DRAY SLAVE
By Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Three
You'd have thought that after putting those rings around our dicks and the collars around our necks that would have been the end of it. But we were all lined up in the waiting line thing again and now it was even worse - with our dicks pushed out so prominently there was just no way you could avoid having them nudging at the butt crack of the guy in front of you, and his sweaty, warm butt felt so strange to my dick head as we stood there. And I could feel the guy behind me, too, as my butt was prised apart by his dick.
I was standing there behind the guy who I thought of as the oldest amongst the eight of us remaining - the ninth, who'd been bought at the same time as the rest of us but who had been castrated for striking Steve and Jon, had been taken away and never reappeared in our cage. From his whole manner and attitude I guessed that he'd been a sergeant, and I thought he was probably in his mid thirties, whereas of the rest of us were in our twenties . My eyes were looking at his thick muscular neck and his body was all warm as I pressed against it - they had pushed us all together, so there was no space at all, as this seemed to be the way they treated us in this line. Behind me was the young Arkansas guy - he was only twenty - and he was getting to be a bit of a bore as whenever he could he kept going on at the rest of us about how unfair it was that he was with us at all, him being a Southern boy. Personally, I think I'd have kept quiet about it as Southerners were not flavour of the month with the rest of us, and we really didn't want to hear about what a great state Arkansas was. They evidently raised them big and tough down on those Arkansas farms, though, as his body kind of overshadowed even mine as he pressed up against me, and his dick felt distinctly big as it nestled in my butt crack - and like me, after we'd been in that position for about twenty minutes ,he started to get an erection.
I muttered "Sorry, Sarge...", to the guy in front and he kind of shrugged, but the young Arkansas guy didn't bother to say anything to me. I suppose they're not strong on manners in Arkansas, and he probably hadn't been in the marines long enough to learn that you need to have respect for your buddies, or they'll decide to teach you some one day by beating the shit out of you.
One by one we were taken out of the waiting line and sat on a metal chair they'd brought in. There was a guy with a tattooing machine, and when it was my turn I was told to raise my left arm, and I had to sit there and watch as a six digit number was tattooed into my skin in my pit. "Get to know that, boy!", the man told me. "It's your Slave Identification Number - SIN as we call it - and sometimes they'll check you off on the inventory using it."
That wasn't all, though - on my right upper arm he then went on and tattooed a barcode, one of those things you see on all kinds of packaging and stuff. I guessed it's so that they can check us automatically, and indeed that was the case - later on when we were "working" they quite often had a portable scanner and just went along the line of us scanning our numbers in. Fucking hell - if it wasn't bad enough being collared and having my pubes trimmed and everything, and then having to stand there half-erect most of the time because of that fucking cock ring, now I was labelled just as if I was some piece of valuable property they owned. They could read my code, and check me off on their inventory! They'd stopped treating me as a man, and now I was just another "thing", some item that they owned that had a value, could be recorded in their computers, and so on. I was muttering this to myself when I was back in the waiting line and "Sarge" as I thought of him turned around and said "Dave, get real, man! That's what we are now. Just pieces of property, and I guess we're in their inventory files with a value, we're being depreciated at so many percent year so we get 'written down' during our working life, and if they train us for something they'll increase our value...."
"But Sarge, it's not right.... We're guys, not animals. We're marines..."
"Dave, they taught us all to try to survive as part of basic training, right?"
"Yes, but..."
"So wise up, boy! The way to survive this, at least for the time being, is to conform. They hold all the cards. There's nothing us naked guys can do against guns and slave prods, except to cause ourselves needless hurt. Conserve your strength, as there may be opportunities later...."
I was going to argue with him and say it wasn't right to treat guys this way, not at all, and that we ought to struggle against it. Except that the guard came over and said "You fucking slaves - keep quiet! Anyone would think you were a load of men, chattering away like that. Silence, or you'll feel the prod!" And that was that.
When they'd done all eight of us I thought that it was all over for the time being, but then they started taking us off the front of the line again. This time it was so that they could tattoo a giant number on our backs! I was made to lie down on a portable table that they'd dragged in, and it seemed to take for ever - I could feel the pricking of the needle all over my back, and it was really uncomfortable as they did it. When I was allowed to stand up it was painful as I was herded back to join the rear of the line. "Sarge" was still in front of me, of course, and as they pushed me up to him I saw that they'd put a huge figure "2" on his back - it ran from just below his neck, and the base of it was just below his waist, just above the top of his ass crack. It was very black, although there was a sheen of fresh blood all over it. I told him what he'd got, and he whispered back - we were still worried about the guard - "Yes, Dave. The guy in front of me has a big "1" and so I guess they put a "3" on you!"
I'd never been on for tattoos - some of the guys in the barracks thought they were "manly" and had several, and I don't really object to them on other men. But not on my own skin, thank you, and I'd never even had a "bulldog" or "semper fi" or "mom" or anything done to myself, and I'd put up with the good-natured joshing of my buddies and told them I was waiting to get married and then, if she liked it, I'd have her name tattooed on my dick! They all laughed, and my best buddy in the Corps said I'd better have it done on the underside so that when I went out to bars for a casual pickup, as that's what all married guys did, the women wouldn't be put off. And now here I was - I suppose the SIN wasn't all that bad, but to have my back aching from a huge, gross number.... Well, what was the point of it?
My "3" was confirmed when the Arkansas boy was pushed up against me once more - at least he could read numbers, but you can never tell with those country boys of course, and some time later he told me that he'd had a "4" put on him as the guy behind him had told him. So we all guessed we were being numbered from one to eight - what the fuck for, we wondered - after all, we'd all got names, and if they wanted to give us orders or something they could use those, couldn't they? I whispered this to "Sarge", and he turned around as much as he could and added "It's part of making us fell like slaves, Dave. When I did a tour on guard in military prison, they told us we should only call the prisoners 'prisoner' and not use their names at all, to make them realise they were not free and were now totally under our control. I guess it's the same kind of thing: they've shaved our hair, collared us and stuff, put barcodes on us... All to make us think we're no longer men. And now they're marking our bodies like this for two reasons, I reckon: one so that they can easily identify us.... I mean, when you have a group of eight guys like us, all much alike, running around naked, how else can they easily tell us apart? And secondly, I think you'll find they'll only call you 'three' from now on, and you'll never hear them call you 'Dave' or anything like that. It dehumanises you, you see. You're just a number to them now."
The young guy, Steve, came along the line and "watered" us again when all the tattooing was done, and then the waiting-line was opened and under the watchful eyes of the guards we were marched out and across the yard - it was good to see a bit of natural light again, although it did feel funny to be out of doors in the nude like that, with my dick sticking rigidly out in front of me. Especially as the yard was pretty busy, with men and slaves (see... I've started to think of the world as being composed of two kinds of people now, almost unconsciously!) going about their business. No one seemed to give us much of a second glance, though, as it looked as if it was normal for groups of naked guys to be marched around the place!
We were led up to a set of what looked like modified running machines that you see in gyms, and the young guy, Steve, addressed us. "You were all soldiers, and pretty fit, but we need to get you back into tiptop condition before you really start work. For this afternoon, therefore, it's running practice: you don't need to run fast, but it's sustained, medium pace we need from you to enable us to keep to our schedules. So you'll be on these machines all afternoon, and some of you may be familiar with them from your own gyms: they're variable speed, and we've introduced a few variations, like a timer that varies the speed occasionally so sometimes you'll just be walking fast, and at other times you'll jog, and occasionally you'll have to put a little spurt on. The angle changes, too, so a lot of the time you'll be running on the flat, but you'll also be going uphill, too - gentle slopes, mixed in with quite steep hills. We're a pretty flat town here, but like everywhere there are hills that you don't notice in a car or truck, but are very obvious when you're running! And finally, as you'll be 'loaded' when you're working ,we simulate this by harnessing you to these elastic straps, so you'll always be pulling against a load."
"...and one more thing.... Don't think you can slack! We're not going to stand around all afternoon watching you, but you can't escape as you'll be manacled on to the machine. You'd better keep up the pace then, as if you fail, the belt will carry you backwards.... And at the end of the machine it there's a set of very sharp spikes, just at butt height, and believe me, you won't want them stabbing in to you!"
My back was really hurting from the tattoo, and walking hadn't been all that much fun as my skin had stretched and pulled and all the little scars and scabs from the needle had pulled free. I guessed my back was oozing with blood again, like most of the other guys. So I wasn't looking forward particularly to having to run - although it would be good to do a bit of real exercise and use my muscles again, I thought: I like to keep fit, and after some days without real physical exertion yo start to feel frustrated and even depressed, I find. When they came to put me on to my machine, I found it was worse than I thought, though: first, the harness thing was made of elastic, and it hurt my back even more. And then they told me to take off my boots, as "Master Steve" had decided that "his team" were going to work barefooted and that we needed to start toughening up our soles ready for the roads, and that exercising on the rough surface of the running machine would be a good introduction for us.
I hate running barefoot. Well, it's OK if you're on vacation, on a beach or somewhere. But for really serious workouts you need proper foot support, I'd always been told. But now I could feel the rough texture of the belt underneath me as it started quite slowly and "warmed me up" from a walk to a gentle jog.
And they'd always said that just as a guy needs a jockstrap for support when he's working out, so he needs proper trainers or boots to support the foot. Still, we'd found out that you can do without clothes, and so I guess the stuff they talked about proper sports shoes was a load of marketing crap as well - after all, primitive man ran on bare feet, so we'd probably get uses to it. The running was harder, much harder, than I thought - the pull of the elastic around my chest made it much more difficult, and when I relaxed for a moment I almost screamed as the sharp spikes dug into my butt for an instant.
Look, I'm really fit, but after about half an hour I was really sweating and after about an hour my lungs felt as if they were on fire. I'd done all sorts of combinations of walking, jogging, running, and even sprinting for a few seconds, on level ground and up quite steep "hills". I'd long since forgotten the pain from my tattoo as now it was my lungs, and to a lesser extend the muscles in my legs, that were complaining. Sweat was pouring off me, too, and even with the ring holding my dick and balls cinched out from my body I was feeling "uncomfortable" down there as I'm not used to exercising without proper support.
It was worse than being at boot camp, I reckon! There the sergeants and the instructors drove us on and on, right up to the limits of our endurance; here it was the sheer unrelenting motion of the belt that we had to keep running along, and the harsh pain of the spikes at the rear of the thing if we failed! Personally I'd go for the sergeants' swearing at us all the time, given the choice. But at least my time in the forces had taught me that you can endure stuff like this, you can drive your body on if you have to, you can almost "wall off" in your brain the pain and complaints that are coming from your body, providing you focus on just surviving.
We were all totally exhausted when we were finally let off the machines, and we were led back to our overnight cage via the shitters, then had to kneel there as young Steve came along the line of us and cranked our food into our mouths with the feeder thing. It really was pretty humiliating to be made to do this, but what could we all do? We were all naked and the guards had their prods, and that was a pretty powerful argument for doing as we were told - that and the fact that we were all hungry from the work our bodies were doing, and we knew there was no food for us otherwise. I heard Steve asking the older guy, who seemed to be his mentor or something, whether it mightn't be a good idea to feed us more, but I heard him reply "No, most of these men have some excess fat, even though they're pretty fit. It will do them good to get down to a real 'working weight'. And if you have them constantly hungry, they're less likely to be complacent, they're more on edge, and more receptive to commands. You've got to think about the general look of them, too - even big muscled guys look better when the skin is really stretched taut over the bone. The amount we're giving them now is about right, I reckon - but you just need to monitor them and if they're starting to look too skinny, or if they aren't really working as hard as you think they could, then you increase it by a quarter turn of the crank." So that was that!
Most of us jerked off that night, I reckon - I mean, in the barracks you heard the gentle "slap, slap" of your buddies' hands on their dicks most nights, and here it was the same really. Except, of course, that there was absolutely no hiding what we were doing: we were packed in really tight, there were no sheets and blankets to muffle the noise, and you couldn't help but feel the motion of another guy's arm sometimes, however careful he was as he was so close to you. It's funny, really - I mean, everyone knows that guys jerk off if they can't fuck. And especially young, fit guys as we all were. So we all knew we did it, but in the barracks you didn't talk about it, except to make a joke about it sometimes. It was much harder to ignore it now, especially as there was nothing you could do with your cum - no wad of toilet tissue to be disposed of discretely the next morning. You just had to shoot off down into the straw, and then you were always worried that other guys might smell it - or perhaps I as just being too sensitive, as I could certainly smell my own as I lay there, so I thought the others must be able to do so, too. And then there was the thought that as we all shuffled around in the night you might end up lying on a bit of straw that was damp from cum. It all didn't bear thinking about, really, but there wasn't much any of us could do about it as we had to jerk off, didn't we? I mean, a guy can't go for ever without relief, and the alternative, which was to have your dick constantly erect and dripping with pre-cum, and that low ache in your balls all the time, just wasn't worth it.
We fell into what was to be our daily routine the next morning - Steve and Jon came and woke us all up (it was surprising we were all sleeping so soundly, but then the work was exhausting. And I guess the stripped-down existence we had meant that we had no worries about paying the bills and all that sort of shit), and we stood there in the cage trying to ignore each others erections. Then we had to kneel in a line outside the cage in the "approved" position I've told you about before with our knees apart, ankles together, our butts resting on our heels, back straight, hands clasped behind our backs at the top of our butts, and head bowed. Steve came down the line of us then, with the feeder, and then we waited to get the command to rise, about face, and march off to the shitter and the showers. This morning was different, though, as Steve stood there and called out "Now listen up, you men - from now on you are forbidden to have sex without my explicit approval. Sometimes I'll declare that a night is a 'free sex' night, and you can do what you want. But beyond that, if you want any sexual relief at all, you have to ask... And that includes jerking off! I don't want to find that any of you men have given yourself relief without my express permission - I think it's good for men to be in a state of tension most of the time, and so I won't always grant you permission. But it's essential you ask, just as you'd expect to ask your master for any special favours. Of course there will be severe punishment for anyone who disobeys this rule."
He looked up and down the line of us as we knelt there, and asked "Is that clear? Is there anything you don't understand in what I have just told you?"
We saw the guards looking threateningly at us, and chorused, as we'd been taught in the services, "Sir, no, sir."
"Good. I'm pleased you understand. Now, do any of you men want to jerk off now, before you get to work today?"
Hearing the question like that was pretty horrific. I mean, imagine having to ask, in front of your buddies, to be allowed to jerk off! And what happened if someone said "yes" at this point? Surely he wouldn't have to do it as he knelt in the line of us? But where else was there? Still, it didn't happen, as we all sort of mumbled "Sir, no, sir", again.
When they led us out to the exercise machines after that and the sun was full on them and there was a big tub of some sort of sun cream standing there. Some of us went to get a handful and smear it on ourselves - my torso and calves were pretty darkly tanned already, but of course my ass and thighs were pasty white and I was worried about getting sunburn to add to all the other aches and pains I was suffering. But as I dipped into the barrel, Steve shouted "Stay still, all you men! Stand there, and put your arms above your heads, and spread your feet!"
We all stood there for a moment, wondering what the fuck was going to happen, and soon found out: he, Steve, scooped up some of the sun cream and came down the line of us rubbing it into us himself.
Look, you may think that his was a pretty generous thing for him to do, as the sun is fierce down here, but you've got to remember where we needed it most: on our butts and thighs! I'd never had another guy stroke cream into me down there before, and having to keep my hands in the air and my feet spread made me feel very vulnerable indeed. Steve's hand slid over my butt and thighs, and at first that wasn't so bad. But then he became very thorough, and muttered "I need to do inside the crack too, Three" to me as his fingers slipped down between my cheeks. And then, of course, he greased my dick and balls, too. Look, I know it was kind of "medical", as I needed protection.
But even so, having another guy's hand stroking your dick covered in cream is just too much - it's like when you're having a really sensual jerk-of with lube and stuff. I just couldn't help going hard, and Steve muttered "Easy, Three. Easy there, boy!" to me, just as if he was talking to a favourite animal.
It was fucking hard, running away all morning, but at least we were allowed off the machines for a break at lunch time - not that we got any lunch, as it seemed we only got fed twice a day, in the morning and evening. But they slipped a wire rope through the loops on our collars so that we were effectively tethered together and couldn't escape, and let us rest for an hour or so out in the yard. It was quite interesting, I suppose - seeing the trucks arriving and docking at the warehouse building, and wondering what was going on inside there. At least it reminded us that there was still "real life" out there somewhere, a life in which stuff was manufactured, things were shipped and distributed.... But somehow it all seemed to be a long way from being a naked slave huddled together and chained to a group of others. It was almost unreal. It was as if I was in some sort of mad fantasy world where everything I knew was now different.
After the afternoon's exercise, and a visit to the shitter and showers, we were kneeling again to be fed for the evening, and when Steve had finished he stood there and said in a loud voice, so we could all hear clearly ""Do any of you guys want to jerk off tonight?
Now's the time to ask, remembering what you heard me say this morning...."
Out of the corners of my eyes I could see the other guys kind of weighing up what he'd said (as, indeed, was I), and wondering whether they were going to say they wanted to do it. You may think it's easy, but it's not so simple to have to make a request like that in front of all your buddies! We all wanted to jerk off of course, but I've told you that in the forces we all did it but didn't "admit" it, and here we were, having to make a public statement about it. And anyway, when you think about it, its' pretty humiliating, isn't it, to have to ask another guy if you can jerk yourself off? None of us said anything, and when we were finally locked into our cage, Sarge, Two, called us together and said calmly "It's part of their plan, men - part of the way that they're turning us from free men into slaves. Taking charge of our sexuality is just another step down that road from freedom to slavedom.."
"Sarge, can they really do that?" It was the Arkansas farm boy, Four, who'd asked, and Sarge answered him quite tolerantly, really.
"Look, son, I don't know if they've got the right under international law or whatever, but that has never mattered all that much in times of war.... There's always been a pretty lax attitude towards the treatment of prisoners. And I guess that anyway they've changed the laws around here so that the normal stuff doesn't apply - men are treated one way, and slaves another! After all, you can't go around burning a brand into a guy's butt in a normal prison, can you? The Constitution would call that 'cruel and unusual punishment'. So their must be a difference for slaves, right? So if they say we're not allowed to jerk off or anything without permission, I suppose they can..... But we're thinking 'law' here - the Constitution, the Declaration Of Human Rights, that kind of crap they were always going on about in basic training. But now we need to think that at the end of the day it's the guy with the power who can tell the others what to do, and that with their guns and prods they've got the power now. That's always been the way it's been, I guess, especially in wartime."
I lay there in the straw, feeling the heat of another one of my buddies against me, and wondered what the fuck to do. My dick was rock hard and usually I just have to jerk off before I can go to sleep. Several times I reached down and felt my dick, and that only made it worse. I thought about disobeying the order, as it was dark in the cage and I'm sure no-one could see, but then I remembered how it was in basic training: they gave you a whole lot of new orders and instructions about your behaviour, care of your kit, and so on, and then for the next few days they came down really hard on anyone who wasn't doing it properly. It occurred to me that the same things might apply here, and I certainly didn't want to be made an example of, so I lay there, desperately trying to sleep and willing my brain to ignore the sensations from my dick as it brushed against my buddy, and the straw!
Although you think you are never going to get off to sleep, you do eventually, I find. Anyway I was deeply asleep, in some really erotic dream, when I woke up suddenly. The lights were on, and Steve and Jon and some guards were banging on our cage bars, telling us to get to our feet. We all did so, and you know how it is when you rouse a lot of guys in the middle of the night - some snap awake almost immediately, but some stand there looking as if they have no idea where they are or anything. We were rubbing our eyes, scratching our butts, and generally looking confused, when we were told to go out of the cage and kneel in a line.
Steve stood there in front of us then, and sounded really angry. "I told you slaves this morning that there was to be no sex at all without my approval. Two of you slaves have chosen to disobey me, and disobey me on the very day that I issued the order. I will not tolerate such behaviour from my slaves, and I told you that disobedience results in one thing - punishment."
"I was astonished when I went past the guard post this evening on my way home and saw on the TV monitor that right here, in this cage, there were two of you jerking off, in complete defiance of my orders."
He turned to the guard and went on "Keep these slaves under tight control, as Jon and I punish the disobedient ones: any trouble, and you have my usual full permission to prod them, and prod them hard!"
There were a couple of the punishment "horses" standing there, and he and Jon now pulled them forward so that we could all see them clearly. My heart began to pound and I could feel sweat breaking out on me with the tension - although I knew I was not guilty myself, I was worried about my buddies, and what he might do. After all, the last time that horse thing had been used, it was to castrate the ninth one of us.
Surely he wouldn't do that again, would he? Or would he....?
"Right, Two and Four - you deliberately disobeyed me.... Get up, and go and straddle those horses...."
Two glared almost insolently at Steve, as he walked proudly across and lay down on the thing. But Four started "Sir, please... I'm a Southerner, like you, sir, a good Arkansas boy.... Please don't punish me, sir... I was only doing what all young guys do, sir..... "
"Silence!", Steve snapped. "We've been through all this before. You are not a Southerner any longer, and especially not a Southerner 'like me'. You forfeited that right when you took part in the illegal invasion of us by the Northern army. You are a slave, and I want to hear no more of this nonsense. Now, get on the horse, before I decide to punish you more...."
What a whining coward, I thought to myself. After all, he must have known he was guilty, and what's the point of begging and pleading with the enemy?
We watched as the two men were strapped on to the horses, and then Steve walked up and down in front of us waving a cane in the air. "This is a punishment cane", he told us. "Sometimes a tingle from the slave prod is not sufficient to get the message over to you slaves. A cane across your butt will provide a more lasting reminder of the need to obey. The cane has the advantage that it stings when it strikes, and then that mellows to an ache that lasts for hours, as a constant reminder to you of your disobedience. And you carry the mark of shame around with you for a long time, too - the lasting stripe from the stroke that will show other men that you are disobedient and wilful."
He swished the thing, which was about three feet long, around in the air, and then positioned himself to the side of Two. It was almost beyond belief when the next down stroke of the cane landed on Two's butt! We saw his whole body jerk with the surprise and pain, and Two gave a great shout of rage and pain - I'm sure he didn't want to cry out like that, but it was completely involuntary. Three more strokes landed on Two, each accompanied by a similar reaction from him, and as we knelt there we could see the bight red marks it left of it on Two's butt. I found it hard to credit that one man could beat another in cold blood like that - if you're fighting, or on the battlefield, some physical "damage" of other guys is inevitable. But it's a far cry from that and having one man deliberately and carefully cause physical pain to another. Steve moved to stand next to Four then, and he started to whine once more. "Please, sir, please don't, sir.... Please don't punish me.... I'm a Southerner, sir...."
It made no difference, though, and four strokes went onto Four, accompanied by screams of terror this time.
That Four really was a wimp : Two had cried in a manly way, with the shock of the pain. But Two was whimpering and crying like a real coward. And when it was over, there was silence, except for actual sobbing from Four. It's not right, is it - I mean, we were all soldiers, tough guys. And guys don't sob in public, not from just a bit of pain! There's just no excuse for a man not behaving like one.
Steve prowled up and down, looking at us as we knelt there, and then had a whispered conversation with Jon, which we couldn't hear. He seemed to be a bit doubtful about what Jon was saying , but then he evidently made up his mind, as he addressed us all again. "These two slaves are so desperate for sex that they defied my orders. Well, I need sex, too, and so does Jon. As these two slaves are so conveniently accessible now....."
As we watched, Steve walked over and stood there behind Sarge, Two. At first I couldn't believe it - he began to fumble with his belt, and then dropped his jeans to the floor, followed by his boxers. He had a nicely muscled ass for an eighteen year old and I suppose I'd never thought about things like that before, but Steve must take care of his body and work out, I thought. But then he shuffled forward, and Sarge started to shout "NO!, No.... Please...."
We watched with a mixture of fascination and horror as Steve's hips thrust forward, and we knew he must be forcing his way into Sarge. Then, with Sarge still gasping and crying "No, no, no....", Steve went into classical "fucking" mode, his butt heaving in and out and his thighs straining to drive them. Look, I don't want you to think I'm a fag - I mean, when I've watched porn in the past I've seen a guys' butt of course as he powers his dick into a woman and it's kind of interesting to watch "intellectually" so you can compare how other guys do it with how you do it yourself (not that you can see yourself fucking, unless there's a big mirror on the wall, and I think that's a bit kinky). So I suppose I stared at Steve's butt as he powered away in a kind of "scientific" way - was this muscled young butt better or worse than others I'd seen? And did it make a difference that he was fucking a guy, rather than a woman?
Well I suppose you don't expect a young guy to take a long time to cum, do you? And Steve was no exception: almost as soon as he'd started, it was over and he was standing there between Sarge's legs, regaining his breath. Then he pulled back, and fumbled to drag his boxers and jeans back up his legs. He turned then and stood there doing up his fly buttons and his belt, looking smug and satisfied as he saw the look of horror on our faces.
"You men had better understand that a slave is always available for his master's use", to told us. "Two here is a pretty good fuck, I can tell you.... Nice and tight.... He might even have been a virgin. So I expect that once you all get used to it I'll be getting lots of requests from you other guys to use him.... Or perhaps he'll be asking me if he can fuck one of you...."
"I'm not a fag, sir!", one of the guys at the end of the line called out.
"What you mean, slave, is that no one has yet been up that ass of yours. But that will change - all of you slaves are available for my pleasure, and your views on the subject are not relevant. As and when I choose to use you, I will."
He looked around then and said something to Jon, and Jon now went and stood behind Four.
Four screamed and cried a lot more than Two, and it went on for a lot longer as Jon clearly wasn't operating on such a hair trigger as Steve had been.
When we were all locked back I nhe cage most of the others ignored Two and Four, as if they were somehow embarrassed or ashamed at what had happened: it wasn't their fault, after all.
I sidled up to Two and tried to say I was sorry for what had happened to him, but he was tight-lipped and jsut muttered back "Dave, we're slaves. You've probably seen the ultimate demonstration of that."
End Of Part Three