IT'S NOT EQUAL AT ALL!
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Four
As the big slave turned to go, Walter turned to me and said "Is that right? Did he give you a good time?"
I didn't like to admit that I'd enjoyed having him give me a BJ and jerk me off, so I kind of muttered something I thought I could get away with: "Well, not exactly...."
"You fucking slave!", Walter screamed at him. "How dare you lie to me!"
"Please, sir, I'm sorry, sir, I thought...."
"You're a fucking slave, you're not supposed to think! A slave answers a master truthfully, and a slave caught lying gets punished."
"Please, sir, I'm sorry, sir, I thought the other master did enjoy it...."
"Are you calling master Steve a liar now?"
"No, sir! But, please, sir, I did think...."
"So if master Steve is not lying, he did not have a good time. So you failed, slave. I specifically told you that it was master Steve's first time with a slave, and that he was to enjoy it. And you failed. You disobeyed my orders. So you are going to be punished. Go and find the duty manager, and tell him you're to receive twenty strokes."
"No, sir, please, sir.... Anything but the cane, sir...."
I was horrified at the way that Walter could order punishment so cavalierly. The big slave looked so unhappy as the three of us stood there naked. He'd somehow shrunk up, it was almost as if he was cowering - a big, strong virile guy like that, cringing in front of a sixteen year old. I remembered what he'd said during the night about the punishment cane and how all slaves at the Club did everything they could to avoid it, and began to wonder just how hard a caning could be that it would make a guy like this almost petrified by it.
I felt myself starting to blush - the blood was rushing to my cheeks, as I felt such acute embarrassment: Walter and me, both sixteen, and this big tough thirty-something, all there stark naked, and with the slave visibly afraid of Walter. But the real problem was that I knew it was my fault - this guy was having to almost beg and plead with Walter, and all because of me. I had been too ashamed to tell Walter that I had in fact had a good time, and that the slave had been really sexy. He was being humiliated and, I supposed, terrified by the threat of punishment, just because I wasn't man enough to own up to the truth about enjoying a bit of sex.
"Shut the fuck up!", Walter looked really cross now. "One more word from you and it will be thirty."
The slave turned and started to slowly, very slowly, walk out of the shower. I had to do something - I couldn't let the poor guy be punished like that: it was so unfair.
"Please, Walter", I cut in. "Come on, give the guy a break! It's not his fault...."
"Yes it is, Steve. He's a slave, he was ordered to give you a good time, and he failed to do it. So he disobeyed an order, so he must be punished. That's the way we deal with slaves, Steve, although I suppose you don't realise it, as you don't own one. The whole of our social system is founded on some very simple principles: masters command, slaves obey, and failure is punished."
"Oh come on, Walter, just this once, let the poor guy off...."
"I'm sorry, Steve, but I can't do that. It's betraying the rules that society runs on. It's as wrong as... Oh, I don't know.... As wrong as doing some of those other things that the Constitution rightly forbids, like discriminating on the basis of colour, sex, or religion."
"But maybe it wasn't his fault.... I mean, how can you order someone to give someone else a good time? It depends on me, as much as on him."
"Ordinarily, I suppose you're right. And if you'd picked a slave for yourself, maybe one of the relatively new waiters or bartenders, as I did last night, there might be some excuse for it. But this slave is older, and very experienced. He's a personal trainer, works here in the gym, and making sure members have a good time is part of his job - a lot of members like to exercise their dicks after they've given the rest of themselves a good workout, so this slave ought to be really experienced in satisfying a free man. So if he didn't do it, it means he's not properly skilled - which is a reason for having him punished anyway."
I felt a huge sense of frustration building in me. What Walter was saying seemed to make perfect sense, at least in his frame of logic. But to me it didn't sound right, somehow. I knew it would be no good asking Walter to let him off again, but it seemed so unfair, no, so wrong, that the slave would be punished because I hadn't told the truth. So I stammered "Look, Walter.... Perhaps I got it a bit wrong.... I think I did enjoy it, actually...."
Walter took a step towards me and put his arm around my shoulder, just like my dad used to sometimes when he wanted to say something important to me. He didn't seem to mind that our naked skin was in contact. He sounded serious: "Look, Steve, I respect you for it, OK? I think it's kind of noble that you're siding with the slave - I suppose it's only to be expected, as you're a whitey and you folks like to stick together. But it's not right - if you lie to make it easy for the slave, where will it end? The slave will know you're a soft touch, and that doesn't do anyone any good: the good Lord put masters here to rule, and slaves to obey: that's what the bible tells us, Steve."
I didn't think this was the moment to expand the discussion to tell Walter what a complete load of old rubbish the bible was, and instead, blushing even more furiously now as my own lie was going to be revealed, I whispered in the hope the slave wouldn't hear and think less of me I suppose: "Look, Walter, actually.... It was pretty good.... It was the best BJ I've ever had... When I said I didn't enjoy it...."
"Yes? When you said that....?", Walter cut in.
"Well, when I said I didn't enjoy it, what I really meant was that I didn't enjoy it as much as fucking." I hoped that this would somehow save face, and that would be an end to it.
"So the slave didn't you let you fuck him?"
"No! I didn't try. Didn't even want to! I told you yesterday, I'm not a queer...."
"And I told you that fucking a slave is not being queer. And you seemed to agree." Walter looked at me sternly, and his tone changed as he went on "Look, Steve, I think you're lying to me now, you just want to somehow align yourself with this slave, the both of you being whiteys..."
"No!". I almost snapped at Walter, and as I was angry and confused, I blurted out "I did enjoy it. He gave me a fantastic blow job, and later he jerked me off. And I've never had another guy touch my dick before, so I'm not in a good position to judge - but it sure as hell was better than I could do myself, and I've had a lot of experience of that..." Something inside me was saying "how could you be talking to another guy about all this kind of sex stuff?" I mean, with my buddies at school when we talked about sex, it was about which bitches we'd been with, and how far they'd go. None of this one-guy-blows-another crap.
Walter squeezed my shoulder companionably. "So you're now saying that you enjoyed the slave blowing you? It was good, as far as you could tell?"
"Yes". I began to feel relieved, began to think that Walter was going to relent on the punishment.
"But you say you're no expert at being blown?"
"No! I've had it lots of times. But with bitches.... And I suppose I mean that I'm no expert at having a guy do it." I was stumbling with my words now, trying to think ahead, to think how Walter might react to them. And it's not easy, when you're naked.
"Hmmm... Well, this whole episode seems to turn on what you think, Steve. First you say you didn't enjoy it. Then you say you might have enjoyed it. Then you say he was good at blowing you.... But you're not sure, as you don't have any experience of a male mouth around that dick of yours.... "
"Well yes.... no..... I mean not exactly...." I was really confused now, wilting under Walter's remorseless questioning. And really embarrassed at having the big, tough slave listening to it all.
"I think there's only one way of deciding this, Steve. We need a test, an objective test. You don't have any way of judging whether the slave really did a good job as you have no experience of a slave blowing you, but I do, of course: my body slave at home has been doing it ever since I was old enough to shoot. So the simple thing to do is to get the slave to blow me, and I can judge whether he's any good. Does that fit in with your peculiar notion of being 'fair' to the slave?"
"Yes, I guess so." Thank Christ! I was off the hook. And, actually, I suppose I did just wonder what it would look like to see the big slave in action on Walter's slim black body.
Walter gestured, and the slave fell to his knees in front of Walter. In spite of my thoughts a few moments ago, now it was actually going to happen I didn't want to look - I mean, I'm not gay, and there's no pleasure in watching two men doing perverted acts, as far as I'm concerned. But I couldn't help it. No more than I'd been able to avoid taking a look at Walter's cock as he'd first come into the shower - I mean all guys do, don't they? It's not a gay thing, is it? - all the men I know always take a look at another guy's tackle in the changing rooms, just for comparison purposes, so to speak. And, for the record, Walter didn't live up to that racial stereotype, whereby in the popular imagination all niggers have bigger cocks than whiteys. Well, that's not quite true - Walter had a slim body, and his cock was long and kind of elegant, in line with his body shape. It might even have been longer than mine, just a tad, I reckoned - but mine was,
like my body, thicker and generally bigger overall.
Oh shit, I thought as these thoughts raced through my brain. I shouldn't be thinking about Walter like this, not when his body was against mine, and he was about to get blown by a big muscular slave who was kneeling in front of him. But it was kind of fascinating - I saw the slave curl his arm around Walter's ass to steady them, and then his mouth moved down towards Walter's dick - but before it made contact, Walter started to spring a boner, and I couldn't tear my eyes away as his dick quite quickly lunged right up, way above the horizontal. His 'skin peeled back as it did so, and the contrast between his very dark dick (why is it that a lot of guys' dicks are darker than the rest of their bodies, I wonder?) and the lighter, moist dick head, was very pronounced.
As the slave gently pulled Walter's dick down so that he could put it between his lips, Walter snapped "Stop, hold it there!". Then, turning to me, and smiling faintly, he said "There's just one thing, Steve, one thing that's lacking in our little experiment. Can you think what it is?"
"No."
"As well, I guess your whitey schools don't teach you properly about science. They always say that the standards go down when a school is full of whiteys."
I was going to tell him that the standards were down because the schools for us in the inner city were starved for cash, so we didn't have the right facilities, or the best teachers or anything, as all the money was spent out in the suburbs where the niggers lived. And that happened because most whiteys didn't register to vote for the City Council so only niggers got elected. But it didn't seem to be the time for entering into political debate!
Walter went on "So, Steve, this is going to be even more instructive for you. The essence of a good experiment, Steve, is that there should be a control. The slave is going to blow me, and I'm going to judge whether it's good or not. But he might make a special effort for me, especially as he knows that he's going to get thirty stripes on his ass if he fails. Or he might prefer blowing proper nigger dick, to a whitey one. Or anything. So we need a control, Steve - someone who's to part of the process of evaluating the results. And since this all hinges on how well he did with you last night, you can be the control."
"Uh?"
"Yes, Steve. The slave can blow us both: he can do as he did last night with you, and you'll know whether it was the same, or worse, or better than then. And at the same time when he does me, I can judge whether it's well done. Of course, we'll need to eliminate as much 'experimental bias' as possible - if he does you first, then me, he might be said to be more practised, or, if it's not good, that he's tired. Or if he does me first then you, if he thinks that he's done a good job on me, he might relax and not put all his effort into you, which would be a shame. So he can do us both at once."
"What?" I think I sounded genuinely shocked!
"Look, it's easy. You and me, we're standing right here, side by side. The slave's on his knees in front of us, so he can do us both at once: he can start with me for a bit, then turn to you, then back to me.... Until we've been satisfied."
"Look, Walter, I told you I'm not gay...."
"What's gay about having a slave blow you? We went through all this before. You keep thinking of him as a guy, Steve, and I do appreciate that it's difficult for you, both being whiteys. But try to think of the slave as something else - an animal, an intelligent one admittedly, one that can hear commands and obey, but an animal nevertheless. Slaves aren't like us, Steve - they're different, a lesser order. Normally they're properly differentiated - the good Lord made them white, so there's no risk of them being confused with us niggers who he set in authority over them. It must be harder for you, I suppose, and the Lord's purpose in making some whiteys free men is hard to understand - but it must be His purpose, nevertheless."
Walter's voice trailed off as he got to the end of his stupid religious stuff, and in a calmer, quieter voice, he told me "But I can assure you that there's nothing 'gay' in using a slave sexually. My dad does, all my uncles do, all my cousins do.... And they're all married, with kids...."
I was going to argue, as I'd read somewhere that a lot of gay guys were "closeted", I think is the word they used, married but really preferring sex with other guys, but Walter called out "Get to it, fucker! Make sure you give master Steve and me a good time, or else your ass is for it....", and without hesitating, the slave's other arm curled around my ass, and his lips closed around my dick.
You have to try to imagine how I felt now - standing there naked, my body pressed close to Walter's, with Walter sporting a big hard-on (something I'd really not seen before, as there were no niggers at my school and, anyway, in the changing rooms it's the one thing all us guys tried desperately to avoid!), and with this big, mature, muscled guy kneeling in front of us with his arms around our asses (and, as I looked down, I saw his big 'skinned dick was waving around, too). Somehow it was so fucking erotic that I just couldn't help spring a boner as well, and the next moment the slave's lips closed around my dick and his tongue started to explore down my 'skin. I moaned with ecstasy, and heard Walter murmur "Right on, Steve!".
The more the slave licked and sucked at me, the more I couldn't help myself - I began to thrust my hips forward, kind of like fucking him. But then it stopped - my dick was left there, waving around, all covered in his spit, and I saw his head move over and start on Walter. Then he was back to me.... And so it went on, as the slave alternated between our dicks, all the time holding on to my ass with his powerful fingers.
I felt my breathing quicken and my heart start to race, an I couldn't help moaning as the slave worked away. And I heard Walter reacting in much the same way, although I couldn't really focus on him as my eyes seem riveted on the slaves head and naked shoulders as he worked away in front of me.
Even though I'd cum twice since the early hours of the morning and it was still only about seven, the whole thing was just too much and once more I began to panic at the thought that I might spray my cum all over the slave as he knelt there. But he seemed prepared for it, as just before I was about to shoot he pulled off me again and his hand left my ass and came around and began to jerk me off - I expect you know how it is: however good a BJ you're getting, those last few strokes with the hand are somehow the perfect culmination to it. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was doing the same to Walter with his other hand, and for some reason this spurred me on, as it did Walter evidently, as we both gave shouts of "Fuck, yes.....", as we shot.
The slave deliberately held our dicks so our streams of cum splashed all over his face, and when he stopped stroking us, he knelt there in front of us with it trickling down him. His big, sensuous tongue came out and started to lick around as far as it could reach, as if our cum were some rare kind of delicacy that he was desperate to eat, and there was a huge grin over his face.
Walter and I stood there, our chests heaving as our breathing slowed, and finally the slave, who all the time had kept looking up at us, said "OK, masters?"
"What do you think, Steve?", Walter asked me. "Did the boy do good?"
"You're supposed to be the expert..."
"Yeah, Steve, but was it as good as you've got before? And did you enjoy it?"
"Well yeah.... And YES!". I ended up with a great shout, and Walter laughed, and we "high fived" each other as the slave continued to kneel there, smiling.
I'd kind of showered already, but Walter kept the slave there to wash him! I'd never seen one guy wash another before - well, not totally: I mean after a hard game, you might soap the middle of your buddy's back if there was some mud or stuff in that hard to reach bit. But this wasn't like that - firstly, it was a big, mature guy, probably old enough to be Walter's dad, doing it. And secondly, he did all over Walter, as Walter stood there, languidly raising an arm so that the slave could soap his pits, then opening his legs so the slave could gently lather his dick and balls, and smiling at me as the slave ran his soapy hand right down Walter's ass crack! The slave fell to his knees then so Walter could rest his feet in turn on the slave's thigh, so the slave could clean between his toes. I had to stop watching, as there was something at once both utterly humiliating to have a big guy do this to Walter's slim young body; and utterly erotic, at the
thought of having someone so utterly subservient tending to you like that. I felt my cock beginning to stir at the thought, and hurriedly turned around, pulled a towel off the rack and started to dry myself with my back turned towards them.
Walter did dismiss the slave then, and as he pulled on his clothes, asked me "Breakfast?"
"No, I've got to go...."
"It's ages to the first bus still."
"Yeah, but it takes for ever to go out the back, and then all the way around...."
"You're with me, Steve! It's the front door. And dad will have sent a trap for me, so I'll drive you to the bus stop.... I would drive you home, but I've got to be back for church."
Actually I was glad to hear it. I can't imagine what the effect would have been in our street if a nigger had driven me home in a trap that presumably was pulled by a whitey!
"Will you be on time, though, Steve? Is the first bus early enough?"
"Sure. I don't have anything to do on Sunday. I was going to see if I could find a bitch for a bit of recreation, but, you know, after all this stuff here, I'm not sure I could make it. So I'll probably just rest a bit, until mom has the lunch on the table. She always does a big thing on Sundays."
"But church... What time's the service?"
"How the fuck should I know? We don't do all that superstitious crap."
"You know, Steve, I reckon you're lucky..."
"Aw, come on, Walter. I've got no money, I go to a crap school, there's no prospects, I even get paid less here than you do...."
"...but you don't have to waste your Sunday listening to the minister droning on. Or sit and study the bible all afternoon. Not that I mind as it's important to know the words of the good Lord, but on a hot day like this, I'd rather be swimming..."
"So why do it, then? Just don't go to church, go swimming... You're sixteen, after all, and capable of making up your own mind!"
"It's my family, Steve! That's the problem with you whiteys - all the traditional family values have broken down! No wonder the Lord doesn't look favourably on you. My dad would put me over his knee and spank me if I was late for church. And all of us read the bible in the afternoon, together...."
"Spank you? Your dad?" I was laughing, as I couldn't imagine my dad doing that to me.
Walter just shrugged. "See, you've got no values, Steve. The Lord says that a son should honour his father.... And that the elders should rule, as they know best. So of course dad has the right to chastise me, to drive out sin. And reading the bible's important, too: my entire family sit in a line in front of the slaves - all of them, even the outside gardeners and the ponies - and read the bible to them so the understand their proper place."
"Well I don't know much about what some mythical being in the sky says, Walter. And everyone knows that the bible is just fairy stories, made up by superstitious tribesmen hundreds of years ago. But it seems to me that you'd do better to try something simple: treat people as people..."
"We do, Steve!"
"So what's all that about having that poor slave punished?"
"What's that got to do with anything? He's a slave. And the good book says that the Lord has given us authority over the lesser creatures...."
I couldn't believe that a nice guy like Walter could be so stupid when it came to things like this. I mean, I'm not prejudiced at all, or at least I try not to be, but this was just so fucking stupid that Walter went right down in my estimation. I felt like walking off and leaving him, but then the thought of avoiding that long walk to the bus had some attractions, so I muttered "Look, I think we'd better leave this. It's well known that stupid arguments about religion have been responsible for almost all the suffering in the modern world...."
"But Steve, I'm really worried about your soul! If you were to die now, you'd be cast into the fiery pit...."
"Hey, you let me worry about that...!", I said, turning it into a joke. After all, there was no point in quarrelling with Walter about something like that where no amount of rational argument would wipe away his irrational prejudices. "....And you worry about finding me a slave for next week. I reckon exercising my body, rather than worrying about my soul, is more important to me right now."
"Right on!", Walter laughed. "That's what you whiteys say, isn't it? Now, how about some breakfast?"
I started to worry again, as I guessed that the restaurant in this place would be really expensive, and might even cost more than my hard-earned wages. "No.... I don't think...."
"Hey, Steve, come on.... Why ever not?"
I thought for a moment, and decided to tell him the truth. My experience just a few minutes ago when lying had almost got the slave punished had taught me a lesson, and dad always said that the truth could never hurt you. So even though I was ashamed to say it, as no one likes to admit to being poor, I blurted out "I can't afford a place like this!"
"Oh, is that all" (only those with money can consider it unimportant, I suppose). Walter put his arm around my shoulder and started to lead me along. "The restaurant isn't open until eleven on a Sunday, when folks drop by after church, for brunch. So we need to eat in the slave quarters... But don't worry.... It will be good."
Walter led me confidently through the drab corridors in the "service" part of the Club, until we heard a lot of laughter and general noise. Pushing open a swing door, the noise abruptly stopped, and the twenty or so slaves who were in there, sitting at long tables eating their breakfast, all got to their feet and stood silently with their heads bowed.
"Carry on", Walter called out, seemingly completely at ease with this. Then he explained to me "On Sundays the slaves are allowed to eat breakfast when they like. And they can eat up all the stuff left over from last night...."
As he said this, his hand swept across to indicate a long table down one side of the room, set with all kind of food. Walter led me over to it, and I was simply amazed: I'd never seen so much food in all my life, or such expensive food, either. There were big roasts of beef, whole chickens, a couple of braces of pheasant and partridge, a giant salmon, eight different kinds of cheese, tartes and gateaux of all kinds, and the most enormous bowl of fruit I've ever seen, full of exotic things that we never got, like pineapples and bananas. As I looked more closely, however, I saw that all the food had been "used" in some way: some of the partridge had legs torn off, the cucumber garnish on the salmon was scraped away in places and chunks of the succulent ref flesh were missing, and the cheeses had all been cut so they were no longer "perfect".
"Of course the buffet looks a lot better when it's set out upstairs", Walter told me. "But at the end of the evening, all the stuff that isn't eaten is brought down here and the slaves can feed on it until it starts to go 'off': it saves on the regular feeding costs, I suppose. But it's good for us - we can breakfast before we go home, although I suppose I shouldn't, as I'm going to communion with my folks and I'm not supposed to eat before I have the blessed sacrament."
"You mean all that rubbish about a bit of bread changing into flesh? It sounds horrible, if it's true - which it isn't, of course, it's just superstition. But if you do believe in it, then if I were you I'd have a proper breakfast first, before I had to eat a bit of raw flesh."
Walter smiled. "Yes... It's one of the reasons I don't mind doing the parking stuff, really. At home the salves aren't allowed to serve us anything at all before we go to church. So let's get stuck in."
We loaded our plates with all kinds of things - I had much more than Walter, I noticed, but then, perhaps he was used to having as much as he wanted all the time. And when we sat down, he clapped his hands authoritatively, and one of the slaves came over and Walter ordered him to bring us fresh orange juice and hot coffee.
It was all fantastic - I'd never had freshly-squeezed orange juice before, and the difference between that and the cheap manufactured crap that was in the only stores we could get to was unbelievable. When I'd had a second helping - including a big plate of pineapple, fresh peaches and raspberries, it was time to go. Walter saw me looking longingly at the buffet as we started to leave, and asked "Do you want some to take home, Steve? I'll order the slaves to pack some into bags...."
"Is it OK? I mean, it's the Club's, isn't it?"
"Fuck that! Look at how they pay you only a pittance for your work. And, anyway, it's better for you and your mom and dad to have it, rather than give it to the slaves: slaves don't really deserve this kind of quality."
I thought to myself that we never had that kind of quality, either. We could only afford cheap, processed stuff, and we hardly ever had wonderful fresh stuff like that. So I said thank you, and Walter issued a flurry of orders that sent the slaves scurrying around carving beef and so on, wrapping it all in foil, and putting together a big carrier bag of it all for me.
We climbed the stairs from the slave basement to the main reception, and Walter marched up to the chief receptionist. "Payment for last night", he demanded.
"How many hours?"
"We didn't leave until four", he said calmly.
I gasped inwardly - we'd finished at two. And the receptionist seemed to think it odd, too, as she said "Are you sure? That's very late..."
"Lady, are you questioning me? I know Steve there is a whitey, and the whole world knows they lie and cheat. If he was telling you that, I could understand why you might be questioning it. But I'm a nigger, like you. So let's have none of that!"
The woman shrugged, and counted out his money, and then a much smaller pile for me. I had six new dollars fifty - more cash than I'd ever had in my hand before, and the excitement of it thrilled me. Walter watched me, and looked at his much bigger pile of notes. "Tough, eh, Steve, being a whitey? Everyone values whitey labour so much lower than that of a nigger."
"Yeah, and it's so fucking unfair. I mean, I was doing the same work as you and the others - and more of it, too, as most of you stood around chatting all evening...." I think I was sounding a bit peeved.
"Hey, don't blame me! That's the way of the world. It's prejudice, I suppose, as I agree you did work hard. But look on the bright side - the free entertainment, breakfast, and lunch and dinner too in that bag, I reckon us niggers know how to look after whiteys, well the ones who conform, anyway. And remember that some guys would pay one hell of a lot for all of the privileges you've had here, you know. Let me give you some advice, Steve: if you're going to keep on coming here, you need to have the right attitude. Nobody likes a guy who goes around whining all the time, and you're acting just like the stereotype of a whitey.... 'This isn't right, that isn't fair, I want my rights....' No one likes troublemakers, you know, and if you keep on complaining, the Club will simply find someone else, someone who understands how us niggers look after you whiteys."
I was going to say something about niggers patronising us whiteys, but what was the point? Walter was probably right, so I just shrugged.
The receptionist made no effort to stop me using the front door as I was with Walter, and outside under the porte cochere was a smart trap - a fashionable "two wheeler" with the lightweight seat mounted above the axles of the large diameter wheels. There was a whitey slave standing between the shafts, and it was clear that he had to keep his hands on them as the trap itself had no inbuilt stability, and the seat would fall backwards or forwards. The slave must have been a very trusted one, though, as his hands were not manacled to the shafts, and neither did he have a bit, or blinkers.
"Hi, Rory", Walter called.
"Good morning, master Walter", the slave replied politely. He had some sort of "foreign" accent, and he stood there patiently as Walter climbed up onto the seat, and then extended a hand to help me up.
I'd never actually ridden in a pony trap before, and as we sat there I couldn't help marvelling at the slave's heavy musculature - his broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist before his butt flared out, topping long, powerful thighs and very sturdy calves. "Home, Rory!", Walter commanded, "But stop at the bus stop at the end of the drive, to let master Steve out."
"Yes, sir!", the slave replied quickly and we began to move off. But, as we did, Walter took the carriage whip and cracked it sharply in the air, before laying it a couple of times across the slave's bare butt.
"Rory's a really well trained slave, Steve", Walter remarked as he holstered the whip at the side of the seat. "I only need to whip him for the effect, as you can see - I don't really need to do it at all as it doesn't make him go faster, but there's something satisfying about striping a whip across good solid muscle. He's been one of our ponies for about ten years now, and I've kind of grown up with him. Dad bought him when he was found and convicted by the Immigration Authority, trying to get across the Canadian border into the country - he's some sort of East European, so you can tell how bad it must be over there if being in the USA as a whitey is a better option! He was quite mature already - late twenties, dad says, and at first it was thought he wouldn't take to the pony training, but he did, and he's actually really good. He's not as fashionable as some, of course, especially with regard to his age, but he works well, and as you can see, he
can be trusted: we don't need all those bits and manacles and stuff, so it's easy to get him ready; he responds to voice commands, so I don't have to spend all my time guiding him with reins; and he can be sent out alone to pick me up, without the need for a groom accompanying him. All in all, the perfect 'utility' pony."
"Rory's an odd name for a pony", I commented, not knowing what else to say, really.
"Oh, dad says that his real name is some sort of odd stuff made up entirely of C, K, Z and Y! So he was renamed when he was bought."
I thought it was pretty incredible that you could not only own a man, but you could even deprive him of his name, too. But I didn't comment on it, and I watched the pony's ass and thighs thrusting away as he bowled at a fair pace don the long drive. My curiosity finally got the better of me, and I leaned close to Walter and whispered "And that butt - I suppose you've been there....?"
"Do you think I'm some sort of pervert, Steve?" Walter sounded genuinely shocked. "I first started using him as a pony when I was six. By the time I was ready for sex he was a bit too old for my taste... And, in any case, he's a pony! It's not done to fuck ponies, Steve! They're like animals...."
"I thought you said that all slaves were animals...."
"Don't you do English Literature at that crappy school of yours, Steve? Didn't you do that twentieth-century classic 'Animal Farm'?"
I nodded. "Well then, as Orwell said, 'All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others'. Slaves are like that, Steve!"
End Of Part Four