THE INSTRUMENT
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Eight
Over the next couple of months I was generally very pleased with how the pony Jason was progressing. He seemed to acclimatise well to the work, and as he ran more and more he appeared also to be able to go faster and faster and for extended distances: his already superbly muscled body became sleeker and even more well defined, if such a thing was possible. And he no longer appeared to resent being used as a pony - there were no more wild looks when his cuffs were attached to the shafts in he morning, and not even any attempts at speaking when he was on duty, even when I allowed him to wear just a normal "working" bit, and dispensed with the training ball. I was amused to see, too, that he lost all his inhibitions about performing his bodily functions - it was quite usual to see him pissing as he stood there patiently waiting for the Sheikh to order him to move on to the next halt; and on one occasion he quite casually dropped a couple of turds just as he was about to move off. Sexually, though, he never accepted that as a free man I had complete and total usage of his body.
I had hoped that after our initial encounter in the stables he would learn to accept my cock, and that he might even begin to look forward to my visits. It was not to be, though, and on each occasion that I attempted to use him sexually, he protested so violently that I was forced to have him restrained. I didn't want to have to prod him each time, of course, so I got into the habit of doing a little advance planning: I told the stable lads of my intentions, and on his return from work on evenings when I intended to use him they prepared him properly - a good enema, to make sure he was pleasantly clean inside for me, and then they attached one of his wrist cuffs to his collar before shackling him into his stall. I found that with one arm effectively out of action like that I was more than capable of overpowering Jason and taking him by force, and this had the added advantage as far as I was concerned that Jason was able to resist - and resist strongly - so that we had to have a long, sweaty tussle before I was finally able to grapple him down and skewer him with my cock. Somehow it's so much more satisfying to have sex when you're covered in sweat, and know that you're doing it because you want it, irrespective of what the other guy wants. After I'd finished, I'd lie on top of him, pin his free arm to the ground, and truly enjoy his sensational muscles as they heaved under me. The only thing that would have improved the experience would have been to have Jason talk to me afterwards, as a man likes a bit of buddy-to-buddy talk after really good sex, doesn't he? But Jason would never do this - he'd scream and shout foul abuse at me as I fought him, overpowered him and fucked him, but then afterwards would lie there resolutely silent, even if I bit those tender bits of skin in his armpits, or let my sharp teeth scrape threateningly over his nipples. He would even turn his face away, to avoid looking at me if he could.
In an effort to get Jason to be more co-operative, I even arranged to have him put in with the drays occasionally. They were real men, and as they lived and worked so closely together they understood what pleasure could be gained from each others bodies. I stood and watched the first time as they came back from the fields and to their astonishment and delight found Jason tethered in their stall. They fell on him, and even though he is an excellent fighter, he was clearly no match for the six very large niggas - as I've told you, drays are always chosen for their size and power, and these guys also knew how to co-ordinate their actions so they didn't get in each others way. They were soon "spit roasting" Jason, one of the big black cocks effectively silencing him as another violated his hole.
After the first few times of trying this, though, I reluctantly called the whole thing off - Jason seemed to have talked to the niggas and got them to agree that they shouldn't fuck him, and instead they all sat around companionably talking, before all sleeping together as if they were real buddies. I learned later that one of the niggas had himself been in the marines, and perhaps that had something to do with it.
It also seemed that Jason had learned a bit about the fun of proper sex, and if they were set on an evening of fun, he now enthusiastically fucked the niggas.
I was much less pleased with what was happening to the young slave Marc, though - I had assumed that the Sheikh would soon tire of him as he usually did with the young lads who he bought, but for some reason this did not happen with Marc. Instead, Marc seemed to be exerting some sort of strange influence over his owner, who was treating him almost as if he were a free man, rather than a slave. He talked to Marc, allowed Marc to ride with him in his pony trap, and took him everywhere with him. Marc had originally been given one of the short domestic slave tunics as I've told you, but soon this had been replaced with a pair of slave shorts and a T, and within a month or so these in turn were superseded by "proper" long shorts, such as I as a free man wore. I tried to remonstrate with the Sheikh about this, saying how important it was for slaves to be treated as slaves, but he brushed aside my complaints, telling me that Marc was "a perfectly delightful companion", and that I should focus my attention on making sure that everything else on the estate was running perfectly.
Although I was now a moderately wealthy guy as my salary continued to pile up in the Swiss bank account and I had little occasion to spend anything at all, I began to get frustrated and started to long to do a bit of travelling. I asked the Sheikh if I could take some of my accumulated vacation time, but he would not even discuss it with me, saying that my services were needed there, and that as usual the lost vacation days would be paid for. But this was not enough for me, and I demanded to be given my passport so that I could leave - and the Sheikh flatly refused (or, rather , in that way he has, he simply appeared never to hear my requests and demands for it!). He himself travelled, of course, so when he had taken his private jet to New York for a brief visit, I took the opportunity to leave the demesne and go to the capital. I took myself off to our embassy, and after a lot of questions managed to convince them that I was indeed a proper citizen, that I had "lost" my passport and needed another. It would take a couple of weeks to come through, they told me, but that was OK by me - it would give me time to get my things together, and make arrangements to leave in an orderly way with a proper work plan and stuff all set out so that the management of the Sheikh's affairs should not suffer in my absence.
I don't know who "betrayed" me - I reckon it might have been Marc, who was always around the place and who probably saw me doing a bit of packing, and putting the finishing touches to my plans. Just as I was about to leave, two of the guards came for me, and half pushed, half dragged me into the Sheikh's presence. Marc was sitting on the floor by the side of him, his face set into some sort of smirk.
It was no use - I tried to tell his Highness that I was only going for a short vacation, that arrangements were in place for looking after things whilst I was away, and so on. I doubt that he heard - he was almost incandescent with rage, and was screaming that I was disloyal and that I did not appreciate all the many advantages that having him as an employer had brought to me. Them more I tried to protest, the worse it got, until finally he screamed "You will not leave. Not now, not ever. I pronounce you to be a slave."
One part of my brain registered these words, and I tried to protest, saying that I had done nothing to deserve it. But another part told me that this was a disaster - the Sheikh was of course an absolute and total ruler in his country, he was the only lawmaker, and what he said would happen. Then he ordered them to take me away, to the holding cell!
They dragged me now - I did everything I could to resist, but it was futile - through the palace and down the grim flights of steps into the sub-basement. It was only when they opened the door to the interrogation chamber, hauled me across it and threw me into the cage on the far side of the room that my plight really began to sink home, I suppose.
I'd seen lots of men caged as I now was, but it was not until the guards left, closing the heavy door to the chamber behind them and leaving me in utter darkness, that I began to realise how terrible their plight was. It was cold down there, and there was not a shred of comfort in the cage - I knew that it was deliberately left totally bare so that the captive would have to attempt to make himself as comfortable as possible, with no chance of success. And in the utter blackness I had no idea of the passing of time, except of course that I soon needed to piss, and remembered that another feature of the cage wad that there was no provision for this: making the captive soil himself, and sit there with the stench of his own wastes assailing him, was all part of the process.
We usually kept captives in the cage for three days, totally without food and in the dark, and I guess that is what happened to me. Certainly I was famished with hunger, and I was reduced to licking the damp walls of the cage in an attempt to get some moisture in me. For most of the time I suppose I sat there, my arms wrapped around me in an attempt to conserve heat, and it was utterly humiliating to have to breathe the stench of my own piss, and my own crap (yes, I had to do it,). When the door was ultimately opened I did as I had seen so many captives do before, and sprang to my feet, clutched at the bars, and began to beg the guards to let me have something to drink and eat. They ignored me of course, as they were ordered to, and instead I found myself being battered by the high-pressure water jet as they turned the hose on me and the cage. I knew it was pointless to ignore their orders to strip (and I had nothing to be ashamed of in my body anyway), but in an act of defiance, I did. And of course I was soon battered helplessly into the corner of the cage, struggling desperately for air as they turned up the pressure and volume of the water jet, as I had seen done to Jason just a few weeks before.
It's no use carrying on fighting when there's no chance of success, is there? So as soon as I could I struggled to my feet, and stripped off. I couldn't help noticing how the guards looked at my body as I stood there in front of them - not the interested look of one free man to another who is interested, as all men are, in comparing his own endowment with the others; but the look that a free man gives a slave, the look that says that the free man is sizing up the slave as a suitable worker, or sex toy. I was being appraised just as if I was some piece of livestock, someone who now had absolutely no control any longer over what was going to happen to his body.
When the Sheikh ultimately appeared I was cold, and standing there slightly shivering. He strode into the chamber, his eyes raked my body, and he said quietly "Excellent, Steve! I always admired your physique, but had I known how enticing your body is, I would have had you naked before. There is no need to shiver, though - you have nothing to be afraid of as I do not intend to punish you further for your act of betrayal..."
"Highness, I only wanted a vacation... I intended to come back, I....."
"Silence! I told you that you were not to leave, and you were making secret plans to do so. That is an act of betrayal. But you have nothing to fear, as I have said: in return for your previous loyal service, I am going to be merciful...."
"Thank you, Highness. As soon as I am out of here, I will start work again...."
He smiled, a smile that I had learned always meant trouble. "Indeed you will, Steve! I do not intend to punish you further for betraying my trust, so I do not intend to have you gelded, or crucified. I have pronounced you to be a slave, and that is punishment enough. And as a slave you will indeed work...."
Before I could say any more, he turned and ordered the guards to bring in the "horse", and I stood there in horror, knowing what that meant for me. The boy Marc then came into the room, and the Sheikh put his arm around him, pulling him close to the Sheikh's bloated body, and stroking his hair. "Now, little one, the first of your duties...."
The Sheikh was almost crooning this to Marc, who stood there with a half smile on his face which spoke of triumph, or expectation.
On a signal from the Sheikh the guards came into the cage, and grabbed me. I knew resistance was useless as I did not want to add the agony of a prodding to my other problems, so I did not resist as they took me over to the "horse", threw me across it (the leather felt cold and clammy against my bare skin, even though this was already chill with the cold), pulled my arms forward, and fastened the manacles to hold my wrists to the front legs. I stood there, shuffling around uncertainly, and seeing in my mind's eye the pictures of so many other naked men that I had had similarly held like that in the past. I began to realise just how cruel it was: had I been totally immobile, I would have known it was futile to make any effort to resist and would have had to take what was coming to me and blame it on "them". But with my legs free and only my wrists shackled, I could move to some extent - although I could not escape. These attempts, useless though they were, gave me some glimmer of hope that I might escape, and because I had that hope, I tugged and strained, and began to blame myself for not achieving anything..
To my horror I heard the Sheikh say casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "Now, Marc, your first duty as my new Instrument: the slave Steve is to be start to learn his new place in our world, he needs to begin to realise that his body is no longer his own, and that it now exists solely to satisfy me. Although he has had a lot of experience at fucking men, I believe he has never experienced another man's cock violating his hole. It is perhaps fitting that your first duty as my Instrument will be to confirm his new status as a slave and take his cherry!"
I could only watch helplessly as Marc shucked his shirt, and then pushed down his shorts - like a lot of young guys, as his cock was revealed his erection was so hard that it almost rocketed upwards as the pressure of the shorts on it was released, and he strode across the room towards me with it bobbing up and down merrily. I knew with a sick realisation that all too soon that hot, fleshy part of him would be forcing itself deep into me. He stood by my head, ruffling his fingers through my hair almost contemptuously, and letting his cock wave around right in front of my eyes. I caught a whiff of that familiar "man" smell that exudes from a man's balls, even when he is freshly washed. "Look, Steve... Look what is in store for you. Look what I am going to ram up your ass, just as you did to me....", he whispered.
"Please, no....", I cried out, not to Marc, but to the Sheikh. "Please, Highness, no! I will work loyally for you, I will..."
"...You will be a slave, a slave who works loyally for me. Now, let us waste no more time - begin, boy!"
I felt Marc's thighs pressing against the back of my own - I usually like that sensation when it's my thighs pressing into those of the man I'm going to fuck, but now I hated it. As much as I tried to struggle, with my hands manacled to the horse I was powerless, and I felt his strong fingers pulling my ass cheeks apart. I kicked out at him, and the next moment screamed as he pulled away and then slashed at my bare butt with a cane. Then he was back again, prising me apart..... Pressing his stiff cock down into the virgin spaces between my buttocks. He stroked it up and down, crooning at me "Feel it, Steve? Feel my hot strong cock on your ass? Do you like it, Steve? Do you like feeling another man's cock down there.... Now...."
As he said those last words, he repositioned his cock head so that it was resting on my hole - I could feel it's hot, sticky heat. Then he gave a little triumphant cry, and pressed forward. I screamed as his cock forced its way into me, and like so many men had done when I was at first fucking them, I began to swear at him and call him all the vile names I could think of as he pushed his cock ever deeper in to me. He stood there then, and I could feel his harsh, bristly pubes scratching at my skin (the Sheikh had evidently decided he should be allowed to grow his pubic hair back).
I felt violated. Powerless. Controlled. Another man had his cock forced into my ass, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I was no longer a man, a man who could choose his sexual pleasure - I was an object, a thing, that this boy was using to please the Sheikh. And it wasn't just the humiliation and pain from being fucked forcibly - it was more than that: it was the knowledge that the Sheikh had the power to order this, and that he had done so partially o amuse himself; and that this could happen again, and again, as many times as he wished it. It isn't right to use a man's body like that.
I'd stopped crying out for a moment, but as he began to fuck me - fuck me vigorously, with no gentleness or finesse - I began to shout and scream again. Now it wasn't just the anger, frustration and shame that was causing these cries, but also the physical pain that a large cock ramming in and out of you lustily brings.
I suppose I was fortunate that Marc was still only seventeen. A guy of that age just can't control himself, and the exquisite pleasure that a tight, virgin ass hole is causing his cock means that he soon loses it: above my own cries I heard Marc shout "Jesus fucking Christ.....", and his body slammed into me one last time. In the stories they say you can feel a guy's cum shoot up into you, but I know from when I've been fucking that this isn't really so - you can pretend to cum, and the guy you're fucking won't know. But now I knew positively from the other side, so to speak, that it was true - Marc had definitely shot his load, but I had not felt "the hot splash of cum searing my insides" or any of that crap that some stories say happens. I had stopped thrashing around and was lying three as if I was defeated. Marc stood there for a few moments, his cock buried in my and his body now thrown forward along mine. I could feel his heart racing against my skin.
"You're one ace fuck, Steve!", he told me. "I'm going to enjoy taking you a lot, as you're now a slave and I'm his Highness's Instrument."
"Fuck you!", I spat out.
He just laughed, and caused me to cry out again as he pulled out of me very rapidly. In a totally humiliating way he slapped my bare butt, and said "No, Steve, I think it's 'fuck you'!"
He came and stood by my head again and I could see - and smell - his cock as it detumesced right there in front of my eyes. "I ought to make you clean me up, Steve", he said quietly. "But I don't think we can trust you yet - I don't want to be a candidate for a penectomy as you bite me!"
With that he strode across the room, his lithe body clearly on the cusp of turning into mature manhood, and I lay there helplessly, watching as he washed his cock in the sink in the corner, as I myself had done so many times in that grim room. Then he walked back towards the Sheikh, his eyes shining with excitement. I turned my head and saw him reach to pull on his shorts, but stopped instantly as the Sheikh motioned for him to desist, and then, after a further nod from the Sheikh, strode over to the cupboard where we kept the branding iron.
"No! Please, your Highness, please, not that....", I shouted. "Treat me as a slave if you will, but please, not that...."
The Sheikh just chuckled, and replied softly "Now, Steve, you know what you have told me on so many occasions - a slave must learn that he is truly a slave, that he is no longer a free man, and that his life has changed irrevocably. You were always telling me that the 'S' mark on a slave's body is a constant reminder to him that he is now owned property, and I agree with you: how else can a slave truly know that he is no longer free? What better way is there of signalling to a man that he is no longer that, but instead is an animal whose hide can be marked to signify that his is owned?"
"No, sir, please...."
My pleading was no use though as the Sheikh just ignored me, and instead watched as Marc took the branding iron out of the cupboard, and plugged it in. I'd several times wished that we used the old fashioned ways of doing this, as it seems to me that a brazier of glowing coals and a heavy iron thrust in to it and stirred around adds a certain excitement to the proceedings; but even with a mass of slave labour in the palace, that was just impracticable: it simply takes too long to get the coals up to temperature, and it's also hard to get the iron sufficiently hot (and flesh seared with an iron at too low a temperature never achieves that crisp, sharp edge to the brand that is so desirable). So reluctantly I'd acquired the electric one, adapted from the industrial irons they use on big ranches to brand cattle, and now it was to be used on me.
I could feel something trickling down the inside of my thighs as I stood there, and there was that foul smell of shit reaching my nose - I knew that my ass juices mixed with Marc's cum must be exuding from my ass and running down my legs, but I was helpless to do anything about it - I'd often watched this happen to slaves as they stood there and I suppose I'd recognised that however good the muscles are at holding in shit, they're simply no good at stopping cum running out. But even though it wasn't my fault, and even thought I was utterly unable to do anything about it, I still felt embarrassment, and shame that my body was acting in this way.
It was the Sheikh who decided to do the branding - often he let me do it, but he was adept at it himself and sometimes took control of the iron, as he did on this occasion.. He ordered Marc to get up and sit astride my waist as I lay there, to prevent me from bucking around and spoiling the sharpness of the brand. I felt Marc's hot, moist ass pressed into my back, and as he shuffled to get himself firmly astride me he also slapped my ass once or twice as if to demonstrate his total control over me.
All I could do was lie there and watch as the iron turned from black to red, then orange, and finally to its harsh yellow "operating temperature". The Sheikh spat at it, observing with amusement how his spit vaporised - I'd often told him that this was unnecessary as the electric iron was thermostatically controlled, but I suppose it's an age-old gesture that men do. Then he approached me, stood there staring down at me, and said "You were foolish, Steve. I admired you and the work you did, but I cannot tolerate disobedience. And as a slave you must be particularly careful not to be disobedient - we do not tolerate in slaves behaviour that might be marginally acceptable in free men, and the punishments, as you will know from administering so many of them, are very severe. So it is good that you are now being marked -
every time you feel the brand on your ass you will be reminded of your status, and will know how we do not hesitate to use the flesh of a slave."
I tried once more. "No, please, Highness, no. I'm sorry I tried to leave, but it was only for a short vacation. I always intended to return...."
"But it was deliberate disobedience, Steve. And it was underhand - you waited until I had left, before visiting your embassy. Did you think I would not find out? No, you are now a slave, and all my slaves bear my mark...."
I felt the heat of the glowing iron as it approached my bare skin, and at one level I knew what was about to happen. But nothing prepares you for the consciousness-obliterating pain, the shock, the sheer overwhelming of all your senses as something like that is pressed into you. And then, if such a thing were to happen in 'normal' life, your reflexes would pull you away - but on the horse, held down by another man's weight, you can't do this and so the agony goes on and on. And then you get the smell - that special smell of searing, charring meat, and you know that it's not a steak, but your own body that's causing the acrid smoke to rise. I suppose I was aware that I was screaming, shrieking, making totally uncontrollable sounds from deep down inside me. And at another level I knew that my bladder control had failed, and that piss was streaming out of me.
It went on hurting and hurting, long after Marc climbed off me, and long after the Sheikh had left. I was left there strapped to the horse, desperate to be able to move, to relieve my cramped muscles, to be able to run my hands over my battered body, but I was powerless. It was this feeling of utter helplessness that was so awful: when your body is in pain, you need to be able to touch it, to try to make it better (even though you know that such action is futile). I was truly beginning to understand the awfulness of life as a slave, having absolutely no power to do even the smallest things in my life without the permission of my owner.
I don't know how long I stayed there. I began to shiver, both from the relative coolness of the place, and from the ravages that my body had been subjected to. The flow of cum from my ass had stopped, and now as I moved my legs there was a slight tugging on the delicate skin on the inside of my thighs where Marc's cum had dried. There was a terrible stench, though, from the cum, the charred skin of my body, and my own piss and shit that was covering the floor. It was a relief when the door opened again and Marc appeared, accompanied by two guards.
One of the guards pressed the tip of his prod into that little hollow at the base of my neck, and hissed "Stay still now, slave. Stay very still, as a prod here can really hurt you." "
I was tempted to say "So what?", as of course a prod anywhere really hurts. But there was no point in arguing with one of the low-level guards like that as he would not be able to argue sensibly with me. So I just lay there as they unshackled my hands from the front legs of the horse, brought them around behind me, and cuffed them together.
Marc then said quietly "Right, Steve. You know what happens next! Stand up....."
I felt the pressure of the prod removed from my neck, and did as I had been ordered. With an almost mischievous grin Marc approached me, then, keeping his gaze locked on my eyes, he reached down and grabbed hold of my cock! Look, it's OK, isn't it, to have a man grab your cock when you're having fun in bed? But I can tell you that it's absolutely not acceptable when you're standing there helpless, as I was. Instinctively went to jerk away from him, and shouted out "Let go of me, you fucking little bastard...."
I saw the guard lunge forward, prod at the ready, but Marc gestured for him to stop and simply squeezed my cock hard - very hard - so it was impossible for me to pull away. "Now, Steve", he intoned calmly, "You know it's no good! You're cuffed, and I'm holding your cock. There's no escape, unless you want to tear your cock out by the roots, so I think you ought to behave yourself!"
He was right, of course - I mean, how often in the past had I held a new slave like this, and actually enjoyed the sensation of a warm cock in my hands? And I knew Marc was right - there was no escape. So I stood there sullenly, until he pulled at my cock and I had to follow him as he walked towards the door and we began to mount the stairs.
It had never occurred to me that being led along by your cock was difficult, but it is - especially as you go upstairs, and the guy who is leading you is at the wrong height and he starts to really pull on you. But I had no choice but to follow him, did I? I tried to protest, asked him to slow down, pleaded with him to be more careful, but he either chose not to listen, or not to take any action except to say "Oh come on, Steve! It's easy enough! How many men have you led across the yard like this when you were the Instrument?"
He was right, of course, and I suppose I now realised where we were heading to - and I wasn't wrong! If the brand seared into me had started me on the path of understanding that my life as a slave was going to be very different from my life as a free man, that enforced walk across the yard with everyone staring at me began to reinforce it - not that I am ashamed of my body or anything, as I have told you: most men ought to be envious of my physique. No, it was more that a young guy like Marc had total control of me, and that all the people who saw my enforced passage would be aware of it: a young sixteen year old slave was now in total control of me, who had formerly been the one who ran things around here.
Having the blacksmith fit my collar was awful, too - not just the sheer unpleasantness of having the hot rivet hammered home right by my ear to hold the thing securely in place around my neck, but the knowledge that it was secured there permanently. And that everyone looking at me would know I was a slave, as no free man would now ever wear even the smallest chain around his neck as the collar was such a universal symbol of subservience. And it as heavy, too - that had not occurred to me before: a wide, thick piece of iron weighs several pounds, and the human body is just not used to having such a weight around the neck. I stood there in front of Marc, my hands still cuffed, as I experimentally shook my head several times to get the "feel" of the thing.
Marc observed me doing this, and said, as I suppose I had said to him some time before, "Don't worry about it, Steve. You'll soon get used to it - that weight will start to feel natural very quickly - although carrying it around will be surprisingly tiring, or so I found."
As he said this he reached down and grabbed my cock again, and snapped "Right, almost done, and then you'll be a proper slave. You remember what happens next, don't you, Steve? You remember how our owner the Sheikh likes a slave to look? No hiding that lovely cock head of yours away - it has to be on full public display, all the time."
A he said this he let his thumb stroke back my 'skin, and for a few moments he held my exposed cock head there in the palm of his hand. "Oh yes, Steve: every one is going to see this, all the time, not just those men you rape and fuck. Now, come on, follow me - you're lucky as the veterinarian is here today, and you can get all the pain over at one time."
It was no use protesting, of course. He led me to the small room we reserved for the peripatetic veterinarian, opened the door, and led me inside. The guy was in there, fiddling around cleaning his instruments or something, and as he glanced me he called out cheerily "Hi, Steve - have you brought me another of those nice young boys to 'skin?"
He did one of those "double takes" then as he realised I was naked and collared and being led by Marc, and gave a low whistle. "Wow! You've fallen from power big time, haven't you? How did you manage to upset His Highness so badly?"
"I'm his Highness's new Instrument", Marc cut in. "I've brought the new slave Steve here for 'skinning, so cut the crap and get a move on and do it."
"Listen, you little fucker", the vet said to him. "You may be the new Instrument around here, but I only took your 'skin a few months ago, and I know you as a slave. And if you don't show me the respect a free man deserves, I'll call a guard in here and have you whipped!"
A flash of anger crossed Marc's face for a moment, but then he muttered "Sorry, sir. But we are in a hurry - Steve is now a slave, and his Highness is eager to see him fully converted, as you might say. So could you please proceed with his 'skinning immediately?"
The veterinarian looked a little mollified at Marc's humble tone, and retorted "And has his Highness indicated the 'finish' he wants on Steve? A fine fat cock like he has would look very good with just a partial 'skinning, so that some of the head was always visible, surrounded by a 'frame' of his original 'skin. They do say it is now very fashionable to have a slave's piss slit peeking out like that...."
"No. Like all the slaves here he is to be done 'high and tight', giving him maximum exposure. And make sure there is as little residual scarring as possible..... His Highness considers him to be a very fine specimen, and will want to take maximum advantage of the splendour of his body by really showing him off. I think he's going to use him as a kind of 'matched pair' to the other big whitey slave he has, the one used as a pony."
The veterinarian carried on grumbling to himself as he fussed around preparing his instruments, and I stood there with the sick realisation that I was soon to experience the so-called 'minor operation' that I had led so many men to in the past.
I was reluctant to sit down in the veterinarian's chair, until Marc simply pointed out that he would call a guard and have me prodded if I continued to delay - I'd never had that problem, of course, as with my power and strength most of the unfortunate men in there had been thrown down and pinioned as the straps were tightened around their chests, arms, thighs and legs. Now I was in this same position, sitting there utterly powerless and totally out of control of my own body. I heard the vet ask Marc if I was to be anaesthetised, and on seeing Marc shake his head he came over to me holding out a short, thick bar of heavy rubber.
"Here, Steve..." His tone was not unkind. "Bite down on this, as it will help. I'll be as quick as I can.... Now, do you need to piss first? I don't want a mess all over the place...."
I shook my head, and heard Marc say "He's already done that! He let go when he was branded, and I reckon he's pretty empty."
During my time as his Highness's Instrument I suppose I'd seen dozens of new salves being 'skinned, and so I ought to have been prepared for what was going to happen to me. But as the vet made his first cut - to sever the little bridge of skin on the underside of my cock and free up my 'skin - and the hurt from the scalpel shot through me, I began to scream (but it was muffled by the rubber bar gripped between my teeth which, as the vet had predicted, did help).
The pain seems to go on and on - and it's a horrible, sharp, stinging, hot pain in a part of your body that's particularly sensitive. My muscles thrashed impotently as I tried desperately to move my body out of the way of the cylinder that was slid over my cock and I continued to cry out as the hard edge of it rasped against the freshly-cut surface. The vet did know his business of course, and, as he said he would be, he was quick: with the cylinder in position, he quickly and competently cut around my 'skin that he pulled forward up the cylinder, and then he used special glue to stick together the raw, bleeding cut edges of my 'skin.
I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks as my sobbing subsided - I wasn't now sure which was hurting more - the hot raw pain from my 'skinning, or the angry, deep, dull continuous throb from my brand. But I suppose I had ceased to care. I now knew that I had gone from being a free man to being altered into a slave - and there was no going back.
"I'm not going to lead you to the stables by your cock, Steve", Marc added. "I know you were quite good to me when I was 'skinned. But let me warn you to follow me closely - you're still cuffed helplessly, and at the slightest sign of resistance, I won't hesitate to grab that raw end of your cock- and can you imagine how that will hurt?"
He was right, of course. I knew I was powerless, and so followed him meekly as we went diagonally across the yard to the stables block. There was that familiar smell of sweat and "maleness" from the ponies, many of whom had returned form their daily assignments by now. They all watched as I was led naked and bloody by a mere boy down the central aisle, and I saw the sets of drays, a couple of the sprinters, and finally Jason, stare at me as we passed.
"You'll be bedding down with Jason eventually", Marc told me, "As his Highness intends to use you for pony work. But until you're healed, we'll give you a stall of your own: that Jason is a powerful fucker, and I think he has a few grudges to work out on you..... The risk of you being damaged by him until our wounds have properly healed is too great."
It had not occurred to me that trying to sleep totally naked on a hard concrete floor covered in a layer of straw was difficult. The straw has sharp ends, that stick into you. You can feel the hardness of the floor through the straw. And I'm just not used to sleeping without some covering over me. So it was hard to get to sleep - especially with the throbbing aching pain from my wounds. And my power to move about was so restricted - the traditional shackle, holding one ankle to the short floor chain, saw to that. How can a man be treated like this, just as if he were an animal? But I must have slept, as I can remember having nightmares: nightmares of thrusting, raging stallions, doing unspeakable things to my defenceless body.
End Of Part Eight