FALSELY ENSLAVED
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Nine
Sam had used some of Brett's "spare" time during the previous week to make him really polish and clean the trap that we'd found in the barn, so all was ready for our first trip.
I told Brett that I didn't expect him to know the way to the barber shop initially, but this would be his first and only "learning" of this route. Sam was surprised when I didn't snap the cuffs shut on Brett's wrists once he was between the shafts, and told me I was courting trouble. "Look, Sam, I wanted this pony totally "natural", remember? His slim ankle bracelet is almost invisible, and we hid his brand, and his SIN is only visible when you look at him from behind - and soon, when his hair gets a bit longer, it won't usually be visible at all. It would totally spoil the effect to have him cuffed into the shafts - it would suggest that it isn't 'natural' for him, that he is in some way being forced, rather than doing it as a proper, totally trained, pony."
Sam shrugged, but as we set off I could see that he was worried about Brett's behaviour as I could see Sam loping along behind the trap, as ever looking after my interests.
We did indeed cause a sensation in the town! There were not a lot of ponies in use anyway there - most people were either so far out that they needed to drive in, in their beaten-up pickups, or cycled, like me. And those ponies that there were the "traditional" niggas: there wasn't a lot of money around, and very, very few whiteys at all therefore. Those there were occupied the "professional" slots in the town's social structure, acting as doctors, lawyers and the like: so many men in those professions ran up large debts that there were a lot of them enslaved, they were bought by large rental companies, and towns like ours then found it convenient to hire these people rather than pay salaries to free men. So using a whitey for something utterly degrading and "physical", like a pony, was so unusual that it almost had the power to shock local public opinion.
Then, too, Brett looked so little like a slave that some folk might have thought that he was a college student running naked through the town as some sort of prank, rather than being driven to it, by me. I gave him concise instructions to the barber shop, and then told him to wait - again, there was a ripple of sensation from the passers-by who had now stopped to idly gawk at us: it was "traditional" to tie your nigga to the hitching rail, and he was anyway cuffed to the trap: Brett, on the other hand, was apparently "free" to move if he wanted to, even to run away, but instead stood there, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. By the time I'd finished quite a crowd had gathered - in our small town anything "new" is so worthy of comment and is bound to cause excitement. Poor Brett was looking utterly forlorn and humiliated as he stood there, totally exposed, for all those people to see, people who, a few months before, he would have considered so far beneath him as society measures these things that they would have hardly have been worth his notice. But I could see that I'd got a whole lot of new respect from some of the folk who only shortly before were calling me a "Damned Yankee":
anyone who could so totally master and dominate a slave to such an extent must clearly be deserving of their respect and admiration.
I saw Sam lurking across the street, though, acting properly as a nigga slave should and not occupying the shady areas which were the privilege of free folk. Although he was magnificent in his own right, he hardly attracted a second glance form the majority of the town's inhabitants as he was a nigga dressed only in small slave shorts, and therefore hardly unusual in our neck of the woods.
Climbing onto my seat on the trap I snapped "Home, fast trot", to Brett, and this was the only instruction I needed to give him of course. It's slightly uphill from town to my place, and as you'd expect Brett started to flag a little with the much greater effort required to pull the weight of the trap and me up an incline. He'd run so well to the town, behaved so perfectly when we were there, and I knew from bitter experience how much more difficult "uphill", even slightly, that I was inclined to let it go this time. But Sam caught up with me, took the whip from the holster, and gave Brett a couple of firm strokes on his butt to "encourage" him to the correct pace.
It would have been very wrong of me to quarrel with Sam about this with Brett listening, but Sam saw my look of faint disapproval, and as he ran along beside me, said casually "The pony needs encouraging to maintain the proper pace, Steve. It's not good for him to think he can get away with 'slacking', especially after such a short trip this morning: it's a kindness, really, to whip him now so that his lessons are reinforced, rather than perhaps setting an unfortunate pattern that might require really severe beatings to get rid of later."
Sam was right, of course, and I nodded. And when I got back home, and Brett stood there in the proper position in spite of clearly being severely winded, I had to be amazed at how well Sam's training had taken hold. I went and caressed his neck gently, thrilling as I saw the legend "Property of S Masters" etched in black, and said "Well done, Brett! I'm not going to use you again today. Sam may have some additional exercises for you to do later on, but for now, you can run down to the lake and swim if you wish, or just lie in the sun to perfect your tan."
Very hesitantly, Brett muttered "Sir, thank you, sir" - evidently he wasn't sure whether he was supposed to respond or not, and it was good to see that my threats to beat the life out of him if he spoke unnecessarily were having effect. Strictly speaking I suppose he should not have, as I had not questioned him, but I decided to let it go. I slapped his butt almost affectionately as a signal of dismissal, and he jogged of down towards the lake.
In bed that night I discussed with Sam the possibility of allowing Brett to sleep in the slave house, which I thought would be nice for Brett as he could experience the other slaves. Sam and I had each other in Brett's stales, but there were always other slaves around who we could fuck, too. But Sam was opposed to it, pointing out that we'd said he was a pony, and that therefore the barn was the proper place for him. "In any case, Steve, you're planning to stud him, aren't you? And it's better for him therefore if he doesn't get used to proper, regular sex. He needs to be vaguely enthusiastic, and 'charged', when put to stud, and if he's always fucking all the other slaves, he won't be in tiptop condition."
"It never seemed to stop you...."
"...or you!"
We fell about laughing then, but it did get me thinking and the next morning I called Dave and Sheila and asked them if any of their nigga bitches needed covering. They did, and later that morning therefore I drove over in the trap, Sam jogging alongside.
Dave and Sheila did not come out to greet me but a note said they were in the slave barn, and I should go around. When Sam and I went in Dave bounded up to greet me as usual, and, seeing Sam, gave him a big slap on the back. "Hey, Sam, big boy, what's going on? Is Steve getting tired of you, and wants a bit of excitement as he watches you stud? ", and turning to me he went on "This is really good of you, Steve: that kind of power and strength is just what my herd needs.... But why Sam now? Folks around here have kind of got used to thinking of you two as... well.... together." Dave blushed a bit as he said this, as he wasn't easy at the thought of men having sex, still.
I told Sam to go and fetch Brett, and when he came back into the barn with his arm draped casually around Brett's shoulders to give a measure of "control" to Brett, both Dave and Sheila initially gasped. Sheila in particular seemed embarrassed to see a whitey - well, as I've said, they were not common in our neck of the woods - and even Dave, when Dam casually reached down and stroked Brett's dick to a full erection, looked mildly shocked.
"This is my stud", I told them, "Not Sam! He's obviously not as powerful or as big as Sam, but as you can see he's a really nice whitey, ideal for 'lightening' your slave stock: I think there's a long term change going on in the market and by the time the pups are ready for sale, I wouldn't be at all surprised if much lighter stock fetches substantially higher prices. So you can be in at the start, using this stud here, with my compliments: there's no fee."
"But he's blond....", Sheila gasped.
"Yes, obviously - totally natural, too, if we let all his hair grow all his pubes would match his mane."
I saw them still looking in amazement, so went on "He's a proper slave, I've got all the papers and everything. It's just that whiteys are not all that common around here, especially not ones available for stud!"
"I don't know if it's right, Steve....", Dave muttered eventually.
"Not right?"
"Well, it's kind of rude, almost, to see a guy who could be like you and me, having to fuck in public....."
"Dave, I'm shocked! I never thought you'd be prejudiced! It's OK, apparently, for niggas like Sam to fuck in public, but not whiteys? I thought we got rid of that kind of disgusting discrimination based on colour years ago."
Dave nodded, and I sensed he didn't like me taking him to task like that. But I can't stand prejudice just based on a guy's skin colour - I mean, look at Sam and me, and you'll see that him being a nigga is absolutely irrelevant. Indeed, I even almost prefer his lovely even dark pelt to the thought of a whitey.
Dave's nigga bitch had been standing there as all this was going on, one of those big niggas with wide hips and a big butt who are such good breeding material. At a command from Dave she slipped off her loose slave smock, and then Dave asked me "Any position you like to see particularly?", and when I shrugged a "no", he called out "on the table, on your hands and knees....".
"Doggy fashion is always good for slaves, I think", he told me.
Sam was still keeping a hold on Brett's shoulders, and I could see the guy almost quivering: Knowing of my own thoughts when I was first forced into this utterly degrading act, I imagined that Brett was not trembling in anticipation of a a bit of sexual fun, but was possibly gearing up his "fight or flight" reflexes in spite of the consequences which would surely follow. Sam had surely responded to this by maintaining his physical control over the man, fortunately: after all, we did not have to really hurt Brett had he indeed done anything so stupid as struggle to resist us, or try to run away.
As is customary, and as I remembered from so many occasions when I'd been the poor stud, I asked Dave if he wanted the excitement of introducing Brett into his nigga, but he shook his head. I had no compunction about doing it - he'd done it to me so many, many times, after all, but Sam did have "control" over him so I thanked Dave and said that we'd get Sam to do it as then Dave and Sheila and I could all watch together.
In spite of everything, and how perfect we are together, I do sometimes suspect Sam of harbouring some "straight" tendencies and if there's a movie on TV where there are men and women fucking, he always wants to watch it, so the smile on his face was probably genuine and not at all forced.
Dave had a standard "Stud" kit - he was remarkably well equipped in all matters to do with slaves, as I knew from his ability to lend us things like tattooing machines and branding irons - and he tossed the collar, chains and cuffs to Sam.
As Sam buckled the collar around Brett's neck I remembered with sickening clarity how I'd felt that first time I'd ever been made to perform in public like this, and how I'd hated the feel of the leather as it encircled me. I thought at first that Brett was going to break training completely and protest as Sam took one wrist behind his back and pushed it high up his back, before attaching it to the collar chain; and if I wasn't feeling charitable towards Brett and feeling some twinge of sympathy for him as he stood there so very vulnerable , I'm sure I could have detected a tiny whimper of dismay as his second wrist joined the first and he knew he was completely helpless now ( a whimper that would have had to be punished, s ponies re silent!). Sam patted him encouragingly on the butt and whispered something to him, then reached down as if it was the most casual thing in the world (which I suppose it is if you're used to handling studding, and Sam and I had a lot of experience, after all!), and stroked Brett to erection. Again, I remembered how I'd felt that first time Straughan had used my erect dick as a handle to pull me across the room towards the bitch. As I now watched Sam force Brett to take those reluctant steps, and then, as we continued to watch as
Sam "introduced" Brett into the bitch as she knelt there, I knew how totally and utterly humiliated I'd been at having to do these so very private things in front of an audience.
Sam slapped Brett's butt a couple of times, not hard, but more as a kind of encouragement, and Brett began his first stud session. Like me, I think, once he'd seen it was inevitable and his dick was in the bitch, he got on with it and made a pretty workmanlike job of it. And I was able to admire just how much all Sam's hard work in training Brett had paid off, as his butt and thighs really did look most agreeable as they pounded away.
Down our way a studding is a bit of a social affair, and Dave and Sheila invited me to stay for lunch once it was all over. Knowing of our "special relationship", they even allowed Sam to eat, too (although they couldn't quite bring themselves to allow him to share the table on their shady veranda with us, and he had to sit on the floor by the side of me to eat). Brett did not get fed, of course, as he was on the pony's usual regime of twice a day feeding, but because we were pleased with his general demeanour and performance, I told Sam to go and tell him he could sit in the shade, rather than standing in the trap in the broiling sun.
Lying in bed that night I was discussing with Sam what incredible progress Brett had made, and he sort of shrugged. "It was inevitable", he told me. "Guys from rich backgrounds have no stamina - they're so used to having everything easy, that when it all goes away their world collapses and it's easy to mould them into a new life. It was much harder for you and me, as we'd always had a relatively tough life any way and were used to making up our own minds about things and doing things for ourselves - so they had a much harder job of breaking us, and of training us. I used to see it all the time in the marines - guys from really tough backgrounds took a long time to settle in, but then they were fucking marvellous soldiers. If we ever had anyone from a good home, most of them wimped out during basic training."
"And what about you, Sam? Are you really 'broken' to the life of a slave?"
I felt Sam's body tense next to me, and I wondered for a moment if I'd asked exactly the wrong question. Then he raised himself up on one elbow and shuffled his body next to mine so were in skin to skin contact down almost our entire length, and muttered, as he looked down at me, "I reckon it's OK as your slave, Steve. But I reckon that by now, if I'd been sold to someone else, I'd have tried to make a run for it. I'd either have got to the north, or Canada, or I'd be dead."
"Is not being a slave that important to you?"
"Well not whilst I'm with you. I reckon it doesn't much matter whether I'm a slave or not as I'm going to stick close to you. Some of the stuff's a bit boring - having to sit at your fucking feet today, for example! But there are some good points to it all - I mean, I get to run, and exercise, and go around stripped off if I want to; whereas you have to get all dressed up to go to town, and you have all those phone calls with your lawyers and accountants....."
".... Well managing all that money is a big responsibility, Sam..."
"Sure it is. And you have to do it. Whereas I get to enjoy all the things it gives us - this place, the lake.... And don't have any of that."
He grinned a bit and went on "And you have to constantly worry about the behaviour of the other slaves, in case they getting something past you, and you worry about whether you ought to be punishing them, or if you've done it too hard, or too little... It's much easier for me: if one of them pisses me off, or doesn't do as I tell him, I give him a good going over there and then: no worries, no nothing - they all know that they don't piss me off, or they'll regret it."
"I didn't know that.... "
"Same in the marines! Officers were always worrying about whether the lads were behaving and obeying orders and stuff. Us sergeants just gave them a good thumping if they were trouble, and they soon got the message."
I didn't know whether to be shocked, or what. Sam's experience was so very different to mine, where until I'd been falsely enslaved no one had ever treated me violently in any way. But I didn't want to go down this particular conversational alleyway any longer, so I said "Look, there's a difficult thing I've been meaning to talk to you about.... My mom and dad want me to go and visit them."
"...and you can't take me."
"No, I can't. I want to, to show them what a fantastic guy I'm with, but you know it's illegal to take a slave out of the south."
"So why can't they come here and visit us?"
"Because mom and dad are fanatical abolitionists, and there's just no way they'd ever set foot in the south.
I haven't seen them for years, and dad, in particular, isn't getting any younger. I won't be away long, only a few days...."
"You've made your mind up, then?"
"What's to make my mind up about? I need to see my folks some time, they won't come here, so I have to go there. I'll only be way a few days - I'm even thinking of flying, to save time."
"So you're going to leave me...."
I was beginning to get exasperated. "Sam, I don't have any choice! I can't take you there, as you know, as you are a slave."
"...throw that in my face as usual, whenever the going gets tough!"
"Sam, get real, will you? You are a slave, and you have a pretty good life, in fact a fucking good life here with me: we do everything together, share everything, just like two men would. But there are some things that slaves can't do, and one of them is travel to the north. So that's it, final, done, over with."
Sam rolled over and turned his back on me. Frankly, if I wasn't so tolerant I would have taken the cane to him! I always treated him well, but sometimes he totally failed to accept the reality of our lives, and I was beginning to think that perhaps I ought to remind Sam about it in a rather meaningful way. I lay there seething, and was sorely tempted to get the gardener over and have him restrain Sam whilst I gave those lucious butt cheeks a few strokes of the cane. But, as I say, I'm pretty tolerant, and I didn't. But I as sorely tempted when the next morning Sam sulked all over breakfast, and then just left the room without even asking me, and I saw him go over to the barn and take Brett out for a training run. Frankly, if he preferred the company of a slave like Brett to mine, I felt like chaining him into the shaft of the trap and using him as a pony - let the two ponies spend all their time together!
It kind of blew over, though: the next morning, really early, Sam slapped my butt that caused me to wake up more abruptly than I like to, then began to tug at me playfully to make me get out of bed, slapping and tickling me until I complied. "You don't get enough exercise", he told me, "And that's why you're getting sad and grumpy! So especially if you're going away, you need to be in peak condition, so your mom sees I'm looking after you! So until you go, we're going to start really working out again, like we used to have to do. So get your lazy ass out of there and get some shorts on, or else I'll pull you out naked....."
Well by the time we got back - and I as really winded, as Sam showed me no mercy in making me run and run - I did in fact feel a whole lot better, and over breakfast we talked about the trip and why I needed to go. "You see, Sam, there's always been this problem with my father - he doesn't think I can do anything properly. And he wanted me to get a good education, so I could work in an office, and it's just not me.... I'm more of a creative person, a free spirit...."
"....until you were a slave!", Sam joked.
Anyway I booked a flight - well, if you've got the money, why not spend it occasionally - for a weeks time, and as a treat Sam came to the airport with me in the car I hired, just to see more of the country. It's amazing to think that Dallas used to have hundreds of flights a day, and tens of thousands of passengers would tear through the place. Now it's pretty much a ghost town of course, with only one small terminal as the demand has gone away as flying is just so amazingly expensive, and the high speed trains are anyway so much more civilised. It's very luxurious, though, as only the rich, and government officials, now fly. On my flight to Boston there were only about fifty people, and of them I was the only one dressed casually, and not in a suit! The air steward person who was serving me my lunch was rather cute, though, and as he bent over to re-fill my champagne glass I let my hand slide over his tightly-stretched black pants as his butt was rather enticing.
To my utter amazement he shouted out, so some of the other passengers could hear, "I'm not a slave, sir! How dare you attempt an assault on me like that! You are lucky that I do not have you put in irons for sexual harassment of an airline employee. Interference wit the lawful duties of airline employees is a felony..."
I had to mumble that I was sorry, and that I'd kind of assumed they'd have slaves doing jobs like that, and he haughtily pointed out that this was a plane from the north, and that therefore all the crew were free men. Still, it was embarrassing, and considering my ticket probably cost about as much as he earned in three months, I think he could have been rather more understanding - or if he didn't want men making advances to him, why did he wear those absurdly tight pants as he must have known that his butt was exciting?
Mom, dad and Jamie met me at Boston and we all drove together for the couple of hours it takes to get "home". It was that kind of inconsequential talk that families have after they've all hugged at the airport.
And all the time mom kept saying, though, that she was so glad to have me back, as if it was in some way permanent, and "how brave" Jamie had been to rescue me! All dad could do was say in a somewhat icy voice that I should never have been in the south in the first instance, as it was a terrible place. And that he assumed I'd be moving north as soon as I could, to get away from all that slavery nonsense.
When we got home I was in for a big disappointment, though: they'd given my room, my special big room with the great views, to Jamie! And I was stuck in his miserable little place on the wrong side of the house. And when I complained, no one could understand why, as I didn't live there any longer, whereas Jamie did. The whole place looked smaller, shabbier and more run down than I remembered it, and dad muttered something to me about not being shy to ask to borrow extra sweaters as with the price of heating these days, they now kept the thermostat set very, very low indeed. And when I went into the kitchen and saw mom preparing dinner and there were only a couple of bottles of wine for the four of us, and not very good stuff, either, I was a bit shocked as they always kept a decent table in the past. I went to the phone to call the local store to have a few dozen sent over as a gift for them, but mom told me everyone had stopped doing deliveries as it was just too expensive on the fuel, so I pulled on my outdoor coat and ran the mile or so there - it did me good, anyway, after sitting on that plane.
The whole town seemed to be sliding down hill, slowly and gently, with a lot of places closed up, and a general seedy air settling over the place. It used to be exclusive and fashionable, priding it self on its small speciality stores, delicatessens and antique stores, and now it was, well, just awful. Still I did manage to buy some wine, and sprinted home just in time to avoid being late for dinner.
I'd forgotten how good mom's cooking was, and the fine wine helped a lot to keep the conversation flowing, although mom and dad kept asking me when I was coming "home", and that "although you might have met some nice southern belle, they were sure she'd grow to like our falls and winters". I didn't want to talk about anything like that, of course, so countered by asking what was wrong with the town (and by implication, the house). Finally dad shook his head, and said "The economics of things have finally caught up with us, son. We were living in a fool's paradise - it's cold up here, really cold, in the winter, and we have to pour energy in to keep ourselves alive. And now the prices.... Year on year, they go up and up, and most folk can't afford them sooner or later, so the houses are left - you can't sell them, as no one wants to take them on. Everyone is moving down to Boston and other centres, and moving into apartments that are easy to heat. And of course it's the transport costs as well - the gas for the car to and from Boston was frightening.... Most folk now want a place right on top of a train station. So the town's dying, slowly but surely, as we're all forced to retreat and cluster together again. And as the folks move out, there's less and less work left behind for those who stay.... So poor Jamie can't get a job, any sort of job...."
I looked at my little brother, and he just shrugged.
"And with the inflation", mom chimed in, "Dad's pension goes less and less far, and we're eating into our savings faster and faster."
"It's a bit different in the south, you know", I ventured. "We don't have the heating problems. We don't have a lot of the costs, in the factories and fields, as we use manpower again now rather than expensive fuel. For example, if I want something from town, I don't have to have it delivered, I simply send one of the slaves to run in and get it..."
I thought dad was going to have a fit! "A son of mine, ordering slaves around....". But I was a man now, and I wasn't going to be cowed by him. "Ah, come on, dad - it's not that bad! I ran into town and back here, this evening, to buy more wine...."
"Mark, stop being ridiculous! You ran in because you wanted to. Your slaves run because they have to."
"Dad, I told you I wanted to be called Steve now.... And, in any case, my salves run because they want to: if I order them to run, they run because they want to - they want to, to avoid punishment."
"My son is Mark! And that's more of your southern foolishness...."
Mom did her usual soothing stuff and suggested we went and sat around the fire in the big sitting room "like old times" with our coffee, and it kind of simmered down, but I could see that these were not going to be an easy few days. And as I lay in bed later, I was, frankly, pissed off - well, I was mildly drunk, and that always makes me a bit introspective and tending towards the maudlin. I was pissed off at Jamie for lying about "rescuing me" - I bet dad and mom would think differently if they knew he'd fucked me, and was the "stud master" when I had to perform so degradingly; I was pissed off at not being in "my" room; and I hated being treated like a child again, even though I'd survived slavedom, had a lover of my own, and millions of new dollars in the bank.
The more I lay there the more pissed off I got, until I slid out of bed and pulled on a robe against the cold night air, and stepped carefully down the corridor to my old room (avoiding the places where my body's memories from my boyhood told me my footsteps would cause everything to squeak!). I opened the door of "my" room, slipped off my robe, and slid into "my" bed, lying against Jamie.
"What the fuck...?", he muttered, coming awake as he felt me against him.
"Hey, little brother... You and me.... We've got some catching up to do. And what's all this about 'rescuing' me? Didn't you tell mom and dad the truth, about how you fucked me, how you played 'stud master' for Brett and led me by my dick and 'introduced' me to those niggas?"
As I spoke, I grabbed Jamie's wrist and pulled his hand down to my dick, which was hard and solid. "Remember this, Jamie? Remember how my dick feels when you've stroked me to erection, and have dragged me across a studding barn by it?"
"Steve, let go of me...."
"No, Jamie. It's my turn now. Why don't you take that T and those boxers off, little brother, so us two men can get right up close and personal?"
"Steve, no...."
I always was bigger than Jamie, and with all that muscular development as a pony I was now considerably bigger, and much stronger. I grabbed him and almost ripped his T off him, then wrapped one arm around his waist as I pulled his boxers down with the other. Once he was naked I tuned him around to face me, locking him close to me with one arm, and with my legs.
"Now, little brother, it's your turn.... You fucked me, and I get to fuck you..."
"No, Steve, please, it's not right.... I wasn't fucking you! I didn't know it was you! I thought it was just a slave, one of Brett's pony slaves, not my brother...."
"But it was OK to fuck a slave against his will, was it? OK to force your dick up another guy's ass, without his asking you to?"
"It wasn't like that, Steve..."
"It was, Jamie! I was there, remember?"
When I was growing up I'd never even considered having sex with my brother, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised what an idiot I'd been. With a nice young body like Jamie's around, I could have saved hours and hours of chatting up the girls and got on with something more useful. Just thinking about it made me harder and I could feel pre-cum sliming the end of my dick - just as well, really, as I wasn't going to argue with Jamie all night and get him to jerk off so I could lube him fully: my own pre-cum would have to do the job. "Right, little brother.... over on your belly", I told him, pulling one of the pillows under his belly so that his ass was just slightly raised up.
"No, Steve, please....", he began, and I bit into the side of his neck and whispered "Better be quiet, boy! Mom and dad are in the next room, and although their hearing isn't as good as it used to be, if you make too much noise they'd be bound to hear. It doesn't bother me to have sex with another guy, even if he is my little brother, but I reckon you'd have a bit more explaining to do...." I tugged another pillow down under his chin and went on "You start to make too much noise and I'll smother you with this, in your own best interests, now...."
I think I've told you before that I really like the position where the guy you're fucking is basically flat, or almost so, lying out full length. Then you half straddle him, half lie on him and alongside him, gently part his butt cheeks, and slowly and carefully slide into his ass. As I did so, I realised I was not the first - although Jamie started to moan and cry, and I had to push his head down quite hard into the pillow to shut him up, that ass was no stranger to dick. So I fucked him properly, and then, when I'd shot my load and had relaxed, enjoying the feeling of his subjugated body under mine, I asked him who it had been.
"No one", he said at first.
"Now Jamie, no lies! You're not like that cowboy in that old classic movie about a mountain or something who seemed to lie there and take dick the first time without even a murmur.... I can tell you're experienced, and my dick knows it, too."
I was almost as if I could feel Jamie blushing as finally he muttered "It was Brett, Steve. I was fascinated by him, even though I was supposed to be working for the FBI to find all those missing girls.... He as so confident, so rich.... And after he'd paid for us to go together for a few nights to a pleasure palace, a really high-class one with really stunning bitches in it, and we were comfortable with fucking bitches in front of each other, he suddenly said he wanted to fuck me! I refused at first, but he got more and more insistent, and I didn't want to lose access to him, to the house, the pleasure palaces, the restaurants, the slaves... So I did what he wanted."
"You're worse than a slave, Jamie! Slaves get fucked because they have no choice. You're much worse - you're a whore: you were prepared to be fucked for Brett's money, or, at least, the things it bought. So now I don't feel at all badly about going up your ass, and whilst I'm here, I'm going to do it several times as a man like me gets used to having regular exercise for his dick."
I felt bad after that, actually, as we'd got on well when we were younger and I didn't often have to ball him out. He lay there kind of rigid against me, feeling sorry for himself. So I put my arm around him and "spooned" up to him, then let my hand slide over his belly and begin to play with his dick.
"Steve, please...."
"Why not, Jamie? Your dick's been up my ass, so what's wrong with it being in my hand?"
I carried on playing with him, then quickly moved my hand upwards and gave his nips little tweaks - like me, he's incredibly sensitive and he squirmed and half laughed as he tried to get away. Soon we were rolling around in the bed almost as if it was me and Sam, and then I stopped, and pulled him close so that our torsos were touching and his erect dick was sandwiched between us.
"So, little brother, you like a bit of fun with another guy, do you? I reckon this vacation isn't going to turn out as badly for me as I thought!"
End Of Part Nine