THE SLAVE REVOLT
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part One
If you've got to be a slave, I suppose I didn't have a bad life. But did I have to be a slave? Well, that's the way it is for some of us - I always had a hard time keeping my dick to myself, and in the Marine Corps they don't like grunts like me giving it to officer's wives - especially when the officer concerned is the base commander. She was a good fuck though, but it wasn't worth it: when he found out I was arrested and summarily tried for "behaviour likely to bring the Corps into disrepute" - well, I ask you! I'd have thought that a tough marine using his dick for what it's intended would have enhance the reputation of the Corps. Ten years in the stockade! And after one year when the slavery laws came in, I found myself no longer a marine - a jailed marine admittedly - but a slave. At twenty nine my life as a free man was over.
I reckon I was lucky, though, that I got bought by my owner. He had his overseer with him at the sale and the overseer advised against buying me, on three counts: I was white, and everyone knew that niggas made more "biddable" slaves; I was big and tough - six foot three, muscled to match, and in fantastic shape as even in the stockade they keep you at marine training and their level of fitness; and I was a criminal. He advised buying instead one of the niggas who'd tried to be illegal immigrants and failed, and who were now getting an opportunity to stay in the country permanently as slaves - many of these had been "professional" people in their former lives, and he thought they would be much less trouble than a dumb marine, and a criminal one at that.
My owner, though, could see that he was getting a bargain as a lot of buyers clearly thought the same as his overseer, and prices for fit, tough whiteys were way down. I know he liked what he saw of my body (all of it, as I was of course displayed naked at the viewing day of the Government auction) - I'm a handsome guy, even though I say it myself, my body is "in proportion" to my height and nicely muscled, without being grotesque; I've got a virile thatch of hair on my chest and belly and my arms and legs are nicely furred, but my back and butt and smooth; and I am, as they say, "well hung" - nice long dick on top of low-hanging balls. He actually stopped to talk to me and described what he wanted, and asked me if I thought I could do it - well, compared with what I might otherwise be sold for, like the mines, it sounded OK (although if not ideal of course), so I said yes. He looked at me in that stern way he has with all his slaves and told me that if I fucked up it would be the end of me - I only had one chance, and at the slightest sign of disobedience, or failing to give one hundred percent, I would be sold, and sold to a place I wouldn't like! He also told me that he didn't discriminate at all. "I'll order you to be whipped just as I would any of my nigga slaves", he added. "I'm absolutely for equality as a matter of principle."
So what is this work he had in mind for me from the moment he saw me? Well, he has a big place, close on a thousand acres, with around three hundred coffled niggas who work it. The ranch house is enormous with its own staff of chefs, cleaners, waiters, and so on, and there's every kind of leisure activity laid on for my owner and his guests - pool, tennis courts, horses in the stables, and of course a splendidly equipped gym. My owner likes to keep trim himself and when he's in residence (he spends a lot of time in New York but gets down here most weekends) he likes to start every day with a workout, and a run: so I'm a sort of personal trainer, to keep him up to the mark. You can't believe how difficult that is, as he is of course a very strong-willed individual: so it's hard for a trainer to guide and correct him anyway, especially when that trainer is his slave and under his total control! But if I don't push him hard enough, he punishes me. And on the other hand, if he thinks I've been disrespectful or dismissive, he also punishes me. I sweat at treading the line between those two things almost a much as I sweat at my own workouts.
I suppose I'm fortunate that my owner isn't into man-on-man sex. The first time we met after he'd bought me he had me restrained on a "horse", and as is customary swiftly and professionally took my cherry. But I suspect he enjoyed the experience even less than I did, which is saying something! His consideration for his slaves came through, though, as in addition to having me properly cleaned out before he began (so that when I had to clean his dick afterwards there was no shit on it), he commanded the overseer who was arranging it to properly lube and stretch me. Although I hated the guy's fingers up my ass and the way that he used three of them eventually to truly open me up, it was worth it - my owner's dick barely caused me to scream when he slid it in. I did try to control myself, as I am after all a tough guy - or so I thought - but there's something special about the pain you get when your ass is being violated, isn't there? He didn't bother fucking me after that once, though - it was really the symbolism of it, to show that he had total control over my body and I suppose that's what all owners do.
In addition to being my owner's personal trainer I also keep the gym clean and tidy, and assist any of his guests who want to use it, and I'm of course expected to keep supremely fit myself as my owner likes his guests to see a prime piece of manflesh when he's got them down here. My fitness levels are way above those needed as a trainer as I'm also "entertainment" at my owner's dinners and receptions: he likes to see the human body in action, and I am expected to do gymnastics all evening: the parallel bars, the rings, the horse, and the floor mat - all the disciplines you see in international gymnastics. I'm not expected to be at championship level in all of these of course, but he wants to see my hard body really working at it. And some of them are not so easy for a guy my size - a lot of gymnasts are smaller and not as big-muscled, so it's really hard work. And finally, as if all this isn't enough, I also get drafted in to do work when the slaves assigned to it are otherwise unavailable - cleaning the pool, for example. Or pulling the lawn mowers when the gardeners are most stressed in the sprint and early summer. Or even on the agricultural part of the holding, at harvest time: one of the dray slaves went lame recently, for example, and so it was easy for them to get me, Steve, to take his place between the traces as our owner was not there and didn't require my services, and it was thought that pulling the dray would keep me just as fit as working out in the gym. Still, that wasn't so bad, as the other guys were really nice to me, and it was good to be working in a team with other men: that's something I really miss from the marines.
Mind you, that first day in the dray shafts was really tough - although I thought of myself as fit, pulling the heavy wagon up and down the hills on the place used muscles I never realised I'd got. The other guys - all niggas of course - seemed used to it, but I realised they were very resentful of me and when we were allowed to take our brief lunchtime break, they all lay together and totally ignored me. And during the afternoon, although they didn't speak much to each other as they were so used to working as a team, such remarks as they did make were never directed at me.
As the day wore on I got more and more tired, and, as you'd expect, I suppose, the overseer used the tawse on us to "encourage" that little extra effort from all of us - I wasn't used to being struck at all, and the first time it fell across my shoulders it was all I could do to prevent myself from snatching the thing from the guy's hands and beating him to a pulp. But that's how agricultural slaves are treated, of course:
you can't make a personal trainer like me actually work harder by physically punishing him (the boss always threatened that to correct "attitude" problems on my part, though), but slaves engaged in hard manual labour always have something in reserve, some part of their strength that is not being used to benefit their owners. The slaves don't even know this themselves - it's deep in some recess of their brains that a portion of the body's reserves need to be kept against "emergencies". But a good overseer knows this and understands that suitable "encouragement" from the tawse can make the brain give up this reserve as the threatened "emergency" has arrived.
By the time we were led back to the stables I was completely exhausted, and I didn't care when the overseer said it would be simpler for me to sleep with the other drays in the stables that night, rather than going back to my cubicle in the basement of the main house, as we had an early start the next morning: I wasn't sure I could actually drag my body from the stables to the house, anyway..
It's odd, but they treat agricultural slaves really differently from those of us who live in the main house. There I have my little cubicle - not much, just a narrow bed and a small cabinet, but it's "mine" and I can go there when I've finished work, and can go to the slave common room during the evening, if I want. But in the stables it was quite different - all of us drays shared the same space (well, not a bad idea, I suppose, as it really encourages the guys to bond together), but I was amazed to find that we were physically restrained overnight: as we went into the stall assigned to us, the overseer came along and manacled our ankles to tethering points embedded in the concrete floor! I suppose it's more of that "tradition" thing that seems to govern so much of slave owning.
There was no getting away from my fellow drays, therefore, and when I lay down in the straw with them (more tradition, I suppose - they could have given us mattresses), I was expecting that we'd spend the time before sleeping in doing the kind of things that guys in the barracks used to do, like shooting the breeze about the day's activities and the characteristics of the overseers. And, indeed, I was quite looking forward to it, as it was a long time since I'd had real buddies with whom I worked and lived. But instead they continued to totally ignore me - they just lay there, close together, and talked quietly amongst themselves, leaving me totally "out in the cold".
After a few minutes of this I could stand it no longer, and called out "Hey, guys... I'm a slave like you, you know. We're all in this together..."
"Fuck you!", one of them muttered. "You're some sort of 'fancy'. You're not a slave like us at all..."
"Yes I am... I've got no freedom, I have to do as I'm told...."
"Look, buddy, you're no fucking slave, not really. And you make it harder for all of us...."
I was almost incredulous. "Make it harder for you? I've been drafted in here to help you out. If I wasn't here, the five of you would be pulling that dray by yourselves - and it's hard enough with six of us."
One of them raised himself up onto his elbows so that he was kind of looking down on me. "Listen, you white fuck, you got us all more of the tawse today...."
"More? Oh, come on, I got it as well.... And I was working as hard as you all...."
"Yes, but you had shorts on, so the overseer could only tawse your shoulders. All of us got it on the butt and thighs as well, - you may have noticed that they keep us totally naked, and the overseer can strike us everywhere.
"Yeah..." one of the others cut in. "They give you special privileges as a whitey. Look, you've even got those shorts on now."
"Aw come on, guys - these are slave shorts, that's all. When I have to display in front of our owner's guests, I'm as naked as you guys are - well, almost. I just didn't think of it, that's all - when I'm running, and working out, the owner lets me wear these shorts to give me some support...."
"The fucking whitey's even bragging about his dick now...", another one added. "Fucking typical. It's what do you expect of a whitey?"
I realised my blunder. "Hey, guys, I'm sorry... I really didn't think....." As I said this, I undid the tie holding up my shorts, and slid them down and pushed them to the far end of the manacle chain. The niggas all looked at me as I lay there. It wasn't a problem, of course - I was used to having other guys see me in the barracks room when I was in the marines, and since I'd been used to entertain my owner's guests, I'd become accustomed to having other guys stare at my dick (well, my owner generally allowed me to wear a g-string when I was doing my gymnastics, but it was so small, and made of such thin silk, that the outline of my dick was always clearly visible to all the audience).
In spite of all my efforts, though, they continued to mostly ignore me that night, although at least I seemed to have managed to take the edge off their hostility. The next morning when the overseer came along to undo our manacles, he stood there expecting me to pick up my shorts, but instead I handed them to him and said "Sir, will you look after these, please? All my buddies here work naked, and I reckon I ought to, too."
He shrugged, looking at me as if I was a bit mad, but I saw the drays giving small nods of approval. Mind you, later that day when we were all struggling to get the cart, which was a bit overloaded, up the hill towards the barn, I began to regret my choice: the tawse is a lot more painful on the bare butt than it is on your shoulders, and in turn a harsh stroke of it caressing your thighs is even worse! By the time we'd got back to the stables that evening I was really glad of the showers - the cool water did at least s help take the sting out of the marks on my flesh. And I reckoned that I must have been making some impression with the niggas as they included me in their washing ritual - well, you know how guys who live really close together are in the showers, as they don't mind soaping the other guys' backs, and so on.... Well, it was just like that here: the niggas all played around, soaping each other, and then included me in just as if I was one of them. Mind you, they went a lot further than any of my marine buddies ever did - no marine had ever dared to even think about soaping my dick, as one of them did!
I think they began to appreciate having me around - I am, after all, really strong and powerful and there's no doubt that I certainly "pulled my weight". And it made a nice change for them, too, to have someone new to talk to - one problem of having them live and work so closely together and to be chained up at night was that they had little opportunity to interact with all the other slaves on the place, so I think they enjoyed listening to me tell them about life in the big house, and some of the things that the other slaves got up to.
I knew I was really making an impression when on the third night they rearranged themselves so I could sleep interleaved between them - it's not all that much fun sleeping on straw really (although better than being there and having to lie on the bare concrete underneath, I suppose) - and they'd worked out a way of making themselves as comfortable as possible. Basically we all slept on our backs, but you rested your head on the belly of another guy to make a kind of pillow. Of course that meant that his dick was a bit close, and I was terribly worried about springing a wood with one of my buddies so close. But I soon realised that this was expected - all the others did, and I lay there , my head slightly y turned, seeing my "pillow's" big dick jutting up in front of me.
It shouldn't surprise you to learn that about an hour later, when I was really hard, almost achingly so, I was wondering what I could do about jerking off. I was used to doing it in the barracks, but there you did have a sheet to cover you in your bunk. And although all the other guys knew exactly what you were doing, and were mostly doing the same thing themselves, the presence of that sheet gave a modicum of respectability to the whole thing. I was wondering what "protocol" these guys adopted so that you could jerk off without it being totally "public", and how you went about avoiding the first big spurts of cum from spraying over them as we were all lying so close, when the guy whose head was on my belly solved the problem for me.
I almost cried out with the sheer unexpectedness of it. I felt the pressure of his head raise from my belly, and the next moment warm, wet lips were caressing my dick! Look, I've had lots of blow jobs - some of the whores around the bases I've been on were so unattractive that there's no way I'd have fucked them. But when she's between your legs with her nose right into your pubes, it doesn't much matter, does it? So I think I know something about it, and I can tell you that this one was good, very good: he didn't just rub his lips up and down the shaft (not all that much use, I find, as most of the sensation's in the head, after all), but teased my piss slit with the tip of his tongue, licked with little flirting touches of his tongue all around the edge of my head, and finally swallowed all of my not inconsiderable length - I almost shot there and then as I felt my dick head touch the warm, moist, fleshy back of his throat. It takes a real expert to swallow all of me, and I always find the feeling that I'm right down the throat of the sucker to be totally exhilarating.
He went on and on with such sensuality that I couldn't stop myself - before I could warn him I shot, right in his mouth. I suppose he must have had some warning as I would have been pumping pre-cum, but, even so, I was expecting him to be angry - most of the whores always warned me not to cum in their mouths, and when I did sometimes, it was usually the signal for a whole lot of screaming and foul language to break out. I half sat up and in the dim light saw he was grinning at me.
"Good one, Steve", he whispered, a big smile on his face and a trickle of my milky white cum falling from the corner of his mouth and making a big contrast with the inky blackness of his skin.
"Sorry....", I whispered. "I couldn't warn you.... And I couldn't stop....."
"Warn me? For what? You're the best, Steve - a big load like this...." He smacked his lips together in evident relish, and ran his tongue up and down over them to further add to his enjoyment. I supposed I learned my first lesson about the differences between real sex, between men, and the rest of it that night - a real man actually understands what turns another one on, and, if you think about it, how on earth can a whore really understand what makes your dick really burst with excitement? And sucking another guy dry of his cum is a real service to him - what on earth is wrong, or disgusting, about cum? After all, we all try our own wen we're growing up, don't we? So what's wrong with carrying on eating it later on?
I really enjoyed the rest of the week - well, the nights, anyway, as the days were pretty tough and I hated the tawse - and no, before you even ask, I didn't get around to sucking dick myself. The others were too eager to get mine, and once the ice had been broken that first time, they were almost forming a queue to taste my dick and fondle my balls as they sucked me off. I did feel guilty, though, and so I did join in a bit - well, you can't be seen to be stand-offish, can you? So I jerked off a couple of the guys, and that was different, too, from when I'd experimented with a buddy at school, as now we used cum to lubricate the dick, and it was somehow so much more sensual.
Unfortunately their buddy was recovered enough to go back to work by the weekend, and as my owner was coming down and expecting to hold a dinner for a number of local worthies, I was sent back up to the big house. My little cubicle in the basement seemed lonely and bleak after all the enjoyment I'd had from having the drays around me, and I began to wonder if I shouldn't call in one of the chefs or waiters to suck me off - they were always looking at me as I walked to and from the showers, and I felt certain that a fair number of them would like to wrap their lips around my dick.
I have pretty exacting standards generally, and I knew in advance that the display I'd be giving that night wasn't going to be the best I'd ever given, as I'd not been on the practice floor, and on the apparatus, all week. And if you're going to give a top-flight gymnastics display, it's practice, practice, practice, that's absolutely essential. But I didn't think that anyone other than me would notice that everything was just that five percent "off" that distinguishes a good performance from a merely adequate one. I suppose my owner has got used to seeing this stuff, though, and when I was waiting outside the door for him to come out for his morning run, one of the overseers instead came out and told me to get down to the owner's study immediately.
I stood outside in the hallway, and the overseer ordered me to "slave rest" so I put my hands behind my back and lowered my head, and waited. And waited. And waited. Still, I suppose that if you own a guy, you don't care how long you keep him standing around, do you? Normal things like courtesy and consideration for others just don't apply to slaves. Eventually I heard my owner's voice shout "Get in here, Steve!", not in the way that he usually spoke to me, but with a hard, angry edge.
My owner was sitting behind his desk, and I went and stood respectfully in front of it. To one side was a young guy who I hadn't seen around before, but who looked a bit like my owner and I wondered if this was his son - some of the other slaves spoke about him, but I'd never seen him before as he apparently lived with my owner's estranged wife.
"That was crap last night, Steve!", my owner began in the same angry tone. "Total crap! I'd invited a lot of locals in to impress them, and you go and fuck it up. It was a complete disgrace. You've shamed me."
"Sir, I'm sorry...."
"Sorry doesn't cut it, you fucking slave!"
"But sir, it wasn't that bad... I'm sure they wouldn't have seen anything wrong... It was a bit off sometimes, sure, but...."
"...A bit off?", he thundered. "In the routines on the floor you weren't properly in time to the music. And don't think I didn't see you cut out the really hard bit on the rings, the one I particularly like as it really shows off your shoulders and pecs....."
"But sir, I didn't practice...."
"That was quite apparent."
The young guy then spoke. "Hey, dad, is this that slave you're always telling me about, the ex-marine who's always so good and conscientious.... The one you keep telling me you wish I was a lot more like...
Well ha, fucking, ha....."
"Rob, I've told you I will not tolerate language like that!" my owner snapped.
He then turned his fury on me again, and went on "You see, Steve? You've even made me look foolish in front of my own son. Well I won't tolerate it...."
"Sir, please, I can explain...."
"How dare you interrupt me! I've thought for long time that in trying to treat you humanely, trying to use you as an exercise companion rather than as a mere slave, I might have been making a mistake. And you choose to repay me by slacking and not practising, and then by daring to interrupt me when I'm pointing out your faults...."
"But sir...."
"There you go again! This is absolutely intolerable! Sometimes a slave needs to be taught a lesson, as lesson he won't forget."
"Sir, it wasn't my fault...."
"There you go again! No other slave in this house would dare to interrupt me like that. If you were a nigga I'd say that you were a great deal too 'uppity'.
I don't know if a whitey can be 'uppity', but you damned well seem to qualify! And there's one sure way of taking the rebellious spirit out of a slave.... Drag that horse over, to give me more room....."
"Sir, please, I...."
"One more word, you fucking slave, and it won't just be a session on the horse! I'll have you flogged outside on the whipping post...."
I looked to where he was pointing and here was the same "horse" on which I'd been restrained so that he could take my cherry when I had first arrived. He was always threatening to beat me, as I've told you, but never had before. I thought for a moment about trying to explain again - blurting out that I had had no practice time because of working with the dray, but I reckoned it would only make matters worse. After all, I'd been tawsed all week, how bad could a beating on the horse be? And all slaves get beaten eventually, I suppose - I'd avoided it so far, and if it made my owner feel better and cleared the air so we could get back to being proper work-out buddies again, then perhaps it would be worth it. And, anyway, if I carried on arguing it would only serve to anger my owner even more, I thought.
The horse it self might have been a family heirloom, I suppose - it wasn't one of the modern ones, all metal bars and shiny cuffs. No, this one was clearly hand crafted from dark mahogany, a mahogany that had that rich deep glow that spoke of age, and hours of diligent polishing by generations of servants, or slaves. The top was a deep red leather, only sparsely padded as I suppose the comfort of the slave was not of prime concern and it was more important that it "looked right" as a piece of furniture in its own right, and all the fittings and attachments were in brass, again polished to a deep shine, with that patina of age.
I dragged it - and it was heavy, reflecting its solid nature (well I suppose it has to be strong and solid, given that slaves would tug and tear at it as they tried to escape their fate) - in front of the desk, and my owner snapped "Down on it, then!"
I lay down, feeling the leather at once cold and yet clammy against my bare chest. My owner was almost sneering now as he said "I suppose I'd better fasten you down - the last time you were on here you made such a fuss that it was just as well you were secured, or else I do believe you might have injured me".
Well, he was right, of course - although he took my cherry in a way that I suppose you might describe as "humane", there's no doubt that if I could have stopped him, I'd have done anything in my power. But this was only going to be a beating, after all, so in as neutral one as I could manage, trying to keep the pride out of my voice, I muttered "Sir, I can take it."
"That's typical of you, Steve! That's pride, and pride has no place in a slave's repertoire, unless it's pride in doing his assigned tasks well, and in serving his owner completely."
I didn't bother to answer, and instead gripped the front legs of the horse, gaining some satisfaction as I saw the muscles in my arms tighten and knowing that there were very few men with my lean, stringy muscular development.
I watched as my owner took a cane down from where it was held in a sort of cradle above the fireplace, and was a bit concerned, I must confess, as he took a couple of practice strokes through the air - the "Swish" noise it made as he did this spoke of a man who could hit hard, and effectively. But there was nothing I could do about it, so I tightened my grip, took my tongue down on to the floor of my mouth and gritted my teeth hard, determined not to cry out.
"Hey, dad, you're not going to do it like that, are you?" The boy's voice was loud in the room - only the crackling of the log fire and the hum of the air-conditioning as it strove to keep a pleasant temperature otherwise intruded (the owner liked "old fashioned" values, and many of the principal rooms in the house had log fires burning when he was in residence, even with very high outside temperatures).
"What do you mean, Rob?"
"Well the guys at school all say that when their slaves are punished it's always on their bare asses - it not only hurts the slave more, they reckon, but it's more humiliating for them."
"Oh I don't bother about that....."
"But dad, you said that when I was sixteen, which I was last week, I could have a slave of my own. And I'd kind of had my eye on this one, as you told me about him, and it would be good to take a proper look at his ass...."
"Rob, you are not having this slave. This is my personal trainer. He usually works well with me...."
"As usual, then. You promise things...."
"I only promised you a slave, not a particular slave. But if you like, we can strip him: I haven't punished him before, but he's been leading up to it for some time, always pushing the envelope a bit. So maybe if it hurts more, and he finds it particularly humiliating, he'll think twice next time and I won't have to punish him again for a long time."
"Good thinking, dad. Can I pull his shorts down? I've never done that to a fully grown man before - only to the other guys in the locker rooms...."
My owner must have nodded or something, as I felt the kid's hands fumbling at the tie on the waist of my shorts, and then he tugged them down and I felt the soft fabric fall on my feet. He snapped "Step out of them, slave", and I felt the fabric whisked away as I lay there now totally naked. Then I flinched as he kicked at my ankles, adding "And get those fucking feet apart, as we want a good look at your balls swinging around as my dad beats you."
End Of Part One