all, after matches, you all share the communal bath!), but having the two guards standing there watching me did seem strange. The soap had absolutely no smell, but it seemed to do the job, and it felt so good to be able to wash off all the sweat (and the remaining dirt from where I'd fallen to the ground at the airport). When I was almost done I turned around to face away from the two men to pull my foreskin back and wash under it.
"Hey, Jon, don't be shy...." One of the guards called out. "Turn around, and let me make sure that cock head of yours is properly clean.... "
I ignored him, and carried on washing as that's something you do facing away from your team mates, isn't it?
"Slave... I told you to TURN AROUND! Do it now, or else..."
I looked over my shoulder and saw the men getting their "ticklers" off their belts. I let go of my cock, and turned to face them, the water still streaming over me.
"Right... Now, let's see that you're properly clean. Just ease that 'skin of yours back and show us you've done a proper job..."
I was blushing furiously - well, you don't do that in front of other guys, do you? It's all right if you're cut to have your cock head exposed all the time, but when it's decently hidden by your 'skin (or mostly hidden, as in my case), well you just don't 'skin back and display it to other men, do you?
They looked menacing, though, so I eased my 'skin back off my head, and stood there, naked in front of them, almost holding my cock out for display. Both men peered at it, and one said to the other "Nice one... He's a handsome lad, isn't he? I wonder how long before we get a chance to taste that cock? And I wonder if the boss is going to have him 'skinned?"
Oh, fucking hell... What had I fallen into? What did they mean about tasting my cock, and what was being 'skinned? I went to ask, then thought better of it and kept my mouth shut.
They turned off the water, gave me a small towel to dry myself with, and then a fresh set of the skimpy satin shorts and loose-fitting singlet.
"Right - off to the boss!", the chief one said. "Now, remember, when you see him: he owns you! He can order anything he likes to happen to you! So be VERY respectful, wait until you're spoken to, and do as he tells you, unquestioningly. Personally, I quite like to see a new slave writhing on the floor in pain if we have to 'tickle' him, but it's not really sensible and it's so unnecessary. So keep quiet, and do absolutely as you're told!"
End Of Part 2