FALSELY ENSLAVED
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Seven
Sam and I fell about laughing at the excitement of doing something "different", and it worked through into our lovemaking, too, which was totally passionate and utterly debauched. We made so much noise as our bodies thrashed around and we shouted and cried out to each other that my valet scurried in, and Sam even suggested that I should fuck the kid as he watched "to improve my technique" - Sam was going to advise me. Well, I was laughing so much that I ignored the implied criticism of me as an owner and my sexual prowess, and said that Sam should fuck him, and that I'd fuck Sam at the same time: I don't know if you've ever tried this, but it's much more difficult than it looks to get the guy in the middle of the sandwich - Sam - to synchronise his fucking properly with getting fucked. Still, it was a lot of fun, and the valet enjoyed it, too (you may remember that all my servants seemed to prefer taking dick rather than giving it. And it's not because I consciously avoided buying Christians, who, I recall, seem to think that it's better to give than to receive.) Afterwards, we dismissed the kid and Sam lay there sprawled out, utterly happy and with a silly grin on his face, and his gorgeous body covered in sweat. I lay next to him, but had work to do: I had to all my lawyer, who I used for all sorts of odd tasks, albeit at a price, to ask him to investigate and to find out where young Brett was to appear as a sale item.
To tell you the truth, I did rather feel sorry for Brett when I went to view him at the auctioneer's the day before he was due to be sold. He was considered rather "rare and unusual", and so had been put up for auction rather than just being sold through a dealer, as it was considered that for an educated whitey with a good body and handsome features, there were so many possibilities for his future that bidding for him would be fierce and more profit would ensue.
I did my inspection of him rather surreptitiously, as I didn't want him to see that I might even be a potential purchaser - not that I think he'd have noticed, even if I'd gone up to him and felt his balls, as his eyes seemed to be constantly filled with tears at his shame and humiliation. He was of course naked, and they had already fitted one of those heavy iron collars to him whose weight seemed to be making his head bowed - or perhaps he was trying to avoid the direct gaze of the potential customers for him. His wrists were cuffed behind his neck, with the cuffs clipped to his collar so he could not move them and certainly could not put his hands down to even attempt to hide his nakedness. An unnecessarily robust chain led from a cuff around his right ankle to a tethering point in the floor - I'm sure these places do that just for the effect, as there's no way a naked, cuffed slave is going to be able to make a run for it through the throngs of prospective purchasers, is there?
They hadn't branded him, as I imagine that they thought his new owner would want to select the sight of the big "S" for himself (or, of course, might well wish to wield the branding iron personally). My inspection of his rear also showed me dimples at the base of his spine - always exciting, I think - and his backbone stood out prominently from his tight skin, showing that Brett was not carrying excess flesh of any kind. I felt my cock beginning to stir as I hadn't seen him naked, of course, and hadn't appreciated just what an erotic sight his slim, almost boyish, body could be. Still, I expect that for most of his life he'd had access to the best gyms and pools, and almost certainly had had a personal slave to exercise with and act as a trainer for him. I remembered, too, that he had a love of fine clothes, and so was probably incented to stay lean and slim to show them to their best advantage.
They'd trimmed his unruly mop of long blond hair down to a standard salve crop as was customary with most slaves, and he'd had his pits and chest trimmed down to almost the minimum. His balls were of course completely shaved, but his pubes had been left, but reduced to a kind of "bar" about three inches long and an inch high just above his dick - I supposed they wanted to suggest that most owners might keep such a smooth-skinned young man shaved totally. On the other hand, it was so relatively rare to have a pure-bred whitey offered for sale, especially one with such startlingly blond hair. So they didn't want to take it all out in case some potential owners lacked the imagination to think what their new slave boy might look like with golden pubes, so this was perhaps a reasonable compromise. It's also relatively more difficult to bleach all a slave's pubes, and so perhaps they were also subtly pointing to the fact that Brett was indeed a "natural" blond.
He was displayed along with several other "specially selected material" - a pair of what looked like twins (although you can never be sure without a DNA test, as the vets and farriers can do a lot to make men look alike), a big, high breasted Australian bitch, a nigga with one of the biggest dicks I'd ever seen who had a discrete label on him saying that he might be used as a punishment instrument for an owner with many other slaves, and so on. Each was special and stunning in his own way. I suppose Brett was attracting so much attention not so much because of his "provenance" - which, anyway, the auctioneer would probably want to suppress as a slave who was into gambling and fast living might be a liability rather than an asset - but because even in this stunning crowd he still stood out. I've mentioned his smooth skin and blond hair, but it was his fine features, his long legs, small but interesting nipples, neatly turned belly button, and long, slender thighs that, in combination, screamed "sex" at you. Perhaps the only feature that was, to my mind at any rate, less than perfect was his dick and balls: I really do prefer loose, low-hanging balls that swing in their sac and hang down beyond the end of the dick. But Brett typified the other approach: his sac was adequately large, but almost spherical and held close to the body, and the dick kind of "rode" on top of that, looking almost as if he had been loosely cinched. It was perhaps a little on the short side, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought that, like most men, he might have shrivelled up a little at being so publicly exposed. I did my best to peer at his toes as I went past, trying not to attract his attention: I prefer a man's toes to be long and perfectly formed, without corns or callouses caused by ill-fitting shoes, and in some ways I think you can read parts of the character from them: long toes, I've found, imply dynamite sex!
I thought of calling over one of the salesmen and having him erected, or even masturbated, but someone got in before me. As a young nigga knelt between his legs and began to suck him, then stroke him, Brett's eyes misted over even more with tears at the humiliation he was undergoing. My heart went out to him, actually, as I knew only too well how his life had now changed, from my own experience; and the trauma he must be going through to have a nigga doing this to him - well in public, anyway, as I didn't doubt that Brett had routinely used niggas for his sexual relief previously. I assume he had been too worried by life in the processing centre to have jerked off for a few days, as when the slave did bring him to climax the initial spurt went several feet, meriting polite applause from the potential buyers.
There was a buzz of excitement later in the afternoon when the auctioneer moved on from selling off the normal run-of-the-mill stock and began on the higher quality slaves. I'd had a reasonable lunch in the restaurant that was part of the auction complex - it was a big place, being a regional centre, covering many acres with the display halls, the stock holding pens, and the workshops for performing all the necessary ancillary services such as collaring, and the surgical procedures that some owners of new slaves might find it more convenient to have done before taking final delivery. As you might expect, there were the fast food joints and cafeterias for the poor, but they had thoughtfully provided a "silver service" restaurant for the more discerning patrons, with prices very much elevated. I did wonder as I ate my meal whether the serving slave dedicated to me was trying to get me drunk, as even though I had not ordered a bottle of wine he came with a glass of fine Bordeaux with the restaurant's compliments. And when I'd drunk it, and they clearly had an excellent sommelier as it was pure nectar, he tried to ply me with another: presumably bidders with a lot of alcohol inside them have their judgement clouded somewhat, and their wallets loosened!
The big TV screens on the walls were the only jarring note that suggested we were not in fact in a "proper" restaurant, as one showed the current auction in progress, another marked off the prices being bid I different currencies for the convenience of foreign buyers, and a third showed a projected timetable for when numbered lots would be coming up, together with a suggestion of how long it might take to get to the auction hall itself. There were in fact telephones on the tables so I could, if I wish, place a bid to one of the bank of slaves manning the phones in the hall itself, but I decided I rather liked the atmosphere and thought I would attend in person - well, it's a great atmosphere as a buyer, of course; as an object being sold, it was a lot less happy I imagine!
Having registered my interest in making a "premium purchase" and showing credentials to indicate I could certainly afford to do so (if my clothes and my elegant very thin gold watch had not already revealed that), a slave led me to a seat in one of the front rows of the hall. These sales do of course attract many, many of the idly curious and those who deliberately come to gawk at the fine bodies on display, and the auctioneers had wisely decided that real potential customers should have the best view. It was mildly interesting for me to see the other slaves coming up for sale as it gave me an indication of how the room was "working" that day, and whether there were many bids being placed on behalf of dealers for subsequent resale of the slaves. I soon realised that the crowd was in a buoyant mood, and knew that if I was determined to buy Brett, a very high price would need to be paid. On the other hand, I reasoned, what else did I have to spend my money on? I lived simply, very simply, at the lake house with a very small number of relatively inexpensive slaves and did not have the astronomical expense of maintaining a huge establishment with slaves for ever conceivable task - I know it's often considered that slaves are a "cheap" option compared to employing free men, and indeed they are; but after you've paid vet's bills, bought slave chow, and paid the local and state taxes that were levied on the keeping of slaves, let alone the loss of interest on the capital tied up in them, it was still quite costly. I decided to relax, enjoy myself, and acquire Brett whatever the cost - Sam and I needed a new interest in our lives.
When Brett was eventually led out to the brightly-lit stage in front of us, he was so reluctant to expose himself to the large audience that the guard slapped him hard on his butt to encourage him to move - the sound of the man's bare hand striking Brett's ass caused a ripple of amusement to go through the hall, as the auctioneer's voice boomed out over the PA system saying "Now, ladies and gentlemen, an exceptional whitey here: young and virginal looking, and shy, as we can see! Think of the fun you'll have training a boy, or should I more correctly say young man, like this. Twenty three years old, college educated at one of our finest institutions, certified to be in excellent health, and, as you can see, a natural blond. He's been put with bitches prior to the auction and appears to know what do...." - another ripple of amusement went around the hall - "...and he is believed to be an anal virgin as he showed no interest in the male slaves he was put with, although this is not certified and does not form part of the formal particulars of sale."
I felt rather sorry for Brett, actually - he was standing there trying to turn away from the audience so as not to expose his dick, and every time he got half turned, the auctioneer's assistant used a short stick to prod at him and make him turn back. His dick seemed to have shrivelled right up to almost nothing (large TV screens showed close-ups of interesting features like this: his dick, his face, his butt all were in huge, glorious colour all over the hall). The auctioneer noticed Brett's lack of "virility" and went on "Well, ladies and gentlemen, clearly an important item - for your stud, or for your bedroom - or should I say boudoir, as a young buck like this with such a slim body will be sure to appeal to the ladies! However I see that his shyness is resulting in the property not being displayed to the best advantage....." As I watched the big screen nearest to me, a black hand came out and began to stroke Brett's dick - turning my attention to the stage, I noticed a young nigga who had been crouching in the wings was actively stimulating Brett, and was presumably kept there for just such a purpose.
Once Brett's dick was at full erection and the nigga lad had expertly teased his 'skin back to that Brett's deliciously moist dick head was revealed to us all on the screens, the auctioneer remarked "There, ladies and gentlemen: it's rare to see a whitey buck like this one with such an agreeable body... So I'll start the bidding at two hundred thousand new dollars."
Auction crowds are much the same whether it's furniture, fine wines, property, or slaves that are being auctioned, I suppose. No one would open the bidding, and so the auctioneer tried again opening at one hundred and fifty, and then the bidding spiralled upwards with startling rapidity to three hundred and fifty thousand. I was at the point of giving up, as even though I'd resolved to buy him, the price was now, frankly, ludicrous: I could have had a coffle of field slaves, for far less! I could see my opponent across the gangway from me - a swarthy Arab in traditional costume, and I wondered what Brett's life would be like if he was bought by that man and exported to Arabia. Still, if anyone else bought him, especially if they were interested in his supposed college education, Brett might not have been in for a very good time anyway - I doubted that anyone would want a slave educated in debauchery and the high life, rather than in business studies, or economics.
I suspected that the Arab might be buying "on commission", though, as he seemed to be speaking into a mobile phone. Evidently he did not succeed in convincing his principal that it was worth paying a much higher price, and he finally dropped out and I had Brett for just a shade under four hundred thousand - although the buyer's premium to the auction house, and the state and city sales taxes, would push that way, way up.
They'd given me a little paddle thing with my buyer's number on it when I'd registered, and I held it up and the auctioneer said "Number eight six six", and the same young nigga who had brought Brett to erection now wrote that on his chest, and his butt, with a "magic marker". Brett was led off by the handler, and the next slave was ushered in, and that was that - he was mine!
I went down to the collections area later, but decided to still keep my identity incognito. It was controlled mayhem down there, with the sold slaves neatly penned in small stand-up cages, and buyers lining up to pay for their purchases. The handsome assistant who dealt with me (in the area marked "Premium Purchases ONLY") seemed surprised that such a young man as me could afford so much, and he spent a lot of time with me after he'd contacted my bank and we'd made the transfer, going through the optional facilities and services a that the place offered. We joked when he began with gelding, as of course no one would lightly destroy so much potential value by having such an expensive slave's balls removed, but he did suggest a vasectomy "in case, sir, you have a wife or a daughter at potential risk?" I did think about that, as I'd heard that a vasectomised man gets bigger balls as there's nowhere for the sperm to go, but decided against it as I did in fact plan to stud Brett. Likewise I turned down the option of circumcision, even though the assistant remarked that it was very unusual for a slave not to be 'skinned - I had my own thoughts about that! The range of rings, collars, studs and other body accessories was interesting, but I'd planned to emphasise Brett's innocent good looks by keeping him mostly unadorned, and although I did plan to have him branded and tattooed, I wanted more time to think about these things (branding is of course compulsory, but an owner has four weeks to get it done and the slave's SIN registered if the slave is new), so there was no particular hurry. I felt a bit sorry for the assistant, actually, as I suspected he got a commission on these "extras". By way of compensation I asked him if he was interested in going out to dinner that evening, and he blushed slightly and said that with no disrespect to me, he was straight. This was the first time that anyone else had ever taken such an innocent invitation from me as a possible seduction move - perhaps it was the fact that I had been showing an interest in his nicely muscled arms as he worked the PC that alerted him to my real purpose!
It was very tempting to go and view Brett immediately, but still I decided to keep his new owner a secret from him for a little while longer - let him suffer the agony of suspense, as he worried whether he'd been bought by some old hag, or an Arab for export, or even by one of the South American mafia. I looked down from the balcony where I was standing, though, and could see him gripping the bars of his cage and eagerly scanning the faces of the buyers arriving, perhaps in the hope of finding a friendly face - perhaps he harboured a vague hope that one of his father's ex-colleagues might, even now, have come to his rescue.
Having arranged for him to be shipped by UPS - I thought it would be good for him to see the conditions I'd been transported in - I took a taxi to the station and was fortunate enough to catch an earlier train than I had intended.
It took them two days to deliver him to me. I sent Sam, "respectably" dressed in normal freeman's shorts and a crisp white shirt, rather than his usual slave shorts, or totally bare skin, down to deal with the paperwork, considering, rightly as it happened, that Brett would consider a nigga in free man's clothes could not possibly have been his pony, Sam. I watched from the veranda as Brett stood there, blinking in the strong sunlight. I was vaguely amused to see that his embarrassment at standing there in the open air totally nude was made worse by the fact that on the journey he'd clearly soiled himself, as I could see streaks of shit down his legs. He must have had a most unpleasant time in the slave transporter.
Sam called to the gardener and my valet to come over and clean Brett down and "make him at least half-way presentable for the master". I know, of course, how unpleasant it is to be washed down with a hose, as even on the hottest day the flow of icy water soon chills you. Brett tried to resist my valet, who didn't mind the shit on Brett (well, even guys who are careful about these things sometimes have a bit clinging in the deep recesses of our asses, don't we, especially if we're very hairy, as I am? And my valet was of course used to this when he assisted me with my shower). The big Russian gardener therefore joined in, grabbing Brett by the arm, and then giving him a couple of huge, hard slaps on his butt until Brett had clamed down. Valet and gardener then worked away giving him an initial thorough wash, and finally the gardener picked up Brett bodily, cradling him in his arms, carried him over to the ornamental pool which graces the terrace, and unceremoniously dropped him! Everyone laughed to see Brett there in the water, spluttering and gasping form his unexpected "baptism" - I suppose his heavy collar had dragged his head down and held it under for longer than you would think.
They helped him out of the pool, gave him a quick hosing down again to get the odd trace of pond weed off him, and then the gardener stood by him, ready to administer more slaps if Brett moved, as he dried off in the hot sun. I sipped my morning coffee leisurely as I was in no hurry as I wanted him to be hot and a little sweaty on our first meeting, and Sam joined me - now comfortably naked, and we sat and chatted excitedly. I did envy Sam a bit for being able to strip off like that - although I've nothing to be ashamed of with my body which was still fit and hard, I had to remain clothed in case of an unexpected visit from a neighbour; or perhaps it was because my own slaves would have been scandalised to see a master cavorting around naked outdoors - there is a certain responsibility associated with being an owner, after all.
After waiting for about thirty minutes, by which time I was beginning to be concerned that the strip of pure white around Brett's loins might be getting burned (and he was a considerable investment for me, as you know, and I didn't want to risk damage), I got up and went down the steps towards him. I felt supremely confident in my well-cut khaki shorts and pale blue sea-island cotton shirt, and as I emerged from the shadow and Brett got his first sight of me, he ran forward, flung his arms around me, and almost sobbed "Oh Steve, am I glad to see you! Thank Christ something's happened to dad's case and he's sent you to rescue me... The conditions I was brought here in were revolting - they shouldn't treat men like that.. And I want you to have this brute punished", he said, indicating the gardener, "As he dared to touch me and even slapped me...."
"Don't speak to me like that, Brett..."
"You fucking slave, I'll speak to you as I like, and I reckon it's time you had a good whipping, as you were uppity as a pony. And get those clothes off, and hand them over...."
"Brett, you're a slave. I bought you. And do you remember how a slave speaks to a free man?"
"Cut the crap, you fucker! It's definitely a whipping for you now...."
I looked at my big, burly gardener, who seemed faintly horrified that a slave might be acting like this. In the tone I used forgiving him orders about digging the vegetable plot, or scheduling a cut of the grass, I said quietly "I think the sun has got to this slave! Please pick him up and drop him in the pond again to cool off. Then get him out, take him over to the bench over there, put him across your knee and spank his butt for me - I want to see it really red: at least twelve blows, and more if you're enjoying it and it isn't hurting your hand too much...."
Well, if I laughed the first time Brett's head came up spluttering from the water, it was so much funnier a second time - especially as when the gardener picked him up this time, he wriggled and squirmed and beat impotently at the Russian's broad back. And, surprisingly perhaps, as the Russian liked to be submissive during sex, he did a remarkably good job of tanning Brett's hide: I did call it off, even though he was clearly not tiring, when I'd counted twenty strokes. The Russian looked worried, and as he stood there holding solidly to a sobbing Brett's arm: he gestured for permission to speak, and then muttered "Sir, I'm sorry... I'm not tired... My hand does hurt, sir, but you are my master, and I will gladly carry on beating this ungrateful slave, sir... You're such a good master, I'd do anything to serve you..."
I wasn't sure about whether it was his desire to serve me or whether he'd found it unexpectedly erotic, as his dick was jutting out proud and hard (and I could imagine the feeling of Brett's naked body wriggling around on top of it as he sat there administering the punishment). I made a mental note to take a careful look at the butts of my valet and chef later in the week, to make sure the gardener hadn't developed an unhealthy interest in spanking other guys. It's things like that you tend to forget about owning slaves - you do have to keep an eye on them, and it's not all pleasure.
You may think me cruel to have treated Brett like this, but you have to remember that it was mostly humiliation for him, and a spanking, even a very hard one as my gardener had administered, only hurts for a day or so. He was very lucky, knowing that he was a slave and the kind of behaviour expected of slaves, that I hadn't taken a very severe view indeed of his behaviour. Many owners do, after all, cane a slave for failing to use "sir". And to actually swear at an owner - well, he could have been carted off to the SP and then who knows what might have happened to him. I think I was right to emphasise in this very physical way to him that his status had irrevocably changed: he must have understood it intellectually, but as we know, sometimes the body has to learn these things, too.
After this initial show of my power over him, I expect you can imagine what I was thinking of doing to him next - the ritual taking of his cherry. Well, not exactly next, as I decided I wanted Brett to feel a little more "free" as a precursor to making his final fall all the more severe. So I told Sam and the gardener to take him over to the barn, where there was a little workshop previously used for the maintenance of farm machinery, and use a diamond blade to saw off the hideous iron collar: Yes, I know it's the law to have all slaves collared, but I intended Brett to be fitted with a small, slim ankle cuff, as Sam wore, so that to the untutored eye he'd look more "naked". I thought the risk of being found with an uncollared slave for a day or so on my very remote farm was an acceptable one, especially a it was only the local police who would be likely to find out, and their Chief in the town owed me several significant favours.
Although I told them to be extremely careful and not burn his neck with the sparks from the cutter, I was very annoyed to see several marks on Brett's skin, particularly the top of his shoulders, when they brought him back. I started to tear Sam off a strip, until he pointed out that they were chafing marks: what on earth was that auctioneer doing giving a prime slave like this one such a roughly-finished collar that it was actually doing damage? I resolved to write and complain, and demand compensation for "damaged goods".
had thought that we might immediately move forward to the next step in the conversion of Brett into a proper slave, but it was a warm day and fucking's strenuous work (especially when done by me!), so I decided I'd postpone his cherry ceremony until the cool of the evening. That would also give me another few hours with my excitement at fever pitch contemplating the violation of his ass for the first time: every time I'd thought about it in the last week or so I'd had an unbelievable erection (and, indeed, I was now "tenting" my shorts very visibly); but now I'd actually seen Brett's naked body, the anticipation was even greater.
I told the gardener to take Brett over to the barn - not the slave house, as I did not want him kept in too much comfort - and to chain him securely to one of the hitching posts as the guy was not yet properly "broken" and might decide to do something stupid like try to run away. "I'll see you later, Brett", I told him cheerfully. "Of course a gentleman would not fuck a pony, I remember you saying before you had some Sam ravish me for the first time. But things are different here: I'm not a 'southern gentleman' as you are - I mean were - I'm a dammed Yankee. And you're not a pony, just n ordinary slave, so your ass is available. Or do I mean that you're not yet a pony? Any way, no matter - get some rest in the barn, if you can, as we're in for a lovely long night with both Sam and me needing to take you."
"Sir, please, no....", he began to whine.
I was encouraged that he'd started to use "sir", anyway. "Listen, slave, if you can give me one good reason why not, then I won't take your cherry. Otherwise....."
Brett stammered "Sir, it's wrong for a guy to fuck another against his will. It's rape, sir, and it's wrong."
"Is that your only reason, slave? The only one you can come up with?"
He nodded, and I laughed. "You're exactly right, of course. If I went and raped my neighbour Dave, or his wife, of course it would be wrong and I'd probably be enslaved, but legally this time. However our situation is different.... Can you spot how?"
"No, sir."
I laughed again. "Well, Brett, the truth is, you see, that you're a slave. And what's more, you're my slave. You're my property. I own you, totally. I own every part of you. I can decide to do with you whatever I wish (except kill you, and some of the grosser forms of mutilation, where I need to apply to the Courts first). And I wish to fuck that cute ass of yours, Brett. And as I want to do it, and as I own you, then I will."
"Sir, please, no... I'll give you anything...."
"I asked you for a reason, slave, and your reply was plain stupid. And now you're promising to 'give me anything...': has it occurred to you, Brett, that you haven't got anything to give me? Except your total and complete loyalty and obedience, that it is - and I expect that as a right from any slave. So you have nothing. No bargaining chips. Nothing. That's what being a slave is, Brett - get used to it."
With that I signalled to the gardener to take him away to the barn, and Brett started to struggle and shout. "If the new slave causes you too much trouble, go via the pond", I called to the gardener, and he gave a great grin and went to scoop Brett up into his massive arms again. It was gratifying to see how Brett's resistance failed then and he went quietly - this slave training isn't nearly as complicated as folk make out.
We had an early dinner. I was so excited about what was going to happen afterwards, and therefore only had a single glass of a rather good Puligny Montrachet, offering one to Sam, too, who declined (perhaps fortunately: this was so expensive, and Sam lacked the refinement to enjoy it properly, preferring beer with his meal). I told the valet who was serving us to tell the chef to be sure to use a wine preserver and keep it safe, as I expected to drink it again tomorrow, and that he'd be caned if he even as much dared take a sip. We ate on in silence, but there seemed to be something wrong with Sam as he was mood and almost petulant, answering my questions monosyllabically.
"So what's up with you tonight, then?", I finally asked, and when he said "Nothing", I snapped "Cut the crap and tell me now, or else get over to the slave house as I don't want to see your miserable face spoiling my evening: this is going to be fun, with Brett..."
"It's all right for you, Steve, but I know what's going to happen. You'll take his ass first, and then I'll be left with sloppy seconds...."
"So? Someone has to go first. And I am his owner, after all."
"I thought you were going to say 'and you're only a slave like him', or some such", Sam almost spat out.
"Hey, buddy.... That's true, of course. You are a slave, like him. Well, not like him exactly, as you and me have gone through a lot together. And I never treat you 'just like a slave', do I? Just a few minutes ago I offered you a glass of my superb wine that costs the average weekly wage for a bottle.... Is that treating you like a slave?"
"You make me pick up your clothes and put them in the laundry basket...."
"...which is what any buddy would do! I'd pick up yours, if you actually wore any most of the time."
"...and you made me run naked through the town!"
"You're being childish now, Sam! We've been through all that before, and I explained why we had to do it. And you've done it lots of times before, as have I, when we were Brett's ponies - there's no shame in an owner choosing to show off a magnificent slave like you, and you ought to be pleased that I'm so proud of you."
"...and then there's the fucking! You're always up my ass now...."
"Because you've lost the knack of winning, Sam! Do you remember all those nights, lots of them, when you fucked me and fucked me, because you beat me at wrestling? Well, perhaps I got smarter, or perhaps your age is beginning to tell - you are five years older than me, and when we began, that was a real advantage for you in terms of experience and everything. But perhaps time is starting to tell...."
"It's not fair, Steve. We went through all Brett's crap together, and now you're going to have first bite of his cherry. If there was any justice, we'd toss a coin for it or something as you don't automatically deserve to go first."
I felt like telling him the way of the world! It is not "fair" and there is no "justice". Power goes to the powerful, in this case me. But I didn't want to upset Sam on this special night, as I needed him to help me enjoy myself with Brett. "No, tossing a coin's too much of a game of chance...."
"So let's have a real contest, Steve. Let's wrestle, and the winner gets to fuck Brett first. We'll see who's the best when the chips are down, and see whether are and experience triumph..."
I stood up and we went from the dining room into the living room where there's a big clear space in the middle. Two big guys like us need a lot of room to wrestle, and the only problem in using the living room like this is that it an be awfully difficult to clean all the cum and stuff off the carpets afterwards. I stood there and stripped naked, as did Sam (who was only wearing slave shorts anyway). It was a good fight, one of the best we'd ever had as we were both so passionate about winning. Several times I got a finger in one of Sam's tit rings and could have reduced him to a helpless jelly quite quickly, but I deliberately didn't. So it wasn't long before Sam had me in one of those fiendish holds he knows from which there's no escape, and as he stretched my body in all the wrong directions, I finally had to shout that I gave in.
Sam was leaking pre-cum as he helped me up and pushed me over the arm of one of the couches, then, grunting with excitement and pleasure, he fucked me so hard that I could hear myself crying "fuck, no, fuck, no, fuck, no, Jesus, please stop....." in time to his thrusts. He came so quickly, and then we lay next together, enjoying the intimate contact of our sweaty bodies and the feeling of our panting breaths.
Sam grinned at me. "So, Steve, it's you who get the sloppy seconds?"
I smiled back, and teased his left nip a bit, causing him to moan as he's always extra sensitive after sex. "Well, not necessarily, Sam.... You see I'm going to have Brett brought over now form the barn, and I doubt that after that epic fuck you'll be able to get it up again immediately.... You know what they say, old buddy - or perhaps they don't teach you this in the marines now - you won the battle, but you've lost the war!"
He threw back his lovely head and laughed, and I took the opportunity at biting into his exposed shoulder as he did. Then he looked at me, and smiled, and I knew it would be all right. "Is this a trick that slave training manual I've seen you reading taught you?"
"Oh, perhaps. That, and a few other interesting things to do with a slave in bed, that we might try...."
We got up off the floor, then sat on one of the couches kissing and cuddling and generally enjoying each other, as I rang the bell and told them to fetch Brett over to me.
End Of Part Seven