It's Not Equal at All!

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 Nine

I was expecting that once I was naked she'd strip off too, so we could get down to some serious making out before the main event. But instead of that she stooped slightly and slipped her panties off. Then she went and sat on one of the couches that furnished the summer house, spreading her legs wide. I stood there in amazement, watching, and she said - sounding rather irritated: "Come on, boy! Get stuck in. I'm not used to being kept waiting."

It doesn't matter what the books say about foreplay., and how the porno movies always show guys using their tongues to drive the bitches wild - I don't like it. I don't like the whole messy business, and the only thing I think I need to put into a bitch is my dick. So there was no way I was going to do what she wanted. My dick was hurting, though, as it was so stiff and needed to get onto the serious business. I moved towards her and went to sit beside her, thinking that we'd kiss a bit and then I could start to make my move. But as I did so, she snapped "I told you I'm waiting! Stop wasting time - I thought you said you were experienced, and knew how to pleasure a lady.... Now, I can see that dick of yours is drooling at the thought of it, but if you want to move on to the main course you've got to have the starter first."

As she said this, she pointed at the ground and it was perfectly clear that she expected me to kneel there and start tonguing her. I shook my head, as there was no way a man like me was going to follow the orders of a bitch, to start doing something like that. "No way!", I said. "Why don't you take that dress of and let me see those tits of yours, and then perhaps I might show you what a whitey like me can do for a nigga bitch....."

She looked at me, at first angrily, but then with a kind of sadistic smile. "Listen, boy - Steve, or whatever your whitey trash name is - do you have any idea of the trouble you could be in? I only have to scream, and the guards who look after the slaves would be in here in seconds. They'd find a piece of whitey trash like you with his dick dripping with juice... And when I told them you were trying to rape me.... Well, those nigga guards are big, you know. And they're used to using their fists and their batons and their slave prods to discipline the slaves - I reckon you'd probably have a few broken limbs before we handed you over to the sheriff, as they wouldn't take kindly to the idea of a whitey trying to rape a nigga. And that would only be the start of your problems - the sheriff's men probably see a lot of white trash who have let their animal lust get out of control when seeing a nigga, and I expect they know how to deal with it: I'm told

they make sure it never happens again, as they'll beat those balls of yours to a pulp...."

"You wouldn't! Hey, I thought you were hot for it..."

"I would! And I am hot for it. I've been watching you at work, and I liked what I saw - and what I see now, even though you are a whitey. You're just like the slaves, you know - those muscles, the colour.... So I'm hot for it, and you look as if you are too as I guess you don't go around all the time with your dick at attention... So get stuck in, or take the consequences."

My blood ran cold as she spoke, and I started to sweat. I mean, we all know what those bastard nigger cops do to white guys they take in to custody: I'd heard stories about broken limbs and cracked ribs.... And worse. The niggas were known to be very sensitive on the subject of whiteys even thinking about their bitches, let alone touching them. Even assuming I survived her father's guards, I doubted I'd get out of the cells intact. And if I was then convicted and sent to jail, I guess the guards there wouldn't be too kindly disposed either.....

"That's unfair...."

"Get stuck in, Steve. Come on...." She pointed to the ground again as she said this and I knew I had to do it. She held all the cards at the moment, and perhaps there'd be a chance to recover later. It was so fucking humiliating, being ordered around by a bitch, and to try to regain at least a little bit of my dignity I bent down to pull my boxers up - my dick wasn't co-operating in all of this, by remaining obstinately, accusingly erect with my pre-cum oozing from it.

"Stay naked!", she snapped. "I want to see what a whitey really looks like: it's one things to watch the slaves when they're stripped to the waist in the fields in the summer, and the ponies I suppose - although I've never fancied them - so I want the chance to see a whitey actually in action all over. Now, stop wasting time: on your knees, and get stuck in."

As she said this she hitched up her dress so she was exposed to me, and slowly, hating it, and not wanting to at all, I got down on my knees and edged my face forward so my tongue could start to get to work. With hindsight, I suppose should have stuck to my convictions that bitches all really want a man, a real man, to show them what it's all about. Instead of kneeling there using my tongue, I should instead have just thrust my dick into her: I reckon she'd have been so overwhelmed by it that she wouldn't think to carry out her threat and call the guards in. And, anyway, if she was going to play the rape card, as she still might, I could at least have had the pleasure before all the pain.

She kept me there for a long time - at least fifteen minutes, I reckon. I hated it. I hated not being in control, not making the running. And I hated the taste and smell of her. And I hated the way she ordered me around, telling me to put my hands behind my back when I tried to use my fingers at one point. And the way she had her hands on my head, moving my head around, as if she was using me as some sort of instrument to satisfy herself. I tried to give myself a bit of pleasure by reaching down and stroking my dick - well, not pleasure, exactly, but more to try to relieve the ache in my boner, and she saw what I was doing and snapped "Stop that! You'll need all your energy down there later!".

She was running with juice when she allowed me to stop, and I thought that then we'd start some serious play. I went to put my arms around her, and she again pushed me away. "Lie down! On your back!"

"What?", I spluttered. It was supposed to be me who took charge now.

"You heard me! On your back, or I scream for the guards, and tell them how you forced yourself on my. And now they'll find all that spit of yours inside me - a DNA analysis would make it an open and shut case of whitey trash assaulting a lady..."

I lowered myself and lay there, feeling the wood against my bare butt and shoulder blades. She opened her bag, and came and knelt beside me, and as I watched she held a condom on top of my dick and started to roll it down. I reached out and grabbed her wrist. "No way, lady! I don't do sex in a macintosh!"

"Listen, boy, I don't know where that dick of yours has been! In some pretty nasty white trash whores, from what you've been saying...."

"I'm clean! And I don't do no fucking unless I can feel it..."

"Oh yes you, so, Steve! I can feel you're ready for it." Well, she was right there: as her fingers rolled the condom down my dick and played around smoothing it out, I almost shot my load with the stimulation.

She moved so she was standing astride me, hitched her dress up, and squatted down on my erect dick. I went to reach up and fondle her tits, and she slapped my hands away. And as she began to ride up and down and I naturally responded by starting to thrust upwards in time with her, she leaned forward and slapped my face - hard. I responded instantly, moving to grab her wrists to held her and slap her back, and she cried out, quite loud, "Easy, Steve! Remember the guards.... Now, this is for me, not you. So you just lie there nice and still whilst I enjoy myself....."

It was terrible. I was being used just like some living dildo! This wasn't sex, not sex the way a man like me was supposed to have it with a bitch. I tried several times to do something to try to take a bit of control, and every time she stopped me. I had no idea how long she was going to carry on like that, but after a time she started to get pretty excited and to moan and groan, and then it was over: she must have orgasmed. Thank Christ for that, I thought to myself. Now she's satisfied, I can show her what a man really does, and get off myself.

She heaved herself off me, and I reached down to pull the condom off, feeling her slimy juice all over it. She had sprawled herself half across one of the sofas, and I went to lie across her.

"Keep that filthy whitey body away from me!", she snapped. "I'm done here. I just need to rest a few minutes, and then we can be away."

"But I'm not finished... I haven't even started....."

"Who cares? Look, whitey, you're here to give satisfaction to a lady. You've done that, and that's all I need."

"But what about me?"

"Who cares? Jerk yourself off, if you want to. I hear you whiteys are all so obsessed with your dicks that you're doing that all the time.... In fact, I think I'd like to see a boy like you in action. Kneel down, and let me see you...."

"No way!"

"Have you forgotten, boy, that I can scream? They always say you whiteys are not as bright as niggas, and you're certainly showing it, forgetting what's at stake for you. Now, on your knees. And I want a good view. So knees right apart, a nice straight back - rest that white ass of yours on your heels - then I want to see you stroking yourself...."

Well, what could I do? I was furious inside, all tensed up, but there didn't seem to be any way I could not do as she said. My anger, and my humiliation, and my embarrassment, was making my face and shoulders bright red, I knew. And my dick wasn't co-operating: why didn't it just go to sleep, just lie there, limp, then I wouldn't have to go ahead with this! Instead of that it jutted out from me, hard and thick, reaching upwards to the sky, pre-cum oozing out. I tried somehow to minimise my exposure, but she was adamant that I had to spread my knees, and stay upright. And she then demanded that I look straight at her and didn't "hang my head in shame", as she put it.

I went to start, but there was one more thing she wanted: I had to skin back, slowly, so that she could take a look at my dick head! Look, I don't mind a bitch seeing my dick, obviously - but not like this! She's meant to see it when her mouth is closing around it, or when I'm standing there about to start on her. She's not meant to look at it as if it's an object of curiosity, or something she can order about and can tell me exactly what to do with it.

"Not bad, for a whitey", she commented casually. "And you're quite like a proper nigga in some ways - now I can see it properly without that ugly skin over it, it's quite a lot darker than the rest of you. And in niggas it's the other way around - it's usually lighter than the shaft."

I didn't need these lessons in comparative anatomy! So I suppose I was glad when she said she'd seen enough, and I was to start jerking off.

Look, have you ever done that? Knelt there instead of lying somewhere comfortably, having to jerk off in front of someone else, on their orders? I can tell you it's fucking difficult: I don't like jerking off standing up and it always takes a hell of a long time if I try to do it in the shower. And I suppose I'm sensitive about these things, as I reckon a man shouldn't have to jerk off in front of other people - I mean, with a bitch, there's lots of other stuff you can do, or she can do to you. And I'm not gay, so I'd never think about doing it in front of other guys. So it was really tough, and if I hadn't been so aroused and if my dick hadn't been almost spasming already, I reckon I'd never have managed it. But, fortunately, I did - although as she saw me start to slow for my climax, she snapped "Catch it, boy! I don't want it spurting everywhere".

I knelt there, feeling so fucking stupid. I was covered in sweat from my exertions, I was bright red with shame and embarrassment, and I had a palmful of my cum in one hand. She looked at me, and said quietly "That's good for a whitey! Now, let me see you dispose of it neatly - get that tongue of yours to work again, and let me see you lap it up."

Look, there's nothing wrong with cum really, I suppose. I mean, like all guys I'd tasted it when I'd first got mature and had shot my first load - you do need to do those things, don't you, so that you know more about yourself? Like everyone has tasted the saltiness of their own blood on the tip of their tongue, or had a little sip of piss at some point, just to see what it's like. But there's a world of difference between tasting a bit, running your tongue over it as it lies in your hand, and actually swallowing the whole load. Especially a big load like mine! So I shook my head, indicating that there was no way I was going to do it.

"I'm getting tired of you, Steve. When a lady tells a whitey to do something, you've got to learn to obey me. Now, get slurping that stuff down, or I'll scream and scream and scream..."

Well, what could I do? She sounded just like Violet-Elisabeth! I was trembling as I raised my hand to my mouth, and then I felt myself shudder as I licked at my cum, almost gagging as the ammoniacal smell of it assaulted my nose. It's not so bad, of course - I know now that cum's really strange, in that the smell is unmistakable but it doesn't actually taste of anything much: there's just that thick, slimy texture, warm, kind of salty, kind of sweet; I guess it's the humiliation of being made to eat it that's the problem.

When I was done she continued to sprawl there as she watched me dress, then she said, as if it was she who was now totally in charge. "You're not bad, boy. I reckon you and me are going to have a lot of sessions like this. I'll pick you up out of school tomorrow..."

"Don't bother! There's no way...."

She took out her phone and snapped a photo of my dick just as I was tucking it into my boxers. "Oh yes you will, Steve. Or else the sheriff will get this picture - a whitey like you with his dick out here at my family's house....."

I knew I was defeated, and thought briefly about snatching the phone off her and smashing it. But then she'd scream. So it looked as if I was fucked.

There was hell to pay when I got home, as dad didn't like the corner shop having to send round a message for us, as he said it was making us "beholden" to them. And the more he moaned on, the less of my earnings I decided to give mom and dad. If he didn't like me working for the niggers (which was really what made him go on and on), then he didn't deserve to share in the benefits I reckoned. Mom seemed grateful for a share of my wages, though, and I knew my few dollars had made a real difference to her ability to put good food on our table.

The next day I'd kind of forgotten all about the incident, but when I came out of school I had a real shock. That bitch Sh'Kwala was sitting there right outside in a trap with two magnificent ponies - big, deeply-tanned blond guys who were such a closely-matched pair that they might almost have been brothers. It must have really strange to see something like this at our school - as I've told you, we were in a very poor areas and slaves, let alone magnificent ponies like these, were just not seen on the streets. Quite a crowd of kids had gathered, some of them even reaching out timorously with the tips of their fingers to touch the sweating hides of the ponies, and the poor guys were evidently getting restive as they weren't used to being treated like this.

She called out to me, really loud, with that kind of shrill, grating voice niggers have. And I felt the eyes of almost the whole school turn to see who he could e referring to - me! I tried to walk on, as if this whole thing was nothing to do with me, but she persisted, even going as far as to shout "Come on, Steve - you weren't shy last night, boy!", which caused the crowd to first burst into laughter, and then to snigger and start to jeer at me to go and give the bitch what she deserved.

I was beet red from blushing, but I could see there was no way out - the more I delayed, the bigger the crowd would get. So, as nonchalantly as I could manage, I strolled over to the carriage.

"Get in, boy", she commanded, before I even had a chance to speak. And when I hesitated, she lowered her voice and whispered "Come on, Steve. I think a lot of your buddies are watching, and do you want them to know what a lovely tongue you have....?"

Well, what could I do? I clambered in, and she snapped the whip smartly on the ponies' bare butts and they started in to motion, scattering some of the smaller kids who'd got too close to them.

Look, I'm not into re-living my humiliation. But it was much the same as that first night - we drove to some shack on her folks' place, then I had to "do my stuff" and pleasure her, as she called it. And then she rode me like a dildo until she climaxed. Once again I tried to assert myself and actually do some proper fucking, but it was no good. She demanded to see me jerk off, and I had to kneel in front of her as I had before. She did offer me a lift home, though, but I had to refuse it - I mean, what would mom and dad have thought if I'd come home with a nigga bitch in a carriage like that? Dad, in particular, would have gone mad as he didn't agree with having a lot of mulattos around the place and would have said that my going with a nigga would have been sure to produce one sooner or later. And whilst mom and dad didn't totally disagree with the concept of slavery, as they said it helped to keep the idle and the lawless off the streets, it's

one thing to have those views but quite another to see your son arrive home actually using a slave in a carriage.

We went on for three weeks like this, and my life began to suffer. For one thing, I was exhausted physically: yes, I know guys pushing seventeen are meant to be at the peak of their sexual powers, but look at what I was having to do - sustain an erection for a long, long time as she rode me, and then having to jerk off "on command". Actually, I guess it wasn't totally physical exhaustion, it was more the psychological strain at having to perform like this, day after day, knowing that if I failed Sh'Kwala would complain and could possibly do much worse: she'd given up threatening to call her family's guards once she discovered why I wouldn't accept a lift home, and now said that she'd "drop in on my folks" and talk to them about their son if I failed her. Everything else went kind of wrong, too - because she insisted on having me every day after school I had to duck out of practices, and the coach hauled me over the coals for it. Then when I still

didn't turn up, he threw me off the team, and was really hurtful with the things he said about guys like me not having a proper commitment. Obviously I couldn't tell him that I was being turned into a sexual plaything, and I had to kind of shrug as his comments stung me, then walk away from it.

I kept hoping she'd tire of me, but she was always telling me what a satisfactory boyfriend I was, even though I was a whitey. I think what she meant was that there wasn't all the tedious stuff about "dating" and going to the movies together, or to parties, and stuff like that: no, she had it exactly how she wanted it, with me there at her beck and call to perform for her and give her the satisfaction she needed. It just wasn't right - this is how guys ought to be, having a bitch there to satisfy them without all the tedious stuff, and I really didn't like the way the tables were turned on me now.

It got worse, though: Sh'Kwala announced one day that it would be more convenient if I had a place of my own, somewhere where we could be undisturbed and where there would be a proper bed, as she was getting tired of kneeling over me on wooden floors. Well I obviously couldn't afford it, could I? And there was no way I was going to accept money from her and become sort of paid gigolo. So one day she took me after school to a one-room apartment, then she fucked me on the bed, and announced that from now on this is where we would meet. I went through the money argument again, and she smiled at me. "Silly boy! That's all fixed - I've got you a job at daddy's place - he doesn't know, of course, but I've fixed it up with the manager there who's known me since I was a child. You start tomorrow - you need to be there at eight o'clock."

"What about school?", I protested.

"Give it up. Just go to Johnson's tomorrow morning, at the employee entrance, and say you're the new hire."

"I can't do that! Mom and dad would kill me! I can't leave school without graduating... I'll never get to college.... And, anyway, who'll employ me without qualifications... There aren't that many jobs around....."

"Listen, boy, I've told you, it's all fixed. Johnson's will employ you, and you've got all the qualifications they need - you're big and strong, and kind of tough looking. That's all the qualifications guards there need. And as for your mom and dad - I thought you said they'd freak out if they knew you were having sex - so what's worse? Having me tell them that, or you telling them you want to be independent, want to live on our own, and you've had the initiative to go and get a good job....."

I sat there, my head in my hands, trying to work it all out. If only I'd been honest with mom and dad when this all started, it might have been OK. But now not only had I been with a nigga for weeks, but they'd know I'd been lying to them all this time. It's not that dad would actually hit me, I guess - well, he might, but I could probably take it. No, it was the fact that I couldn't bear to see the hurt in their eyes, especially mom's, when they realised all their hopes for me might not be realised. Mom and dad wanted a grandson or two, white ones, that is. So there was no way they'd accept me fucking a nigga bitch.

That evening was one of the worst of my life. I couldn't eat the dinner mom had cooked, and she started to wonder if I was a bit "off colour" - it's funny how that expression has survived, isn't it, given that we were all so very colour conscious. And somehow I couldn't tell them, and it's only when I came down in the morning with a couple of bags of my stuff that I had to confess to them that I wasn't off to school at all, but was going to Johnson's to start work.

Dad raged and shouted, not only at me, but at mom, telling her that he'd known all this mixing with niggas at the Club would end badly, and that they'd given me "ideas above my station". And he didn't like me working for Johnson's, either, raving on about how it wasn't right for whiteys like us to have anything at all to do with the slave trade, and accusing me of "betraying the whitey race, by helping the nigger to enslave us." It was useless for me to try to say that it was only a job, and he went on and on about how back in the nineteenth century it was niggers who captured their fellows in Africa to trade with the slavers, and now I was doing just the same thing - helping to enslave my fellow whiteys for the benefit of the niggers.

I'd started out feeling really dreadful about cheating mom and dad like this, but the more dad raged on and on at me, the more that feeling went away and I began to get angry. He was blaming me for all the things wrong in our society, and all I was doing was trying to make the best of my life by getting a job. So I started to retaliate, saying that if he'd done a bit better by us and we weren't so piss poor, then maybe I wouldn't have had to get a job at the Club......

Well, I expect you can imagine what happened. Dad was really proud that we'd never had any real money problems in spite of not having any money as he'd worked hard and been "careful", and now here I was throwing it back in his face. So the argument got louder and louder and more and more hurtful - I guess it's only people who are really close who can actually hurt you in an argument, as they know so much about you. And it's classic at about that age for young guys to rebel against their fathers anyway, as some sort of primitive urge to be "leader of the pack" cuts in. It ended with me storming out, and dad shouting after me never to darken their door again, and mom in tears.

If only everyone had been calm and reasonable, I think even then I might have told mom and dad the truth about Sh'kwala and probably we could have picked up the pieces and I could have gone to school, and my life would have been very different. But once you've left like that, with a huge slamming of the door and everything, there's no way you can do it - dad would never back down, and neither could I. So I trudged through the streets with my bags, at first all fired up by my anger, but then becoming terribly sad and unhappy at what had gone on, to the point that I almost turned around and went back to ask mom and dad to forgive me. But then of course the "man" thing kicked in, and I knew I wasn't going to grovel to dad, and after a few minutes I was back up on top of the world, saying to myself "Fuck 'em! I'll show 'em. I'll work hard, get promoted.... And maybe I'll even father a kid by the bitch and then I'll be able to marry the boss's

daughter.... I mean, wasn't it dad who was always saying that to be rich you either had to be born with it, or win the lottery, or marry it?"

Johnson's is a huge place - and pretty forbidding-looking from the street. There are no windows of course to help prevent escapes, so the unbroken concrete of he wall stretched away into the distance down the street - in fact most of us avoided that area as we were somehow uncomfortable with what we knew they were doing in there, processing slaves; and, anyway, as they'd had permission to close several cross streets as they expanded over the years, you had to make quite a detour to get past it. As I made my way towards the entrance I saw the heavy steel gates where I knew the trucks delivered the prisoners form the courts and such, and a little shiver ran down my spine as I wondered what it would feel like to be driven in there, knowing that your life as a man was over as you'd emerge somewhere at the other end as a processed slave. On the next side, though, things were much better - this was where owners and buyers entered, and looking in I could

see a luxurious waiting area with comfortable couches, lots of huge potted plants, a big reception desk with smiling slaves behind it, and a few slaves scurrying around serving coffee and champagne to the patrons there. As I approached and went to turn in, two liveried slaves pulled the door open for me, and I strode up to the reception desk.

The slave was really haughty: he glanced at my T and jeans and the bags I was carrying, and in a very supercilious way raised an eye brow and said "Yes?" - no "sir", or "master" - just that solitary word as if he knew I didn't belong in there as all the patrons were mostly niggas, and were elegantly and expensively dressed. I guess I was still seething inside from my argument with dad earlier, as when he replied to me after I'd told him I was there for a job, saying only "Workers enter on the East side", just like that, I snapped back "Good! And when I am working here, I'm going to search you out and teach you a few manners! Any slaves I have anything to do with will always be properly respectful to free men! I think you need a few stripes of the cane across that backside of yours to remind you of it!"

Well, that taught him a lesson, I reckon, as he at once kind of grovelled out some sort of apology, then said "Sir, it is possible to go through to the employee reception if you would like, directly from here, to avoid the necessity of trudging along two sides of the building...." So that was good - it just shows you that you need to be firm when handling slaves or else they'll get all uppity on you and you'll no longer really be a free man, properly differentiated from them.

I thought the guard at the employee reception might have given a little snigger when I gave my name, but perhaps I was being too sensitive. But when I got to see a manager, I realised they all knew I was not a regular hire and that some strings had been pulled to get me a job. And the guy even smiled when, as he filled out the forms, he asked me if I had any "special talents"! I felt myself getting so embarrassed that I began to flush, then it turned to anger, as what right did he have to pry into my private life?

There was a medical, of course. I had to strip and shower, then put on one of those ridiculous gowns where you run the risk of having your bare ass exposed as you wait to see the doctor. He was a nigger, as you'd expect, but he had a good manner and even called me "Mr Masters" as he listened to my chest, peered into m eyes and ears, and then cupped my balls for the obligatory "Cough, please, Mr Masters", test! He ran a heart monitor, took my blood pressure, then took blood into three separate little vials. He even apologised for having to remain in the room, although he had the courtesy to turn his back to me, as I gave a urine sample as he explained that the company's rules required it as there had been some unscrupulous people who had tried to "switch" samples.

"I think I should warn you, Mr Masters", he added ,"that the Company has a policy of regular random drug tests for its white employees. It's regrettable, I know, but so many of you people are users, and then you're tempted to smuggle stuff in to the slaves in training in exchange for favours...."

"No problem with that with me", I responded. "I don't do drugs. And what possible favour could a slave do me?"

"Sex, mostly". It sounded so natural, so obvious, that he was clearly used to the concept of the guards using the slaves for sex.

"Well that rules me out, then!". I tried to make it into a joke. "I'm strictly into women."

He consulted a PC which was processing and displaying results, then looked at me again. "You're in excellent shape, for a whitey! So many of the men who come in here are either undernourished, or are grossly overweight - you whiteys either don't want to work and so you starve, or else you get a job and then you gorge yourselves on junk food and beer. You can hardly believe the state of some of the slaves...."

"Hey! You're not comparing me to a slave, are you?"

"Oh, sorry, Mr Masters... I hate to sound prejudiced, but it's just that when I see white skin, I tend to think 'slave', especially working in here. Still, you've had a better and more thorough medical than you'd get outside, as we're so used to assessing bodies in here and looking for hidden flaws - a customer who buys a slave from Johnson's gets a guarantee, you know, and we like to make sure they're in good condition to avoid claims. Now, for the remaining test.... Please go and lie on the examination table, on your side....."

I did as he said as he was after all a doctor, but I was very conscious that my naked ass was showing as I lay there. "Just this examination now", he said smoothly. "Pull your knees up towards our chin...."

There was the snap of a rubber glove, and the next moment I almost jumped out of my skin as something cold touched the sensitive skin around my asshole. "Easy, Mr Masters... I'm just lubricating you before the prostate exam.... It will be painless, I assure you. Not like when I do the new slaves, as the Company wants it done quickly and there isn't time to relax and lubricate them like this...."

I suppose I felt his finger slide in and there was a strange sensation inside me, but it wasn't unpleasant at all. I began to think it was all prejudice about having a finger up your ass - personally I didn't do it when I was jerking myself off, but I know some guys do - and then he told me everything appeared to be fine.

Afterwards I suppose I was no longer so embarrassed as I had been - I mean, he was a doctor, and I've got nothing to be ashamed of as I've got a good body anyway and I know I compare well when you think about how guys are hung. So when he's had a finger up me, what else was there to worry about? But he continued "That's it, then. We need to for the blood sample to be analysed and so on, but I can see no reason why provisionally you can't start work - although you won't get the Company health plan until we do have the results back. So that's it, unless, that is, you'd like the extra test we do on slaves...."

"Hey, no. I told you I don't like being compared with slaves!"

"Mr Masters, I'm only trying to help. A lot of young men like you, on the cusp of full manhood, have certain worries.... And if you like I can help you by testing and doing another analysis. We're fully equipped to do it here, as some owners like it done to their slaves."

"Testing what, exactly?"

"Your semen. If you'd just like to produce a sample for me, we can analyse your fertility...."

"You do this to slaves?"

"Well not usually at the initial examination. But if an owner has ordered a slave to have a vasectomy as he will be working around ladies, then we do of course have to milk the slave over several days to make sure it's been one hundred percent effective. And a lot of young men like you do have concerns for their virility, I know, so if you would just like to go ahead and masturbate, I can set your mind at rest...."

"No way! I've got no worries on that score! Quite the reverse - I'm always worried I might get a bitch pregnant!"

He shrugged. "Well, as I said, it's usually for slaves after a vasectomy."

"So that goes on a lot, then?"

"I can see you're new to all of this, Mr Masters. Of course an owner will have a slave vasectomised if he's going to be working around ladies! It would not be proper, would it, for a lady to get pregnant by a whitey? It would be immediately obvious that she'd been consorting with a whitey with a mulatto baby. So of course any slave who is bought for pleasure purposes will be done, but cautious owners have it for all their indoor slaves, too, 'just in case'."

I felt really uncomfortable as he said this, as what was I doing with Sh'Kela? I hated it, as you know, and the thought of some poor guys being bought to do that all the time - having no other purpose than to give pleasure to their mistresses - was awful. Especially as they'd kind of know they weren't proper men, and would be firing blanks. Still, that wasn't going to happen to me! I was going to work at his job, save some money, and then pay for myself to go to college so I could get a real job.

"And an owner can order a vasectomy, just like that?"

"Of course. He owns the slave, doesn't he? And a vasectomy is not considered something that's a problem at all. It's well within the boundary of things it's acceptable to do to a slave. A castration, of course, is different - an owner has to get a magistrate to agree to that, but it's mostly a formality as the local magistrates around here do understand how important it is to preserve the rule of law, and a slave who is continually wilfully disobedient needs 'calming'."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. None of the slave comedy shows on TV said anything about stuff like this! But the doctor said I could dress then, and as I did so I could feel him watching me - normally our family doctor let you dress behind a screen, but this nigger here had nothing like that. As I pulled up my boxers and tucked my dick in, he said casually "You really are in very good condition, you know. I'm something of a connoisseur of the male form as I see so many young men coming through here, and you have that 'something special' about you: nice proportions, well hung, good meaty butt.... All the things that tend to attract a high price. If you ever are enslaved, you'd do well in the market...."

"Well I'm not going to be enslaved."

"Oh Mr Masters, don't you think most of the men who come through here thought that at one time? The fact is that you never know - young men like you have a terrible tendency to flout the law, or lose their tempers and break the law....."

I smiled. "Well, not me. If that's all.... I'd like to start work."

He actually shook my hand - but probably only because I stuck mine out at him. He didn't seem to like it much, which is odd when you consider his hands had been over parts of me that other guys had never touched. But I guess it was a cultural thing, as niggers didn't like to treat us whiteys as their equals really.

My new manager was waiting for me outside the doctor's office - another nigger as I suppose I might have expected as he was a manager (in fact I soon discovered that you could be a 'supervisor' if you were a whitey, but 'managers' were exclusively niggers). He didn't shake my hand even though I offered it, but told me to follow him to "processing".

His office, when we got to it, had a window overlooking an open yard, and I recognised the gates that I'd seen from outside set into one wall. "So, Steve, this is where you ill be working, at least initially. We do the initial processing here - the slave transporters arrive, and my crew unloads them and processes the slaves initially. We do the initial washing and shaving and so on, before the slaves pass into the holding pens for the following day's sale. Normally I like to let new recruits follow a batch of slaves through the whole process, but as you're not yet eighteen, I'm afraid you can't do that - as I'm sure you know, you can't attend an auction until you're eighteen, and so the latter stages of the transformation of the condemned into slaves will have to remain a mystery to you initially. But I'm sure you'll soon get the hang of the first steps, at least. We're sticklers for obeying the law here at Johnson's, as if we were seen to be

deliberately flouting it some of those campaigners who want to stop slavery would make a scandal. So don't let me see you trying to break regulations and get a peek at the auctions - I know young men like you want to see the bitches naked..... But don't try it!"

I as learning more and more. So there were bitches here as slaves as well as guys, and I began to wonder if I would get to "process" them, too. But he looked at me again, and continued "It's good that you're a big, tough-looking man as initially, before they've learned to respect the prod, some of the condemned can be really uppity. I always select above average sized fit-looking men for this duty as it stops a lot of the intake from causing trouble in the first instance, and those that do decide to be uppity can soon be beaten by you men."

"A slave prod....?"

"Call me 'sir', Steve! I am your manager. Yes - we're authorised to use slave prods here set to all powers, so if necessary we can stun a slave. But normally we don't go above three quarters power, as the sight of the writhing, screaming, vomiting miscreant is a good deterrent to the others."

"I don't think I can do that to another guy.... Sir."

"It's not to another guy, Steve. It's to a slave. Think of it as disciplining an animal. And as well as the prod, you'll be expected to use the strap for lighter offences - the snap of a leather strap across a slave's bare buttocks can be a powerful - and painful - influence on him."

"Sir, I think I'm in the wrong job...."

"No, Steve. I have your file here. And don't worry - a lot of recruits are a little squeamish at first, but once you've been here a few days and realise that the slaves are not like us, and you'll understand that it's in their own best interests that we punish them if necessary. After all, they are slaves, and the sooner they learn to accept it, the better for them: if they are uppity in the sale room, they won't attract a good owner and will probably end up as a field hand, or a miner, or something like that. It's better for them, far kinder, if they start as they'll need to continue, understanding that failure to obey results in painful punishment."

I really didn't like it. But what could I do? I felt kind of trapped.

End Of Part Nine