THE AFTERMATH (Or What Follows Next)
Chapter 17: Masters and Slaves
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Part 1: Andy goes to the Sale
I've always enjoyed going to slave auctions and I make it a practice to attend as many sales as possible. I attend for two reasons - business and pleasure.
Over the years, I have been to the slave market many times to either buy or sell slaves. Usually, on those occasions, I would take Toby with me; as my farm manager and my slave, his knowledge and expertise at assessing another slave's capacity for hard work was invaluable.
As I watched him go about apprising any slaves I was interested in buying, I wondered at his complete indifference to them. It seemed to me that, as a slave himself, he should have some compassion for their plight but none was apparent.
I have decided to sell Toby and today it is he stands naked and in chains on the display podium; I wonder does he now have an appreciation of what those slaves felt as he minutely examined them on my behalf.
I arrived at the market early so that I could register my interest as a buyer. I need to buy a replacement for Toby and there are two possibilities that attract my attention. There are two newly arrived slaves - former soldiers captured in the border skirmishes to the north - who interest me. Either would serve admirably as Toby's replacement in my bed.
Of course, I can only afford to buy one of them; my finances are severely stretched and will remain so until the harvests are in and sold. Still, with the sale of my remaining three slaves - the first has already been sold - I have been able to purchase my statue of the wrestlers and I estimate there's still enough left to buy a new slave. My strategy is to bid for both of them; that way, should I miss out on the first one, then I will have a second bite of the cherry so to speak.
The dealer, Dave Matheson attends to me personally and gives me my buyer's pass which authorizes me to enter the auction yard and bid on my intended purchase and also to watch as my three slaves are sold off. I enquire about my three slaves and he is quick to re-assure me that all three have engendered considerable interest among prospective buyers and he expects that the bidding for them will be spirited. He tells me, most probably the two young blonds will end up being sold to two elderly, spinster sisters and will double up as heavy duty work slaves in their gardens and to pull their rickshaws. It would appear that Toby, on the other hand, is destined for stud duties with a leading breeder.
He tells me all three of my slaves present well and are presently settling down in the display pens before being placed on the viewing platform. He assures me they are calm and accepting of their fates but advises me against having any contact with them. If possible, I should avoid being in their presence to prevent any unseemly disruptions in their behaviour. However, he explains, should this happen, his overseers will quickly restore order - they are well practiced in subduing a noisy or unruly slave.
Armed with this knowledge, I decide, in the interests of harmony, to avoid contact with my three slaves and to ignore any pleas from them.
Issued with my buyer's pass, I'm now free to wander around the display area and join in the activities. Who knows, I might even run into some of my arty friends who also like to frequent these sales to evaluate the displayed livestock.
I truly love the carnival-like atmosphere of the slave-market. There is an air of excitement and expectancy associated with an auction; we who have slaves to sell - and today I have three listed - are hoping that we get a good price for our property. And of course, those who are buying have the pleasure of examining the stock on offer but then face the dilemma of which slave or slaves to bid for.
I take great delight in the sights, sounds and smells of the market; there is the ever-pleasing sight of the slaves as they are put through their paces by the eager buyers, the hoarse shouts of the spruikers drawing the crowd's attention to their wares and the delicious smells emanating from the various fast-food stalls set up to cater for the hungry. And then, there is the noise generated by the animated conversations of people clustered in groups discussing or arguing the merits of the displayed slaves. It all makes for a very lively scene.
I'm easily caught up in the general excitement of these sales and I watch intently as the prospective buyers gather around the displayed livestock; it's always interesting to look on as the slave-handlers force the slaves to pose in positions that best display their bodies. And of course, I can always get a laugh out the ribald humour of the watching onlookers as they joke at the expense of some hapless slave. And I do enjoy watching the reaction of the slaves as they are teased unmercifully by the ever-present groups of laughing, jeering, teenage boys.
When I grow tired of watching the slaves, I visit the numerous ancillary stalls that are so much a part of these affairs and which add immeasurably to the fairground atmosphere of the auction. The majority of these stalls - set up on the periphery of the display area - sell all the accoutrements of slavery - the collars, restraints and instruments of punishment - that are so necessary for the good management of slaves.
I join a group of onlookers as they listen to a stall-holder extolling the advantages of one of the newer, faster, electric branding irons. At heart I'm a traditionalist, and I much prefer to use the old fashioned, type of branding iron; one heated in the coals of my blacksmith's forge and which I still occasionally use at the farm. To my mind the use of such an iron is more visually dramatic and has a greater impact on the slave being branded. Watching and waiting as the iron heats up in the coals impresses itself on the slave so much more than the impersonal use of the clinical, electric brand. Still, I realise that there are owners who would see this new iron as progress and favour its use over the older style branding- iron.
Anyway, I'm a committed environmentalist and believe the use of electric power to heat these new irons is both unwarranted and unnecessary. Given the parlous state of our energy reserves, this use of electricity is completely unjustified and borders on the criminal, besides the almost inexhaustible supply of slave labour makes the use of our scarce, natural resources completely unnecessary. I'm of the firm view that it is far better to use slaves to power the machines of commerce and industry and to provide the locomotion for transportation rather than use these dwindling, natural resources.
Suddenly, I'm attracted to the sight of two, young, naked slaves standing one on either side of the entrance to a booth. Heavily decorated with the adornments of slavery; these two "display boards" stand with their heads bowed in humiliation as buyers examine the stall-holder's wares attached to their bodies. I'm fascinated and spend time examining them. I'm intrigued by the many trinkets available to an owner for the enhancement of his slaves. Personally, I don't like to see a slave over-adorned. My tastes are more ascetic and my slaves wear only neck collars, genital rings and, of course, their brands. I prefer to keep their bodies simple but, nevertheless, I admire the stall-holder's initiative in this innovative display of his wares and the consideration shown to his customers in having them mounted on his two slaves.
As I roam around the display area, I stop to watch as the naked slaves stand helplessly in their shackles and meekly submit to the humiliation and degradation of their inspections. There is that special buzz of conversation as the slaves have their musculatures poked and prodded, their balls hefted and weighed and their cocks stroked to full erections. And it's always amusing to look on as a slave is made to bend over and display the most private part of his body to an interested client. But, what I wonder, can be more hilarious than the horrified look on that slave's face when he suddenly realises what uses his body will be put to by his new master?
Now, my attention is drawn to a group of noisy spectators clustered around one of the slaves. I saunter over to investigate and discover that the slave is Lot 1. I remember the hapless slave from yesterday's visit to the slave pens. He is a convicted criminal condemned to lifetime enslavement and now he stands on his numbered platform weeping and vainly pleading with his tormentors to be left alone. Like all the other slaves, he'd been prepared for his display. His thin, greying hair has been cropped and it seems to me that his body hair has also been tidied up; it appears to be shorter than I remember from yesterday. He is marked with a large, black number one on both the left side of his chest and on his right flank - the slave-dealer has mockingly given him pride of place in the selling order. His left flank is marked by the angry red letter S of his very recent branding.
Like the other slaves, his naked body has been liberally coated with display oil; unlike them it does nothing to enhance his overall appearance. The oil gives the younger, fitter slaves the appearance of rude, good health and shows off the perfection of their strong, muscular physiques. Lot 1, however, appears to me to be even more grotesque than I remember. If anything, his coating of oil draws attention to his physical deficiencies and turns him into a figure of ridicule. The soft pectorals of his sunken chest appear to hang looser and his rotund belly, highlighted by the morning sun, appears bigger and flabbier.
I am unimpressed by his less than impressive genitals which seem to have shrunk In size and I decide that he is suffering from stage-fright. Even as I listen, his cock and balls are the subject of much crude comment and laughter from the onlookers who watch as a group of youths have their fun with him. These youths are a regular feature of sale days and delight in ridiculing and tormenting the unhappy slaves on display. However, their presence is appreciated by both the buyers and onlookers and they always have a following of admirers who are looking for laughs at the expense of the slaves.
Lot 1 is the perfect subject for their ribald humour - the perfect butt for their lewd jokes.
Playing to their audience, one of youths holds Lot 1's thin arms aloft and, in imitation of an auctioneer, extols his physical attributes whilst another laughingly attempts to tease the crying slave's unresponsive cock into an erection. Their efforts are rewarded with loud, raucous laughter. Futilely, the new slave struggles to free himself from the youths' clutches and his plaintive pleas are drowned out by the comments and laughter of the amused spectators.
Then, turning the slave with his back to the audience, one of the youths cups the sagging buttocks in his hands as the other sarcastically invites the audience to appreciate the new slave`s physical appeal. I'm highly amused by the humorous spectacle and add my laughter to that of the crowd. Then, I recall that yesterday, at my first sighting of Lot 1, I had felt sorry for him. His future is grim; as he is neither young nor robust he has limited appeal to a buyer. Unsuited to either field-work or a master's bed, he'll most likely end up working out the few, remaining years of his life at some menial task - perhaps chained fulltime to an assembly line in a sweatshop. Yesterday, I had pity for him; today however, all traces of my sympathy for the snivelling slave are gone.
It is time for me to move on and I casually stroll down the long row of today's offering - each naked slave is standing at display on his individual and lot-numbered viewing platform. Taking care to avoid Lots 25 and 26 - my three slaves - I am seeking out the two slaves who interest me, Grigor and Axel.
I pause to watch as a slave is forced to his knees to allow a buyer to examine his teeth whilst another is bent double and digitally explored. Eavesdropping, I listen in as these buyers discuss such things as soundness and tightness. The humiliation and shame felt by these slaves is obvious for all of the onlookers to see.
Then, above all the noisy hub-bub, I hear the angry, impatient shouts of the overseers as they loudly admonish an un-cooperative slave verbally and with their canes.
Yes for me, a sale-day certainly does have all the colour, noise and excitement of the fair-ground.
Suddenly, I'm greeted by a friend - well more of an acquaintance really - Obadiah Clements. Obadiah, a leading art critic and I move in the same arty circles where he is revered as the doyen of all things cultural. I can't say I really like him - in fact just the opposite; he is pompous, self-opinionated and largely intolerant of anyone else's point of view. And I particularly dislike the affectation of his speech and the mincing tone of his voice. Balding, overweight and perpetually perspiring he has the appearance of a lecher and under normal circumstances I wouldn't cultivate his friendship. Still many of my friends fawn over him and hang onto his every word - to them he is the arbiter of good taste - and it's impossible for me to ignore him. And the fact that he approached me first this morning shows that he accepts me as a member of the city's art community. I am flattered by his recognition of me.
"Good morning, Andrew and what brings you to the market on this fine morning?" He addresses me formally and uses my full given name - he has often expressed his annoyance at other people's use of the diminutive. I wonder, with amusement, how he'd re-act to being call Obi?
"Good morning, Obadiah." I reply. "I'm here because I have three slaves in today's sale and I'm also looking to buy a replacement slave for one of them. What about you?"
"Oh! I'm here to fill in a few hours. I often drop in to see what's on offer. You never know, there might just be a comely, young slave that catches my eye."
To be honest, I would feel sorry for any slave who catches his eye. He has a reputation among my friends as a hard master.
"Well Obadiah, from what I've seen so far there are quite a few possibilities which might just catch you eye. Have you inspected any?"
"No, not as yet. So far, I've just strolled along the line, but I must say I've seen one or two who DO attract my interest. What about you, Andrew? Have you found any that appeal to you?"
"Yes, there are two who interest me. They're two former soldiers who are new to slavery. The prospect of buying an untamed slave and breaking him has great appeal for me."
"Indeed, I agree wholeheartedly. Breaking in a new slave is always a delightful diversion. But tell me, Andrew, are you buying him for business or pleasure?"
"Purely for pleasure, Obadiah. Purely for pleasure."
"It's the same with me. I'm looking to replace my body slave. I've had him for some time now and I'm a bit jaded with him. A new slave would certainly give me a lift. As they say a change is as good as a holiday."
"Have you used your body slave for long?"
"For far too long, I think. I like to change over my personal slaves regularly. In fact, I change them almost as often as I change the sheets on my bed." Then he adds. "I'm only joking, Andrew - about the sheets anyway."
"What will you do with your body slave when he's replaced with a new one? Will you sell him?"
"Oh no, Andrew, He's a strong, powerful brute. No, I'll keep him and use him on my litter. That`s what happens to all my body slaves." Then he adds with a giggle. " They all go from my bed to my litter"
I recall that Obadiah uses a litter carried on the shoulders of eight, powerfully built slaves. This use of a litter is considered by some to be old-fashioned, ostentatious and indicative of the decadence of the nouveau riche - but in his case it is completely justified. Obadiah is monstrously overweight and it always seems to me that any physical exertion on his part is an ordeal for him. Even now, with just walking around the sale-yard, he is breathing heavily and perspiring freely.
Suddenly, our conversation is interrupted by angry shouting and the sound of canes raining down on a slave's body; it would appear that a slave isn't co-operating with a buyer and he is being beaten into submission. I watch the slave's vain attempts to protect his body from the blows but with each loud thwack of the cane his howls grow louder and his resistance weakens. Soon, he is on his knees with his face pressed to the platform. It is then that I recognise him as one of "my" slaves - Lot 16.
"Dear me, Andrew. It would appear that one of the slaves is being naughty'and is being punished. Most probably a new slave making his final, futile protest. Pointless really. It always perplexes me why they do that. One would think when they are actually chained to the display stand, then they should know any further resistance is useless."
"You would think so, Obadiah. But he's subdued now." I don't bother to tell Obadiah that the slave is one of the two that interests me. After all, I don't want him to show any interest in the slave. With the slave now settled down, Obadiah loses interest and returns to our conversation.
"But tell me Andrew. Is it true what I hear; that you have purchased an Antonio Varo bronze? The whole town is talking about you're new acquisition. It must have cost you a small fortune - Varo doesn't come cheaply, does he? Tell me about it?"
"Yes Obadiah, it's true." I tell him boastfully. I'm delighted and proud to hear that people are aware of my purchase of the statue and are talking about it "It's a bronze statue of two wrestlers and I bought it to place in my remodelled courtyard. It's to be installed next week and I'm planning a soiree to present it to my closest friends. I do hope you can come along and perhaps you'll do me the honour of unveiling it?"
"I'd be delighted to do so, Andrew. Anything that promotes the arts has my fullest support. And you're to be congratulated on your acquisition of a work from such a fine artist."
"Thank you, Obadiah and I look forward to seeing you at my introduction party."
"Think nothing of it, my boy. The pleasure is all mine. Now, what are the lot numbers of your three slaves? I might just stroll along and have a look at them. You never know, one of them might just appeal to me."
"They are half way along the line at lots 25 and 26. I won't offer to come with you, Obadiah. The dealer has advised me to stay away from them in case the sight of me unsettles them."
"Of course, Andrew. I understand. Its better that they don't see their old master. As you say it could be distracting for them. But I`ll give them your love, shall I?"
Then, as he sees the look of concern on my face, he laughs and re-assures me "I'm only joking Andrew, only joking. Of course, I won't mention you to them. But should one of them end up in my bed, that's a different matter. Then, I'll be sure to remind him of his former master."
Taking my leave of Obadiah, I stop to look back along the long line of displayed slaves and in the distance at the halfway mark, I spot my three slaves - I see that Toby is being appraised by a young man watched by two older men and a youth. I think to myself that there is no more pleasing or erotic sight than seeing a long line of young, muscular slaves, oiled and in chains, standing prominently at display prior to being sold.
I move on to `Lots 16 and 17, Grigor and Axel; both slaves are shackled in place and available for my inspection.
Part 2: Grigor:
My life has assumed a surreal quality. My brain still can't process all that has happened to me. In the short span of just two weeks - or is it three, I don't really know - my life has spun out of control. I've gone from being a proud soldier to a naked slave about to be sold. I was captured by my country's enemies, enslaved, branded and sold on to slavers who brought me south to this slave market where, this morning I am displayed like a beast-of-burden and scheduled to be auctioned off to the highest bidder this afternoon. By today's end, I'll be owned property and I'll have a master. My pride and every fibre of my being rebels at the very idea of this.
As I stand on the display podium, I look out over the thronging crowds and I rail against the injustice of my situation. I think about the fickleness of life that sees one man as a slave and another free. Who gets to decide this? What god or gods manipulated my fate with such capriciousness? Why have I become a slave while those walking around before me remain free?
I've never given these matters any thought before - I've was never a deep thinker - but now, as I think of my present situation, they assume a new relevance for me.
We have slaves in my country; in fact my family own many slaves who labour on our farms and work in our quarries. I don't know how many slaves my father owns - far too many to count. Their existence wasn't something that greatly concerned me; they were just there. Slaves were such an integral part of my former life and yet I disregarded them. They existed in my sight but remained invisible in my consciousness; I saw them but never acknowledged them. They lived on the fringes of my life and I was only aware of them when I needed to use them.
Unlike the men of this country, I didn't use our male slaves for sex. I never felt the need for them and the mores of my country, unlike this accursed place, frown on the open and public sexual use of male slaves by free men. Anyway, we always had a number of attractive female slaves serving in our household and my indulgent father encouraged me to use them. My mother and sisters were no doubt aware of this, but tactfully they turned a blind eye to my amorous activities.
Until now, I'd thought of myself as proudly heterosexual; yet since my encounter with another slave in the showers earlier this morning, I now have nagging doubts about myself.
I'd felt disgust when he washed my body and cringed as his hands roamed over my nakedness. But, when I was forced to wash him - driven to do so by the overseer's cane - I found it to be strangely pleasurable and erotic. If I'm honest with myself, I did enjoy the feel of his firm, muscular body and despite my best efforts, my cock was aroused. I'd felt something akin to this when, as a soldier, I was in close physical contact with my fellow soldiers. This was especially so with my best friend Axel, who now stands alongside me as a slave. I suspect all the men in my unit felt this closeness as we wrestled, semi-naked, in simulated hand to hand combat. But of course, none of us would ever admit to these feelings. We'd have seen them as a challenge to our ingrained, heterosexual concepts of manhood. Now I wonder?
At first, I felt sickened when I was forced to wash the other slave`s ass. Until then, I'd never touched another man's body so intimately. But as my soapy hands moved over the hard curves of his rump, I experienced little shivers of something - I don't know what - move through my body. I found myself looking at the cleft between his buttocks and thinking about what was hidden in its depths. I tried to turn my mind away from such depraved thoughts but failed. I sensed the other slave's willing expectancy as he patiently waited for me to continue; eventually curiosity - and the fear of the cane - overcame my reluctance. As my finger moved into his ass-crack and began its probing search, he started to moan softly and I could feel his slight shivering. I was surprised and unexpectedly delighted at the effect I was obviously having on him. Emboldened, my finger now sought out his anus and he showed his approval by thrusting his body back in an invitation for me to continue.
How do I describe the incredible satiny feel of his soft, warm, pulsating sphincter? I am aware of the sensitivity of this area of my own body; after all it had been excited many times in my sexual encounters with my father's female slaves. But this touching of another man's anus for the first time was very different and feeling his involuntary re-action to my touch excited me. It was new territory for me and I found it exhilarating. I heard my laboured breathing and felt my cock throbbing in its own hardness. I continued to explore the slave's body and my own unfamiliar emotions.
The slave was obviously enjoying what I was doing to him and as I looked at him I was struck by his beauty. I guessed he was slightly older than me but unlike me his body was smooth and free of hair. This only highlighted the magnificence of his strong, muscular body and as I gazed into his handsome face, I could see a look of sadness, of shattered trust in his eyes. Inexplicably, this aroused sympathy in me. This sympathy surprised me for it was the first time I had ever realised that a slave could feel emotion. . Obviously, the slave was comfortable in his sexuality. This didn't altogether surprise me. Even before my own enslavement, I was aware that here, in this country, masters could openly use their male slaves for sex without fear of any recriminations. This slave, no doubt, had served his master well in that capacity. And I shuddered as I anticipated that this, most probably, is the fate that awaits me after today.
I am confused by my conflicting new emotions. Until now, I'd only ever considered sex in the heterosexual context; sex between men was alien to my nature. It is something I'm aware of but have, until now, never personally considered as an option. Before my capture, the suggestion that I could be attracted to another man would have filled me with disgust and any homosexual advances would have been firmly rebuffed.
Now I`m confused; my sexual attraction to the slave has left me bewildered. It has awakened within me feelings and emotions I've been unaware of until today. I ask myself - are these feelings an indication of my true self?
As I said, I'm not a philosopher. But I think to myself - do I have two natures; heterosexual and homosexual and if so is one any more valid than the other? Or is my heterosexuality something I have learned - the result of conditioning by the culture and mores of the community that nurtured me? Then, with clarity, I decide - yes it is. I had acquired it over my formative years and the true nature of my sexuality lay suppressed and hidden from me. Now, my encounter with this slave has shown me who I really am and I am exhilarated; it has awakened new horizons in my life. It's as if I have been reborn; but I'm also frightened by this and what the future holds for me as a slave.
Slavery, by its very nature, reduces its victims to the status of objects to be owned, used and even abused by their masters. I am now such an object and I worry about who'll buy me and what uses or abuses I'll be put to.
I know that there is every chance that I'll attract the attention of a master who'll want to use me sexually. I am after all, young and fit - I take pride in the appearance and strength of my muscular, soldier's body - and I have been told by others that I'm good-looking. Therefore, there is every chance I'll be used to satisfy my new owner's lust. I'm repulsed by the thought of this. It is one thing to indulge in mutually agreed sex - and how I'd love to explore my newfound sexuality with my shower partner - but it is another matter to be ordered to do so by a master knowing that I can't refuse.
Even as I consider this, I see two men talking. One I recognise as the arrogant, young man who had inspected me in the pens yesterday and who had humbled me by the threat of punishment to Axel. How I hated his ruthlessness, but rather than see Axel tormented, I'd bent to his will. The other is an older man who is grossly overweight and instinctively I know he would abuse his slaves. The realisation that either of these two men could be my master within a few short hours is a frightening prospect.
These thoughts are interrupted by a buyer who wishes to examine me. He orders me to flex but I stand defiant in my soldier's pride and refuse to obey. The sudden flash of anger in his eyes fills me with satisfaction. However, my triumph is short-lived; I don't see him beckoning to an overseer.
"ON YOUR KNEES, SLAVE! NOW!"
I'm unprepared for the overseer's shouted command or for his cane as it slashes across my shoulders. I yelp with the unexpected pain and I'm unaware that this overseer has been joined by another until I feel the bite of a second cane on my ass. As they continue to beat me, I struggle to protect myself but there's no avoiding the overseers' anger. They continue to order me to my knees and futilely, I continue to resist.
Through the haze of my pain, I'm aware that my howls of anguish have attracted an audience of onlookers who watch my chastisement with interest - there are always those who enjoy watching as a recalcitrant slave is beaten into submission.
As the blows fall upon my unprotected body, I hear the repeated shouts to "DROP TO YOUR KNEES! NOW!"
Slowly, my defiance crumbles and it is replaced by my compliance with the overseers' demands. I fall to my knees and obey the command to.
"PUT YOUR FACE TO THE PLATFORM!"
As I kneel with my face to the ground and with my ass, bearing the red stripes of my chastisement, elevated for all to gaze upon, I'm totally humiliated. Trembling, I listen as the overseer apologises on my behalf.
"I'm very sorry sir, for the slave' disobedience. However, I think you'll find him more co-operative now."
"Think nothing of it. The slave's wilfulness wasn't your fault overseer. But thank you for your assistance."
"YOU, BEHAVE YOURSELF - OR I"LL BE BACK!" I'm warned by the overseer who gives my buttocks one final, dismissive cut of the cane as he walks away. Subdued and humiliated, I wait for the buyer's instruction.
"On your feet." Hastily, I scramble to my feet in obedience to his command and stand submissively before him. As I lower my eyes, I notice that my audience has drifted away except for a handful who are curious to see if I'll conform.
"That was very stupid of you, slave." The buyer admonishes me "What did you hope to achieve by your show of defiance?"
I'm confused by his question and not knowing how I should answer, I remain silent. He interprets this as surliness on my part and shouts. "ANSWER ME!"
"I'm sorry, Master." I blurt out my confused apology. "I don't know, Master."
To my shame, I hear myself use the word, Master - twice. My use of it has been involuntary; it has been done without any conscious thought or decision on my part. Of course, I don't realise that the use of this honorific Master marks another step along the road into my slavery. Its use implies my acceptance of the concept of free men and captives - of masters and slaves. I am deeply shocked at how easily
I have capitulated. What does my friend Axel think of my submission? Does he
now hold me in contempt for my weakness in bowing down to our captors. Tears of shame sting my eyes.
"Well, let's hope you have learned your first lesson; that a slave does as he's told or suffers the consequences. I take it that you are new to slavery - am I correct?"
"Yes Master." How easily it now rolls off my tongue.
"And have you learned your lesson, slave?"
"Yes Master." I answer truthfully.
"Good! Then let's begin again. STAND UP STRAIGHT AND FLEX!"
Fearful of further punishment, I now comply with all the man's demands. I stand quietly as he inspects me. This is to be the first of many such inspections throughout the morning as I'm appraised by other potential buyers.
Finally, the man is finished with me and he turns his attention to Axel who is ordered to "flex". No doubt intimidated by my beating, Axel hastens to obey. Watching as my best friend is appraised by the buyer, I think bitterly, how easy it has been for us to accept our new servile status. For the two of us, the journey from being proud, free men to becoming docile slaves has been a short one.
Now, I stand with my head bowed in humiliation and defeat waiting for the next buyer who wishes to appraise me. I know that I have lost my freedom and that I'm now a slave.
Then, I'm aware that someone is standing before me. I feel a hand placed under my chin and my head is lifted until I look into the face of the man who had inspected me so closely in the pens yesterday. Our eyes meet for several seconds before I lower mine in to the ground in a gesture of deference and defeat.
Part 3: Andy confronts Grigor:
There is something about this slave that arouses me; something that gets my juices flowing. Even now, as I stand in front of him and allow my eyes to roam over his body, I am aware of my impending erection. He is a truly magnificent specimen; a worthy candidate for slavery.
Reaching out, I slowly lift his chin until our eyes make contact. Through his tears, I can see the inner turmoil and fear reflected in his eyes. Then, as he recognises me, he lowers his gaze to the ground in a gesture of defeat. I'm pleased - he won't be too hard to break.
Gone are the soldier's bravado and defiance from our previous encounter in Dave Matheson's slave pens. It had really been a stroke of genius on my part to use the threat of punishment on his fellow slave to bend him to my will. And of course, there had been his very recent encounter with the overseers' canes.
I tell him to turn around so that I can examine their handiwork. I look at the angry red welts on his shoulders, back and ass and as I trace my finger over them, his wincing tells me they are extremely painful. However, he has only himself to blame for this and I hope that he has learned a valuable lesson in what is expected of a slave. Still, I hope there is a vestige of resentment left for me to beat out of him. I look forward to breaking him to my will.
What was Obadiah's description of breaking in a slave? That it provides a "delightful diversion". I look forward to my own delightful diversion with this slave. I shall enjoy taming him.
I don't really need an in-depth examination of him this morning; that had taken place yesterday afternoon. Anyway, that is a pleasure I want to savour when he is truly mine. Tonight, with any luck, I will enjoy exploring his every nook and cranny. No part of him will be out of my reach.
Still his muscular body IS inviting and I can't resist running my hands over him while he stands quietly allowing me to do so. I'm surprised at how docile he has become, although I do note his deep crimson blush of embarrassment and shame as I take his cock in my hand. I remain fascinated by the feel of his prepuce and I slowly ease it back along the thick shaft to reveal the rosy tip of his glans. This foreskin is a novelty in a slave and I shall enjoy playing with it. Like his body hair, I will allow him to keep it for an indefinite period or until I grow tired of it; but that decision will be mine to make and not his.
I notice his fellow slave apprehensively watching me as I arouse his friend. I will need to appraise him also in case I miss out on my first choice and he becomes my "second bite of the cherry".
As I stroke my first choice to a full erection, I'm amused by his tearful begging.
"Master, please Master? Don't, please Master?"
Of course, I choose to ignore him. But, I'm gratified - the slave still retains something of his old self for me to seek out and mould to my will.
Yes indeed, this slave will make a superb replacement for my soon-to-be former slave, Toby.
To be continued .....