THE SLAVE REVOLT
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Twelve
It felt so strange to be following Rob as I was. For one thing, he never bothered to look back to see if I was right behind, or to hold the door and let me go through first, or anything like that: he seemed to have learned that assurance that slave owners have that if they tell a slave to follow them, he does and there's no need to keep checking. You may also think it's strange that I was feeling very, very self-conscious about my appearance: after all, I'd been kept totally naked for months, and now I had at least been given a slave tunic to wear. But I'm a big, tall guy as you know, and slave tunics are short at the best of times: this one barely reached down to cover the tip of my dick and my low-hanging balls at the best of times, and now, as I strode along after Rob, I knew that flashes and glimpses of my dick and balls were being seen all the time. "So what?", you may ask: after all, many of the slaves we were passing had seen me totally naked. But it's different, I think - a naked slave, a big, powerful man like me, is somehow majestic, and he can be proud (as much as slaves can be proud) of his physique and the way others admire it. Walking along like this, though, I was different - I was no longer a proud, naked slave, but some sort of adjunct to Rob, trailing after him, and being "made" to display myself to others as that's what he had commanded.
He led me over to the farm complex and the blacksmith shop, strode in through the big double doors, and at once ordered the blacksmith to come and give him attention. As I stood there as Rob talked to him, I looked around and felt really sorry for the other guys who were there - evidently a delivery of fresh new slaves had recently been made, and the poor guys were standing around looking utterly bewildered. They were all niggas, but not the usual sort of niggas we were used to, but really jet black ones. And in spite of the guards watching them with their prods and whips at the ready, they seemed relatively unafraid and were chattering away in some odd sort of language. They were good-looking guys, though - tall and lithe and quite well muscled, and their dicks mirrored their general body shape, being long and thin, too. I couldn't help noticing, though, that they were, to a man, uncut. It was all most odd, until it occurred to me that they were probably African imports that they were bringing in to try to make up for the general loss of ordinary niggas - I know it's astonishing, but in spite of the very harsh penalty (slavery if you're caught) many, many illegals, particularly from Mexico, still attempted to come to the USA to work without authorisation every year.
Just then, though, Rob finished talking to the blacksmith who came over and snapped at me "Strip off and put your neck down on that anvil over there."
One advantage of the slave tunic - especially a very short, loose one as I had, is that it's easy to get naked: I just grabbed the neck at the back, and it pulled over my head in one smooth unit. I went over and knelt on the ground in front of the anvil, feeling the hard concrete on my knees and the momentary coldness of the iron against my neck. To my amazement the blacksmith started to use a big hammer and a spike to hammer out the rivet holding my collar closed. The noise was deafening, and, to tell you the truth, I was terrified that he'd miss and do me a serious injury. But soon the collar fell away, and for the first time for many months I felt kind of "free" - as I raised my head from where I was right down on the anvil it felt ridiculously light: I suppose you get used to the collar's weight, and your muscles adjust, but I remembered how when I had first had it put on me. I had walked around with my head kind of stooped down permanently, and I'd thought at the time that it wasn't only the symbolism of the collar that reminded me that I was a slave, but this unnatural submissive posture that it encouraged me to take, too. But now, free of it, I began to understand what an imposition it had been on me, and I began to get to my feet, pleased that Rob had decided I didn't have to wear it, and taking this as a sign that things would soon be better for me.
"Kneel down, boy!", the blacksmith commanded, though. "Who the fuck told you to move?"
I put my head back down on the anvil, and then, as nothing much seemed to be happening, I had time to look again at the bunch of niggas who were still waiting. They in turn were looking at me and pointing, and I realised they'd been given a clear sight of my ass as I knelt there, and I reckon they were talking about it. Still, what could I do? Nothing - so I simply waited.
It turned out that Rob had told the blacksmith to take my collar off and work on it, smoothing out all the rough hard edges of it that had caused all the scraping and sores. He was soon back with the familiar, hated thing, fitted it around my neck again, fetched a new red-hot rivet from the hearth and pounded it in place again to hold my collar immovable.
I got burned, as I had last time, as the sparks flew, but it didn't take long, and then I was allowed to get to my feet and pull my tunic back on.
Those brief moments of being collarless had reminded me of how I ought to feel, and now my familiar collar once more felt heavy and oppressive. Still, Rob looked pleased as he came over and said "That will be better for you, Steve - I've made him rub away all those rough edges so you won't get any more of those sores all over you: they spoil the look of you, I think, and I don't want all that rough skin under my fingers when I'm caressing you."
"Thank you for your generosity, sir", I said, making my voice as sarcastic as possible. "Thank you. I'm sure it will be better. Of course it would have been nicer not to be collared at all, or to have one of those thin, light ones, as I used to have...."
There was a flash of anger across Rob's face for an instant, before he clearly controlled himself and said, as evenly as he could, "Steve, I'm doing my best for you. But the law requires all slaves to be prominently collared, so you've got to have one. And my father won't allow me to give you one of the light steel ones - he says you deserve to be treated just like an ordinary slave."
He indicated the niggas standing there and went on "Look at that lot over there - it's sad, really - we deliberately took away most of the border patrols, and even let it be widely known in the international press that we were doing so. So a whole lot of young men are tempted to try to come here illegally, and, of course, the Slave Police are waiting: dad thought slave prices would be sky-high as so many were killed in the revolt, but the influx of illegals, suckered in, has kept things stable. But the point is they're all going to be collared now, so it's not a big deal."
"Have you told the blacksmith to smooth all their collars, sir?" I was sarcastic still. "Or is it only me you're being generous to?"
"Look, Steve, I heard what you said about that thing being sore all the time and causing weals and stuff, and I've told the blacksmith to smooth ALL the new collars. It makes sense, after all..."
"Yes, it's the humanitarian thing to do, if you're going to make a man wear a collar..."
"Look, Steve, fuck the humanitarian stuff - that will never make things better. But I can convince my father that he needs to tell the blacksmith to always do it as it makes sense economically - without all those sores they'll work harder and will be more immediately useful. And that's a good thing - we're going to have a hard enough time as it is with them as they don't have English, and they'll feel the lash a lot until they learn enough to obey the guards and overseers."
"They don't look like the normal nigga slaves..."
"No, they're Africans, as I said. Someone persuaded thousands of them to come on a chartered ship and try to sneak into the country: it was very good for prices, as I said. But they'll be harder to train immediately, although their hides, being so black, means we won't have problems with the sun. Mind you, although they were not all that expensive we have other costs: once they've been collared, they're going to be 'skinned, of course. And my father heard from a neighbour that as the vet started to cut the first one, the rest of them started to riot! It seems they think they're no longer proper men without a 'skin.... So we're going to have to do them one at a time, out of sight of the others! And they do say that the imports lack 'the will to work' - they're so used to lying in the sun and living off fresh fruit and stuff like that and they simply don't have the work ethic. Still, they'll learn, soon enough - the tawse and the whip are good teachers."
I shrugged my shoulders. "They'll still be proper men - not like the drays...."
Rob looked kind of embarrassed. "Oh, I expect they're used to it by now."
"Rob!", I exploded. "How the fuck do you think a guy can get used to losing his balls?"
One of the guards rushed over, his prod at the ready.
"Problems with this slave, sir? Shall I prod him...."
"Listen, boy", Rob snapped at me "Behave! Just because I'm being kind to you, don't take advantage." He looked at the guard and said in a quiet voice "Thanks, but I can manage him. This slave and I go back a long way, and sometimes he forgets just what his position really is."
"I'd have him gelded if he were mine", the guard replied. "And all those new niggas - they're all big powerful bucks, and if they ever got off the coffle chain they'd be a real danger. If you ask me all slaves should be gelded, to stop the kind of trouble we just went through. I reckon a slave without balls is...."
"Well no one is asking you...", Rob cut in, and snapped at me "Follow me, boy", and turned and strode out.
I desperately wanted to talk to Rob, to ask him what the fuck was going on, and why I was being treated so badly, but for the rest of the afternoon, whenever I broached the subject, Rob cut me off abruptly, changed the subject, or simply ignored me. I ought to have grabbed him by the shoulders and given him a good shaking to make him deal with me properly, but I didn't really have the chance - once we were back in the house he changed into running shorts and a vest, handing me a pair of shorts at the same time, and told me that I was now to do the same job as I did for his father and make sure he got into good shape before he went off to college. I looked at the shorts almost in disbelief, as they were so small - and I suppose it was the same feeling that I had about my tunic: being proudly naked is one thing, having your body 'displayed' in garments deliberately designed to accentuate the fact that you're a muscular slave under someone else's control, is another. Still, these shorts seemed odd, and Rob saw me looking at them.
"They're mine, Steve - the ones I wore yesterday. Stop looking at them like that - it's only a few sweat stains inside them...."
"They're too small. And it looks like piss stains to me!"
"Nonsense., they'll be fine - a bit tight, perhaps, but you don't want to run with your dick and balls flopping around, do you? This is real running, not walking along as a dray does, and I don't want you complaining about sore balls."
That was typical of Rob - only kind of half answering me.
"And the piss...?"
"Oh stop being so fastidious - if there's any at all, it's only a little dribble where I may have stopped for a pee and didn't express the last drops out of my dick properly. It's no big deal...."
"So why don't you wear them, and let me have the clean ones?"
"Oh for fuck's sake, Steve! I'm a master - I have to look fresh and clean. I owe it to the neighbours, who we might meet as we're running, to uphold the proper traditions. I can hardly run in creased shorts, can I? If we're going to keep this place together, we need to show we're upholding the standards of the South, where gentlemen are always well groomed."
"I still don't like the idea of this piss stain....."
"Steve, get real! It's only a small one. And you and I have shared towels, and beds and everything. A lot more of my piss has been on you than that, which, as you say, is dry anyway."
"Yes, about that - sharing, as we were escaping, why.....?"
"Come on, Steve! I want a long, long run. Pull those shorts on, and let's be off....." Once more Rob had failed to answer me, and I suppose I ought to have insisted. But with his usual alacrity he was out of the door before I could say anything else.
Actually, it was good to be able to run again - but really hard work. Even though I'd been "exercising" continuously in the dray shafts, it's totally different - there it was relatively slow, but you really needed to put all your power and strength into making the thing move, and, of course, any hill was absolutely disastrous. Now I was actually running, interspersed with periods of sprinting, and it was totally different - a whole lot of other muscles were involved. In order to keep up with Rob, let alone "test" him by challenging him to keep up with me, I had to work really, really hard and under the hot sun the sweat was soon pouring off me. And you need to remember that I had the heavy collar and cuffs, too - those extra pounds really make a difference when you're running. Of course I could have asked him if we could take a brief break every now and then, but that's not me: I wasn't going to let Rob see that I wasn't as fit as he was, so I simply gritted my teeth and pressed on.
By the time we were back in Rob's suite I was really too tired and exhausted to tackle him again about why I was being treated so badly, and all I really wanted to do was collapse under a long, hot shower. Rob and I showered together, of course, as we had done occasionally when water was available when we were "on the road", and we had absolutely no inhibitions about helping each other to get really clean - it's one of the few things where I think slaves have it better than free men: slaves are almost required to wash each other (and I do mean wash thoroughly, all over, including the ass crack and so on), whereas free men don't touch each other in the showers: when I was in the marines if I'd even accidentally touched a buddy accidentally as we were all standing there recovering from the assault course or something, then for the rest of the day my buddies would all jeer at me and call me a fag!
Although there were big piles of freshly laundered fluffy white towels around, Rob looked slightly shocked when I picked up one to begin to dry myself. "Steve", he told me, in a tone that spoke of exasperation rather than anger, "Just think for a moment, will you? What's wrong with my towel?"
"Well, it's all damp, and I've seen you drying your ass with it....."
"Sure it's damp, but good enough to get the water off you. And, so... it's been up my ass - can I point out that we're freshly out of the shower, so my ass is perfectly clean! No, you need to think, Steve, about the planet - every time you use a fresh towel it needs more energy to wash it, energy we can scarcely afford.... You ought to be concerned about the environment, Steve."
"So tomorrow I'll have the fresh towel, and when I've finished towelling off my dick and balls and ass, as they're clean, you can use it...."
"Steve, be rea! You and me might one day go somewhere where there are other guys changing with their slaves in attendance - I don't know yet whether dad will let me take you with me to college, for example - and how would it look if you got the clean towel? People would think I wasn't treating you properly as a slave...."
"You're not! You...."
"Steve, shut it, will you? It's dinner time, and dad gets cross if I'm late. Now put your tunic on, as you're coming into the dining room with me."
As ever, he bustled around, effectively stopping further conversation, so I pulled on a clean, fresh tunic - if I was going to be in the dining room, eating with Rob and his father, things must be getting better, I thought. Rob hissed at me to walk one pace behind him as we went along the wide corridor and down the staircase - I'd gone to walk beside him, to talk as we used to. But he insisted "Behave like a slave, Steve - it's not good for the discipline of the other slaves! Walk behind me, and shut the fuck up."
My hopes were dashed when we went into the dining room, though: I noticed there were only two covers set at the huge dining table. I stood there wondering what to do, and my owner (I suppose he was still that, even though, nominally, I had been 'given' to Rob) said, rather sharply, "Rob, I'm not happy with having this slave around the house, as you know. If you insist on bringing him into the dining room, please ensure he knows how to behave - you know as well as I do that other than the serving slaves, any others must stand neatly against the wall."
"Get over there, Steve", Rob said quietly to me, his voice almost pleading. I didn't understand what was really going on between him and his father, so I did as he said and went and stood by the side of the fireplace, and clasped my hands neatly behind my back as I hoped that this would please both of them. "See, dad", Rob went on, "Steve's really obedient. And he'll be so good for me - the run this afternoon was better than anything I've done recently with Steve there to encourage me: you know you want me on the College swim team, and if I get really fit and buff, it will surely help."
"That's all very well, Rob, but he was like that before, superficially. I enjoyed having him as my work-out buddy and I never treated him like a slave. And then....."
"Anyway, dad", Rob cut in, as if he didn't want that conversation to go any further. ".... The crops looked good today. And I saw the new batch of niggas - I reckon they'll make good workers as they're tall and quite muscular."
"Maybe, Rob. Maybe. But they're not like native niggas who are used to the idea that they are slaves - these are 'wild' - a week ago they were running around in their villages, with wives to do all the work, surrounded with their kids they bred irresponsibly. I'm not sure they're going to adapt all that easily to using those muscles in the way a nigga should, to serve his owner."
I don't know how the conversation would have gone on as at that moment the doors opened and the serving slaves brought in their first course - my mouth began to salivate as the strong, savoury smell of the assorted Mexican tapas they were having came to me, and I guessed, correctly, that I wasn't going to get fed at all, standing there as I was.
As the meal went on Rob and his dad hardly spoke to each other, so I learned little more. But there was one difference between what was going on in the dining room that night compared with when I'd been invited by my owner to share his supper or lunch after we'd exercised: his treatment of the serving slaves. My owner followed the generally accepted custom in the South at that time by taking young slaves, as soon as they reached "official working age" of sixteen and selecting those most pleasing to the eye to use as servants around the house before they joined a field coffle a year or so later. His preference was for fairly tall, nicely set-up young niggas without very pronounced facial features, and, again as was the custom, their bodies were totally and completely shaved except for the closely-cropped hair on their heads. They wore the standard short tunic, and I remember him explaining to me that the lads had to have all their body hair removed (as did the cooks and chefs) so as to obviate any possible risk of pubic hairs falling into the food.
In "my day", the servants just got on with their jobs, serving us quietly and unobtrusively. But now it was as if my owner was determined to use them for a different purpose, too: as they stood their, the hem of their tunics barely long enough to conceal their genitals, he would wrap an arm around them and allow his hand to slide up, feeling their thighs and testing their balls, before fingering their dicks. Or he might caress their butts as they tried to serve him from the large silver platters. It was clearly exciting for some of them, as by the time Rob and his dad were eating their dessert, most of the servants were showing hard with their dicks pushing up the bottoms of their tunics.
Rob looked faintly embarrassed, and then, when the servants had left to go and fetch the coffee, he leaned across the wide table and whispered "Dad, can't you leave the waiters alone... You never used to be like that...."
"Oh Rob, don't be such a prude! They're slaves, remember? Slaves I've paid for, and selected because they're desirably good looking. Why shouldn't a man enjoy all aspects of his property?"
"You never used to...."
"That's because you were young then, Rob. Now you're a man, old enough to want to own a slave of your own, you need to learn the rights that go with that. When they bring the coffee in, why don't you enjoy one of them?"
"Dad, they're my own age! I...."
"Oh for goodness sake, Rob! Perhaps I have let you down by not ensuring you always had a number of slave 'playmates' once you reached puberty - most of my colleagues ensure their sons grow up surrounded by slaves from a young age. But perhaps we're different - I like younger men, and evidently you prefer older ones.... Feel free to get Steve over and enjoy him, if you wish."
I felt a flush of anger - or was it shame - sweep over me. Surely Rob wasn't going to play with my balls and dick in front of his dad, was he? Still, if he did, it would give me the opportunity of telling my owner what had really gone on. But then I heard him say "No, dad - it's not the kind of thing I do..."
"What do you mean, Rob? I've given Steve to you, and he's effectively yours - the paper work's going through. You can do whatever you like to his body, and there's absolutely no problem with enjoying him here in the privacy of our dining room. I wouldn't advise it if we have a big dinner party - well, not until the ladies have retired, anyway, and only then if you're prepared to share him with some of the other guests - but when it's only you and me, there's no problem."
"You never did, dad...."
"Ah well, as I said, I prefer younger men. And, anyway, I had a strange relationship with Steve: he was my personal trainer, and it's hard to balance the requirements of taking a strong line to ensure such slaves obey you as they should, and the need to have them a little independent so they can perform properly as trainers. I blame myself sometimes - evidently I had the balance wrong, as he was too independent and went off and joined the rebels...."
Rob at once changed the subject, again! "Dad, I need to go and study... Is it OK to leave?"
"Sure, son.", my owner said, and Rob got up - one of the servants instantly pulling his chair away from the table to assist him - and he called out "Come on, Steve.... Up to my suite...."
So I was again deprived of the chance to put my owner right, as by the time I'd made up my mind to stay and have it out with him, he'd already taken one of the young servants onto his lap - the lad had pulled his tunic off so he was completely nude, and he seemed to be enjoying my owner's attentions to his body!
Upstairs I tried to remonstrate with Rob about not telling his father, but he looked sort of furtive and embarrassed. "Don't worry, Steve - I'll make sure everything is right", he told me. "But give me time, OK?"
"Why - why do you need time? It seems really easy to me, just tell your dad about how I saved you, and...."
"I will, Steve. But not yet. Now, I don't want to hear any more of this. Get and piss, if you need to, as I've got to chain you...."
"Chain me? For fuck's sake, Rob.....", I almost exploded in anger.
"It's the new laws, Steve. All slaves much be chained up at night. Look, we've had these shackling points installed going into the floor joists, and I'll manacle your ankle to one of them.... I've got a blanket for you and everything, so you'll be perfectly comfortable here. And it's a lot better here on the carpet that on that straw in the barn...."
"Rob, for fuck's sake...."
"Look, Steve, suppose my father calls in to say goodnight, and you're not shackled? He's a stickler for obeying the law, you know.... He's sensitive to the fact that he's from the North and spends a lot of time up there working, and he doesn't want to give any of our neighbours any cause for saying that he's causing them problems by not being a 'proper' Southerner and by not obeying the slave laws completely."
"So I've got to be chained up, so he looks good...?"
"I guess that's right, Steve! You're learning!" He saw my look of anger as he said this, changed his tone from one of half jocularity, and went on more seriously "Look, I've got problems at them moment, right? And I don't want to.... Can't.... can't explain to you right at the moment. But things will get better, believe me....."
"So you want me to trust you...?"
"Yes, Steve, please...."
"Why should I? I ought just to go down and march in and tell your father about how I saved you, about...."
"Steve, please! It won't help! As I said, I've got problems. And he won't listen anyway - if you go charging in there, he'll call the guards, and you'll be taken out and flogged - or worse... He'd probably see it as another example of how you're rebellious, and you know he's threatened to have you gelded.... And he probably wouldn't believe you, anyway...."
"Yes, he would. He always trusted me. He liked having me as his trainer, and we used to talk a lot...."
"Times have changed, Steve. You can't believe how people's attitudes have altered since the Revolt. A lot of Southerners were always secretly scared of the vast number of slaves anyway, and now they've had proof that there can be problems.... Just be patient, OK? I'll make it right for you...."
I went to argue with him, but he pleaded "Steve, trust me, OK? And go and piss - I want to get to bed...."
I came out of the bathroom and Rob handed me a couple of blankets, and showed me the place at the foot of his bed where I could lie. I didn't like being shackled - although I suppose I ought to have been used to it as in the stables all us drays were, as I've told you: somehow it was totally different and utterly demeaning to be chained to the foot of a bed in a luxurious bedroom suite. But there was a long length of chain so I suppose it wasn't all that bad - it's not as if I couldn't move at all, with only one ankle fixed by the chain.
In the middle of the night I woke up, wondering what was happening - usually I sleep deeply because I'm so utterly exhausted from work, and today had been no different as that run had really tired me and I'd fallen asleep as soon as I wrapped myself in the blankets and Rob turned out the lights. The noise was incredible - Rob was shouting "No... No.... Please... No.... Stop, don't, not there.... Please.... NO.... Don't......", and his whole body was thrashing around in the bed, which was shaking and moving. Then he began to sob, a terrible, piteous sob, although he stopped moving so much.
I got up, now very worried - if anyone had heard the noise they might have thought I was attacking Rob - but then I remembered my owner telling me at some point as we exercised together that when he bought the place, as part of the extensive renovations of the ante-bellum mansion he'd not only had to install aircon and stuff, but have the walls specially soundproofed "so that my guests can enjoy their time with their slaves without bothering about other guests being disturbed".
Rob seemed to be fast asleep, but he was still crying and making the occasional "No", and his limbs were twitching occasionally. I stood there, worried as hell, but now focussed on Rob and what he was going trough. I remembered the terrified boy that I'd found that first day of the revolt, and how when we had eventually been able to hide and snatch some much-needed sleep, I'd comforted him by holding him close to me. I moved to the side of the bed, and something stirred in me - some need to help him and protect him again, even though he'd been a real asshole since I was returned to the place. It was, I suppose, the same kind of emotion that had gone through me when I'd saved him from the rebels - he was a free man and I was a slave, but the marines had taught me to care for the innocent and to do my best to look after them. I was strong, and he was weak, in all the ways that mattered here and now: in law he was master and I slave, but in human terms I was the powerful one and he needed help.
I pulled as much spare chain as I could to give me maximum freedom of movement, lifted he covers ,and slid in beside. I nestled my body against his and wrapped an arm around him as I used to when we were desperate to keep warm. His skin was hot and kind of clammy, from the sweat that was pouring off him as he was going through some terrible ordeal. I raised my head so my lips were near his head, and whispered "Shhhhh.... You're safe, Rob... It's OK..... I'm here.... Nothing's going to happen to you....."
To my delight I felt him begin to relax, and as I hugged him to me, I gently stroked his body to reassure him, and carried on saying those calming things. I felt his body, previously taut as a spring, start to relax further. He stopped twitching, then he went silent, and soon I cold tell from the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest that he'd fallen asleep.
It was comforting to have him there next to me again - I'd kind of got used to it on the road - and so I decided to stay for the rest of the night: it seemed to be the right thing to do, given how disturbed he'd been. And of course as I had an erection, as I always do if I wake up in the middle of the night, I let my dick slide gently between his thighs so he was sort of astride it, as we'd used to lie together. Not up his ass - no, as I told you before, it was just to make it possible for me to hold him really close to me without my dick pressing up his butt!
I lay awake for what seemed like hours - but probably I was drifting in and out of sleep, as I was vaguely aware of our bodies accommodating themselves to each other. Then, as so often happens, I fell into a deep sleep just before dawn. I woke with a start, and it took me a couple of seconds to recognise where we were - for a moment, I thought we were back in hiding. Then as my senses started working properly I realised what had woken me - Rob was playfully tweaking my left tit, as he had sometimes used to. I came fully awake and found that he had turned around so that he was facing me, our bodies pressed close together. He was still astride my dick, which was still erect (almost painfully so!), and his dick was rock solid and pointing upwards, "trapped" between his belly and mine. He was moving himself slightly, so his soft thighs were almost jerking me off.
"Good morning, big boy!", he whispered. "What brings you here? I thought you didn't like sex with men...."
"Rob, cut that out!" As I said this, I grabbed his butt, to make him hold still and stop moving on my dick. "Look, last night...."
"....last night you thought I was incredibly sexy, and couldn't keep out of my bed", he muttered brightly. "It's a good job that chain's long enough.... You know, it's quite exciting being in bed with a guy who's chained up..."
I slapped his butt playfully, enough to get his attention and stop his chatter. "Listen, Rob, this is serious! You were crying, shouting, thrashing about...."
His mood changed instantly, and he turned his head away from me and went silent. I could feel his hard dick detumesce and his shrinking dick trailed across my belly.
"Rob, what is it, what's the matter...."
"Nothing, Steve."
"This is serious, Rob - tell me!" He remained silent, and I pulled him even closer to me, if that was possible. "Rob... Come on.... We were together all that time.... In terrible danger.... We've got no secrets.... You can tell me...... We've got nothing to hide from each other..."
And then it came out, at first haltingly and stutteringly, Rob hesitantly holding the words back, until they broke through in a torrent of anger, fear, and shame. I can't repeat them here - it's too personal. But Rob told me what happened to him as we was dragged away by the Northern soldiers that last day we were together, and how he'd been brutally raped by six of them.
"Hey, it's OK...", I muttered after he'd finally fallen silent. "Look, Rob, they hurt you. They made you do things you didn't want to do. But it's over... There was no permanent damage, was there? You didn't need sewing up, or anything?"
"No - I wasn't permanently damaged. But it isn't over, Steve... I can't sleep... It will never be over.
And they didn't just force me to do things and hurt me - they raped me, Steve...."
"Rob, get real, will you? A lot of men take dick up the ass. Some of them against their will - me, for example. And I didn't want to do it. And it hurt. But once it's over, that's it. Move on....."
"I can't, Steve...."
"Yes you can, Rob. I've been raped - on the horse, right here in this house. You don't see me worrying about it now, do you?"
"But they made me do things, Steve, against my will...."
"For fuck's sake, stop whining, will you? Think of what happens to me, all the time! You're a free man - it's only occasionally people make you do things against your will. And they only occasionally hurt you. I'm a slave - and I have to do things against my will all the time. And when I don't, they hurt me, hurt me a lot.... So quit whining, remember how lucky you are, and move on!"
"But they raped me, Steve, used me for sex....."
"Grow up, Rob! You had a few guys' dicks up your ass.
It's no big deal: sure it hurts. And you feel violated. But once it's over, it's over. It's time to move on, Rob - get on with your life, and stop dwelling in the past. What's done is done. It's over. Move on."
End Of Part Twelve