Steve Grows Up

Steve Grows Up

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownsetoticstries

Part 5

It wasn't much fun for the next few days. Although the pain in the brand gradually went down, I started having trouble with sleeping as I couldn't jerk off! Well, I was a horny sixteen year old, after all, and you're most sexually active then, so they say. And it was no fun having to wash in the big trough of water in the forge, either - at least we had warm water at home! I kind of skimped on the actual bathing part, until dad noticed and told me I stank, then without me being able to do anything about it he scooped me into is arms and just dropped me into the trough! I sat there spluttering and gasping from the cold, but dad just laughed, and eventually I did, too. He helped me out and I stood there shivering a bit in my soaked jeans, so he told me to strip off and for the rest of the afternoon I worked in just my smith's apron (a big leather apron that covers you in case sparks and hot metal are flying) - it wasn't so bad, as once you got used to feeling the air on your naked butt, it was actually quite cool when you started sweating.

I hadn't seen Rob much, but that night there was a knock on the door as we were all eating dinner, and there was Rob. Mom asked him if he wanted some vegetable stew, but he said no, and when I'd finished dad suggested that I should take Rob to "my place" so that they could all get on with their work assignments and so on.

Rob looked suspiciously at the narrow cupboard and the straw, but then said "You know, Steve, if would be kind of neat if you were still fucking girls - get them in here, and you could do what you liked..."

"Hey, Rob, what do you mean? 'IF I was still fucking girls...'? I'm a pretty hot date..."

"You were, Steve. But not now. A lot of girls in our class decided to fuck with you as there were rumours that you were going to be enslaved, and they wanted to be able to tell girls at college that of course they'd fucked with a slave. But now you actually are a slave, well, it wouldn't be polite, would it? No nice southern girl is going to sleep with a slave - that's the sort of sick thing they do up north."

"You mean even if I asked them, if I danced with them, blew in their ears, kissed them....?"

"And when are you going to do that, Steve? Slaves aren't allowed into our socials and stuff - well, not unless they're there as waiters and other servants!"

"So you think I won't be fucking, then, Rob?"

"I'm not sure about that, Steve. My dad was talking to your owner, the Colonel, yesterday, and I overheard the Colonel saying he was on the lookout for a slave for you to mate with - he wants you to start breeding now, as there's a lot of money in whiteys, especially good looking ones like you. Still, that's good news...."

"Rob, suppose she's a hag...."

"Steve, don't be so stupid. Any young whitey female costs a fortune, and the OK ones aren't all that much more expensive. So it would be false economy for the Colonel to buy a vile one if he's trying to breed good looking slaves to sell on in due course - no, Steve, I reckon you're going to be pretty lucky, and get some stunning girl to fuck."

On the one hand I was pleased, but on the other hand it sounded so wrong. "Rob...", I said hesitantly. "It's not right. I mean, I ought to be fucking around, and choosing a wife for myself. How can the Colonel choose for me?"

"Oh Steve, of course he can - he's your owner, and he can choose anything he likes for you! He's chosen your job, what you wear, and all that stuff already. And his dad chose your mom for your dad, after all."

"Yes, but what if I don't love her?"

"For Christ sake, Steve, what's that got to do with it? You're going to be provided with her to breed with. Love and stuff - well, that's for free men, not slaves. You can live your life with her and just keep fucking and breeding - a lot of men do that with their wives anyway, don't they? The only thing you have to worry about, I suppose, is that he might choose to get you some older woman who's a proven breeder, and then you'd just have to sleep with her every night, and it probably wouldn't be as much fun - imagine fucking every night with someone who's old enough to be your mom!"

"He couldn't do that...."

"Steve, get real! Of course he could. Or he might hire you out as a stud - you know, travelling around from place to place, just fucking whatever woman you were put to."

"No..."

"Hey, Steve, what's the problem? A fuck is a fuck, after all! It's more than I'm likely to get - my parents are taking me to Europe for most of the summer vacation, and I expect I'll be on a pretty tight rein and even if I do manage to meet any girls, there'll be precious few opportunities to fuck them."

"Rob, have you actually ever fucked a girl? I know you always asked me about the ones in the class who did.... But have you ever got it off with any of them?"

"Sure."

Something in Rob's tone struck me as odd, so I said "Oh yes? So who, then?", but he didn't reply, and instead said "Well, I guess I'd better be going - see you when we get back from the trip. I'd send you a postcard, but I don't think my mom and dad would like me writing to a slave."

"But your mom was always so good to me, Rob, giving me all that nice food, and stuff..."

"But that was before you were a slave kind of 'officially', Steve. Don't you see that changes things totally?"

I just looked at him, and shrugged. "Oh well, have a good trip.... And they always say the girls in Sweden are prepared to put out...". As I said this I stuck out my hand to shake, but Rob just stood there, hands at his side.

"...and Steve, a free man can't shake hands with a slave! Folk might think we're friends, and you know the old saying...."

"Yes, Rob. 'You can't be friends with a slave'. So does that mean we're no longer buddies?"

"No, Steve. But it may be different. See ya....."

He turned and walked out, and I stripped off and pulled the blankets over me. Fuck it, I decided - I didn't care if my dick ran with blood - I just had to beat off or else I would never sleep. But as I stroked my dick it kind of felt all wrong - that lovely sensation as my 'skin slid up and down the shaft and on and off the head was all gone. And I realised I needed to use a lot of spit now to lubricate my hand as it grasped the shaft and began beating away.

As it so happened the veterinarian called in the next day and I had to drop my jeans and boxers so he could inspect progress. He seemed pleased, asked me if there was any tightness or discomfort -and I said no - and he smiled. "Another success, then. You know, Steve, I'm not an expert in these matters but I think it definitely does improve the appearance of a slave - you're somehow much sleeker, more obviously 'ready for action' without your 'skin."

I was going to tell him that may be so, but jerking off wasn't nearly as much fun, when dad interrupted and asked him if he'd mind going in and seeing mom, as she was worried about something. He nodded and went off, and I went outside to see if his pony was OK.

He stood there as usual, looking pretty nice as he had a buff body and good long legs as you'd expect, and he smiled. "So, Steve, the word on the street is that you're one of us now - lost your 'skin and gained the big 'S'!"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, my master's got a special black bag, for 'skinning. And Mr. Stryker's pony said that the other day after you'd watered him there was all the screaming and stuff that means a branding. We were all talking about it - a young whitey's rare in these parts."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Oh, you know, all the guys in the outdoor slaves' barn - us ponies, the gardeners, chauffeurs, the guys who pull the mowers... All the domestic staff at the big house who're not 'indoor' slaves: the waiters and cooks and guys like that sleep in the attics."

"I thought you'd all be together, with all the niggas..."

"Oh no! They keep us close to the house in case we're needed for urgent duties. And the ordinary coffled niggas are way down at the other end of the plantation. They're all locked up and everything at night, but we're 'free' - they know we can't escape, as there's nowhere to go."

I gave him another drink of water, and he said casually "now that you're one of us, do you want to join in the fun? Come on - let's see how you are.... My master might be some time, and you could jerk me off..."

"Hey, Sam, I told you I didn't do stuff like that...."

"So it's true what they say, Steve.... You whiteys are stuck up! You don't want to mix with the rest of us slaves...."

"No, of course not! I'm not prejudiced against niggas! Or women. Or the handicapped. Or anyone. I even get along with the utterly thick and stupid!"

"So why won't you jerk me off? Come on, if you're not prejudiced, you must be scared. What are you worried about - my owner coming back? He won't mind as he knows it's natural for young guys to jerk off, and he says it's OK for slaves to do that sort of stuff anywhere, as long as it doesn't interfere with their work. So it must be your dad - you're scared your dad will see you with your hand on my dick, aren't you? And I thought you were a grown up, an adult...."

"Sam, I am a man. I've got the big 'S' to prove it! And I do what I like, not what my dad tells me...."

"Go on then - get hold of my dick, and show me you're not scared..."

Well, I could hardly back down now, could I? And it was not as if I hadn't done this before - I had jerked off Rob, after all. But as I reached down for his dick it seemed really exciting and different - here we were, out of doors, where anyone could see. And this guy was shackled into the trap, so he couldn't use his hands to do anything.... As I gripped his shaft and began to stroke it, I was seized with the idea of also grabbing his balls with my other hand, and stroking them, too. I did all the things that I like myself - varying the pressure on the shaft, letting my thumb and forefinger bang hard up against the rim of my dick head, being really tough on my dick head - squeezing it as my hand flew across it, and running my thumb across his piss slit. He was soon moaning with pleasure, and tried to back away from me, even - something I soon stopped as I squeezed his balls just a little, a very little, so he could understand that I was in control.

And as I did this, there was that feeling again - that fantastic feeling of having another guy under my control. Without the use of his hands Sam was powerless - I could do what I liked to him. My own dick was rock hard inside my jeans as I realised this, and the more I jerked him and the more he moaned, the better I liked it! He shot his load all too soon - I felt my hands go all slimy with his cum as I continued to jerk him, and he was almost pleading with me to stop as he evidently had one of those dicks - a bit like mine - that likes to be allowed to rest as soon as the cum has shot. But I kept on, and now he was almost crying out as he attempted to do anything to get away - but those lovely balls of his in my other hand were still in control.

When I did stop and stood there looking at him, a fresh burst of sweat had broken out all over his body, and he was smiling. I thought it was really very erotic - I was a whitey, and although I was bare-chested I was wearing jeans and boots, whereas Sam was a big nigga, and was totally naked. And this big nigga was totally under the control of a sixteen year old. I felt as if I was about to cum myself, I was so turned on by the whole thing.

I went to go, leaving a thin drool of his cum still leaking out of the end of his dick, and when he asked me to remove it as he didn't want the veterinarian to see it, I taunted him saying that he'd said that the veterinarian didn't mind. "So", I went on, "If you want to get rid of it, you'd better piss!".

I went back into he forge, and dad grabbed me - one of his big hands was really hurting my left arm, and he almost shook me. "I saw that, Steve! What do you think you're playing at?"

"Dad, he wanted it. And he said it was OK as the veterinarian didn't mind."

"Well I mind, Steve. A son of mine, in a lewd display... Suppose your mom had come out?"

"Dad, I'm a slave, OK? You keep telling me that. And yet when I try to act like one, you complain. Now mind your own fucking business - I'm a man now, and I'll do what I like."

"You disgusting animal!", he screamed at me. "Your mom and I brought you up to behave properly. And look at your jeans..."

I looked down, and there, right down the leg, was a big slick of Sam's cum lying on the surface of the denim. I hadn't been watching all that closely as he shot. I blushed, but brushed it off as casually as I could.

"...and you think that makes it OK, do you?" Dad snapped. "What about your mom, who's got to wash those jeans tonight?"

"It's no worse than washing our boxers, dad, when they're covered in our cum from where we were made to fuck..."

Dad lost it then, and began to hit me, and I fought back. Before long we were rolling around on the floor of the forge, trying to punch each other but, I guess, kind of holding back as we didn't really want to hurt each other, just establish who was the superior one. And I lost, of course - dad had twenty or thirty pounds of solid muscle more than me, and before long he was sitting astride me, his knees pinning my shoulders to the ground and his calves gripping my sides.

"So, Steve, you're a man now, are you? And it's OK for slaves who are men to have sex in public, is it? And it's OK for a slave who thinks he's a man to talk back to his dad, is it?"

"Fuck you, dad!", I almost spat at him.

"Steve, you always were wild, and didn't want to listen to advice and stuff I gave you. Well, it's time you learned, boy, not to argue with those who are bigger and stronger than you. It won't do you any good, Steve - you'd better learn this lesson, or else you'll have a terrible life as a slave, as by definition your owner is always stronger than you - even if not physically."

As he said that, dad was undoing the buttons on the fly of his jeans, then, as I bucked and writhed in a futile attempt to escape, his dick flopped out and dad kind of raised himself up so it was hanging down almost on top of my face. Dad's hand gripped my chin, and his incredibly powerful fingers dug themselves into the side of my jaw. "Open up, boy...", he said with an air of grim determination.

I went to say "fuck you!", again, but the moment my grip on my jaws loosened, dad's fingers did their work and my mouth was effectively jammed open. Then, with a dreadful, slow determination, dad used his other hand to position and then lower his dick into my mouth!

There's no simple way of describing the taste of cock, is there? It depends so much on what the guy has been doing, when he last showered.... But dad's was salty, and sweaty, and somehow meaty... And it was warm, and soft, and hard, and overwhelmingly "male". Dad lowered it into me, and didn't stop even though I started to gag and choke, my body thrashing around and my chest heaving as I struggled for air. I was dimly aware of the smell of dad's jeans as the crotch pressed into my nose, and then dad pulled back, and I lay there gasping.

"You'll have to learn how to take a cock down your throat, Steve", dad said grimly, "Just as I had to. But I can't trust you yet not to bite, so for now...."

Dad began stroking his dick, and as it hovered above me I could see his big horny hands sliding faster and faster over it. Dad began to give little snorts and groans, and then he almost stopped.... And pointed his dick downwards, and his cum spurted out all over my lips and cheeks and nose, and tricked down into my mouth that was still held open by dad's fingers.

He continued to kneel there on me, and I could see his chest heaving as he recovered his breathing after his climax. I couldn't help it - I put my tongue out and licked my lips clean - well, I suppose it's a reflex thing, isn't it? The sweet, salty taste of dad's cum was everywhere, and the smell of it, that strange ammoniacal smell that isn't like the taste at all, was assaulting my nostrils. Dad looked down at me and said quietly "So, Steve, sex in public is OK, is it?"

He got off me then and stood there, looking down at me, his dick still hanging out of his jeans. Then he reached a hand down and helped me up to my feet. I just stood there, looking at him, until he suddenly threw his arms around me and held his head close to mine, his big strong hands holding us together. "Oh Steve, I'm sorry....". He was almost sobbing. "I'm sorry, son. I shouldn't have done that. But you were going on and on, defying me.... It's a problem... But I shouldn't have done it."

"It's OK, dad." I was almost crying now. "It's OK. It didn't hurt me."

"Steve, look, it's only natural. And it might happen again. It's what all fathers and sons do - they fight for position, as there can only be one alpha male in the house. It's easy when the kid is young, but as he matures, he naturally challenges his father, and the father fights back, of course - it's programmed into us. And they go on, challenging and repelling, until it erupts into a major fracas, and one walks away the winner. And if it's the son, then the father knows his time has come. But if it's the father, it will happen again as the son can't help challenging. It's just that for normal families it usually stops at shouting and arguing, and the denial of privileges, the stopping of allowances and stuff like that - but for us, Steve.... well, they've corrupted us.... Making us slaves like this means the arguments are going to be stronger, the fighting more real.... And, in any case, I've never been able to give you an allowance to stop..."

"Dad, it's OK...."

"Sure, Steve. This time I won. But you'll challenge me again. And again. And one day you'll win. It's not so bad for a normal father, Steve, but this is all I've got - your mother, the kids.... I don't own anything, don't have a position in society... Nothing.

Just the head of our little household. And even that's pretty precarious, as I have to do exactly as the Colonel says.... Have another kid, fuck my son...."

"Dad, it's OK..."

"No it isn't Steve. I've just realised I've got nothing, other than the love of your mom and you kids.

And if I go on like this, I'll lose that."

I was crying now, as I pressed my face into his hot, sweaty shoulder by his neck. "No, dad, you won't lose that. I'll always love you, dad."

Well, I think we were both a bit embarrassed then, as you're just not used to speaking with your dad about things like that, are you? So we kind of broke apart, and dad said that we could stop work for the day if we started especially early the next morning. And that I didn't have to bathe in the trough that night, as I could have a shower at home!

When we went into the kitchen mom stopped what she was doing, and looked at us. "What have you two been doing?", she asked.

"Nothing.", dad mumbled, rather sheepishly.

Mom stood back and looked us up and down again. "Those bruises. All that dirt on your clothes, and your bodies... You've been fighting, haven't you, Steve?"

"Mom...", I began.

"I don't want any lies from you, Steven!", she said severely. "Now, have you and your father been fighting?"

"It wasn't serious, mom". I knew I'd better tell the truth, as when mom called me "Steven" instead of Steve, she was really serious.

"Wasn't serious? Wasn't serious?" Mom's voice was rising, almost to a shout. "Two grown men, fighting like children! And you say it wasn't serious?"

She paused for breath. "So what was it about?"

"Nothing". Dad and I said, almost in chorus.

"You men!" Mom sounded very exasperated now. "Fighting. And then trying to say it was about 'nothing'. Still, I don't expect you'll tell me. I suppose it was one of those strange 'men' things! Thank goodness I'm a woman, that's all I can say. Now, both of you, go upstairs and shower as the dinner's almost ready. And if I hear any scuffling or anything when you're up there, you'll have me to deal with!"

Dad and I both half smiled, but we looked pretty sheepish as we trooped up the stairs. And then there was a problem, as I no longer had anywhere to change, so I had to do it in the bathroom as dad was in the shower, and he stood and looked at me as I was drying myself and dressing.

"The veterinarian did a good job, Steve", he commented. "Are you OK about it? I mean, I remember when I was done, and it was odd at first, but I've kind of got to like it - and it does save some time in the shower..."

"Well it's OK, I guess..."

"Look, Steve, there's no point in beating about the bush. The Colonel will use you for sex again. And me. And I expect he'll make us perform together again, too. And we'll have to do it in front of an audience. So let's understand that now, shall we? Then, when the order comes, it won't be so much of a surprise."

"Sure, dad... But, you know.... Well, I'm used to girls...."

"And so am I, Steve! I've had all you kids, remember?

But we're slaves, Steve, and if we're ordered to go with a guy, we don't have any choice, do we? And actually, son, it's not so bad - in fact, it can be a whole lot of fun. Don't get me wrong - I love your mother and everything, but every now and then a bit of good, hard, man-on-man sex is really great. I think a whole lot of men secretly wish they could go with another guy. And at least as slaves we get the opportunity."

"...especially if you win, eh, dad, and you're on top?"

Dad looked a bit sheepish again - he has that way of kind of hanging his head, and cocking it slightly to one side, and looking down. "Well, actually, Steve, I'm like a whole lot of guys - I prefer to be fucked. I know it looks odd - a big strong guy like me with a big hard dick, but I prefer to take dick, rather than give it. I have to give it, of course, if I'm ordered to - but if there's a group of us performing for one of the Colonel's parties, I try to take it, if I can."

He looked at me and saw me staring at him. "Steve, I can see what you're thinking. A whole lot of men think like you, at first - you think the only way a 'man' can be a 'man' is if he gives dick, if he fucks.

Not if he lies there and takes it. But it's not so, Steve. When two men are fucking, fucking properly, not tied down and forced, it's a mutual thing - one gives, and one takes, and one isn't 'better' or 'more manly' than the other - just different."

"OK, dad."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Well maybe it's one of those things I have to find out for myself."

"There you go, Steve. You never listen to my advice. But that's you, I guess. Come on, son, dinner's ready..."

As we went into the kitchen and saw all my brothers and sisters sitting around the table, mom looked at us brightly and said "What kept you boys?"

"Oh, I just had to give Steve a little talk... You know.... 'The birds and the bees', that sort of stuff." Dad was smiling, and I just grinned.

Mom stood there then, and looked at the family sitting around the table. "Well I have some news for you all.

I saw the veterinarian today - such a nice young man - and he's confirmed that there's another one of us on the way."

I slapped dad on the back, and said "You dog, you, dad! And at your age!", and dad rushed over and hugged mom.

We all laughed a lot over dinner, and even the youngest was excited, asking when her new baby brother would be here. But when it was over, I knew they wanted to be alone and talk together quietly after all the kids were in bed, so I said goodnight and wandered back towards the forge. But I was restless, and I thought about what Sam had said about the barn where he and the other guys slept, and as it was a bright moonlit night, started to make my way across the fields on the short cut to the big house. I missed Rob, as it was at times like this "before" that I'd go around to his place and we'd talk and stuff, and now I was lonely.

The "barn" where the outdoor slaves lived was just that - a piece of history, almost, left over from when the big house had needed carriage horses and so on for those elite ladies and gentlemen in the nineteenth century to be able to live out their charmed lives. It really was a barn, and on warm days the big double doors were always open to show the high roof and the wooden structures where the horses had lived and so on. Tonight, though, the big doors were closed and only the usual "pass door" at the side was open, and I went in.

Inside it was warm and kind of comforting - the "historical revival" thing that was all the rage in interior design now meant that they used real straw in the stalls where the slaves lived - and it gave the air a spicy, fresh feeling; and the lighting was low, and in pools, as electric candles in small sconces cast a warm glow (some owners apparently used real candles, but the Colonel, I was told later, considered this to be too much of a fire hazard). There were even some real horses in the barn still, as the Colonel used to like to ride out to inspect the plantation, and in addition to the hacks kept for this, he had a couple of real thoroughbred "hunters" as he local landowners had revived the tradition of fox hunting - Rob and I had often gone to a "meet" to see them all set off, and they'd got an English gentleman over to advise on the "form" and he'd got them all to buy the famous scarlet coats and white breeches. The pack of hounds milling around were fun and the hunt servants in their smart black jackets "whipped them in", as it was called, to keep control. I'd read about this at school in some of the literature - we read Sassoon once and his great autobiographical novel about hunting before World War 1 - and it seemed to be just like it: the only differences, I suppose, were that the servants handing around the glasses of sherry on the silver salvers were slaves, got up in "complementary" uniforms of short black tunics (which left them exposed whenever a breeze blew, or when they handed a salver upwards to a rider) and with scarlet ribbons adorning their collars. And of course the carts that followed the hunt to take the lunchtime feast so that a pavilion could be set up wherever the hunt stopped were pulled by dray slaves, not horses.

Still, the presence of the horses added a certain "animal" smell to the air, over and above that indefinable "something" that told you that there were men here, horny men, men waiting for sex. I felt my dick stir in my jeans, and tried to look nonchalant as I made my way into the place. It seemed that the first couple of bays on the left hand side were where the dray slaves slept, as each was filled with the eight strong, powerful slaves they used for this kind of work - not tall particularly, but strong, very strong, with powerful thighs and butts to give the power needed to pull a loaded dray up and down the hills around here. And, of course, their torsos were heavily muscled too, not only as they needed to work at loading and unloading the drays, but because everyone knew that owners likes slaves to be "proportioned" - heavily muscled legs meant that the slaves had to exercise daily to have heavily muscled torsos as well. They must all have been exhausted by their day's work, as although it wasn't all that late they'd all mostly finished with sex and were lying sprawled across each other asleep, in the relaxed attitudes that only tired, satisfied men can have.

The next bay was for the gardeners, and the Colonel had eight of these - I knew some of these guys as when I was walking through the grounds they'd wave sometimes - well, if they were weeding or pruning or something, and there wasn't an overseer around. And they were good to us, too - many a "thinning" from the vegetables they tended in the kitchen gardens ended up with mom so she could grow them on in our vegetable plot without having to buy seeds and stuff. And sometimes they even tossed me an apple, or even a peach (albeit a damaged one) from the orchards. But on the days when the lawns needed mowing they had no time - or energy - for anything like that, as they dragged the heavy mowers along, pushed the barrows to carry away the clippings, and then crawled up and down the lawns in a long line taking out daisies and dandelions and other pernicious weeds by hand. I stopped by them to say hello, as they were generally nice guys - all ages, of course, as you needed experienced gardeners who knew what they were doing, and younger "lads" who could be taught how to keep the whole thing going. One of the older gardeners was teaching one of the "lads" something different, though, as his buddies sat around and watched: it gave a whole new meaning to "planting the seed"! They were all so intent on this that I didn't interrupt them, although the increasing ache in my dick indicated that I'd have quite liked to stay until the end to see the guy shoot - the gardeners were all of a "type" that I quite liked - not over muscled, like the dray slaves, but kind of "normal", like me, with good, hard, bodies.

The ponies used for pulling the traps were in the last bay along, and I was surprised to see only Sam and the big, very black nigga used by Mr. Stryker in there. Sam saw me and got to his feet to welcome me, and "invited me in" to go and sit on the straw by him. It turned out that there were usually four other guys in there with them, but that the Colonel was out at a dinner with neighbours and had used them all to pull the ornate barouche, rather than just using one or two of them with a gig or dog cart.

I shook Sam's hand, and went to do the same thing with Mr. Stryker's pony, but he just sat there and glared at me. "Don't worry about Dob, Steve - he's really pissed off about life. He's always like that", Sam told me. "All of the rest of us keep trying to tell him that it won't do him any good - it's his own fault that he's a slave, after all, as he tried to get into the USA illegally and everyone knows that Congress long ago decided that if illegals wanted to get here so much, we ought to grant them their wishes and keep them here permanently. He keeps going on about his wife back in his home country, but so what? Still, at least we've taught him some English now."

"I'm not Dob, my name's....", the other guy cut in, but Sam just snapped "Look, Dob, that's part of your problem. No wonder Mr. Stryker beats you so much - if he wants to call you 'Dob' - or 'Dobbin' as he thinks that's a good name for a pony, that's his choice. Just like I'm 'Sam' or 'Sambo' to the veterinarian. Masters give their slaves names to suit themselves, and you'd better just get used to it."

Sam then turned to me, and went on "So why are you here, Steve?"

"Well, I just thought we might shoot the breeze or something...."

Dob cut in "Sam, get that white trash out of here...."

"Hey, cool it, Dob! Steve's a good guy. He waters us at the forge, remember?"

"Fucking white trash.... Get him out of here before I decide to fuck him..."

Sam got to his feet and came and stood in front of me.

Before I could stop him he'd undone my belt and the buttons on my jeans, and pushed them and my boxer shorts down to the ground. He turned me around, as if to display me, and I felt his hand slap my butt lightly.

"See, Dob - he's one of us. He may be white, but he's a slave, just as we are - look at the 'S" on him..." he turned me around again to face the big nigga, and said "....and look at this. When the white masters fucked you, they weren't cut like we are, were they? As I said, Steve's a good guy."

Dob still looked sullen, but Sam put his arms around me, and I felt the heat of his body against mine. His hands moved down my back to cup my butt, and he pulled me close to him so that our dicks rubbed together. We were both rock hard, and as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do I began to move my hips so that our dicks and balls began to thrill each other. "Come on, Steve - get those boots and jeans off. You're stopping the night, aren't you?" He added, rather unnecessarily.

End Of Part 5