Colonel Beddington

COLONEL CHARLES BEDDINGTON

Part I

by Bill Smith

[Please let me if it is worth the time and effort to post this story as well as let me know what you think of this story by contacting me at anonymous4371@juno.com. Thanks, Bill Smith]

PRELUDE

[This story takes place on an estate and accompanying manufacturing / agribusiness complex well hidden in the remote back country of Namibia, owned by a well-known international entrepreneur. Colonel Charles Beddington was, like many of his colleagues, fantastically wealthy from extensive business investments throughout the world and could easily afford the vast estate and the huge staff needed to operate it.]

CHAPTER 1

The private jet trip over from Cleveland had been uneventful. Clint Morgan was the only passenger and, other than talking a little with the charming stewardess, most of the trip time had been spent studying various reports from his managers.

Colonel Charles Beddington, a long time friend and business associate, had invited him over to his home in Namibia, backing up the invitation with his private jet and well trained crew placed at Clint's disposal. When one got an invitation from someone as important in world markets as Colonel Beddington, one did not turn it down for any reason. Therefore, Clint was stepping off the LearJet on a private runway at Colonel Beddington's estate less than ten hours from the time of his invitation.

Colonel Beddington, ever the charming host, met his young friend personally at the airstrip located on his estate, the airstrip being just a few miles from the main mansion. A Rolls limousine had delivered the colonel to the airstrip and was now pulled beside the jet, ready to take the two men back to the mansion. The limousine's chauffeur, an exceptionally handsome black in a skin tight livery, ushered the two men into the spacious rear compartment of the car with a polite bow and then started the short journey back to the mansion.

"Jesus, Charlie," the 30-year-old handsome blond exclaimed to his host , "I can't imagine how I got in this mess. I'm facing bankruptcy proceedings within the next few weeks unless I can get things turned around." Wringing his hands, he continued, "It's hard to believe just two years ago, I was on the cover of TIME magazine as one of America's most promising young stars in the business world. Then I was making big bucks - now each day is dragging me closer and closer to a sheriff's sale." Tears welled up in the young man's eyes as he reflected on the shame and humiliation facing him with the collapse of his huge manufacturing operations.

"I suspected as much, Clint. The danger signs have been there all along - you just didn't see them like some of us a little more experienced did. That's why I sent my jet over to bring you to my little abode here. I think I can see a little light at the end of the tunnel, Clint, whether you can or not right now. It's a good thing we've been friends for the past few years. I'm not one to forget past favors and you have certainly helped me out over the years."

"I have?" Clint asked, obviously surprised.

"Of course, Clint," Col. Beddington replied. "For example, you sold me an initial offering of 200,000 shares of your company's stock at $10 a share. Two years later, seeing the clouds on the horizon, I sold it for $40 a share. That's what I call a favor."

"But the shares are practically worthless now," Clint said soberly.

"Yes, but I made 400% on them," Col. Beddington smiled. "And I haven't forgotten that you tipped me off that your friend's business was in trouble long before it hit the press. I was able to unload all of that stock with no loss whatsoever long before the panic hit."

"Well, it was the least I could do. You've been such a good friend right from the very beginning. I feel like I've let you down with the current dilemma. Besides, once you started buying up my initial offering of stock, it caught fire and sold out in no time at all. I'm the one who should be thanking you - not the other way around."

"What's the bottom line, Clint?" Col. Beddington asked Clint straight out. "Labor costs too high to be competitive?"

"You're amazing," Clint replied, absolutely stunned by the insight displayed by the colonel's question. "That's exactly the problem. I can't compete paying union wages, medical insurance, pension contributions, and workman's compensation. Hell, labor is running me $36 an hour on the average when you figure in all the fringes. How to you make air- conditioners that can sell for $220 each when you're paying wages like that?"

"You can't," the colonel responded with finality. "No way. But, Clint, there is a way you can cut your labor costs dramatically, but it takes a fertile and inventive mind to see the solution. Plus quite a bit of capital up front." The colonel smiled as if whatever he was talking about was self-evident.

"I've tried to cut costs every way I know how," Clint responded exasperated, "but you can only go so far - labor accounts for 60% of the market price on each unit no matter what I do."

"You can cut that dramatically, Clint," Col. Beddington stated resolutely.

"How?" Clint pleaded.

"You'll see soon enough," the Colonel replied as the Rolls arrived at the entrance to his mansion and the handsome black chauffeur leaped to the rear door and promptly knelt by the opened door with his head bowed.

Clint stared at the black on his knees. "Wow! That's some chauffeur. He's laying it on kind of thick, isn't he? I've never known a chauffeur to kneel. Most of them seem to even resent opening the door anymore, let alone bow and sure as hell not kneeling. Where did you find him?"

"At the market in Otjiwrongo," Colonel Beddington answered mysteriously.

Just as Clint was preparing to ask "what market?," he encountered a scene that left him speechless. To the side of the mansion's entrance, there stood a light aluminum two-wheeled rig complete with bicycle tires, steps leading up to a wide upholstered seat for two behind a curved dash-dust protector, a whip-holder at the right edge of the dash, rein-holders toward the center of the dash, and a large sunshade fitted high over the seat, the same color as the upholstery on the seat. But it was what the chariot-like gurney was attached to that galvanized Clint. Fastened in leather harnesses over their head, shoulders and chest by a tight fitting head and body harness were two huge blacks, completely naked saved their harnesses and fittings. Each black was standing perfectly still, sweat making their black hides glisten in the Namibian heat. The "human ponies," in addition to their leather chest harnesses, each wore a thick brass collar around their neck as well as brass rings through their noses, their tits, and around their genitals (forcing them to protrude from their body obscenely). The body harness was attached to an aluminum "T" pulling bar in front of the carriage by thick leather straps, while a separate nylon rein was fastened to each black's nose ring. It was a sight right out of the most exotic fantasy.

"My God, Colonel, what the hell?" Clint exclaimed, his eyes never leaving the sight in front of him.

"I thought you'd be surprised at the 'local transportation' I dreamed up one day," the Colonel laughed. "Actually, it works out quite well for those short hops around the estate. Not much good for runs into town, however - they never seem to develop the wind necessary for much over 10 miles at a time."

"You can hire men to do this?" Clint asked in astonishment.

"Not really," the Colonel answered, "but you can buy them to do it."

Clint stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"That's why I wanted you to visit me here in Namibia, Clint. The answer to your labor problems stands right in front of you, not counting that boy kneeling by the door of the car."

Clint was still uncomprehending.

"Clint, here, as in many other places in the world, slavery never really ceased. In fact, it's probably at an all time high in terms of scope and number, but it's not talked about much anymore and most of the basic operations are underground, so to speak. It's a matter now of knowing the right people and being at the right places at the right time. But if you know the dealers and if they trust you pretty well not to reveal your sources, most anything you ever dreamed up is available if you're willing to pay the price. My handsome chauffeur there wears a thick collar around his neck, has rings on his tits and around his genitals, and my brand on his butt. He cost me about $US 18,000 at a huge market in Tsumeb where the variety of stock offered is excellent. It took me about a month of rigorous training to get him totally acclimated to his new life here and his upkeep is minimal: all my stock eats a simple dry slave chow sold by Purina - cheap but nutritious. There's few if any clothing costs, no health insurance or pension costs, no workman's compensation, and the stock sleeps on a pallet in his cage in a barn which has adequate toilet and douching facilities, some cold-water showers, and a couple of ventilation fans so they can sleep in this awful heat. Total upkeep costs on a slave like you see kneeling before you: around $300 a year, including food, shaving his body, douching his insides, depreciation on his sleeping cage, and the electricity cost for the ventilation fan. He'll be productive for at least 30 years if you buy them in their teens or early twenties, so that's $600 a year depreciation. Figure in the $100 I get per body for their organs once they are no longer productive - that's cutting labor costs to a bone. Even here in Namibia, hiring a boy like the chauffeur here, to do exactly the same thing, would cost me $60 a month in wages, and I'd still have to house and feed him. But, if I hired him, he'd want time off to visit his family, he'd want to get married and raise a family, he'd want me to care for his sick mother, and he'd probably quit the first time anyone else offered him any more money. More likely, he'd just disappear the first time he got bored with his work. His wages would run me over $21,000 over 30 years and I'd have to put up with all the rest. This boy here only cost $18,000 up front - he comes to me with no family responsibilities, his sex life is at my discretion, and he's available to me as long as he lives, no matter what he thinks or feels about it. If he doesn't do his duties satisfactorily, I can discipline him any way I see fit. If he runs away, the police will quickly return him as my property. And if I want to use him in my bed, or breed him with my other stock, or loan his body for use by my friends, or switch him over to serving as a 'human pony' or a farm worker - those are all options available to me at any time and, most importantly, he knows it. So you don't get much sass from a slave, believe me. One good disciplinary punishment and 'demands' from a slave are past history. From then on, it's how can he serve me better."

"So you simply own your labor," Clint responded, his eyes wide in amazement.

"Exactly, it's the answer to your labor problems if you want my opinion. Besides," he added, "there's a certain satisfaction in owning your staff that you just can't get in hiring them." He rubbed his hand through the hair of the kneeling chauffeur as if petting a favorite dog. "That feeling really comes home to you when you bed them down for your enjoyment. I'll show you what I mean."

"Strip and display," the Colonel barked at the kneeling slave.

Instantly, the handsome black leaped to his feet and quickly took off the chauffeur's jacket, removed the black leather boots, and then peeled out of the incredibly tight trousers. That was all the clothes he had on. As he assumed the commanded 'display' position, his beautifully muscled body was fully revealed as his hands were placed in back of his neck, his muscles placed in tension for best definition, and his pelvis thrust out to best display his genitals - extra-large by any standards, but appearing horse-like due to the thick genital band welded around the base of his balls. Each tit sported a large brass ring permanently pierced through the nipples and a small, but prominent brand marked his right pectoral and his left hip. An identifying number was tattooed onto each upper arm.

"It's hard to get regular employees to display themselves like this," the Colonel chuckled as he reached over and, placing his hand around the huge penis of the chauffeur, became stroking it to full erection.

The chauffeur never flinched or moved from his 'display' position as his owner brought him to arousal. Indeed, if anything, he seemed to push his pelvis out a little more for his master's convenience in stoking him. The penis began enlarging almost instantly from the fondling and within a minute the staff was fully erect and dripping. The two 'human ponies' licked their lips as they eyed the display, their own pricks beginning to swell from the sight alone, even harnessed as they were, made even more evident by their own genital banding.

Clint felt his own organ begin to swell from the erotic display in front of him and he broke out in a light sweat or arousal. Never, in his wildest imagination, had he ever envisioned a naked male being wantonly stroked to full erection right in public simply at the whim of an "owner. Let alone, two other naked males, muscular wonders themselves, harnessed to a cart for human transport, their own swollen organs dripping now in full need.

"I severely restrict my slave's sexual outlets so that they are always quick to arouse and eager to please," the Colonel said pleasantly as he continued stroking the slave before him, now softly moaning in his need to discharge.

"Please, master," the chauffeur moaned, "I think I'm going to shoot."

Colonel Beddington slapped the slave on his cheek instantly with a blow that almost knocked the slave to the ground.

"No speaking without permission, slave!" the Colonel said sharply. "And you won't shoot off until I give you permission to shoot off - is that understood, slave?"

"Yes, master. Yes, master," the slave quickly gasped out, his cheek bright red where he had been struck. But the blow had diminished his need to orgasm and he quickly regained control of himself, despite the fact the Colonel had never relinquished his pumping of the slave's orgasm.

He continued pumping the chauffeur until the boy gritted his teeth and broke out in a sweat that covered his entire body as he struggled to retain the impending orgasm. As quickly as he had started, the Colonel let loose of the boy's shaft and wiped his hand, sticky with pre-cum, off in the boy's hair.

"It's good to keep them on edge and in constant need," the Colonel explained as he turned to his cart. The chauffeur shivered as a tear ran down his cheek. Again, he was not going to be allowed to relieve the pressure in his balls, a need that was almost continual over the past few months.

"Perhaps you'd like the use of the boy in your bed tonight?" the Colonel asked Clint pleasantly. "After a busy day, it's always healthy to seek out a little relaxation But don't decide now. Before the day is over, I'm sure you'll see some others that you might find more attractive."

Again, Clint was speechless.

"Let's take a little ride, Clint, before you start all your questions. I think I can answer most of your questions by simply showing you some of my operations here!"

CHAPTER 2

"Fold your uniform and then place it back in the truck of the Rolls where it belongs. Then put the Rolls back in the garage after you've washed and polished it to perfection. When you're finished with that, report to the main overseer for your assigned duties," the Colonel said as he dismissed the chauffeur, still standing in his commanded display position with his shaft dripping in need. "Slaves behave better if they always know what is expected of them," the Colonel explained as he motioned for me to step up into the rig behind the two harnessed blacks.

The seat of the ultra-light aluminum contraption was upholstered in a fine woven wool, dyed a rich red highlighted by matching pillows. But most breathtaking were the two extraordinarily handsome 'ponies', both carefully matched to be of the same height and weight, both possessing amazingly muscular, beautifully-defined hairless physiques, each sporting a wide heavy collar of brass around their necks (which contrasted beautifully with their shiny black skin), and each leashed by their wide brass nose rings to the rig itself, lending the impression the blacks were just another part of the overall conveyance.

Rigorously trained, each human pony stood with their heads held rigidly erect from their tall neck collars but their eyes properly lowered, their butts tensed and their legs spread wide apart due to the insertion of a large dildo in each of the ponies' asses (once inserted, the only evidence of the dildos was a a large 'pull ring' sticking prominently out of each asshole), and with their massively developed chests thrust out. Each pony also featured large ringed tits, huge banded genitals, and large owner brands front and rear which only highlighted the best features of the ponies' magnificent bodies.

"They're relatively new," the Colonel explained as strolled in front to better view the harnessed team. "Just finished their training last week."

Turning to the slave hitched to the left of the rig, he asked, "Bred or bought?"

"Master?", the 'pony' gasped out humbly, reflecting he didn't understand the question.

"Were you spawned on one of my breeding farms, or did I buy you somewhere?" Col. Beddington irritably shot back.

"You bought me, Master," the slave answered respectfully.

"Where?" Col. Beddington shot back.

"At the slave market in Keetman-shoop in the far South, Master," the slave answered.

"Then where were you raised?" Col. Beddington asked.

"I think it was called Sierre Leone, Master," the slave answered without emotion, clearly now unable to remember much of anything about his life in a nearby country before his position now as owned property.

"A wretched place. How grateful you must be to now enjoy Namibia's civilizing system of slavery which offers you a clearly defined purpose to your life," Col. Beddington responded.

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master," the slave answered. in a strained voice, reflecting the stretching of his insides from the huge imbedded dildo, but Col. Beddington had lost interest in that 'pony' and was studying the large ringed tits and immense banded genitals of the other 'pony' hitched to the rig by his nose-ring.

"Are you from the markets in Sierre Leone too, or were you bred here in Namibia?" the Colonel asked the other 'pony' hitched to the right of the rig.

"Neither, master," the 'pony' answered, shivering from the strain of the large dildo forced up his ass.

"Permission to speak," the Colonel prompted.

"Yes, master. Thank you, master," the 'pony' responded. "I'm from a market in Benin, master. I was bred and raised on a slave farm there until I was fully developed. Then I was shipped to the market there and sold to your agent, Master."

"How fortunate for you on two counts. First, being bred makes acceptance of a slave's life easy and, second, getting sold to me was a stroke of good luck. Some masters don't let their slaves know what is expected of them. I always do. Makes your life a whole lot easier. Skips all the trial-and-error mistakes that lead to a lot of unnecessary discipline."

"Yes, master. Thank you, master," the 'pony' responded humbly, his ass shifting slightly as he struggled to adjust to the huge dildo in him.

Sitting on my seat in the rig, I was absolutely incredulous that humans could accept being bought property, let alone allow themselves to be turned into nothing more or less than draft animals. Surely, this was just a wild pantomime to shock my sensibilities.

"Colonel," I stammered. "This elaborate joke is over. I'm on to you!" I winked at my gracious host.

"On to what, Clint? And this is hardly a joke," he frowned. "These blacks costs me plenty at the auction and their training has taken months. I'm disappointed you don't appreciate them. You seemed taken enough with my chauffeur."

"No, no, Colonel. It's not that I'm not appreciative. Just the oppositive, if the truth were known. But, Colonel, I simply can't believe people like these blacks would consent to such usage - no one I know would ever allow themselves to be displayed and used like this!"

The Colonel reared back and laughed heartily before answering. "For all your reputation as an astute businessman, I must say, Clint, you're astonishingly naive." He laughed again. "First off, slaves don't 'consent' to anything - they do anything they're told to do simply because they are slaves - just property of their owner. Secondly, slaves don't have the right to allow or not allow any use of their bodies whatsoever. These blacks here, for example, wouldn't even know what you are talking about. They know, better than you or I, that as slaves they have to allow any usage of their bodies demanded by their masters. If they didn't - they're either experienced themselves or witnessed it on plenty of other slaves like them - they would have to pay the consequences."

"What consequences," Clint asked innocently.

"Like starving to death, going without water for days on end, being beat until they're unconscious and then having salt rubbed into their whip weals for added pain, being fucked until their insides bleed, being shocked until their skin is burnt where the electrodes are placed - I could go on and on. Slaves quickly learn to do exactly what is demanded of them. You would too, Clint, under those circumstances. After all, humans aren't stupid. They're at the top of the evolutionary scale - that's why slaves are often so much more useful than other animals."

Clint stared at the Colonel and then blushed. "You're right, Colonel. I have been incredibly ignorant about slavery. More ignorant than naive, I suspect. I just never knew slavery was practiced much anymore and really hadn't given it much thought, as my remarks so clearly indicated. But now that you explained things, it all makes sense. You're right, Colonel, given the alternatives to doing what's asked of a slave, anybody with half a mind would simply comply. Even," Clint laughed, "serving as a harnessed pony stark naked with a ring through your nose."

"You're beginning to understand, Clint, but you don't know the half of it. Once a free person is placed in slavery, he has all of his former social ties cut. He had no family anymore, no friends, no neighbors, no nothing. He's dead as far as his society is concerned. That means he has no support from those sources either and so conversion to the life of a slave is made a lot easier. Ideally, a new slave is placed in situations where they don't even know the language and where he or she knows no one. Once cut off from all sources that once nourished them, and once they understand their whole sustenance is controlled by their new owners - their food, their water, their rest, their sexual outlets, their medical care, their relief from pain - slaves shape up amazingly fast to what their owner wants. These ponies here are just a modest example of what can be done with a good training program in place. Even you, Clint," the Colonel chuckled, "could be trained to pulling this rig in a matter of weeks just about as well as these blacks here."

The colonel ran his hand through one of the slave-pony's hair, moved his hand down to the protruding dildo ring, jerked on it a few times until the slave moaned as he churned his ass muscles, and then moved around to the rig, quickly lifting himself up to the richly upholstered seat.

Clint shivered at the realization that what the Colonel said was absolutely true. He wasn't a coward, but he wasn't stupid either, and faced with survival, he too could be standing there leashed by a nose-ring with an 'owner' plowing a dildo in and out of his ass to amuse himself.

"I'm afraid you're right, Colonel," Clint laughed nervously. "Although I'm not as pretty as this pair of blacks, I'm afraid."

"Oh, you never know," Colonel Beddington smiled. "Get your body shaved smooth, get you ringed properly, get some muscle on you, get your genitals banded, and get a right harness on you - you just might be as attractive as these boys here. Although, I prefer blacks for my ponies for some reason or another."

Clint could only shiver apprehensively at the Colonel's humor.

As soon as he had settled himself in beside me, the Colonel took the reins in his hands (connected to the ponies' nose-rings), and lifted the whip out of its holder. With a light crack of the whip over the ponies' heads and a slight tug on the reins, the rig almost fluidly moved forward, accelerating at a rapid pace, the ponies moving together in one coordinated movement accompanied by well muffled groans as their bodies acclimated to the heavy load of two passengers. Every muscle in their massive backs displayed the tension of pulling the rig while their muscular asses literally churned around the huge dildos embedded in them. Their bulging pectoral and shoulder muscles, encased in the tight leather harness showed the strain of their task, as did their rigid abdominal muscles, and well defined, muscular thighs.

"Forward, pace at 40," Col. Beddington commanded. The 'ponies' glided into the exhausting pace commanded, i.e., 40 long steps per minute, each of the two ponies in exact synchronization. Col. Beddington glanced over at the last slave he had been looking at - the boy, now breathing heavily, was totally focused on keeping the exacting pace commanded. Col. Beddington smiled that his command has been honored and tugged slightly on the reins connected to the slave's nose-rings, followed by a sharp gasp as the pain of the tug on this tender fitting racked through their bodies.

"Pace, 50," Col. Beddington commanded. The rig lurched ahead and the panting slaves' breathing took on audible gasps as the sweat streamed into their eyes, down past their collars into every valley and crevice in their body, including their muscled rumps.

Col. Beddington brought my attention to the 'ponies' in their struggles: their straining backs, shoulder muscles well outlined in tension from the heavy load, their gasping lungs, and the riverlets of sweat coating their naked bodies. The matched, extremely muscular physiques and the abundant manhood prominently outlined by the tight genital bands pleased him, he noted, in that it once again reminded him of his absolute power over their bodies.

"Pace, 60," he snapped with another tug on the nose-reins, and the 'ponies' once again increased the pace dramatically. But after only a short while at this horrific pace, the gasping turned to desperation and the slaves' eyes, blinded with sweat, took on a wild, panicked look that pleased him.

The Colonel explained that he would have to take the whip to the 'ponies' if the pace was to be continued and normally that is just what he would do, but that would require giving up engaging in uninterrupted conversation with me. So be it, this time anyway. He explained he could always have his slave overseer whip the 'ponies' later if they dared slow the pace. Happily, his overseer's beatings were always so severe they became rather permanent instruments of instruction - the type slaves never forgot.

But, he smiled, it took away the fun of beating the slaves personally - and slaves always seemed to respond best to their owner beating them, even if it wasn't as thorough and memorable as their overseer's. Reflecting on this thought, Col. Beddington couldn't resist taking up his whip, at least for a moment.

"Faster, you lazy bastards," Col. Beddington shouted as the 'ponies' struggled to maintain the intense pace. He lashed out at any part of their body he could reach. It seemed to help - the pace, if anything, increased, despite the moaning now mixed in with sharp gasps as they responded to their shoulders and rumps being bruised and torn by their master's dreaded riding whip. Satisfied for awhile, Col. Beddington leaned back in the comfortable sit and commented he could hardly wait to show me at least some of his operations here in Namibia. He was sure I would find them instructive.

In a few minutes, they arrived at the main processing center for Col. Beddington's farm operations, one of the huge agribusinesses so competitive in today's global markets. Here, the colonel explained, the labor force was wholly purchased, mainly bought at markets plentifully located throughout all of Africa (as well as the rest of the world if you knew who ran them and where they were). All the workers were stark naked but collared and tit-ringed with their feet manacled together by an 18" chain, labored under the close scrutiny of numerous, perhaps overzealous overseers, slaves themselves who knew the slightest leniency on their part would lead to instant reassignment to the heavy labor ranks. Since this was an African operation, a good number of the slaves were blacks, although a sizeable minority were obviously from brown Arab or Ethiopian stock, many were obviously mulattos of one type of another, and there were a surprising number of Caucasians, although it was hard to tell since they had been exposed to the sun for so long their skin was hardly white any more. Even through this agribusiness was far from Asia, some of the slaves were obviously from Oriental backgrounds. The unmistakable mixture of color quickly put to rest any notion that contemporary slavery had anything to do with skin color or the antiquated concept of race. Slavery nowadays was obviously based on availability regardless of country of origin, skin or hair color, or any other human variation. Even slaves bred for the market were usually mixtures of desirable human characteristics that would big top dollar at auction.

Each overseer carried a long steel-tipped whip which seemed to be in constant motion, and the screams and groans of the chained workers were never ceasing as they were "motivated" to give everything they had for the profit of their owner. Upon seeing their owner's smart-looking rig hitched to the 'human ponies', all slaves, overseers included, fell to their knees and bowed in total subservience.

Col. Beddington invited his guest Clint to accompany him in his exit from the 'pony' powered rig.

"You'll find this operation very interesting, even if the venture is farming primarily. Nevertheless, the means of production can easily be transferred to manufacturing enterprises - even," he winked, "to the production of air-conditioners."

One of the more knowledgeable overseers quickly ordered two nearby slaves, both large and powerfully built, to their hands and knees to serve as a "human chair" for the master and his guest. He then placed a clean towel on their sweaty backs as a covering.

"Just use that towel to wipe all that sweat off them, overseer," the Colonel commanded. "I like the feel of well tanned leather."

The overseer quickly whisked the towel off the first slave's back and wiped his back dry. He caught my eye to see whether I wanted the towel covering or not before proceeding with the second slave chosen to serve as a chair.

"Leave the towel on him," I said.

"You can't finger-fuck the chair with a towel in the way," the Colonel laughed. "But each to their own."

Seated comfortably on the back of a sweating slave who had promptly offered his body to serve as his chair, Clint joined his host, but not before looking back at the gasping, sweating 'ponies', now rigidly upright, the only position allowed by their short nose-ring leashes attached to the rig itself. He was astonished that even this short respite was leading to a rapid swelling of their manhood, so prominent in the forced display caused by their genital bands. The slave beneath him grunted slightly from the huge load on his back, but never dared move.

"Colonel," Clint asked. "Why are the 'ponies' showing hard?"

The colonel reared back on his human chair and roared in laughter as the slave beneath him struggled to accommodate himself to the rollicking body weighting down his back and the long finger working its way up his asshole and then rubbing his prostate. The 'chair' shuddered from both the load and the stimulation of the sensitive organ within him which caused his penis to swell to a full erection and then drip cum steadily.

"Clint, you'd show hard to, despite the heavy run, if you hadn't been allowed to drain your balls in over a month. It's good for slaves to know their owner controls all of their body - including the privilege of emptying your balls."

"I wouldn't have thought of that, Colonel, but now that you mention it, it certainly makes good sense," Clint replied.

"I knew you were smart," the Colonel mused.

Turning back to the slave overseers kneeling in front of him, he said rather pointedly, "Don't let my presence interfere with the work at hand, or you'll soon find yourself manacled in their place," nodding to the work slaves all with their foreheads pressed into the dirt.

"Up, slaves," the overseers said almost in unison, "and get back to work." The whips lashed across the closest backs and a few woeful screams correlated with raw rump fresh being lacerated. Leg chains rattled above the moans as more whips cracked over the slaves' heads. It was like a whole machine grinding into action.

Bales of hay were lifted into storage on sweating backs and straining legs; others, yoked like oxen to turnstiles, were powering the grinding of corn; still others, harnessed to farm wagons four and sometimes eight to a team, struggled to pull the heavily loaded wagons; while hundreds of others were moving huge rocks out of newly developed fields while still others dug foundations for the construction of additional buildings. All were working "under the whip," i.e., under constant surveillance of overseers who never hesitated to lash into their hide to extract more work. As time wore on throughout the long days, whip usage increased to compensate for the exhausted bodies that tended to slow down until prompted to renewed effort with ever more pain.

No slave present thought his life would ever be much different under any other ownership and, for most, all memories of a previous life had long been removed by the whip. But those pain-wracked eyes enjoyed anything to break the monotony of their unceasing work. The sight of their owner casually sitting on the backs of two of their colleagues only added to the awe and respect of he who owned them body and soul. And all enjoyed the pure spectacle of his arrival: the smart light-weight two-passenger rig with the beautifully muscled, matched human ponies, both of whom were still struggling for air after their heavy run. The 'ponies' had obviously been body shaved in they had not a hair on their bodies, their huge erect organs were forced into prominent display by their tightly fitted genital rings; their heaving chests highlighted by the costly brass rings piercing their prominent nipples; their nose rings held taut by the leashes fitted to the rig itself. To own and command such a conveyance was beyond their wildest imagination and the awe and respect of their owner soared even greater. Not a farm slave present didn't dream of being chosen to serve their master in such a fashion - it would be an even greater honor than being chosen to be a slave overseer in that you could be close to such a force - a power beyond their comprehension, once they had been broken to the realities of slavery within a multinational capitalistic world of economic competition. Dimly, they realized it was their slavery that allowed their owners to "win" such competition.

Col. Beddington chatted briefly with his chief overseer, who knelt before the human chair holding his master. "Production quotas being met?" Col. Beddington asked.

"Yes, master, and better," the chief overseer responded. "But with some cost," he added cautiously.

"What cost?" Col. Beddington demanded with a frown.

"Forty three slaves failed to respond properly to the whip," the chief overseer ventured, "and had to sold to the organ banks. Mainly those nearing the end of their productive lives, but a few young ones with perhaps overzealous drivers," the overseer continued. "Most were well past their forties, but three just starting manhood were whipped to an early death, I fear, thus cheating you out of full value from your property. I've taken the proper steps, master, and those overseers are now back in the ranks, of course. I 've given them a special "Z" brand on their forehead so I wouldn't forget their error and inadvertently reassign them someday to an overseer's role. After a thorough beating, of course, to punish them for such a waste of their master's property. With the special brand to mark them, I've told their overseers to work them so hard they will make up for the loss they have incurred. Once their faces are disfigured like that, it would be hard to sell them for much of anything, so they owe their loss of value to you as well, master."

"Yes, they should be made to make up the cost of their negligence," Col. Beddington said. "They may die a quick death themselves in the process but, if so, it serves them right, of course, for cheating me. And what replacements are at hand, Overseer?"

"We have about 140 a month reaching working age at the breeding farm," the chief overseer continued. "We'll pick out the sturdy but ugly as replacements here and try to market the best looking and best equipped to the slave dealers at the big markets either in Tsumeb or Otjiwarongo. No use wasting a good looking boy on the work around here," he laughed, "although, Master, some of the major dealers seem to be getting more and more selective in the stock they are handling as the market expands. Just last month, their regional procuring agent told me only the real cream of the crop, maybe one out of 50, would meet the most prestigious dealer's body quality standards. Most of the breeding farm's output, despite their attempts to selectively bred the stock, is a long way from that, I'm afraid," the overseer concluded.

When Col. Beddington appeared to accept his report, he looked at his owner cautiously before venturing further, trying to ascertain his owner's mood of the moment.

"Even a lowly slave overseer like myself tires of trying to find satisfaction with the ugly brutes left on this farm," looking hungrily at Col. Beddington's 'ponies,' still standing completely rigid to avoid their leash tugging at their nose-rings.

Col. Beddington laughed briefly before warning, "Even a chief overseer is lucky to have any satisfaction at all. Remember those under you can never hope for any satisfaction of their manly needs other than their right hand or, if they've got the strength, the body chained next to them. At least, you can pick and choose among these animals when you want to. It's a privilege few masters would grant unless they were a lenient fool like myself. I don't want you touching any boys sent to market - you stick with the brutes available to you here, or you'll find yourself as barren as those under you are. I'll not warn you again."

"Yes, Master," the chief overseer responded humbly. "I'm most grateful to be allowed to use the men here on the farm. Don't worry about the home-grown boys being sent to market - they're your property and I fully understand that. It's most generous of you to let me use your other property as you do - it's a privilege allowed few slaves and I'll not risk losing that privilege, master."

"Even with the losses we need to replace, that still gives us a good crop for market, no matter how fussy the major slave dealers are getting," Col. Beddington reflected. "In fact, the breeding operations are growing each year. That means you've got to produce more and more food to feed the growing slave crop."

"Yes, master," the chief overseer responded, "and with proper supervision and some loss, I grant you, that can be accomplished. Your prosperity is my prosperity and I'm well aware of that simple fact, master, as are all the slaves you own. If they don't understand that, my whip will teach them the underlying truth, rest assured, master."

Col. Beddington looked around again over the thousands of 'properties' visible as far as the eye could see before addressing the chief overseer. Whips continued to crack, moans escaped the lips of those singled out for "motivation," and sweating bodies strained ever harder to please the overseers' demands. In the far distance, a struggling slave had been whipped to the ground and his bleeding back and rump, accompanied by screams of anguish, meant he would either have to find the strength to get to his feet and resume work or face being sold off to the organ bank dealer who visited the farm regularly. The choice was up to him at this point. Either way, he would serve as a good example to the other slaves: work to capacity or serve society through the sale of your bodily organs. Either way, your owner made a nice profit on his investment.

Clint watched the farm operation before him as if he were witnessing a scene from Hell itself or, at least, another world he never dreamed existed. He focused on a team of eight slaves pulling a heavily loaded wagon, the team almost prone in their harnesses struggling to pull the huge load while an overseer lacerated their backs and butts with a 12-prong metal tipped whip. As they screamed in agony from the whip, one of the slave's eyes bulged out as his face turned bright red. His efforts to pull the load was displayed in every muscle in his body and his veins visibly protruded as he continued to struggle as the whip continued to tear into his hide. Suddenly the huge brown slave slumped to the ground with froth and blood gurgling out of his mouth.

"Up, dog," the overseer screamed as his whip continued to lacerate the slave's back.

"Forty-four, master," the chief overseer said to the Colonel with a sigh.

"Forty-four what?" Col. Beddington spat out.

"That slave's dead, master. That overseer is just wasting his energy tearing all the flesh off that slave's back. His body just gave out. We'll need to replace him too."

"Well, Chief Overseer, I'm glad I was here to see it myself. Was the slave shirking his duty, was the overseer too zealous, or was the slave sick? Certainly the discipline I saw seemed to be appropriate."

"That slave wasn't too sick to work, master, and the brute's generally been a hard worker despite his old age. He looks to be in his late forties so his time was about up anyway. Nevertheless, my guess is the overseer has overworked him judging from the looks of the others in his team. I'll brand that overseer and make sure he makes up for the work loss as soon as we get him properly marked and back in harness."

"How wise you are, Chief Overseer, " Col. Beddington said. "The whip, while always essential to a slave's well being, can be overused I fear in the hands of an amateur. However, judging from his advanced age for a farm slave, we've no doubt got our money's worth out of him, that is, if we even bought the animal to start with. Especially when you can, no doubt, harvest many of his organs promptly and put them under refrigeration until the organ dealer arrives. But, even there, I fear we can't harvest his hearts and lungs - they're probably completely worn out by now. But his kidneys, liver, some bone marrow, eyes, ears, genitals, and skin are probably worth the taking."

Turning to Clint, the Colonel added with obvious satisfaction, "Even a dead slave is worth around $1000 if we harvest their good organs and get them refrigerated quickly."

I must have looked uncomfortable because the Colonel added, "Clint, you're still thinking slaves are just like you and me. They're not! They're just slaves - animals really - and have to be treated exactly like the livestock they are. Otherwise, you'd soon go broke in this competitive world. Like," he added pointedly, "the air-conditioner business you're having trouble with now. My advice, Clint, is to - bluntly - grow up! It's a competitive world out there and sentimentality has little place in the business world."

"It's difficult to not think of them as human," I mumbled.

"Well, they're not, Clint! They're slaves - and a slave's sole purpose is to make their owner money, alive or dead!" the Colonel retorted.

"Do you wish to stay for the branding?" the chief overseer injected. "The slaves always enjoy seeing an overseer getting his comeuppance."

"No, thank you, Chief Overseer. My responsibilities elsewhere preclude the pleasure. I've got to visit the manufacturing complex next now that the 'ponies' have regained their breath."

Col. Beddington rose from his human chair, motioned for me to follow him, and, again ushered me back to the 'pony'-drawn rig.

"You're going to relate to the manufacturing complex, Clint. It's very similar to your assembling air-conditioners, but with considerably lower labor costs," the Colonel chuckled as his eyes sparkled.

CHAPTER 3

"Forward, Pace 40, to the manufacturing complex," the Colonel commanded as he tugged sharply on the leash connected to the pony-slaves' nose-rings. A gasp of raw pain came from the 'ponies' as their nose fitting once again dug into their sensitive nerve endings. Regardless, the two-wheeled rig accelerated swiftly to the commanded pace on its way to its next destination, the 'ponies'' rumps once again smoothly churning around their deeply imbedded dildos. Both 'ponies' quickly coordinated to the other's exact movements and within minutes, the usual heavy breathing became audible, sweat once again coated the ponies' bodies, and every muscle in the pony-slaves' bodies showed the strain of the load imposed upon. One of the pony's had burst into tears - whether from the sharp pain from his nose-ring, the heavy demands placed upon his body by the task at hand, the predicament of being made into a beast of burden, or from a sense of relief he wasn't assigned to the farming operations could not be ascertained. At any rate, no one noticed and, if they had, no one would have cared. In less than a minute, his inaudible sobbing stopped, probably due to the fact he didn't have the air for this personal extravagance. After that, he was as stoic as his partner, concentrating all his energies on surviving his duties as a human horse.

"Well, Clint, what did you think of my farming operation?" the Colonel asked as he took out the rig's whip and cracked it lightly over the rumps of the speeding 'ponies.'

Clint hesitated, studying the angry red marks on the slaves' churning rumps as a response to their light whipping. "Colonel," he paused, "I could see where the labor costs would be rock-bottom. The way I figured it, going by what you told me slaves like that cost at the auctions and figuring in what your overseer said about a slave lasting about seven years on the average, and taking into account the $1000 you get on their body parts at the end of their productive cycle, there is no way anyone paying for their labor could possible compete - at least not at even the lowest wages I've heard of any place in the world. The big advantage is they can be worked at least 12 to 15 hours a day, seven days a week, and there are no fringe benefits to worry about. There's just no way anyone, no matter how efficient, can compete with that. I'm guessing your labor costs, counting in the initial cost, their feed, the cages for sleeping, depreciation over seven years, and the cost of supervision is running you less than $3000 a year when you figure in the rebate for their body parts at the end. You get 4368 hours of labor a year out of them under the whip - that runs to about $0.68 an hour for total labor costs. A regular agribusiness's labor costs, including medical insurance, pension contributions, workman's compensation, vacation time, and all the rest runs about $36 an hour. There's no way anyone can compete with you, Colonel!"

"Your mind works like a computer," the Colonel responded with genuine admiration. "I always said you were smart. Your figures are very close to our own."

The panting from the 'ponies' was beginning to get a little raspy and Clint noticed blood seeping out of one of the 'pony's' rectum as the slave's ass continued to work itself around the huge dildo impaled in him.

"Colonel, one of these boys is beginning to bleed," Clint said in alarm.

"Yes," the Colonel laughed, glancing at the slave Clint was pointing to. "They start to do that after about 15 miles or so. Never fails. Don't worry about it, Clint. Those big dildos tear their anal linings a little now and then, but it will stop after awhile. I told you these 'ponies' are new to the harness. After a little more practice, they'll toughen up. Their anal linings callous eventually and then there is no more problem. They all go through this stage initially," he smiled as he again cracked the whip, this time over the 'ponies' shoulders.

"But, Colonel," Clint continued his conversation after the bleeding had been explained, "the 'disciple', as you called it, at the farming operation seemed somewhat harsh. Is it really necessary to work them under the overseers' whips continually? I don't know much about it, of course, but my hunch is the slaves might last a lot longer than seven years if they weren't beaten all the time - especially with those vicious steel-tipped whips which tend to just tear their bodies to shreds over time. Those overseers could lighten up considerably in my opinion."

"I like your openness, Clint," the Colonel laughed as he continued smacking the 'ponies' with the carriage whip. "It's obvious you know little to nothing about slaves. First, let me tell you, there is nothing more dreaded by a slave than having another slave as an overseer. Slave overseers tend to take out their frustrations on those under them, I'm afraid, so, in general, it would be hard to get any of those overseers to lighten up without replacing them with free overseers who don't have a sadistic streak to them - whose wages, I might add, would cut into my profits considerably. Second, work at the farm is hard - it takes a whip to keep up the pace when the slave begins to tire. That's why a steady whip throughout the day is necessary, but especially toward the end of the day when the slaves are exhausted and only fear of the whip keeps them going. Third, Clint, slaves like you just saw are basically lazy - since they can see no benefit to working any harder than they can get by with, it's the whip that provides the motivation to work long and hard. All that crap from the overseer about slaves seeing 'my prosperity as their prosperity' is just pure bullshit. Slaves don't work for my prosperity - why should they? They work because it's easier to work hard than suffer the pain of the whip tearing the flesh off their back and there is nothing like a slave overseer to make sure that happens. It's as simple as that!"

"Perhaps," Clint responded.

"Perhaps, my eye," the Colonel snapped. "Take these ponies in front of us, sweating in every pore of their body and with their lungs screaming for air. Why, you ask? What if they absolutely refused to pull my rig? What would happen?"

"I don't know," Clint mumbled, searching for a convincing argument. "You'd sell them off?"

"Hardly," the Colonel laughed. "They'd be beaten until they wished they were dead the pain would be so bad; they would have all water and food withheld until they were convinced they were dying; and, if they lived through that, they would be reassigned to the toughest assignments at my farming operation where pulling my rig would seem like a dream job by comparison. The important thing it, Clint, both those slaves in front of you know that's exactly what would happen and so refusing to do anything they are told is simply not an option to them or any other slave I own. That's the secret of successful slave management! No viable options! With your sharp mind, I'm simply amazed at your naivete."

The lecture lead to a strained silence as the rig continued its rapid pace down the road toward its next destination, the silence broken only by the heavy panting and gasping of the 'ponies' laboring away.

"Do you think you could be turned into a 'pony' under proper management, Clint?" the Colonel broke the lull in conversation.

"No, Colonel, I don't," Clint flared back at his long-time friend. "You forget I'm from an entirely different background that those blacks in front of us. I'm educated, I've enjoyed freedom all my life free of want, and I have lifelong habits of self-determination. All of those factors would mitigate against ever submitting to being turned into a draft animal displayed stark naked with a ring in my nose, a band around my privates, and a collar around my neck." Clint's eyes flashed in defiance. "Maybe you can do that to these poor black bastards from impoverished backgrounds that don't know anything different, but, let me assure you, Colonel, it could never happen to this man here sitting right beside you."

"Whow! Clint, I never knew you could get so worked up! It's delightful to see you so defensive. It's a side of you I've never witnessed, but I would guess it has served you well in the business world." The Colonel smiled to ease the tension. "Perhaps you're right, Clint, but I still think you are incredibly naive when it comes to slavery. And say what you will, Clint, and I have no doubt you sincerely believe every word of what you just said, I still can envision you, or me, or anyone like us, hitched up that harness prancing away - just like those two in front of us. You can't imagine how adaptable the human is when placed in option-less environments."

"Christ, Colonel. You never give up, do you? You're so stubborn it's no wonder you're the billionaire many times over everyone claims you are," Clint answered rather pleasantly, his anger having passed for the moment..

"People exaggerate my good fortune," the Colonel smiled.

"Ah, Hell. They're just jealous, that's all!" Clint laughed. "If they only knew where all that wealth was coming from, they'd be surprised."

"How so?" the Colonel asked.

"Whoever would dream you must be profiting to the tune of a billion a year from slave-labor alone," Clint chuckled.

"I always admired your quickness with the figures," the Colonel cooed, "but I still think you could be turned into a 'pony' in just a matter of months." Clint caught him staring at him, as if he were evaluating a prize bull at a county fair.

"No way, Colonel. No way!" Clint replied rather insouciantly, but his face furrowed a little as he anxiously wondered why the Colonel wouldn't leave the nasty little image and the evaluative stare he'd just noticed bothered him even more.

But Clint had little time to dwell on this as a huge set of buildings loomed before them. Within a minute, the speeding rig had arrived at the front entrance to the huge factory complex, the 'ponies' desperately gasping for air as their chests heaved and the sweat rolled off their steaming black bodies. The Colonel leaped out of the rig, followed swiftly by Clint, and they entered the building immediately.

"We've had a contract to assemble automatic washers and driers for the biggest appliance maker in Europe for over the past two years, Clint. They ship in all the parts and we assemble the damn things and then ship them back completely packaged as a final product under their brand name. You'll be especially interested in this in that we could have just as easily have contracted to produce air conditioners, Clint. Good thing we didn't, or we would have run you out of business long before your current financial troubles," he laughed.

"How so, Colonel?" Clint replied, already troubled by the Colonel's implications.

"You'll see, Clint."

With that, he led Clint into the plant manager's office for introductions and a progress report, similar to the one he had received at the farming complex.

"Colonel, you going to be pleased with this quarter's report. Production is up by 23% and defects have been cut to practically zero. Output per man-hour is up 5% this quarter but it would have been higher if we hadn't had to train a whole new bunch when we added the drier line," the plant manager summarized.

Clint was immediately taken with the plant manager: he was to-the-point, blunt, and obviously knew exactly what he was talking about. He didn't seem threatened by his boss' new friend, and, although respectful, not intimidated by the fabulously wealthy titan of industry, the Colonel himself.

"Your guest want a look-see at the operation, Colonel?" the plant manager asked.

"Indeed he does, Jess. He's about to go bankrupt assembling air conditioners in the United States. Claims his labor costs are out-of-hand," the Colonel said almost mockingly.

"Well, he WILL be interested then, Colonel," the plant manager chortled.

"Jess, as the Colonel said, I've got to find a way to cut my labor costs if I'm to stay in business much longer," Clint admitted. "If you can help me out with some new angles on controlling labor costs, I'd certainly appreciate it. The Colonel just showed me his farming operations - that's certainly one way to cut labor costs to the bone, but farming is so different from manufacturing."

"Totally different, Clint. You're absolutely right on that. What works on a farm doesn't mean squat when it comes to manufacturing appliances. I think a little tour might give you some fresh ideas."

Clint liked the plant manager even more since he didn't rub in Clint's present business difficulties as the Colonel had seemed to enjoy doing.

"Right this way, Clint, for a vision of the future," Jess said as he ushered Clint and the Colonel into a huge, noisy area right outside his office that was bigger than any aircraft hanger Clint had ever seen. The vast space was not airconditioned and the heat was stifling.

"Excuse the heat, but you'll get use to it eventually. Saves the expense of air conditioning," Jesse explained as a group of naked males passed them pushing a huge bin of parts to the assembly line.

"Those are parts suppliers," Jesse explained. We generally use males for that because of their strength. Their job is to make sure the parts bins never run out. We generally pick big muscular guys for that job - doesn't take much smarts other than making sure the right parts are put in the right bins, but they're all color coded so that part of it is fairly easy - but its does take real strength."

Clint looked the workers being described over carefully. They averaged about 6 feet, weighed around 230 without an ounce of fat on them, and looked to be anywhere from 18 to 60 in age. Other than a thick collar around their left ankle, they were totally unadorned.

Jess saw Clint sizing up the workers. "That band around their ankle is unremovable and contains a global positioning device so we always know where they're at.. If they ever try to leave the complex, it sounds an alarm automatically as well as temporarily paralyzes them with a powerful and incredibly painful electric shock, so we don't have the added expense of guards or anything. Once they're here, they're generally here for life unless someone decides to sell them off. That cuts training costs drastically. We only have to train a worker once and then a little refresher course now and then if we reassign them to a new assignment. We leave off all the other crap you saw on the farm workers or even the Colonel's team of 'ponies' - you know, the neck collars, the tit rings, the banded genitals, the nose rings, etc. Not necessary here in the plant and we're worried it might get caught in the machinery or interfere with their work. No, we keep them clean and simple here - all those control devices aren't needed in this work environment. Besides, it saves down time from accidents and all the expense of fitting them with those pretty little gee-gaws to start with. Simply not needed in manufacturing operations, no siree."

It was obvious the plant manager was proud of his smooth operation.

"We've found, Clint, that good looks and big pricks has nothing to do with long-term productivity, so we can buy up the workers at a cheaper rate than those handsome well- equipped studs you see sold for pleasure slaves or," looking at the Colonel with a smirk on his face, "as ponies and chauffeurs at fantastic prices. And women can do a lot of the assembling that doesn't require heavy lifting. Actually, they're better than the men at detail work, like fitting the timers into the washers and driers. Since ugly women are a drag on the market generally, we can buy them up cheap and use them profitably here. They tend to like it, because they know if they work out well, we're not going to sell them off right away. Women seem to especially value stability in their lives."

"The actual assembly lines are down this way," Jess said as he continued his brisk pace. Clint saw hundreds of naked workers sitting gingerly on what appeared to be bicycle seats while the assembly line moved bench-height in front of them. All of the workers looked alert, but slightly on edge as they busily worked away to keep up with the assembly line's pace.

"These new seats are working out well, Colonel," the plant manager addressed his boss. "That was a great idea you had. I think it has upped productivity considerably and you don't see anyone nodding off in the late afternoon anymore."

Turning to me, Jess explained. "Each of those seats cradles their ass which is spread over a moderate sized butt plug up their hole. The workers are flushed out thoroughly right before we chain their ankle collar to the pedestal of the seat so they don't get any ideas of getting off that butt plug during the day and once they're fitted in the seat, we hook up that catheter you see coming out from between their legs which drains into that pipe you see on the floor there goes directly to a storage tank outside. Piss makes the best tanning agent in the world, you know, so we sell it to a local leather works. Every little bit of extra profit counts, you know. But, back to what I was talking about. With the plugs and the catherers, no one needs to take a toilet break throughout the entire 12 hour day so they can be productive the entire time. We feed them slave chow right before they're caged for the night and first thing in the morning so no time is wasted taking breaks for feeding. With no clothes covering them up, they don't mind the heat in the plant nearly as much as you or I would. Especially since they are all body shaved once every other day to maximize their natural cooling processes. Even there, we've figured how to cut our labor costs to the bone. They shower each other every morning so they don't stink, body shave each other every other day, and give each other sexual relief once a day right before caging so they don't get too pent up. They are forbidden to ever touch their own bodies so each slave is assigned a 'buddy' and the two take care of each other: soaping, rinsing, douching, shaving, and sucking or jerking or fucking - whatever the two work out between them - just so both of them get their balls drained once a day. Makes them a hell of a lot less frustrated and much more amiable to what we really want them to do here - work their butts off putting washing machines together! As they say, Clint, a happy worker is a productive worker!"

"What about the women workers?" I asked.

"Same thing except it's co-ed generally. That way they eventually get knocked up. They can work right up until the last two weeks usually; then pop their pup; and back to work in a month or so. That pup is shipped out to one of Mr. Beddington's nurseries and, in 16 years or so, makes a very nice addition to our overall profits when they're sold off at auction."

"Seems like you have more men than women workers, is that right?" I asked.

"Yes, about three to one due to the nature of the work. So two out of every three males has to take a male buddy whether he wants to or not. The other third gets a female buddy until he knocks her up. But we rotate. If you have a female buddy, you're assigned a male buddy and placed on a waiting list for another female. That way, you're screwing pussy about one-third of the time and poking butt or sucking your heart out the rest of the time. Works real well. No matter what your persuasion, there's something for everyone if you just have a little patience. After a while, no one really seems to care as long as they're getting off regularly. I think males are so horny they'd fuck a horse if that was what available!" he laughed.

"I haven't explained our incentive system yet," he continued. "Obviously, you have to meet the assembly line's pace. If you don't, you get half-rations the first day, and if you don't keep up the next day, even that is cut off until you get your act together. If you get to a third day and your still a laggard, we add some electric jolts (which are quite memorable) right up your butt via those metal butt plugs. After two or three of those, you either are up to pace or you've passed out. That's about all it takes to keep the workers at a good production rate. On the other hand, it your assembly group asks to speed up the line by a stated amount, say 5%, and is able to keep pace, you earn the right eventually to work without the butt plug in you and, at a 10% increase, earn the right to choose your buddy, which, of course, gives you the privilege of choosing who you are bedding down with each night. A 15% increase gives you the right to eat half slave chow, half table scraps from the security guards tables; a 20% increase adds water on call and an afternoon snack. I'm happy to report, that about 15% of our entire working staff is now on at least the 5% bonus rate and only about 2% are on any sort of negative incentive on any given day. The whole system works like a charm. It gives the workers a clear-cut avenue to a better, more comfortable life."

"We're a long way from the farming operation with the steel-tipped whips," I said admiringly.

"Exactly," Jess beamed. "And you don't see any of our workers' bodies all torn up and bleeding either. The average life span here in the plant is actually considerably higher than blue-collar workers in the States, Clint! A good diet, lots of exercise, a clear-cut system that gives you some control over your comfort level, and a wholly predictable environment. We hardly ever have anyway die of a heart attack here! Besides," he added proudly. "As you can see, we have workers here clear up until their late 70s. Oh, they're not on the fast-paced assembly lines anymore, but you'll see them in janitorial tasks, cleaning out the workers cages, maintenance tasks, that sort of thing. Why, just last week, a group of 70-year-olds just finished painting the entire complex along with re-roofing some of the buildings. A little less sprightly than when they were first bought, but still up there singing and whistling, working away at a pretty good clip."

"Jess, I'm doomed," Clint said soberly. "There's no way I can ever compete with this system. All I can say is, can I hire you today, and, if so, can you get find the type of workers that fit into this system so well."

"Naw! I'm happy right here. But the Colonel here is just your man. He can find you all the workers you want if you're real sweet to him and have lots of money and I'm sure he can find a willing manager or two if you're really interested. Of course, Clint, people like me don't come cheap!" he laughed.

"That's the least of my worries, Jess. What I'm worried about is the money it's going to take to buy the workers I need. That's a lot of money up front, even at the cut rate price of $18000 a head."

"Hate to disappoint you, Clint, but that's probably too low. Eighteen grand for a sturdy farm worker, more like $20000 on today's market for an ugly, but durable factory worker. But, Clint, they last for years and years with the system we've got in place. Hell, 20 grand is nothing if you're talking about 50 years of work, seven days a week, twelve hours a day. What does that come to?"

"A little over 9 cents an hour," Clint answered without hesitation.

"Jesus, Clint, you're quick! No wonder Colonel Beddington likes you."

"Jess, my workers are costing me $38 an hour. You're building practically the same thing as I am for 9 cents an hour. No wonder I'm going broke."

"Clint, the handwritings on the wall. You're simply going to have to change your means of production," Jess said soberly.

"That's what I've been trying to tell him, but the stubborn fool keeps yapping about morality issues."

"Clint, get over it," Jess advised. "My workers are happy once they're settled in. It's not fun to get yourself sold, but once you accept the fact, you can make the most of it. Look at these guys here - do you really think your workers at home are any happier? I doubt it. Probably bitching right now about how you don't pay them enough and how they should go on strike and what a mean bastard you are. Aren't I right, Clint?"

"Dead right, Jess," Clint answered. "You couldn't be more on target."

"Well, Clint, you know what has to be done. Now get off your ass and do it. There's a good market at Tsumeb and a couple more at Keetman-shoop and Otjiwarongo. And I'm sure Colonel Beddington knows of a hundred more tucked here and there - probably some right close to your own plant back in the states if you knew the right people to contact. "

CHAPTER 4

The Colonel indicated it was time to leave and Clint thanked Jess, the general manager for the excellent and informative tour of the manufacturing complex, as well as his frank advice. The manager accompanied the two men to the front entrance to see them off.

The team of 'ponies' were exactly where they had left them, again fully aroused - a fact that didn't escape the general manager.

"I see you're still keeping them hard up all the time," the manager laughed as he reached over and hefted the swollen balls of the black 'pony' nearest him. "If you ever let these boys get some relief, I wouldn't want to be standing in front of them!"

"I'm saving them for my house guest," the Colonel chuckled. "I'm sure Clint here likes a bed partner that's hot to trot."

Clint Morgan blushed bright red and stared at the Colonel.

"Colonel, I don't want..... I never said... where did you get the idea that I would....... Ah. Hell..... I'm too upset to even respond to that," Clint spit out. "Go peddle your wares somewhere else, Charles. That's just absurd."

"Just a joke, Clint. Calm down. You're losing your sense of humor lately, what with your financial difficulties and all. I thought you could still take a little joke. I'm sorry you've lost your excellent sense of humor over all of this!"

"Yeah, sure..." Clint said, still upset by the Colonel's constant needling and the endless references to his financial difficulties.

"I was going to suggest we visit the bauxite mines next, but Clint, it's obvious you're getting tired. I suppose the long flight over has taken its toll. Let's put off the mine visit until tomorrow and go back to the house and rest up," the Colonel replied as he lifted the reins and jerked sharply on the nose-rings with the command, "Pace 40, to the mansion."

Clint turned back and waved to Jess as the rig zoomed ahead, the familiar sound of strained, but regular panting once again audible as the 'ponies' settled into the long ride back to the Colonel's impressive domicile.

"Once we're back at the house and get comfortable, I've got a proposition for you I think will solve a lot of your problems," the Colonel said softly.

"Does it involve some the ideas Jess wanted me to consider?" Clint responded, eager the Colonel's interests were now back in the area of business.

"That, and more," the Colonel promised. "You still interested, Clint?"

"I don't think I can afford not to be at this point, Colonel," Clint answered soberly.

"Well, then, good enough. Tell you what, Clint. It's about four o'clock now, so when we get back, I need some time to look over some business reports and other matters. Why don't you take a nice refreshing swim, have a good drink, and I'll send that black chauffeur you met this morning up to your suite for a good relaxing massage - the boy has fingers like magic. We'll meet for supper around eight o'clock and then talk a little business, if that's alright with you. That way, we can both get to bed relatively early for a busy day tomorrow."

"Sounds great, Colonel. You're right. I am beginning to wind down a little - what with the flight over and all."

The Colonel pulled slightly on the nose-rings as he shouted, "Pace 50" to the 'ponies' as he brought the whip out of its holders and smacked both of the 'ponies' hard on their butts. The rig sped ahead as they gasp out a groan from the recent smacks.

"No use wasting time getting back," the Colonel muttered, as he ordered, "Pace 60" accompanied by a fresh round of lashings with the carriage whip that frayed over the shoulders, back, butts, and thighs of the sweating 'ponies" who, despite their wheezing lungs, wailed in agony.

Within 15 minutes, the rig was at the front entrance to the mansion as the two 'ponies' struggled to stay upright until the two passengers were out of the rig. At that point, they simply collapsed toward the ground as far as their nose leashes would allow, wheezing and gasping for breath as their tortured legs quivered before cramping completely up.

The Colonel ignored them, but when I went to help, the Colonel took my arm and wisked me away. "They'll be fine, Clint. They always put on a show after a long brisk run like that, but remember, they're fresh from their training. In another month or so, this will seem as nothing to them and they will be embarrassed at their bad manners now."

Colonel Beddington's steward was quickly at the front entrance awaiting instructions.

"Show Mr. Morgan to the guest suite closest to the pool. Make sure he is afforded complete privacy, that you arrange a bartender for him at the pool, and that my black chauffeur is completely cleaned and sent to his suite as soon as possible. Then tell the chef we will be dining around eight in the main dining room, featuring American-style dishes since our guest has enough to adjust to without handling an exotic menu. We'll be retiring around 11 with plans to be on our way fairly early tomorrow, say with breakfast at 8:30, this time poolside and again American-style. We'll each need a body servant to attend us overnight, but I'll discuss those arrangements with you later in my quarters."

"Yes, master," the steward said with a low bow and then quiet waited with his head bowed until the Colonel's guest deigned to follow him to the designated guest quarters.

"Is he a.... you know.... a..?" Clint asked.

"Slave?" Colonel Beddington's eyes sparkled as he enjoyed Clint's obvious uneasiness being around owned people. "Of course, Clint. You can say it - it won't hurt you. S-L-A-V-E. It's a common word in this household, believe me."

With that, Clint followed the steward some distance to an absolutely beautiful suite of rooms which was located poolside. After showing him the airconditioning control, the steward bowed and quickly left. Clint immediately investigated his new surroundings. The suite included a huge bedroom featuring a king-size bed, tall Arabian style ceilings, a gorgeous mosaic tile floor covered partially with beautiful handmade Persian rugs, a huge bath with Jacuzzi, an sitting room with a plasma type TV covering one wall, a DVD/VHS/CD stereo player, and all leather furniture. Strangely, off to one side of the master bedroom, almost like another closet, was as a tiny adjoining room with a small pallet on the floor, a manacle fastened to the wall, and a tiny adjoining bathroom featuring a douche nozzle attached to a bidet, a simple shower, and a small drain hole in the floor with a water faucet , obviously meant to serve as a toilet of sorts. On a wall shelf in this tiny room, Clint could see razors, bottles of lotion, soaps, shampoos, and oils, as well as tubes of lubricant. Thinking of the steward who had just left, Clint suspected it was an attendant's room.

Since no one else seemed to be staying in any of the other guest suites and since the pool was completely private, Clint stripped and dove into the pool in the buff - he hadn't thought to bring one on such short notice and he couldn't find one in any of the wardrobes in the room. Compared to what he had seen today, his private little dip in a totally secluded pool seemed like nothing. As the swim continued, he noticed a servant, probably the commanded bartender, take a position behind a bar, discretely keeping his eyes averted from the Colonel's guest in the pool. As he emerging from the refreshing water after taking a number of laps, Clint wrapped a fluffy white towel around his torso, ordered up a gin and tonic, and sauntered back to his suite drink in hand. Inside, standing quietly next to the bed, was the black chauffeur, as naked as Clint had last seen him in "display" early this morning when he had first arrived. Clint stared before catching himself, startled again at how incredibly handsome the black actually was and fascinated with the black's blatant brass body fittings, let alone his body brands.

"Master would like a relaxing massage?" the black asked in passable English, almost beseechingly.

"Sounds good," Clint responded as he flopped down on the bed back side up, carefully keeping the towel wrapped around his middle since he felt his own organ beginning to swell just from the sight of the young man placed at his disposal.

The black swiftly poured some exotically scented oil on Clint's exposed back from a nearby table, climbed onto the bed so he could staddle the body beneath him and rested his balls on Clint's rump as he proceeded to gently probe and massage every muscle in Clint's back. It was clearly the best massage Clint had ever experienced and he was lulled into a semi-sleep, hardly noticing when the black very quietly slid down his body and removed the towel so as to massage his butt and lower legs as well as his back and shoulders.

Clint responded with a sensuousness he hadn't felt in years and was only dimly aware of his huge erection, matched only by the feel of the black's balls and rampant prick, now touching his butt and thighs as little drops of the black's pre-cum dripped onto his skin to be mixed with the massage oils.

Clint was hardly aware when the black gently rolled him onto his back and again slid his body up to massage Clint's shoulders, pecs, and abs. The masseuse's huge genitals, now fully erect and dripping and appearing even bigger than they were due to the thick genital banding, were dangled right in front of Clint as the black turned around to face Clint's thighs, just inches from his mouth. As Clint squirmed from this new eroticism, he felt the black's mouth close over his own erect organ and slide down to the root.

"Oh!" Clint moaned. "No, stop, stop..Oh!"

But the black didn't seem to understand and Clint did nothing to stop his actions. In seconds following such intense stimulation, Clint shot volley after volley of pent-up cum into the black's eager mouth.

After he had fully discharged into the black's open throat, Clint jumped from the bed and grabbed his towel for cover.

"That's enough of that, boy," he snapped as he pointed to the door.

"Sorry, master. Sorry, master," the black pleaded as he quickly headed for the door. "I always suck a master off when finishing up a massage, master. That's the way I was taught, master. I'm sorry if I overstepped my bounds, master. It won't happen again, master, if you not want it. Please don't report me to the steward for a whipping, master!"

"Get out of here, you little whore, or I will report you to someone or other," Clint shouted, more angry at letting himself get seduced by the black than being angry at the poor black slave himself who probably was ordered to suck people off routinely.

Supper at exactly as scheduled and the food was delicious, although Clint was a little distracted by bevy of stark naked waiters attending them, changing plates and silverware at each course and standing in the prescribed 'display' position when not in direct service. Each waiter was fully body shaved, outfitted with a heavy brass collar, tit rings, and genitally banded.

"Colonel, why are all these guys kept naked all the time?" Clint asked, wanting to convey to the Colonel this constant parade of nudity made him uncomfortable as he waved to the waiters standing around the edge of the table, ready in an instance to offer any service.

"Keeps them humble," the Colonel laughed. "Besides, I like to look at their bodies. Pretty, aren't they? Actually, Clint, almost all slaves are kept naked. Cuts out the clothing costs, they can't hide anything from you that way, it reminds them of their status in life, you can pretty well judge their emotions of the moment (pointing to a nearby waiter with a huge erection), and most of them have damn nice bodies - no need to hide a good body. If it makes you uncomfortable, maybe you should ask yourself why?" the Colonel added with a piecing look.

"Well, these guys really bother me, Colonel. They're all white guys that remind me too much of myself, I guess. Jesus, Colonel, they could just as easily be you or me standing there," Clint said somewhat apprehensively.

"Are you built that well?" the Colonel asked nonchalantly.

"Jesus, Colonel, lighten up, will you? You know this slavery stuff is kind of hard for me to get used to."

"Oh, you'll get used to it soon enough," the Colonel assured Clint with a big smile. "Meanwhile, relax and enjoy the meal and - " he paused meaningfully - "the service, even if it is in the buff."

Clint relaxed some, never having answered the impertinent question about his own bodily characteristics, but still felt about half way through the dinner that he was cast in some weird porn movie, but the Colonel was all business.

"Clint, I've figured it all out. You sell your manufacturing business to me for $28 a share. That's $3 more than the highest that stock has ever been. I, as the new owner, will close your plant in the states and move all operations over here. We can put your airconditioners together here at such a savings that we can lower the price of the damn things to $170 instead of the $225 you're charging and up the quality to boot and still make profits like you could only dream about. We can underbid every one of your competitors and, within two years, can probably corner the market. Hell, we can sell them under a variety of brand names, depending on who offers us the best contract. Selling out the company now will end you up with enough money to last a lifetime, Clint!"

"What's my role in all this, other than taking all your money?" Clint responded, somewhat leery.

"That's the best part, Clint. I'm going to make you a junior partner in my own corporation. You'll have a very active role in the new operation."

"Really? Would I have to move over here to Namibia?" Clint asked, perking up a little.

"Sure would, but you could build your own mansion and live like a king. Hell, Clint, you don't have a family to worry about anyway. You can do what you want. In essence, you are all alone in this world, aren't you, now that your parents have passed on. No brothers or sisters, no children, no aunts or uncles - you're totally independent according to that TIME magazine article on you."

"That's right, Colonel. But, moving over here would be quite an adjustment for me."

"Think of telling that union that's plaguing you to lump it - that should be some satisfaction to you as you see all those whiners losing their jobs when we board up your plant with an "Out of Business" sign on it. And that President of yours will probably give you a national award for union-busting, the way he seems to despise labor, despite the fact that thousands more will be out of work in your country. You'll end up with a barrel of money, the air conditioner will still have your name on it, and those fuckers that drove you out of business with their unreasonable wage demands will starve to death. Furthermore, the business editor of TIME magazine will call you a genius for coming out of this right side up."

Clint instinctually realized that Colonel Beddington had worked out the the very best solution to his problem: he saved face; he made a huge profit for all his time and effort; and he would have an important role in one of the most successful multinational business organizations in the world. Preserving his reputation was important, he thought, especially after TIME magazine had blown his 'genius' all out of proportion two years ago. He would end up a multimillionaire, preserving his capitol for future ventures; and would have something to do, although his role in Colonel Beddington's organization seemed rather vague at this point. He then reviewed his options. Try as he might, he couldn't see many alternatives to the Beddington offer than bankruptcy, public humiliation, and looking for a job.

"Colonel, meet your new junior partner!" Clint smiled.

"I knew you'd see the wisdom of moving forward rather than moping around about past problems. I never thought for a moment you were dumb, so I've taken the liberty of having my lawyers prepare the buy-out contract for your airconditioning business, plus a contract for personal employment within my organization, as well as a press release announcing the transition. The buy-out contract gives you the $28 a share I mentioned; the employment contract is listed as $1 because I intend to pay you in stock in the newly formed airconditioning manufacturing company which will be far more advantageous to you in the long-term, and the press release is one of those routine things my public relations department is good at handling. Just sign off on these contractual details and we're in business." The Colonel motioned for one of the waiters to take the slew of legal papers over for Clint's signature.

"Tomorrow morning, if it's alright with you, Clint, I was hoping to take you out to see my mining operations here on the estate. It's run somewhat differently than the manufacturing and farming operations, as would be expected. Nevertheless, it's another model of labor management that's worth looking at. Do you think we could breakfast together around 10 and then ride out to the mines?"

"I don't see why not, Colonel, especially now that I'm to be a junior partner in charge of the airconditioning manufacturing. I suppose I should bone up on all the corporate models you have around here."

"Exactly, Clint," the Colonel answered enthusiastically as Clint quickly signed the documents placed in front of him rather cursively. "I see my judgment of you is dead right, Clint," the Colonel said as the waiter brought the papers back to him. "You're bold and decisive - once you've made a decision, you act upon it without hesitancy. I like that trait - it's common in the top tier of executive material. Let me tell you, Clint, now that the decision has been made, that if you had stalled at this point - you know, said you had to have your lawyers go over the contracts; you needed time to study the documents; you needed more time to think it over - I would have withdrawn my offer. I can't work effectively with indecisive people."

"That's a compliment, I suppose, Colonel," Clint said brightly. "Some of my critics call it impulsive, not decisive," he laughed.

Both men quickly finished the meal and watched the handsome tanned whites quickly clear the table. Clint noticed three were blue-eyed blonds, one was a green-eyed red head, and the remaining two were black haired with blue eyes.

"Where did these waiters come from originally?" Clint asked his host.

The Colonel quickly scanned the lot of waiters. "As I recall, one of the blonds and the red head were bought at the Amsterdam market; one of the black haired fellows we bought locally - how he got there I'll never know - and the other two, the blond and the black haired, are home-bred."

"Home bred?" Clint asked, his eyes arching quizzically.

"Yes, home bred from our own breeding operations here on the estate. When the pups come of age, we keep the best of the lot and market the rest - we're marketing about 100 a year on the average now, despite the fact we're keeping another hundred for our own needs. That black haired boy is probably a product of someone else's local breeding operations - it's hard to believe he got himself shipped all the way down here from Europe or America just to end up in a local market."

Clint noticed the Colonel never deigned to ask the waiters themselves where they came from nor did any of them offer any information spontaneously.

"I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you a bed partner for the night," the Colonel said casually. I could see you were taken with my black chauffeur, so I've arranged for him to return to your room for the night."

"No thanks, Colonel. He took too many liberties in the massage he gave me this afternoon. I had to send him away."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Clint. He had been told to offer his body to you any way you wanted, but the absolute minimum would be a good blow job or he would face immediate and severe punishment."

"My God, Colonel. So that's it. No wonder he was crawling all over me, pretending it was a massage. He gave a good massage, all right, but he didn't stop at that."

"Good," the Colonel replied pleasantly. "We won't have to punish him after all. Didn't you enjoy the pleasure he offered you?"

"Colonel! It's none of your business, but I'm not gay," Clint said adamantly.

"Clint, drop the act, will you? Do you think I'm stupid. First, the minute you laid eyes on the chauffeur's naked body, you sprang a boner so big it would have been impossible to hide it. Second, what about those charges racked up seven days a week to 'Paradise Modeling' back in the states - always with the request for a handsome, very muscular well- hung black stud."

Clint turned white in raw shock. "Colonel - how did you know? How could you find that out? That's impossible - How long have you known about this? You never said a word," he sputtered and then blushed deeply.

"Clint," the Colonel replied calmly. "Don't take me for a fool. Do you think for a minute I would do business with anyone I didn't know without a thorough background check. The fact you have a weakness for good looking black studs doesn't bother me in the slightest. I myself find them quite stimulating in bed. But thinking you could keep your proclivities secret from me is something else. Were you so naive that you thought renting those bed bucks every single night through a discrete modeling agency would keep the truth from me?"

Clint blushed even more and furtively looked around before saying, "Colonel, what else have you found out in your 'background check?'"

"Clint, we have your complete medical history and records, a list of all the DVDs you bothered to buy for your own collection; the books you kept hidden back at your home; complete bank records on every transaction you ever made; your tax records for the past 10 years; your appointment calendar for the past three years - shall I go on?"

"No," Clint said quietly. "And what's your conclusion?"

"You're quite healthy with no diseases; you're bi-sexual, but mainly homosexual in your activities; you got a good healthy sex drive that needs a constant source of relief; you're basically honest in your business dealings; your financial condition is about what you say it is; and you're a hard, well-motivated and very bright man whose main interest is your own public image and reputation. My black chauffeur has added that your prick is a good thick 11 inches long when fully aroused, that your balls are large and well shaped; that you have a very nice looking, well muscled body yourself, and that your discharges are copious and fresh tasting. That's about it."

"Jesus," was all Clint could say as he tried to absorb the impact of the Colonel's casual report.

"Anything I missed?" the Colonel said brightly.

"No, I think you've covered it all," Clint said bitterly. "Not that most of that stuff is any of your business."

"Oh, but it is my business, Clint. But I did leave out you have a long history of being a quick learner."

"What now?" Clint said resentfully. "Now that you know how many times I jacked off since I was 12."

"What now? Clint, don't be so bitter. That's the way the business world works. You don't think for a minute I got to where I'm at operating on a bunch of hunches and guesses, do you? Information is power, Clint. You, of all people, should know that by now. But for right now, if that's what you meant, you're going to go back to your room and really enjoy that black chauffeur I've put at your disposal without some silly guilt complexes - I mean put that boy through his paces tonight just like you did all those thousands of black studs you rented night after night. And I'm going to plow the ass of one of my ponies tonight until his ass is so sore I imagine his ass will be bleeding before we even start our little ride tomorrow morning to the mines. Think of tonight as a black ass riding academy in that we'll both we riding handsome black mounts," the Colonel laughed as he arose and the steward led me back to the guest suite where, sure enough, the black chauffeur was kneeling beside the bed.

After I'd enjoyed the black's body to my complete satisfaction, I laid back and wondered what the hell I was doing? Had I acted too impulsively? Could I adjust to living so decadently here in Namibia, using slave labor to produce my airconditioners at their new low price? Could I really accept using slaves, who had no say-so in the matter, for my own pleasure as I had just done with the black chauffeur who simply said "Thank you, master," after I had forcefully screwed him the umpteeth time. At least, the whores I had hired got paid extremely well for their cooperation in meeting my needs. Could I trust the Colonel, who always keep me on edge somehow, and who now knew EVERYTHING about me, things I had always considered totally private?

Meanwhile, the Colonel, having finished his enjoyment of one of the black 'ponies' bodies once again, checked the notarized signatures on the legal papers his guest had signed once again and chuckled. Tomorrow, the eager young Clint was in for a surprise!

CHAPTER 5

The next morning, Clint awoke to find the black chauffeur's ass still nestled next to him.

"Does the master want to fuck me again?" the black asked politely, "or perhaps a nice sucking?"

Groggy from the previous night's activities but fully aware of his morning erection, Clint could only mumble "Suck," whereupon the black slave quickly shifted his body around and performed as commanded. The black had developed amazing oral skills and, within a minute or so, Clint was unloading copiously once again, this time down the slave's throat.

"That's it," Clint said, abruptly dismissing the slave, whereupon the slave quickly got off the bed and assumed a kneeling position near the bath.

Clint took a quick shower (accepting the slave's help in the matter) and then let the slave dress him in the light-weight, casual clothes appropriate for the heat of the region. As soon as he was dressed and groomed, Clint dismissed the slave.

"Go back to wherever you came from," he pointed to the door with his finger. Realizing how harsh that sounded, he added, "You're quite good in bed, boy."

"Thank you, master," the slave said, sincerely pleased by the unexpected praise, "Thank you, master, for using this slave's body" as he quickly left the room to report back to the steward on the night's events.

The breakfast pool-side was American-style, as promised, and was served by the same bevy of nude white waiters that Clint experienced at dinner the night before. He wondered if they ever got time off and then realized how ridiculous such a notion must seem in this part of the world.

"I was hoping to show you the bauxite mines this morning, Clint," the Colonel said cheerily as he downed a huge breakfast of pancakes, ham and eggs. "We can get there in the rig in about 20 minutes. I'm sure you're find the visit interesting."

"You're the boss, now, I suppose, Charles. I don't know when all those papers I signed last night take effect, but, I suppose it really doesn't matter. I'm effectively working for you now, or soon will be. So I suppose I should start learning everything I can about your operations over here!"

"That's the spirit, Clint. For all practical purposes, your contract goes into effect as of today, although I don't want to rush you or anything. You can come onboard whenever you feel ready for the challenge - at your level, we don't really go by what's on paper, do we?"

"Well, let's get out to your mines while it's still reasonably cool, although I suspect, Colonel, that you just want the excuse to drive your rig around today," I smiled.

"That too," the Colonel laughed as he reached to one of the nearby waiters who was showing a huge erection and began vigorously stroking him. "Ever had cum syrup on your pancakes, Clint?" he chuckled as he continued to stroke the hapless slave until, with the Colonel's firm grip on his penis, the slave erupted onto the hot pancakes with gobs of steaming white cum. "Delicious!" he commented as he quickly downed the newly garnished pancake. "Fresh cum from a young stud is supposed to have anti-aging qualities to it, but I don't think anyone has ever really scientifically proved it yet. Me, I just like the taste. Help yourself, Clint, if you want. These waiters look forward to being milked this time of day - it's one of the few opportunities they get to have their balls drained."

Clint was again literally speechless, shocked at the Colonel's callousness toward the estate's staff as well as his obvious decadent lifestyle. He mused whether other internationally acclaimed titans were equally debased. At least, his use of the hundreds of male whores he employed from the 'modeling agency' for his own pleasure over the years had been with young men who volunteered to do it and were certainly well paid for their efforts. These young men of the Colonel's had no choice in the matter and were paid nothing for their cooperation. Their reward, probably, was escaping yet another beating.

"Not right now, Colonel," Clint hedged.

"That black boy wear you out?" the Colonel laughed. "He looked all tuckered out when I saw him checking in with the steward a while ago. You must have plowed his ass good the way he was walking."

As Clint blushed, he realized the Colonel took delight in embarrassing and humiliating him every chance he got. He supposed there was a purpose to it other than raw sadism. Perhaps the Colonel was gently introducing him to the realities of a life filled with slaves - a life he would need to adjust to in the near future. Or, perhaps, he thought with genuine admonition, the Colonel really was a sadist who enjoyed humiliating not just his bought human property, but everyone who worked for him also.

When Clint didn't reply, the Colonel abruptly stood up, announcing "Well, Clint, we might as well get on our way, hadn't we?"

With that, the Colonel and Clint swiftly walked to the main entrance of the estate where the light-weight rig, with the same two sleek black 'ponies' as yesterday, was stationed in readiness.

As soon as the two men were aboard, the Colonel jerked the reins to the connecting nose-rings and commanded, "Pace 40, to the mines."

The rig swiftly gained speed as Clint marveled at the ponies' magnificent physiques and their churning butts working around the huge dildo embedded once again in them. Within minutes, the usual heavy breathing became audible, sweat once again coated the ponies' bodies, and every muscle in the black slave's bodies showed the strain of the load imposed upon. Despite their exertions, the sex-starved ponies, tightly clinched by their genital banding, were displaying full erections even as they pranced down the road, a phenomenon the Colonel was quick to point out.

"Apparently, bedding the ponies down last night has got them all worked up," the Colonel said delightedly. "Those plugs up their butts had loosened them up nicely, but, surprisingly, they squirmed around a lot when I fucked them - I suppose they were still sore from the dildos causing a little bleeding yesterday afternoon. But all that squirming and moaning sure lets you know they're feeling the fuck - kind of adds, if you ask me. It's quite a ways, so I think we'll just go at a normal pace this morning. I'm not sure I've got the strength this early in the morning to properly motivate them to a pace of 60 or so," he sighed as he again jerked sharply on the ponies' nose-rings.

They rode on for some time, just listening to the rhythmic panting and gasping for breath of the laboring ponies. The air was warm but crisp and the countryside was alive with birds singing and small animals scurrying around the harsh environment. Before long, the rig arrived at a huge hole in the ground, and again the two ponies were greeted by the sight of hundreds and hundreds of heavily muscled slaves manacled at both hands and feet as well as, of course, collared, but this time with choke collars.

All of these mine slaves were stark nude - the master, here as elsewhere, wasted no money in clothing them since they were out of sight anyway and clothing would only get in the way of their work. Their wrist chains allowed them to lift and carry, swing the heavy picks and hammers, while the leg chains were only long enough to allow hobbled movement. These slaves were obviously viewed as strictly draft stock - even more so than the farm stock. Although considerably larger and even more muscular than the farm slaves, they had never been bathed or shaved, their hair was matted into dread locks, and the lack of any rest breaks throughout the day meant their only choice was to eliminate as they worked. Hence they were generally coated across their backside with their own excrement. The stench from their bodies reached even the rig the Colonel and Clint were seated in, some hundreds of feet away and the 'ponies' hitched to the rigs almost retched from the ghastly smell of years of accumulated human sweat, excrement, and even spent semen as the desperate slaves ejaculated spontaneously at the slightest provocation after years of enforced abstinence.

Overseers' whips cracked unceasingly over the backs of the slaves, while hot branding irons and electric prods stood ready to "motivate" the more recalcitrant slaves. Most of the slaves worked in gangs, leashed together by leg manacles as well as by the choke collars around their necks, forcing them to work as a unit. Some work units loosened the bauxite-rich soil with their heavy picks; other work units, following behind, loaded the large capacity ore wheelbarrows with large shovels; other units hauled the heavy loads in the huge wheelbarrows to a smelter pit; where other units separated the bauxite from the ore, an extremely risky job exposing them to intense heat, sparking arcs of electricity used in separating the aluminum from the bauxite, and suffocating, poisonous fumes. Finally, another group of work units hauled the raw aluminum ingots into slave-drawn wagons for the long haul to a shipping port. Despite whatever color they may have once been, all the workers were solid gray, their bodies covered by the mineral laden dust of the mining activities and most of their eyes, mouths, and any open wounds were red from the constant irritation of the bauxite powder. The gang system, the Colonel explained, was used by many owners of road and building construction, farm, and mine slaves and generally meant fewer supervisors were needed, work efforts were kept coordinated relatively easy, and it kept any individual insurrections to a minimum. You either did as the others did or strangled to death as the pressure on the choke collar around your neck cut off your wind pipe.

The Chief Mining Overseer spotted his master and ran as quickly as possible to kneel and bow before him in the unexpected visit.

"Everything in order?" Col. Beddington queried.

"Yes, master," the Chief Overseer responded with his eyes to the ground.

"Production?" Col. Beddington snapped.

"At record levels, Master," the overseer humbly replied. "And, I'm happy to report, with less than normal death rate among the stock."

"Sturdier stock or are you getting slack in your discipline?" Col. Beddington shot back.

"Neither, Master," the overseer responded. "Discipline standards are kept high here, Master, and the stock is probably as surly as ever, although they are a little bigger and more muscular than the last lots we've had. But your choke collars and leg leashing suggestions seem to be inspired, master," the overseer beamed. "Since we started the technique, production has gone up over 10 percent and slave replacement needs have dropped considerably. We should see sharply increased profits in ingot production this year," he boasted.

"And the downside?" Col. Beddington coached.

"Nothing serious, master," the overseer continued. "A few of the more recalcitrant have suffered considerable damage to their throats and ankles, but, master, they now seem to work just as hard as the others, Nothing like some simple pain to teach these brutes what's expected of them, seems like," the overseer mused. "That, and cutting their air off the minute they don't cooperate."

"Keep the good work up, Chief Overseer," Col. Beddington said as he shifted position in the rig's beautifully upholstered seat while fiddling with the nose-ring leashes of the 'ponies' who stood rigidly erect in their harnesses to prevent the huge intruding dildo from moving within them.

"Thank you, Master," the overseer said in an obvious, almost reverent, awe at the magnificent display of the ponies, once again fully erect, in front of him. As he eyed the handsome 'ponies,' his own erection also became obvious as he too was kept nude.

"Like those boys, do you?" Col. Beddington teased, as he pointed to his 'ponies.'

"Yes, Master," the Chief Overseer said with lust in his eyes.

"Would you like to bed down one of them, Chief Overseer?"

"Of course, Master, who wouldn't?," the Chief Overseer replied.

"What's their appeal to you, Chief Overseer? After all, you can fuck any of the slaves under you at any time, as I'm sure you do at every opportunity. That gives you a choice of thousands, literally of any race, any color, any hair or eye color imaginable, any possible peculiar physique characteristics."

"Yes, master. While your 'pony' boys are muscular like the slaves under my lash, they're also extremely handsome and so clean, especially with their bodies shaved clean of all hair, and they don't smell and there are no bugs crawling through the hair on their head, and their manhood, so proudly displayed with that ring around their balls, is just magnificent, especially since it's not hidden behind some mound of filthy hair. They would be the envy of any master in the world, I'd wager."

"That's why they're bred regularly, Chief Overseer, and the animals here aren't. But I could see where you would eventually tire of using the stock here for your own pleasures, Overseer. Next time you report to my mansion, we've give you a bath to clean you up and I'll let you use one of my ponies here as a little bonus for exceeding your quotas in the quarry."

[With that announcement, both of the 'ponies' under discussion shuddered in utter revulsion, but made every effort to hide their own reaction to the invitation, knowing any response other than eager acceptance would lead to unbelievable new tortures.]

"Thank you, Master, but are you sure you want to let a mere slave use another slave of their caliber and quality just because he was doing his master's bidding?"

"You're right, Overseer, it is a generous offer, but I feel you deserve it, and it won't hurt any of the boys here at all - they're used to regular use, I'm sure you know."

"Yes, Master. I'll forever be grateful."

"Just make sure you clean thoroughly before using them," Colonel Beddington warned.

"Keep the good work up, Chief Overseer," Col. Beddington said, dismissing the supervisory slave, "and don't hesitate to use those choke collars - this may be the best method we've come up with yet to motivate this type of draft animal."

"Pace 30 back to the mansion," Col. Beddington ordered as the rig smoothly started up again in response to his jerk on the slave's nose-rings.

Clint, who hadn't said a word the entire time they were at the mining operation, once again found himself in a state of shock. The scene he had just witnessed was a demonstration in absolute power over other humans that was unfathomable in any world he knew of up to that point. Not only could a internationally-acclaimed titan such as Colonel Beddington own thousands and thousands of bodies all for the sole purpose of multiplying his wealth and prosperity, but now, in addition, the handsome, the heavily endowed, the extremely well built, were bent to the task of yielding every pleasure their body could offer their master for his personal use and enjoyment. . And, Clint noticed, the slaves he had seen this morning (or any yesterday as far as that went) seemed to think that their condition would ever change or that their world would ever be different from what it was. He was shocked at how quickly humans adopted to the most horrid conditions and that human perception of both themselves as permanent slaves with no rights whatsoever and their masters as gods entitled to all their bodies had to offer quickly took root if the conditions were right. Colonel Beddington had made sure the conditions were right, of course, or he couldn't have pulled this off. That perhaps was the real genius of the man.

"We're giving Alcoa and Reynolds a real run for their money," the Colonel said proudly as the rig progressed forward smoothly. "Another few years and there is no way they can meet our price per ton of aluminum ingots. All that fancy equipment they use in their mining operations cost big bucks, let me tell you, and maintenance costs are terrible even after you buy it. Besides, they have to pay their operators of all that high technology about $45 an hour after you figure in the fringes. As you can see, here we just keep it simple. A few picks and shovels for extracting the ore, those big wheelbarrows and wagons for transporting the stuff, and a manual smelter. It's slower, I grant you, but the costs of production are minimal. Even figuring in the initial cost, feeding, and depreciation on the workers, our electricity costs at the smelter run higher each day than our labor costs. There's no way Alcoa and their ilk can ever compete in the long haul."

"How long does a worker last there?" was all Clint could think to ask.

"Longer than you think, Clint, if you buy them young and sturdy to start with. Last I heard, we're depreciating them over a 15-year period now. When we first started out, Clint," he ruminated, "they weren't lasting longer than about 8 years. But with a good diet that the slave chow affords them nowadays, some antibiotics to ward off disease, and cutting the work day to 15 hours seven days a week, we've managed to almost double the payoff from our investment," the Colonel replied proudly.

"What do they cost to start with generally?" Clint asked, his sense of reality stepping outside his grasp.

"Oh, $15,000 to $17,000 a head at current prices. Of course, we're talking about 18 year olds normally that are fully developed and have muscled out already. Younger ones costs a lot less, as do those much older than 20 or so in that some of their work life is already used up. Remember, though, Clint, we're talking about big and sturdy stock with not much else going for. We're not talking about educated stock, good looking bucks, well hung studs, or anything like that - just ordinary draft slaves. Generally buy them in wholesale lots of 50 - they run a lot cheaper that way."

"That's a little over $1000 a year depreciation per head. That wouldn't even pay for the coffee at break time at my plant!" Clint said bitterly.

"Welcome to the new economy!" the Colonel said brightly. "See what I mean about driving the traditional mining companies out of business before they know what happened - and them with all that fancy equipment always breaking down," he snorted.

The Colonel was glad Clint seemed to be coming around to his way of thinking. In the life he had planned for Clint's future, such a change in cognition was absolutely necessary if Clint was going to adjust to his new life without too much trouble. As he idly pulled and tugged on the ponies' nose-rings, enjoying their little groans of raw pain as he did so, he reflected that his own destiny as an acclaimed leader of men was to own, to rule, to enjoy, and to be pleasured. His slaves were destined to be nothing more than owned property, their lives directed solely toward meeting his needs as their owner, and contributing to their owner's material prosperity and sense of ultimate power. Such was the structure of a successful multinational corporate world : a world which had redefined, restructured, and now marketed to those who could afford to materially indulge themselves in a consumer economy. Clint would soon be a part of this.

Meanwhile, back at Colonel Beddington's mansion, the steward was busy finalizing the preparations for Clint's return along with the slave outfitter, who had just arrived from one of the nearby auction centers. As he checked over his preparations, he and the outfitter laid out a 17" x 3" slave collar and a 1" x 6" genital band, an assortment of coordinated tit rings, and a suitable matching nose ring. The sizes laid out were based on estimates given him by the black chauffeur who had been taking some measurements when his temporary master had finally fallen asleep last night.

"Is the master going to let you break him in, Owondo?" the steward asked the black chauffeur.

"Probably, Sir," the black chauffeur replied, "when the time comes." Looking shyly at his supervisor, he added, "Only seems fitting since the white man fucked me last night so long and hard I could hardly walk this morning."

"Won't be long until he will find himself being sent to one of the master's guests and getting himself fucked until he's raw," the steward chortled.

At that same time, the Colonel's public relations department was celebrating their coup d'etat in manipulating the press. One of their staff was a look-alike of Clint Morgan if you didn't get up too close. That staff member had been sent to Clint Morgan's own estate in the U.S. early this morning. There, the look-alike had shut off all services (as if he were going on a long vacation) and then had taken a cab to the private airport where Mr. Morgan kept his own private turboprop plane, leaving the Morgan car in the home garage. At the airport, he had the Morgan plane filled with fuel, paid for it using Clint Morgan's own credit card (taken while Clint was busily screwing the black chauffeur) signing "Clint F. Morgan" as he had practiced over and over from previous contracts and letter signatures filed in the P.R. department, and filed a flight plan for Central America, telling everyone at the airport within hearing distance he was going deep sea fishing at a very secluded private resort for a long needed and extensive vacation since he had just concluded a fabulous business deal. He had flown the plane to the Baja Peninsula and, after parachuting out to a waiting boat arranged by the P.R. department, ditched the plane in one of the deepest known areas of the Pacific Ocean. Simultaneously, the Beddington Public Relations Department announced the Colonel's buy- out of the Morgan airconditioning enterprise in the United States with the startling buy-out price of $28 a share. They also announced Mr. Morgan.would be assuming a new position within Beddington Enterprises upon completion of a lengthy vacation at a location he would not reveal.

Within 24 hours, the Morgan plane was reported as missing by the F.A.A, somewhere off the coast of Lower California and an extensive search was planned but never executed due to the extreme depth of the waters where the plane was reportedly seen going down by 'reliable' witnesses. No foul-play was assumed since Mr. Morgan himself was known to be piloting the plane solo and was in a jovial holiday mood before taking off according to numerous airport employees who saw him right before take-off.

As it became clear to the world community that a major American industrialist had met a tragic accidental death early in a most promising career, especially in view of his highly successful sale of his manufacturing complex to Beddington Enterprises and, as part of that sale, had signed a contract to become one of Colonel Beddington's new manufacturing presidents, a shock went through the international business community.

Within 36 hours following the air plane crash, the Public Relations Department of Beddington Enterprises issued the following statement at a well-attended press conference in London:

"Colonel Charles Beddington is saddened beyond description by the tragic

death of his dear friend and new business associate, Mr. Clint Morgan. Only

two years ago, TIME MAGAZINE rightfully named Mr. Morgan "Businessman

of the Year" and pointed out the promise of this outstanding world leader to

international commerce. Colonel Beddington felt he would be remiss if he did

not personally conduct a memorial service here in London for all those who

had the privilege of dealing with this warm human being and entrepreneurial

genius, a young man the Colonel always thought of as his son. Since Mr.

Morgan had no family, Colonel Beddington was always pleased that Clint

Morgan had thought of him as a surrogate father and an embracing family, a

fact driven home to Mr. Beddington again only this morning, when Mr.

Morgan's attorneys advised the Colonel that he had been named as the sole

beneficiary of the Morgan estate in a will Mr. Morgan had apparently made out

a number of years ago shortly after the Colonel and Mr. Morgan had first

become acquainted and became the closest of friends over these past many

years. The service will be held tomorrow at St. Paul's Cathedral at 3 P.M. with

full press coverage."

The rig with the gasping 'ponies' was nearing the steps of the Colonel's mansion. Within a week, Colonel Beddington would be delivering the eulogy of his dear friend Clint Morgan in London. And by that time, a brand new slave of the Colonel's would be fully fitted with a slave collar, tit rings, nose-ring, and a genital band, and he would be getting used to being naked at all times, feeling even more naked because the only hair left on his body was on top of his head, thanks to a thorough body shave. By then, it would be made imminently clear that he would also be 'broken in' by a black slave he already had met who had a huge erect organ and who was now intent on getting that organ all the way up the new slave's backside.