THE SLAVE REVOLT
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Fifteen
They always say that a whipping changes a man, alters him irrevocably. And now I can attest to that personally.
As the guards led me out of the luxurious drawing room with the flowers, the antique furniture, and that special smell of lavender-scented polish that appears natural in such elegant surroundings, I knew I was in real trouble. It all seemed so unreal - the calm, quiet elegance of the room I had been in with the father and son in their casually elegant clothes standing there debating my future as if it was a matter of little importance, and me totally naked, sweat pouring off me as I futilely attempted to "have my say" in this whole thing. But perhaps that was the problem - after all my time as a "free" man looking after Rob on the road, I had got used to the idea of speaking my mind, acting for myself, planning and plotting to get food, to evade the rebels and to stay alive; and now those attitudes meant that I thought I had a right to argue with my owner, to "put him straight" on the facts. I suppose I saw how futile such an idea was - he had all the power, and I had nothing. It was like some strange nightmare, when I knew something dreadful was going to happen, and yet I was rushing headlong into it, powerless to prevent it.
There was nothing I could do about it physically: I was cuffed and gagged and naked, and the guards had their prods out and I knew that a mere touch of them on my skin would be sufficient to knock me to the floor. So, with their hands gripping my biceps and their fingers digging into my hard muscle, I had to allow them to lead me out of the mansion and around to the courtyard at the back. Evidently the news of my whipping had spread, as all the household slaves were lined up to watch - they were subdued and made no noise, but I suspected that they were all wanting to see the spectacle of my back being shredded, were all eager to see if big, tough Steve cried out as the whipmaster did his terrible work. Still, at least there was no chance of me making a spectacle of myself in one way, I thought: with my bowels empty and my mouth gagged, I might at least retain some shred of human dignity. I suppose I'd noticed the whipping frame as I went about my normal duties - it was always there in the courtyard as a reminder to us of our owner's ultimate power, but it had never been used in all my time there: generally our owner was fairly benevolent, and the regular punishments of withholding food, or of caning and tawsing, were generally considered sufficient to keep all of us in line. It was probably different in the field coffles where the supervisors were considered harsher, and it wasn't unusual to see some of the niggas coming back from the fields with blood streaming from them. But our owner generally considered that this was undesirable for slaves who were to clean the house, or serve his food, or, like me, to act more as a "training partner".
Today's event was serious, though, as evidenced by the fact that they'd imported a whipmaster - at least I assume they had, as I hadn't seen the guy around the place before. And it was unlikely that unless he made a lot of use of it, that anyone would bother to have a costume like his: a leather pouch covering his genitals, and he was otherwise naked except for a harness around his chest and belly, cinched tight to emphasise the power of his musculature. His thigh- high boots added to the effect, stopping just short of his muscular butt and they gleamed in the evening sun - it's silly, I know, but I couldn't help wondering if he kept a personal slave just to keep them and the uniform in tiptop condition. I assumed that the whip he was holding was his own, too, brought out for occasions such as this. It was no light, thin "punishment" whip: no, it was designed to do serious damage to the flesh of the slave. As he tapped the thick, heavy leather-covered handle of it in one hand, you could just tell that the whip was heavy and solid, and from the end of the handle the braided leather strand tapered away to a very thin tip, at least two metres away! I could imagine that the sheer weight of the leather in the whip when it was moving at high velocity (as presumably this guy could make it do) would in itself hurt as it struck me, let alone the damage that it would then do to my flesh.
The guards led me over to him and he stood there for a moment, then put the whip down, and came over and started to "appraise" me. His big, beefy hands went all over my pecs and my belly, and then he cupped my balls in his hand, felt them and separated them with his thumb, and stroked my dick a little so that I erected. I shook my head in vigorous protest as he did this - I mean, after all he didn't need to, did he? He had no need to know what I looked like with an erection when he was going to whip my back. I suppose he was just intent on further humiliating me in front of the watching crowd.
Then he told the guards to undo my cuffs as he wanted to examine my back properly. But as he did so he looked directly into my eyes and said quietly "Boy, behave, now - no more of that protesting! Nothing can save you from the whipping I'm going to give you, but it can make a big difference to you in how I do it. If I allow the tip of the whip to curl around your belly and catch those pubes of yours, even though they're neatly trimmed, it will tear them out by the roots. And if you think the pain that will be coming from your back is terrible, you don't want the additional problems. So you stand still and co-operate quietly now, and save yourself a whole lot of further agony. Or, of course, I can just have you prodded senseless and then I can examine you.... It's your choice, boy. So, are you going to be good?"
I nodded. I mean what was the point of resisting now?
I stood there in the sunshine as he ran his big hands down from my shoulders, this fingers probing at my musculature as his calloused fingers explored my back.
I heard him mutter "Nice, very nice, no fat at all" as he almost caressed my hips, and then he went on down to try to dig his fingers into the hard, tough muscles of my butt. He left me standing there then and strode over to my owner, the tops of his boots almost digging into his butt as he did so, and I heard him ask "An excellent slave, if I may say so, sir. It seems almost a pity to destroy such perfection. But he's sound, and I can flay him easily and still keep him alive. Are you certain though that you only want the back whipped? A butt like that is crying out for the kiss of the whip, and carrying on the pattern of lash marks down his thighs....."
"Dad", I heard Rob cry "Only Steve's back! I want his butt left. And he's got to be able to run, so don't let him damage Steve's thighs."
Well, it was something, I suppose. Rob had been precious little use to me up until now!
The whipmaster strode back, put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me forward into the whipping frame. He seemed to know what he was doing as he expertly strapped my wrists and ankles into the restraints, exerting just enough tension on them so I was spread-eagled in a big "X", but not so much that I was in any actual discomfort from it. Then, to my utter surprise, he fumbled with the gag that had prevented me from speaking, and pulled it out of my mouth.
"You need to be able to scream", he told me. "I don't allow owners to have slaves being whipped totally silenced, as it's too cruel: the slave needs to be able to howl to the world, to have some outlet for his terror, some small relief from his torture. And, of course, it's a valuable lesson to the other slaves: few who hear your cries of anguish will lightly risk the displeasure of their owner in future.
I stood there then, and a deathly silence fell on the crowd. I've never felt so totally alone in my entire life. I saw out of the corner of my eye the whipmaster uncoiling his whip and giving several small experimental "flicks" of on the ground. And then it began.
ROB WRITES......
Steve's narrative finishes at this point. When I found it, some years later, I asked him why he stopped there and all he could say was "You don't want to be reminded of a whipping - ever", and refused to discuss it with me further, even in those intimate moments when we had just had sex and were lying laughing quietly together, our bodies soaked in the sweat of our mutual exertions. Even though I was his owner I knew by now that it was pointless arguing with him on some point like this - I couldn't make him speak, and it would only lessen my authority when whatever punishments I meted out to him proved futile.
For the sake of the boys, though, I thought it important to add my own account of those terrible times immediately after the Revolt, when it was far from certain that our society would survive: the next generations deserve to know more of the background of the decisions that men like my father and I took then, decisions that have shaped our society and given us the unparalleled prosperity and harmony that we now enjoy.
So I will take up Steve' tale, and even after all these years, I can still conjure up in my mind's eye that scene - the house, looking very much as it still does, the domestic slaves all lined up, and now all fallen strangely silent, and Steve's magnificent body spread-eagled on the frame. As my focus sharpens I can see the droplets of sweat already forming on his body and joining into small rivulets that began to run, starting in his pits, but soon covering his back and belly, too.
There was the hiss of the whip as the expert sent it careering through the air and then the terrible, howling shriek from Steve as he was unable to control his body. I almost threw up as I saw the red line form across Steve's shoulders and the blood start to flow, but dad gripped my arm and whispered "Hold firm, Rob: don't let the slaves see that you are weak".
On and on it went, and I'm sure I could see little gobbets of Steve's flesh flying high into the air as the whip tore them out from the bloody mass that his back became: initially it was quite artistic, I suppose, with the lines of the whip forming neat parallel rows down Steve's back. But one they reached the base of his spine at the start of his ass, the whipmaster went back to the top and began to "fill in" the cracks!
Finally, I could bear it no longer and said to dad "Stop it now, please - Steve's learned his lesson, I'm sure."
But dad shook his head, and allowed the carnage to continue for what seemed like hours, but which was probably only five more minutes. Then he raised his hand, and the whipmaster stopped, and all we could hear was the terrible, continuous pining coming from Steve as he hung there, blood trickling down his legs.
Dad wouldn't allow me to go to Steve immediately, putting his arm protectively around my shoulders to lead me back into the house. Once in his study he said calmly "I know you wanted to go to help Steve, but we must remember the rest of the slaves: this wasn't just punishment for Steve, it was an object lesson for them all, too, in what they can expect if they incur my displeasure. Had you gone up to comfort him, it would have spoiled the effect. As it is, the slaves all know that Steve was especially favoured, first by me who used him almost as if he was a free man when he was my personal trainer, and then by you who had a 'special relationship' with him after the Revolt. So the fact that we are prepared to have him flayed like that will have a particular resonance for them, and I do not want to spoil it."
"But dad....", I began.
"No, Rob. No 'buts'! We will leave Steve hanging there until the morning so that all may observe him as they go about their duties, and his pitiful wailing will keep them awake tonight. All the slaves need reminding of the fate that awaits those who are not totally obedient, and there will probably be another benefit, too: it will perhaps draw a line under the atrocities that happened during the Revolt, signalling that as an owner I am now totally in control in a way that I was perhaps reluctant to be before. They should understand that the rules have changed: from now on, a slave, any slave, regardless of how favoured he might think he is, is not exempt from the risk of the most terrible punishments. In fact, I think tomorrow morning, to emphasise the point, we will have Steve taken down and publicly gelded - that will give all the males something to think about!."
Well, I really argued with dad then. I mean, what use would Steve be to me if he were to be gelded? I wanted him in bed with me, and it just wouldn't feel right if I couldn't play with those lovely low-hangers of his. I managed to persuade dad to back off that, but there was no way that I could get him to rescind his orders that Steve was to be left there all night - and I don't know about the slaves, but Steve's keening certainly made it hard for me to get to sleep (Although by about three in the morning he'd stopped).
In the morning from my window I could see him still strapped onto the whipping frame, and I wanted to rush down and make sure he was all right, but as I went along the corridor my father came out of his bedroom and shook his head at me, to indicate that he knew what I wanted to do, and that I was forbidden.
The whipmaster had recommended to dad that when Steve was cut down in the morning his punishment should continue "to bring home to him" that his owner still had further power over him even after the whipping, and so I was still not allowed to make contact with Steve. Instead, under the strict control of two guards, four of the big labourer slaves were on hand as Steve was released from the frame, to carry him over to the cells - he was totally unable to walk.
They almost threw him into one of the tiny "kennels" that are usually reserved for slaves who need a sharp reminder of their position - you know, totally bare concrete, only about four feet high so that the slave can't stand and has to lie there on the hard, bare floor. I looked in at him later in the day and I don't think it mattered - he was unable to stand anyway because of the pain he was evidently in. He was kind of curled into the foetal position, his hands cupping his cock and balls between his thighs, and he looked the very picture of misery.
Dad insisted he stay in there for four days, totally without food (although he was of course allowed water), and when he was finally allowed out he was in a wretched state: his weals and scars were still weeping, he could not stand properly, he was dreadfully weak, and of course his humiliation was completed as he stank of his own urine and faeces, as the "kennels" have no provision for long periods of incarceration. He stood in front of dad and me, totally humbled and broken, and it was only dad's arm around my shoulders that prevented me from rushing over to comfort him (Something dad had strictly forbidden me to do, telling me that I must remain totally silent and unresponsive).
"This is what all slaves who are not completely loyal to their owners can in future expect", dad said aloud, knowing that a lot of slaves going about their normal business would hear, and relay it to everyone else. "You were in a privileged position, Steve, and now look at you - a miserable, snivelling wretch with a flayed body, covered in your own excrement. Let this be a lesson to you - be disloyal to me in any respect in future, and my punishment will be swift and terrible."
Without giving Steve a chance to say anything, dad snapped "Get this slave cleaned up. Give him some food, and put him in a normal cell for a few days until his back heals and he can resume work: he still owes me the duty of his labour, and I will take it", and with that, dad and I walked out.
Back in the house dad told me that he thought it best for Steve to be coffled with the agricultural niggers in one of the hard labour gangs who toiled around the place, as seeing a "favoured" whitey reduced to the status of a coffled nigga would be a further constant reminder to everyone else that dad was totally in control. But I begged and pleaded with him, reminding him that although Steve had been personally disloyal to him on our return, he had nevertheless saved my life, and that dad had anyway "given" Steve to me and it was really time for dad to make good on that.
"Nonsense!", dad said in reply. "You'll be going off to Boston to college soon as you know I'm paying a fortune for you to get the very best education, and they don't allow personal slaves."
Well, however much I disliked it, I did have to tackle dad now and make my own views felt. I simply refused to go to college, and at first dad was furious and told me that I certainly would, or he'd cut me off without a cent! But I stood my ground, and over the next two hours of furious shouting and argument, we did come to an agreement and we worked out the basis of the plans that made us even more wealthy that we already were - indeed, as some of you may know, I now command the largest personal fortune in the country.
Dad had been thinking about the future anyway, and could see that the world resource crisis was not going to get better, ever. Over time the only reliable source of power that was readily transportable, flexible, and inexpensive, was likely to be slaves. But after the Revolt, there was bound to be a reaction in society to their use unless they were tightly controlled and continually monitored. Dad had another plan, though, and when he saw that I was not interested in going off to college, it was agreed that he would continue to work mostly in New York, continuing to work to finance our great project. I would remain on our demesne, and be in day to day charge of the operations.
So that's how it all started: because of dad's financial acumen and his access to investment funds, we were able to begin the construction of the breeding sheds and nurseries to raise at first hundreds, and latterly of course thousands, of slaves, and to stand the cost of bringing the first "crops" to maturity: not many people could afford to make this sixteen year investment, but we could.
Those of you who own and employ our bred slaves probably have little understanding of how scientific it really is: we have the brood mares who are selected for their wide hips and general ability to give birth without trouble, and for every five hundred, a stud specially selected for his size and strength. On our farms the studs cover five mares a day - theoretically, of course, they could do more, but our long-term statistical controls suggest that the rate of conception falls off and it is more practical to stay with this ratio. The mares are only made available for studding when they are at the peak of their reproductive cycle in the month, and are covered several times to make sure conception is achieved. Regrettably we then often waste three months before we can determine the sex of the pup and abort the unwanted females, after a further three months our advanced testing detects and aborts those with major inherited disorders (and we can track the mares and studs to ensure it doesn't happen again!), and nine months later we have strong, healthy male pups.
We've found it better to keep the pups with the mares for a year and breast feed them (whilst the mare is studded again and bringing the next pup along), but after that they are raised communally in the stock sheds, generally being kept with two hundred or so of their cohort group as they age. From four years old they start to do simple tasks such as sorting the harvested fruit crops and looking for damaged specimens, by eight they're out in the fields planting, hoeing and picking, and at sixteen they join the coffles they'll live in for the rest of their lives, or go off to auction.
They are of course never taught to read or write. And they receive absolutely no information at all about the society in which we live: no newspapers, books, radios, TVs, nothing like that: their world is the demesne on which they have been born and raised and work, and they have no conception that this is but one small part of a vast country, which is itself on our planet. They are thus incapable of ever taking part in another Revolt as they absolutely lack the mental referents to make such a thing possible: they are born as slaves, they know that slaves work and "men" supervise them, and that's that. It is usually accepted that the Revolt was caused by disaffected slaves - generally, those enslaved for criminal activities or debt or whatever - and this can now no longer happen. Even if such a "created" slave mixes with our bred stock, they simply do not understand the concepts he might be trying to get over to them!
Those early years were hectic, though, getting all this set up, and ensuring that we were at the forefront of this revolution in slavedom - and, of course, as the inventors of the system we had a huge time advantage over our competitors who came late to the scene: our bred slaves came to the market at least eight years before those of our nearest competitor, and in those eight years we managed to make so much money, and establish such a reputation, that we were able to buy out all other comers. I am now the largest - no, say "only" - breeder of quality bred slaves in the country, and will of course always remain so as no one can now enter the market without the sixteen year delay before new stock can be brought forward for sale. Some years ago we paid a fortune to bribe senators to throw out a bill that would lower the age at which a slave could first be sold to ten, and this was some of the best money we ever spent as it has helped us to retain our monopoly position - and thus the ability to set the prices for our stock.
But all of this is fairly well known and my book "The Breeding Of The New Society" tells more of our Corporation and it s history. Personally, of course, there is another story to tell.
When Steve eventually stood in front of me he was still a wreck - he had a tiny loin cloth just covering his genitals and was otherwise naked as the guards led him in. I dismissed them as I knew I had nothing to fear from Steve, and he stood in front of me, head bowed, and somehow strangely silent. Finally I went and ran my hand over his back - there were still some scabs clinging to the deeper wounds, and of course the hard ridges of the scarring that were to remain with him all his life could be felt. He flinched as I touched him, and I muttered "Still painful?"
"What the fuck do you think?", he snapped back.
Well, I couldn't have that, could I? Steve did need to remember that he was a slave and I was his owner, and so I said calmly and evenly "Look, Steve, you're fucking lucky, you know that? You may think you had it bad, but at least it was only a flaying from the whipmaster...."
"Only?", he exploded. "Only a flaying?...."
"...Yes, Steve. My father was going to have you gelded as well, as an object lesson to the other slaves. I saved you from that, so I reckon we're about even, right? You saved my life during the Revolt, and I saved your balls so you're still a man."
"Fuck you, Rob....."
"Steve, let's be clear about one thing. I'll always be grateful to you. But I can't have you talking like that to me, or of showing inappropriate behaviour. You're a slave - my slave - and dad and I have ambitious plans for the future, and I can't have those plans jeopardised by others seeing that I tolerate behaviour that is not properly slave-like. So you'd better learn to behave...."
"...or?", he almost snarled.
"Or, Steve, it will be me calling in the whipmaster the next time! Or maybe I should just have postponed that gelding, rather than had it cancelled!"
Well, that shut him up, at least. I don't know if I ever could have done that, if he could ever have provoked me enough to make me carry out those threats, but I managed to make it sound convincing and he seems to have believed me. But to show him that nothing had changed really, I then led him up my private staircase to the bedroom, pushed him onto the bed (he flinched as his back hit it), and then stood there and as he watched, I stripped off my clothes.
I can still remember that epic bout of sex that marked the start of our new life together - and, you know, all the years after that we never really worked out who was in control when we were having sex - sometimes Steve fucked me, and sometimes I fucked Steve, but who was making the running? Certainly I could never have physically overpowered Steve and made him take my dick up his ass - he was always much bigger and fitter than me (especially in the later years as he continued to work out, whilst the pressures of the business kept me tied to a desk, getting flabby!). And when he chose to fuck me I know I acquiesced, as there was always the "panic button" to hand and in an instant guards would have been dragging him away. We were such different men, from such different backgrounds, that it was never clear who was really in control, and so I suppose it doesn't matter.
All I do know is that, over the years, however frustrated, tired, or upset I was as I struggled to control our sprawling business empire (especially after dad's death), the moment Steve and I were naked in bed together it was easy to push aside the cares of the world for a few hours as our bodies responded to each other and the animal pleasures of two men who are physically and emotionally close took over.
Thinking about it now I can see some of the milestones of those early years: the establishment of our business, that I have outlined above, and then the struggle with dad as he insisted that I marry as he wanted me to have grandchildren and heirs! I really didn't want that at all, as the thought of breeding with a woman repulsed me - how ever much I watched the studs and mares in our breeding sheds, I could never see myself in that position. But at that time dad still held all the purse strings and all the power, and so I didn't have much choice, did I?
I made a plan, though. I decided that if I was going to have sons, they should grow up from the word go with service, respect and love from a loyal and trustworthy slave, as I was now experiencing from Steve. My sons deserved the best, and they should have that from the first moment. I was planning a trip to Atlanta to begin negotiating for some additional parcels of land to add to or demesne, and told Steve to accompany me. He liked these occasional trips away, and I allowed him to dress casually for them, as if he was more of a friend and companion (which of course he was), than a slave: typically, tight jeans very low slung below the hips, and a skinny T whose hem did not quite meet the belt line of the jeans, so a delicious strip of his bronzed muscle was revealed (and the hint of his trimmed pubes quite often - the jeans were that low slung!). I'm not sure he really liked the attention that all this brought him, but, as I kept explaining to him, what was the point of me owning such a magnificent specimen as him if I couldn't make other men jealous of my good fortune? I mean, in years gone by I'd have turned up in some hugely expensive foreign sports car to display my wealth, and Steve was only performing the equivalent of this display of my good fortune.
Anyway, after I had finished one of my meetings (Steve sat quietly in the corner during them - I found his presence could distract some of the men with whom I was negotiating, with highly beneficial outcomes for me), we were strolling back to the hotel when we went past Scabbard and Drass, possibly the most prestigious dealers in the South. I went in, and Steve followed, looking very puzzled.
A salesman at once saw I was a potential purchaser - my expensive clothes and commanding air clearly stated that I was the sort of man who could afford to shop in Scabbard and Drass - and came up and bowed obsequiously. "You are of course looking for a slave for yourself, sir?", he began.
"No, not at all. My slave here....", I gestured at Steve, and before I could continue the salesman cut in
"Quite, sir. A magnificent specimen, if I may say so. It's so rare to see a mature whitey in such excellent condition. But our tastes can change, can't they, sir? And we will of course be delighted to take him in part exchange against your purchases." Without faltering, he turned to Steve and in a different tone of voice entirely snapped "Boy, get naked, so I can appraise you properly."
A look of pure terror shot across Steve's face, and for a moment I thought it was quite amusing to let him continue to think that I'd brought him there to sell him. So I stayed silent as the salesman rapped "Get those fucking clothes off, boy, now! Or do you want me to call the guards to prod you?"
Slowly, and reluctantly, very reluctantly, as if he couldn't believe it was happening to him, Steve grabbed the hem of his T in his big hands and pulled it up over his body and his head - as he did so of course his muscles rippled for our pleasure, and I couldn't help seeing that his nipples were erect as if he was somehow stimulated by being forced to perform this act for us. He stood there then, looking at me pleadingly as he began to fumble with the buckle on his belt. But before anything else could happen, the salesman spoke again. "I'm sorry, sir....", he said to me in a low voice. "But we couldn't possibly take this slave in part exchange.... his back....."
"It's of no consequence....."
Again the salesman cut in "Of course it doesn't spoil the look of him from the front, sir. But scars like that tell of such a severe whipping that it implies a very disobedient or unruly slave.... Our more discerning patrons, even those who enjoy a 'bit of rough', simply will not buy a slave with such a history...."
"I was going to say", I interrupted, "That it's of no consequence as I have no intention of trading-in the slave: personally I find that now he understands the consequences of annoying his owner, he is more than adequately attentive to my every need, and if he ever needs reminding of it, I only have to run my hands over his back. But before you interrupted me I was about to tell you that I am not here to sell, but to buy: I want a bitch, about seventeen years old, a virgin."
"Ah, sir, when I saw you with that stud I thought for a moment you favoured taking your pleasure with men. But we have a selection of nigga bitches who might please a man of your evident fashion...."
"I don't want a pure-bred nigga. I was thinking of a whitey...."
"Oh sir, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there simply aren't any seventeen year old virgin whitey bitches to be had, irrespective of price. We haven't even had any young whitey bitches through here for many years. If that truly is your requirement, I can only suggest you attend one of the federal auctions where young delinquents are sold off after their enslavement - but then I suspect it will be hard, if not impossible, to find a virgin.... Delinquents usually start early, experimenting with sex...."
I could see that he was probably right, and so I said "Very well. But what do you have? Show me some octoroons, or even quadroons. But I insist on a virgin - the age does not matter all that much - sixteen to twenty would do. But she must be large-framed, as she will be giving birth. And I do not like very pronounced nigga features."
The salesman nodded, and clearly understood that I had very definite requirements and that it would be no use even attempting to show me other stock. He gestured politely and said "If sir would like to come to one of our viewing rooms and take a seat, a slave will bring you refreshment and I will go to the stock pens and select some specimens for your pleasure."
I went to follow him, and he continued "...and perhaps you could ask your slave to wait in the street?"
"No. He is my personal slave, and he accompanies me everywhere! And I will need his advice on the purchase I propose to make."
"It's highly unusual, sir. We usually ask owners to keep their personal slaves outside as we find that the slaves can be unsettled at the thought of others, just like themselves, being offered openly for sale...."
"My slave is properly controlled and disciplined, as I have explained. There is nothing to be concerned about. Now, please take me and show me the available stock, before I decide that my time could be better spent with one of your competitors."
I was led into one of the private show rooms - the salesman having correctly determined that for the kind of stock I was looking for a considerable spend was involved and that therefore it was worth paying some attention to me - and was seated in a comfortable chair very close to a small viewing "stage" on which I assumed the stock would be positioned. There was no seat for Steve, so he stood behind my chair, and although I could not directly see him I could sense the tension in his body, smell the intoxicating scent of his sweat which had broken out in a glistening sheen over his taut muscles, and could hear his breathing, shallower and quicker than was normal for him when he had not been labouring hard. Evidently the thought of being in a slave dealership had affected him, as the salesman had suggested it might.
A young slave came in to offer me a drink, compliments of the house, and evidently he had been selected t o inflame the senses of potential clients and make them more receptive to acquiring a new slave for themselves: he can't have been more than sixteen, but he was pleasingly well muscled and the skimpy tunic revealed just enough of his body to suggest that there were many delights concealed there - I didn't bother to resist the temptation, and as he was speaking to me I slid my hand up his firm thigh (pleasingly covered in silky blond hair) to feel the tension in his rounded butt. He instinctively wanted to move away from my grasp, but his training held as after a small movement he stood there as I felt him, and barely made any perceptible motion as I slid my hand between his thighs to cup his balls and toy with his dick. As I was doing this I could almost palpably feel Steve's disapproval, but examining the boy like this certainly did put me in a better mood for purchasing.
The salesman only had four bitches for me to see, and two of them were immediately less than satisfactory and I ordered them to be taken off the stage (although one was a quadroon and the other an octoroon, both had features which too clearly spoke to their nigga ancestry, and I prefer slaves around me in the domestic setting who have more of a traditional European look).
I'm no real judge of female slaves - they interest me so little that I've never really understood their finer points and what makes a "good" one and what turns that into "highly desirable". It seemed to me that Steve was keenly interested, though, especially when the salesman ordered the two remaining slaves to first remove their tunics, so that their breasts were visible to us, and then, taking my seeming indifference as some sort of encouragement, to remove the small g-strings that were concealing their sex from us. Once again, the whole thing left me uncertain - I really could not judge which was the best. It occurred to me that they should be commanded to turn around, bend over, and pull their buttocks apart so I could see their ass holes, as I would do when buying a male, as it would perhaps be interesting to consider this aspect of them in case I ever did want to experiment with taking a woman for sex. But then it struck me that one was older than the other - in her mid twenties, perhaps, rather than in her late teens.
It seemed to me that I'd get more years of usage out of the younger one, and having ascertained that they were the same price, clearly the cost of ownership per year for her would be lower. So, other things considered, this was to be the one. But it was sensible to check, so I said casually "Steve, you're the expert when it comes to women. I'm thinking of buying the younger one - pop up there on the stage and inspect her for me, will you?"
"Sir, this is most irregular...", the salesman began, and I countered "I assume I can handle the goods before purchase? And I am merely exercising that natural requirement through my slave instead of doing it personally."
Steve looked a bit embarrassed as he climbed onto the tiny stage, and then very, very hesitantly began to run his hands over the young girl's body. Mind you, he seemed to be a natural at it, and I almost felt jealous: once he cupped one of his breasts in his big hands it seemed to be so natural for him to caress and fondle them, and allow her nipples to grow hard in his palm. Finally, he stood there, an almost inane grin on his face and I could clearly see his dick was violently erect, judging by the very prominent bulge in his jeans.
"Is she OK, Steve?" I asked
He grinned. "Yes, sir!"
"Well test her virginity, will you? I asked them to provide virgins, and I don't want to be sold used goods."
He looked at me almost desperately, and muttered "Sir, please, don't....." It seemed stupid to me that he found it OK, even stimulating, to fondle her body, and yet was squeamish about toying with her sex.
"Come on, Steve! You're always telling me how experienced you are with women. It's simple enough, isn't it? Get those fingers of yours in there...."
"Sir, please, no... It's not right, a young girl like this..... And in public....."
"I'm not public, Steve! I'm your owner, remember? And she's a slave I'm thinking of buying. Now, do as I say."
Very reluctantly it seemed to me, Steve crouched down so that his face was close to the girls belly. He was looking up at her, trying to give her reassuring looks as he wrapped one of his arms around her well-rounded ass to steady her, then slowly, shyly, almost, began to insert a finger into her. She whimpered slightly and wriggled around a bit, but she seemed to find Steve's hold on her, and his innate gentleness, somewhat reassuring. He continued to probe at her, then took his fingers out, stood up in one smooth gesture, and as a lot of men do, almost instinctively sniffed at his fingers.
"Well?", I demanded.
"I reckon so, sir. I don't think any man has used her."
"Well, I suppose you'd know...." I turned to the salesman and began to negotiate on price. I didn't get very far, as he could see that I clearly wanted the bitch. And of course he'd heard Steve give me the reassurances I was seeking about her general condition and her virginity, so I hadn't got much negotiation space, had I? Nevertheless we concluded a satisfactory bargain, I handed over my credit card, and the bitch was mine.
We took her back to the demesne in the car with us - the dealership did offer a delivery service (at additional charge), but I was keen to progress my plan and it was not sensible to waste additional days. When we stopped for refreshments on the way, Steve of course could not join me in the free men's restaurant, and so I gave him a few new dollars and told him to get himself something, and to take good care of the bitch, in the slave section. Afterwards, I noted as we drove off that they seemed to be a little more relaxed together, and until I ordered her to be silent, she was occasionally even trying to talk to Steve as he chauffeured me.
End Of Part Fifteen