Willing Slave

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 3

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

It was fascinating to see the countryside, albeit from low down near the road, and I could hardly take my eyes off the landscape at the side of the Interstate as we rolled along. There wasn't much other traffic, of course, except for the long road trains of trucks and trailers carrying bulk goods, as the extraordinary costs had long ago driven most other vehicles off the roads.

Chet didn't seem at all interested, though, and lay sprawled there and soon drifted off into a sleep. As he dozed, I watched with fascination as the front of his shorts tented upwards - he must be like me, I thought: whenever I was on a bus I started to get an erection, and my own cock was pushing forcefully against the thin material that was constraining it.

It got hotter and hotter in our little compartment, and I started to run with sweat. Chet continued to doze, and I could see the little rivulets of water start to run across his handsome body, too. As I watched, he started to wake, and sit upright. He scratched at his right pit in a casual, relaxed sort of way that only a guy supremely confident in his body can do in front of another man. He rubbed at his shorts, looked across at me, and grinned. "So we've both got bus rider's knob!", he said, smiling.

"Bus rider's knob?"

"Yes - your knob - an old word for your dick. Gets affected by bus riding, like mine does. Mind if I do something about it?"

I shook my head, wondering what he meant.

Chet wriggled in his seat, and pulled off his shorts, easing his ass up off the bench to slide them over his thighs, and casually kicking them over his naked feet.

His cock was in proportion to the rest of him - big and solid - and jutted out in full erection from a neatly trimmed pubic patch. He had been 'skinned, and there was a drop of something - pre-cum? - peeping out of his piss slit. I just sat there and stared in astonishment - of course I'd seen other guys naked before, but never a really fully mature, big, strong virile man like this.

He stroked idly at his dick for a moment, then went on "That's better. It's so fucking hot in these places - you'd think they could bleed a bit of cool air down to us, wouldn't you, in spite of all the pious stuff about saving energy? You look as if you've got the same problems as me - why don't you do something about it, too?"

I shook my head. It's not so much that I'd have minded losing my shorts, as after all I'd been naked at the slave centre, but that I didn't want him to see me with an erection.

"Suit yourself. Is this your first trip? Just taken from home, and being sent off to a training place somewhere?"

I nodded again.

"So where are you going?"

"They say it's a ranch, near a place called Buffalo, in Wyoming. I'm going to be trained as a pony."

"You're lucky - there are some good pony training places out there in the West. And it's a good life for a slave, if you've got to be a slave! Lots of fresh air, a bit of variety as you're not stuck on the same plantation or in the same plant all day, and not much chance of serious injury. I've met a fair few pony slaves in my time, and provided they have good owners, they all seemed to like the life."

"Where are you off to, Chet?"

"Oh, Las Vegas, I think - I didn't really listen. It's all much the same to me. They'll route me through the system and I'll end up where I'm supposed to."

"So you travel a lot then? I thought slaves didn't travel much."

"They don't, normally. Once you're a trained pony and you've been sold to your owner, I don't suppose you'll ever travel more than ten or fifteen miles from his estate again. It's just too expensive to ship slaves around the place - you get them to where they're going to be used, and there they stay, in general. I always pity the slaves who end up working in industrial plants - they don't even see the other side of the town, usually, as they work, eat and sleep all in the confines of the one building."

"But you travel - does your owner like you so much he wants you to accompany him everywhere?" I grinned a bit as I said this, as you did hear stories of masters becoming so attached to slaves that they wanted them around all the time. "Is he 'upstairs'?"

"Not fucking likely! My owner just sits in New York, and has me shipped all over the country - I don't think I've spent more than three nights in the same place for over five years. The inside of these buses, the inside of bus stations and transfer accommodation, and the occasional couple of days at a transitory slave camp, that's all I ever get. I know slaves don't have the right to expect 'homes', but every guy likes a little spot to call his own, doesn't he, even if it's only the same cot in a slave barracks? All I've got is the clothes they've given me today...."

"So what do you do?"

"I'm a fighter. My owner hires me out to fight. Well, wrestle, actually."

"You're a wrestler, like I've seen on TV?"

"No - not like you'd have seen on TV. That's all fake, harking back to the old days when it was the tradition for TV wrestlers to ham it up and pretend to fight. They still don't show proper wrestling, the kind slaves do, on TV. You have to go along and watch. And that's why I'm shipped all around the country constantly - I'm pretty good at it, and my owner keeps arranging fights in all the big centres - New York, Boston, Miami, Las Vegas, Phoenix, LA - it has to be in a pretty big city so there's a big enough local crowd that can get along."

"How long have you been doing that?"

"Four years, now. I was enslaved at 16, just as you have been. I worked on a plantation in the South then until I was twenty - the usual stuff on an agricultural holding: planting, hoeing, weeding, picking - all pretty hard work, but not exceptional. As you can see, though, I've got a pretty good body, and on one of his regular reviews of his slaves my owner decided that he could sell me at a good profit to one of the road gangs. That was fucking tough, I'll tell you - all these Interstates have to be maintained, and it's all gangs of slaves who do it. Lots of work with picks and shovels, really tough, and in all weathers. Slaves on those gangs don't last long, and I thought I'd be worn out by the time I was thirty."

"The overseer on our gang was a right bastard, too - very keen on the whip for the slightest sign of not working hard enough. And he liked to keep us short of food - he'd deliberately hold back one of the ration packs some days, and toss the rest into a heap for us all to scrap for. One of the slaves in my gang was an evil fucker who, because of his sheer size, could grab quite a lot of what was going. He didn't care that it made the rest of us even shorter of food and even more hungry. And one day, when I saw him grabbing two packs, I went for him - I just lost it, and waded in and attacked him."

"He almost beat me to a pulp, but I hung in and managed to do some damage to him. I was lucky - one of these buses was held up at our roadworks, and my current owner happened to look out of the window and saw what happened. He slipped the driver a few bucks and got out, and arranged with my overseer to have my details - and phoned my owner later that day and bought me. If he hadn't been there and seen me fight, well.... You know... The penalty for one slave attacking another...."

"No... What do they do?"

"Well, the overseer would have reported me to the owner, and he would probably have decided I needed calming down. And there's a simple way of calming a slave - you take one of his testicles out, or, often, both! But, anyway, here I am. I shouldn't complain, I suppose - I've been fighting for just over ten years, and I'm still alive at thirty two, and thriving on it, I think."

"So other than the travel, and having no place to call your 'own', it's a pretty good life?"

"Well, I suppose so. I meet a great lot of other guys. I get to use my body. I get to fuck a lot. And my owner takes real good care of me - I suppose I'm really valuable as he could sell me for a very high price with my record, and so I get the best medical attention and so on. And when I am at a fight city for a couple of days, I get to use proper gyms, swim a bit, all that sort of stuff."

"Your owner lets you fuck....?" I was almost incredulous. Who did a slave fuck?

"Well, it's more part of the job, as you might say. The kind of wrestling I do is called 'fight to the fuck'. We fight totally naked, of course, and you have to subdue your opponent so thoroughly that you can fuck him. There's a very big following, as a lot of free men like to see two completely naked good looking bucks wrestling around until one gets force fucked. They pay a lot to see us, and that's s reflected in the prize money my owner gets when I win.

And, of course, well.... You know.... Some men like to...."

He tailed off, and looked out of the window.

"What, Chet? What else?"

"Well, some of the men in the audience are so turned on by seeing a slave like me fighting to keep a dick out of his ass that they pay to do it. My owner charges a lot, as he wants to keep me 'special', but he'll hire me out to be fucked. Or, of course, to fuck a guy. Usually I have some creep stick his dick up me, and some of them are really turned on by having me 'helpless' - chained up, so I can't avoid it. And the other sort want me to dick their fat, white asses:

they want to fantasise they've got the guts to go against me, and lose, so they get fucked."

"That's awful.... "

"Look, Steve, I don't suppose it will happen to you as a pony slave as most guys are not turned on by having sex with a man they regard as an 'animal'. But there are a lot of men who pay for sack time with handsome slaves, and there are establishments in most towns to cater for their needs. Let's hope you don't ever get sold as a sex slave into a brothel."

He'd become less happy as he talked on, but suddenly his mood brightened.

"Look, Steve, all this stalk of sex - I'm not fighting again for a couple of days, so I can afford to fuck. Why don't you come and squat down over my dick, and...."

"NO! I don't do sex with guys...."

"Have you ever done sex with anyone? When I was growing up, none of the girls would let a guy who was going to be enslaved anywhere near her."

"No, I haven't". I was blushing furiously, even thinking about it.

"So you've not had sex with a woman, and you probably never will. So what's wrong with a little recreational fun with a fellow slave? Most slaves do, you know. And you don't have to take my dick - you can come and dick me, if you want."

"No... Look... I don't know.... It's just that...."

"Hey, no problem! But one day you might remember that you turned down a fuck with the famous Chet - as I said, a lot of free men pay a heap of money to my owner for that."

I got worried as he stood up, but it was to move to the other side of our tiny compartment. There was a hole in the wall, and Chet knelt down and poked his dick through it. I looked at his wide shoulders and muscular back tapering to his narrow waist, and saw his ass muscles flaring as he did something.

He went and sat back, and said "Hey, I really needed a piss. Simple arrangement they have, don't they - just that hole, leading down on to the road!"

I realised that I, too was pretty desperate. I wanted to piss, and I had been wondering what you did. I tried to hang on, but as the bus rolled on, even the smallest bump in the Interstate seemed to cause me pains in my bladder. I could bear it no longer, and moved over to where Chet had knelt.

My shorts had to be pushed right down to get my dick out, as there was no fly or anything, and I felt I could almost feel Chet's eyes looking at my ass as I knelt there, just as I'd looked at his. I massaged my cock and 'skinned myself to get the last few drops clear, and went to pull my shorts back up.

But Chet leaned across the small compartment and pulled me towards him, then pushed my shorts down the rest of the way. We sat close together, both entirely naked.

"Hey, man, let me get my shorts back...."

"Don't be so stupid, Steve! It's so fucking hot in here, and they'll get covered in your sweat. And that dick of yours must have been uncomfortable, straining to get out all the time. Now, isn't it better to be naked?"

I suppose it was, but I was worried about all this talk of fucking. "Now, relax", he went on. I'm not going to fuck you against your will - I'm not so old that I can't remember what it was like to be a young guy in his first full day of slavery, speeding away from home. If you don't want to fuck, you don't have to. And, I suppose, you don't want a bit of mutual dick play either, do you?"

"No, I don't think I do...."

"Well, suit yourself. But a bit of good old fashioned recreational sex is often the only thing us slaves can do to pass the time in the barracks...."

He sort of shrugged as he said this, then, as his hot, sweaty body pressed against mine on the bench, he reached down and started to jerk himself off! It was just as if I wasn't there, as he spat on his hand, then slid it up and down his big, hard shaft. It really didn't take him long until he started to give a little moan, then reached up with his other hand to catch the huge load of cum that shot out from him. The smell of it assailed my nose, and I almost turned away in disgust, especially when he moved his hand to his face and slurped up the creamy white contents of his palm.

"Wow, that's better", he said, completely casually, just as if jerking of in front of another guy was completely normal. "You sure yo don't want relief, too?"

After that I found it difficult to talk to Chet - I wasn't used to sitting next to a big strong mature man, with both of us completely naked except for the yellow "routing tags" that hung around our necks, just as if we were parcels. But we did exchange a few words about this and that, and as we spoke I began to realise how radically different my life now was.

You know I had grown up expecting this, but the reality was so different - I'd been exhibited naked, had to jerk off in front of my new owners and lie there listening to men having sex, then I was being shipped away from everything I knew and loved - my home, my family.... And for the first time I'd heard firsthand from a slave about what at least one slave's life was like. We didn't have any personal slaves at home as mom and dad couldn't afford them, but I had of course seen lots of slave around in the town, pulling delivery trucks, repairing the roads, cleaning our pool... All that sort of stuff. But you were never really encouraged to stop and talk to these guys, and so I suppose I'd never thought about the lives they really led - the kind of life I was now heading for.

I really missed my brothers and my parents, and I could have cried.

Chet was looking at me, and reached around me with his big, strong arm and pulled me towards him.

"Hey, Steve, I know it's tough. No one likes to go away from home for the first time, and however well you think you are prepared for slavery, the first few days are so totally different from anything you could ever have imagined. It hits most guys hard. But you've got to be strong, and you'll come through it - as I said, it sounds to me as if you've struck lucky, being bought by one of the top-class professional training outfits. With luck, you'll have a good life, as I do."

"But you said you hated being fucked..."

"Well, there's good and bad in everything, isn't there? If I hadn't been picked in the lottery, I'd be sitting in some office now - free men don't do manual work any longer, do they? And at thirty two I'd probably have a couple of whiny kids, a wife always going on at me about money, a mortgage and bills to pay, a thick waist, sex once a week if I was lucky.... But look at me: in perfect physical shape, as much sex as I want with other slaves, and absolutely no worries or responsibilities. Sure, I so think about winning and losing the next fight, but I don't rally care - at our level, we're all at about he same standard, so even if I lose I've still got my reputation. In some ways, if you're a slave with a good owner, life can be a whole lot better than if you're a free man. And, you know, there's something about this life where I don't own anything, and where it's my body that's important: I kind of think a man ought to be like this, unfettered, not weighed down by possessions or family or stuff - everything I do is down to me, and I've got no one else to blame if things don't go well. I don't own anything, even my body, but I'm proud of what I can do with it, and proud that other men want to see me. Not many men can say that about themselves."

I suppose I hadn't thought of it like that, but it did make me feel a bit better.

We chatted on about this an that, and Chet told me more about life as a fighter: how the first time he had to strip totally naked and go into a ring with another slave he was terrified. He said that he first time you had to appear in front of a huge number of spectators without even a shred of cloth to cover your tackle it felt terrible - he knew that all the eyes were on his dick, and he hated it. But, he told me, you get used to it, and now he felt nothing at all about doing it - it was just part of his life, and he was proud that other men wanted to look at him, and proud of his magnificent body.

We drifted in and out of small dozes as you do when you're travelling, I suppose, and time seemed to fly by. The "captain" announced that we were approaching Pittsburgh, and Chet got to his feet, stretched luxuriantly, and pulled his shorts and T on. I did the same, and we peered out of the tiny window to see the immaculately manicured lawns of the expensive suburbs passing by.

The bus depot was right in the downtown area, near the river. Chet kind of took me under his wing, and we strode through the mass of disembarking passengers, and slaves hauling luggage, to the offices of USS. Inside, he pushed his routing slip into a slot, and a TV display told him that he had a room in the transit barracks, and that he was to be back at the bus station at 09:00 the following morning. There was a "clunk", and, just like a normal vending machine, a packet of slave chow dropped down underneath, followed by a small parcel, both of which Chet took. He gestured for me to do the same thing, and I too was told to be back there at 09:00, and instructions told me where the slave waiting room was.

"Poor kid!", Chet said. "The transit barracks aren't much, but at least you get a bed to lie on. You've got to spend the night huddled on the benches in the waiting room. Still, you're young, you'll survive."

I could see that I had a packet of slave chow, too, but wondered what was in the other parcel. Chet told me it was a replacement T and shorts - they just gave you "one size fits all" ones when you were in transit, and you were expected to drop the soiled ones into the bin in the USS offices.

I was going to say goodbye, and go off and find the waiting rooms, but Chet pointed out that it was only 6 p.m. and that there were still a few hours of daylight left. He suggested we took a look at the town, and I readily agreed: as I've told you, I didn't get to travel much and this was all new and exciting.

There's nothing special about seeing slaves in the street, so as we walked along passers by didn't particularly notice us, except of course that we had to keep dodging out of their way as they automatically assumed they had the right to use the sidewalk as they wanted. And we couldn't take public transportation, as we had no money. But it was interesting to see the river and the bluffs overlooking it from the other shore, and Chet also took me and showed me the wonderfully preserved Carnegie Library. We sat in the park outside the library and munched our slave chow, and Chet mused on how different life must have been then, with thousands of immigrants being able to afford to travel to the country from Europe, and then to travel around. And how a man like that could make a fortune during his own lifetime, basically from exploiting the country's resources. Chet seemed to think that we were better off now, though - even as slaves we could be assured of a long, healthy life and wouldn't be struck down by diseases, and we certainly wouldn't starve, as many of those immigrants had as they made their way West. "It's a difficult equation to balance, I suppose", he went on. "Then there were one or two men like Carnegie who were fabulously rich, and the mass of the population was basically in poverty. Now almost everyone has a standard of life that's amazing, except for the ten percent of the population who are, like us, slaves. And we don't do too badly as a good owner makes sure we're well fed, and generally looked after."

We walked back to the bus station, and Chet said that he'd spend the night with me, rather than going to the transit barracks.

"Won't they miss you, though?"

"No. You can't get into the barracks unless your pass shows your master has paid for it. But the system isn't designed to monitor and control slaves - if your master allows you to travel around ,you're pretty 'free' to do what you want, as we have been this evening. They know you're going to arrive eventually, as what other choice do you have? I've got no money, no clothes, no home - if I don't follow the itinerary my owner's paid for, I'd soon be starving."

"So all these stories you hear about runaway slaves aren't true? On the TV at home they were always running a story about a slave who had been found...."

"Look, Steve, about a fifth of the male population is slaves, right. So that's a LOT of slaves in the country. But the number of stories you hear about runaways is minute - about one a week at most, right? Think about it - if you're a slave, and you run away, what's going to happen to you? You've got no money, you can't move around the country except on foot, and you don't have any food. No one is going to help you - the penalty for a free man aiding an escaped slave is enslavement himself. So, sooner or later, you have to crawl into a police station and give yourself up. And then the penalty is castration!"

"So no slaves are going to run away", he went on. "It's just too difficult. You can't survive, except as a renegade living like a wild thing up in the mountains, trying to catch animals to eat, and so on. There are some of those, but it's a grim life - periodically the government organises hunts to capture them - it's quite a sport, actually, and it costs a lot of money to take part as the man who brings down one of the 'prey' gets to keep its balls as a trophy. I've been in several sporting clubs, taking part in arranged fights, where the members were all keen hunters, and the walls of the bar were covered in sets of balls mounted in plastic, with the name and date of the hunter who took the 'trophy'."

"So you don't think I should try to escape...?"

"Don't be such an idiot, Steve. Why would you do that? You were selected by the Lottery, and you've always known you were a slave, so why do you ask such as stupid question?"

"Well, I don't know... I'd never thought of it before, living at home and in our town, as everyone always treated me as if I was going to be a slave. But now I've seen how much country there is, I just thought that I could escape, go off and live life like my brothers, have kids...."

"You idiot! Without a citizen number you can't rent an apartment, drive a car, open a bank account, get a job, go to hospital.... Slaves just can't function unless they're owned, except as renegades, and, as I've pointed out, that's a harsh, short life."

We might have carried on with this discussion, but Chet had seen a lot more of life than me and so I really had to accept his word for it. We'd got back to the bus station now, that was almost deserted as night was falling, and we made our way into the room that said on the door "Slave waiting room. Facilities for citizens are on the other side of the main concourse."

There were just plain wooden benches inside, but none of them was occupied. The only other difference immediately apparent was that there was a lavatory in the corner - not shielded, or anything, as it was only intended for slaves, and a tiled area next to it with a shower head over it. Chet told me he was used to this type of place - before he got 'famous' and could command high fees, his master used to economise by always shipping him around the country without accommodation in the slave transit barracks. He showed me how it was more comfortable to try to sleep on my stomach when there's no mattress or anything, and we both lay along opposite benches, and tried to sleep.

Well, I'm just not used to sleeping on a hard wooden bench, and I didn't get much sleep. It was also odd trying to sleep without anything on top of me - after all, even when it's hot, you usually have at least a light sheet, don't you? By about five in the morning I was wide awake, and kind of cold as there was a n Autumnal chill in the air, and Chet stirred, too. He saw me looking at him as his magnificent body lay sprawled there, then, almost like a panther, slid to his feet in one smooth motion, yawned and stretched, and came and sat next to me.

He put his arms around me and pulled me to him - I'd never been this close to another guy before and I could smell his slightly sour masculine odour after his night's sleep. "Here, come close to me", he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "I don't expect you're used to these slave clothes yet - they're pretty thin, and don't really keep you warm. Didn't you wear them around the house?"

"No. Mom and dad let me dress just like my brothers."

"That's really stupid - from about fourteen, I think all the guys who are to be slaves ought to get used to wearing simple Ts and shorts. Your body kind of acclimatises, you know - it gets used to not having several layers of stuff to keep you warm."

He pulled me closer, and I could feel the stubble on his face against me. I need to shave ,to, but Chet had a very dark, strong "shadow", as he was fully mature and had dark, wiry hair generally.

I could feel myself getting an erection as Chet's body pressed against mine. Even through the two sets of Ts and shorts I was very "aware" of him, somehow. There was his breathing, the beat of his heart, the "man" smell I've mentioned, and just his very presence. I don't know why I found this exciting, but, somehow, I did. Or perhaps it was just that as a horny sixteen year old I was due for an erection anyway!

It was much warmer and better pressed close together like this, and we dozed until about eight, when Chet told me we'd better get ready.

Completely unselfconsciously he sat and crapped, then pulled off his T and stood under the shower and started to clean himself. I needed to go desperately, too, and began to realise that "privacy" was probably a thing of the past for me - I'd had to use the lavatory the previous night with the door open, with Master Dave and Master Jay watching, and now Chet was standing there, naked, showering, as I did my business. I showered, too, and then stood next to Chet as he kind of "planed" the water off his body and did a few exercises to warm up whilst the rest of the water evaporated off his body - no towels were provided for slaves, of course.

"You know, you've really got a good body, Steve", Chet told me as he watched me standing there trying to get dry. "I thought it was quite good when I got a look when we were on the bus, but now I see you stretched out, I can see why they've selected you for special training. Not many lads of your age are so well developed - you obviously took care of yourself, and I guess it's going to pay off as you'll have a much better life than you would have had if you were just sold as a normal slave."

We undid our new Ts and shorts and pulled them on, and we looked a bit like father and son, or elder and younger brother, I suppose - both big, strong, handsome guys, with cropped hair. The "one size fits all" stuff was good on us, too, as we were tall - I wondered how some of the smaller guys would get on dressed like this, though.

Chet led me back to the USS offices where we dumped out old Ts and shorts into the bin, and we pushed our routing slips into the machine again. I'd kind of assumed I'd be spending a lot more time with Chet, but as walked out to where the buses were loading, he shook my hand.

"So this is goodbye, Steve. It's been nice knowing you. I hope you have a good life. Take care now, and don't have those silly ideas of escape. Work hard, and your owner will look after you."

"Hey, Chet... Well, thanks. But let's not say goodbye - more kind of 'see you around....'.:

"Steve, you don't think, do you? Look, you're going of to be trained as a pony slave. Then you'll live out your life on an owner's estate somewhere. I am a fighter, travelling around for a few more years, and then... Well, who knows? But we'll never meet again. Free men could swap numbers or e-mail addresses, but slaves meet, and then part, for ever. Get used to it - slaves don't have friends or acquaintances - think about it!"

With that, he turned and walked away. I was loaded into the slave compartment of my bus, and there were no other slaves in there on the next leg of my journey. But somehow now I really felt alone - it had been bad enough leaving my home and my family, but the way that Chet had told me that things were now so different had really struck home. I knew that it was only me that could in future influence things - most stuff would be outside my control as my owner ordered my existence, but I had to work, to struggle, to make the best of it.

End Of Chapter 3

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 4

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

I had a couple of other conversations with slaves whilst I was in transit, and two more uncomfortable nights in waiting rooms, but none of them was as interesting or exciting as the time I'd spent with Chet. After all that travelling my ass was almost sore, and I was really glad when I finally got off the local bus which had been the last leg of my journey to Buffalo.

It was hot as I stood there in the street, looking around. Dust swirled everywhere, and I wondered what to do. There was a USS office on the other side of the street, and I went in and showed the clerk my routing card.

"Yes, you were routed through to here. And now you're here.", he said.

"Sir, so what now, please sir?" He was a citizen, and so I thought I should be polite.

"Where are you going, boy?"

"Sir, I was bought by the Double J Ranch, sir. They had me shipped here."

"They're a few miles out of town. Wait on the sidewalk, and I expect they'll come and collect you."

I sat there in the heat, wondering what was going to happen, and was half dozing. Suddenly a hand grabbed me, and hauled me to my feet. The man standing there was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans, and had tough-looking black boots on. He read my shoulder, and snapped "Boy, you'd better learn to stand up when a citizen approaches you!"

"I'm one of the overseers at Double J. Follow me."

We went around the corner, and there was a light pony trap, with a pony slave obediently waiting between the shafts. Double J, I was to learn, specialised in training perfectly obedient ponies, so there was no need for the slave to be chained to the trap or anything - he was just waiting patiently for his driver to re-appear. He had a loose T and shorts on, but unlike the plain ones I was wearing these had a logo saying "JJ Ranch" on - this was how I was to be dressed in future, all the time I was there.

The overseer got into the trap, looked at me, and said "We're seven miles out of town. I'll only run my pony Marc here at a jog, be sure to keep up."

He turned away, and said to the slave "Home, boy. Light jog.", and the slave effortlessly pulled the trap away from the kerb and set off down the street. I realised I was just expected to follow, and set off after them.

I'd jogged seven miles before, of course - but not after three days without much exercise, not in very hot sun, and not barefooted: running shoes really do make a difference! I was soon covered in sweat, my heart and lungs were straining away with the effort, and my T and shorts were soaked in my sweat. But the pace never varied - we went up small hills, and down into tiny valleys, but the pace seemed constant: Marc just pulled the light trap and the Overseer as if the terrain made absolutely no difference to him. If you're a runner, you'll know that this is really difficult - just going up slight inclines takes a lot more out of you, and Marc wasn't just shifting his own weight, but that of the trap and the overseer too.

The overseer seemed to pay absolutely no attention to me. Once we'd left the town I'd pulled forward to jog alongside the trap to avoid getting all the dust it churned up blown in my face, and then, thinking it would be easier to jog with another guy, had advanced so that I was parallel with Marc. I looked at him, but he was staring straight ahead - the whole way I never saw him look once to the left or right - it was as if he'd been trained to pay no attention to what was going on either side of the road. A good pony, I learned later, is so focused on his work that he has no interest in the scenery or other happenings along the way.

He too was sweating, but his breathing didn't seem to be distressed, as mine was. His long legs pounded absolutely rhythmically up and down along the hot asphalt of the road, and he might almost have been out for a little recreational exercise, so unconcerned did he seem to be. I thought it would be easier if I modelled myself on him, and tried to match him, stride for stride, but soon saw that even though we were about the same height, he was able to take much longer strides than me - well, I could do it, but it just wasn't comfortable as my balls were protesting a bit as my legs stretched. So I changed to make more, shorter, paces, but this in turn tired me more.

I said that the overseer paid absolutely no attention to me, but I guess he must have been aware at least that I was struggling, because I heard him say "Stop at the next water, Marc.", and a few minutes later the pace slackened and we stopped at a stand pipe by the side of the highway.

"OK, slaves. You can take a couple of minutes, and water.", the overseer said, and I sank gratefully to the ground to sit there with my lungs heaving to try to recover. Marc slipped out from between the shafts and went over, knelt down, and drank from the stand pipe. Then he came over to me and helped me to my feet and took me over to it. I drank the cold water gratefully, and sucked more and more of it in. But he pulled me away gently, shaking his head as if in warning.

The overseer saw this, and commented "Watch this, Steve. Marc's given you good advice - don't drink too much all at once when you've been running. Have another one before we set off. Is the run a problem for you?"

I didn't want to appear to be weak, well, no guy likes that, do they? So I stammered "Sir, no, sir. I ought to be able to jog seven miles. But I'm out of condition after the travel, and it's very hot, sir."

"So you can run seven miles, can you?"

"Sir, yes, sir. I keep in shape, and I play - well, played, I guess - a lot of sport. I've done several half-marathons...."

"Have another drink, slaves, then back on the road", he said, as if he wasn't at all interested in hearing my comments.

Marc drank a little, I drank quuite a lot, Marc slipped back between the shafts, and we set off again - only this time the overseer called out "Medium trot for the rest of the way, Marc - the new trainee says he's a bit of a runner..."

Marc smoothly accelerated, just as if the trap didn't exist, and I was now really running, rather than jogging. My lungs started to labour, I could feel the sweat pouring off me, and the blood was pounding along my veins - I could feel it in my temples. I should have done the sensible thing and dropped behind - it was a straight road, and there was no way I could get lost. But no one likes to give in, to be shown up as a weakling, do they? And I could see Marc was coping effortlessly with the trap and the overseer, so if he could do it, so could I!

I went through the pain barrier, and then I was almost gliding along - I felt as if I could go on for ever. I was dimly aware that we turned off the highway and were bowling along up a long private drive, with neat white picket fences framing the immaculately cut, fresh green grass on either side. We pulled up in front of a long, low building, and then it hit me - you can take and take from your body, but sooner or later it wants repaying. I couldn't stay on my feet - after those three or four "fast" miles I was completely done it, and just had to sink to the ground. I could feel my legs trembling and twitching with the effects of the exercise, and my lungs gasped for air.

The overseer looked down at me, and said "Well, good, slave. You've got the right spirit! Some of the lads just give up and tail in later on, but I could see you were determined to keep up with Marc. Don't feel bad about collapsing - he's a properly trained pony, and you'll soon be able to do the same as him: it's all about practice, constant practice, and having all the muscles in really first class condition. Now, get up, and follow Marc around to the slave entrance."

"Marc - leave the trap here. Take Steve around the back, and get him cleaned up."

The overseer left, and he pony came up and shook me by the hand. "Not bad for a beginner", he said, with a friendly smile. "Come on - you need a good shower. The water will help you relax."

We set off around the building, and I said "Marc, you're a trained pony, right...."

"Yes. They're just waiting for a suitable buyer for me, and until then I take the owners and the overseers into town if they want - it all helps to give me more experience. I've been here just over two years - I arrived at sixteen, as I guess you are, and now I'm ready for the big wide world."

"What's it like...?"

"Like? Well, it's OK. It's really tough at first - you'll think your muscles are going to give up in the first few weeks. But the trainers here know all about conditioning men as quickly as possible, and you'll soon find it gets easier and easier. The actual running is not bad after a bit - I see you're in pretty good shape anyway, so I guess you like sport and so on...."

"Yes. I used to do a lot of exercise..."

"Well, that bit is fun. Most of the guys here enjoy the exercise - not just the running ,but the general conditioning stuff we all do to make sure we don't get legs out of proportion to the rest of our bodies. And the other stuff - well, it's a job, I suppose."

"What other stuff?"

"Well, stuff like care and maintenance of the traps. Most ponies are required to keep their owner's traps sparkling clean, and it makes sense to have them in perfect condition mechanically, so you need to know how to grease the bearings and things like that - it makes a big difference to the effort you have to put in if the trap is running perfectly smoothly. And then there's the etiquette stuff."

"Etiquette?" I was truly astonished.

"Yes. Like all the rules about not speaking unless your driver asks you a question - I didn't speak to you, did I, at the bus station or on the road? And how you must keep your eyes straight ahead when you're running, and not look around and enjoy the scenery or anything - you're a slave, after all, and not a tourist. And stuff like how to behave when visiting another owner's ranch. There' a lot more to being a trained pony than just being able to run, you know."

I wanted to ask him more, but at that point we entered a door and there was a big kind of cleanup area - some lavatories, and the usual completely open showers. Marc hardly stopped as he pulled his T off and dropped his shorts, and put them both into an open bin. He gestured to me to do the same, and we both went under the showers.

There was plenty of room, and I took the shower head two away from Marc. I was going to turn it on, when he called out "Over here, Steve - come under this one with me."

"No, I'm fine - this one's OK"

"Hey, Steve, this is part of the etiquette stuff I talked about. You're probably used to showering by yourself, but when you're a slave, a properly trained slave, that is, you need to think about your owner's money. It costs a lot to pump this water up here, and to heat it.... Responsible slaves won't waste their owner's money by using two shower heads when one will do. So get over here, and I'll turn it on and we can shower together. It's also quicker if we each wash the other..."

I felt embarrassed as I moved my naked body next to Marc. Although he was only eighteen, those to years of physical training made a huge difference - I was fit but at sixteen was, I suppose, still a "youth". But at eighteen, Marc was definitely a "man", with a much thicker and more muscular body. Everywhere I looked I could see the changes that two years make in a guy at that age - the thicker neck, the biceps bulging as he moved, the ridged belly, and, perhaps most of all, the manly hair over him. Marc had a big thatch of hair on his chest, and it extended down over his belly to a veritable forest in his pubes. His dick and balls were in proportion to the rest of him, and he looked like a proper "man".

He looked down at me and grinned "They shaved you for the slave auction, didn't they.... I remember that when I was first sold. It will itch like hell as it grows back again - especially in your ass crack! We're lucky here in that the ranch specialises in 'natural' ponies, so they let you keep all the hair on your pubes, and here..." As he said this, Marc ran one of his big strong hands up from his dick to his nips, so that all the hair on his body kind of stood up."

He pulled the lever, and the shower came to life, and without a trace of embarrassment he started to soap my body, and was clearly expecting me to do the same to him. So I did, and this second time my hands ran all over a man's body it began to feel almost normal.

Marc turned off the shower very quickly, and the soap had only just rinsed off - I suppose that was another way in which he saved the owner money, then stood there "planing" the water off his body. I did the same, although in my past life I'd always just towelled dry - but when you're with someone who "knows the system" you like to try to do the right thing, don't you? Finally he picked up a small towel from a pile on the side, and tossed it at me. I wiped the remaining damp off my skin, and was going to toss it into the basket with the dirty Ts and shorts, when Marc pulled it away and used the now very damp material to dry himself.

"Steve, think! A good slave saves his owner every cent he can - and we don't need two towels."

There was a big pile of Ts and shorts on a table, and Marc picked one of each and just pulled them on casually. I did the same, and realised that this was how I was going to dress for the next two years - the simple white shorts, cut quite high on the thigh but with loose legs so as not to restrict movement, and the T with the "JJ" logo on it that left my arms totally bare and which hung slackly on me.

"I suppose I'd better take you to the vet's", Marc said. "The Overseer didn't say, but it's the rule to check out all the new arrivals thoroughly. Are you OK now, recovered after that run?"

"Yes, fine."

We walked at a brisk pace through a number of passages, seeing other slaves, all dressed as we were, going about their business. Everyone seemed to know Marc and he to know them, but they didn't speak - just nodded and smiled as they went past each other in the corridors. It was part of the training, I was to learn, that slaves don't speak to each other unless it's necessary, or in the dorm at night - you're taught not to chatter to each other as you go about your work in case this noise is irritating to your owner or other free men and women in the area.

He left me at a door marked "Veterinarian"., and whispered "See you around, Steve - have fun!". I knocked, then went in.

There was a young man behind a desk, in a green smock - the way I'd seen vets dressed when we took our pet dogs to him for treatment. He got up, came over to me and gently pulled my arm towards him so he could read my name and SIN. Without saying a word he went back to his desk and keyed stuff in, read the screen, then spoke. "So, Steve, first day here. Less than a week as a slave. How's it going?"

"Sir, OK, I guess, sir...:

"Good. Now, I've got to do your initial exam, and until we get all the test results we can't start your training properly. Even though you look to be in good health, we can't risk you spreading any contagious disease or anything. So let's get started - shuck those clothes so I can carry out a proper inspection of you."

He physically examined me minutely, going over every part of my body and probing with his strong fingers. "Can't be to careful - you're from up North, but some of the lads we get here are from the South and they spend a lot of time in the sun so I like to really look for possible signs of skin problems. We take a lot of care here with that, as it's so sunny and we're so high - you'll learn how to inspect other slaves for possible trouble spots. Now, bend double - use your hands on the edge of my desk to stabilise yourself...."

I felt something cool against my ass hole, and flinched. "Steady... That's just a bit of lubricant. I'm going to do a brief anal inspection to see you don't have any signs of piles or anything...."

His finger slipped up my hole, and I squirmed a little at the totally new sensation that brought to me.

"Good.. OK, stand up and face me...."

Then there was the cupping of my balls and the rolling around of each one in the palm of his hand - I really did squirm a bit now, as it was fairly uncomfortable. "Relax, Steve", he said. "It will soon be over. But it's in your own interest that I make sure there's no sign of testicular cancer - even lads as young as you ought to examine yourselves regularly, you know. But you seem to be OK."

"Now all we have to do is take samples for analysis...." He came over and drew blood from a vein in my arm, then gave me a small clear plastic cylinder and told me to pee into it. Well, I've given urine samples before for our family doctor, but I was always allowed to go off and do it in the men's room - this guy just sat there and watched as I tried to pee into the tiny thing. And finally there was something I'd never done before for a doctor - he handed me another cylinder and said, quite matter of factly, "So all that's left is the semen sample.... We need to make sure that the vasectomy you'd have got is working - they did do you at the slave centre, I assume...."

"Sir, yes, sir".

"Well we need to make sure it's working - I don't suppose you'll ever get near a woman, as most women don't like the thought of being fucked by a slave who they regard as an animal. But it would be irresponsible of us to let a pony out of here who might be fertile, 'just in case'. So a nice big sample of your sperm, please.... Although for a lusty young lad like you, I don't suppose I need to say 'nice big sample' - you probably always shoot loads, don't you?"

"Sir, I suppose so, sir...."

"Well, get jerking off - I haven't got all day."

I flushed with embarrassment, even though the guy was a doctor, as I played with my dick and coaxed it into an erection, then 'skinned my dick head desperately trying to get into the mood to shoot. I was really hard to do - but I hadn't jerked off for about a day, and I was ready - in spite of the unfavourable conditions, I felt myself getting excited, and then my balls contracted and I shot. Have you ever tried to direct your cum into a small specimen tube? It's fucking hard, I'll tell you, and having to manipulate the tube to the end of my dick to catch the first mighty spurt and the lesser '"after shocks" was really difficult - quite apart from the fact that my mind wasn't on it, my dick is very sensitive when it's shot and I groaned several times as the glass bumped into me.

"Good", the veterinarian said. "Now all we need to do is photograph you. Up against that wall...."

He indicated the wall to his left, that I saw was marked out in a grid of squares. Taking a camera, he photographed me from the front, then from the back, and then the left side, and the right. There was a close-up of my face, and then he took one of my dick and balls.

"Only one more, Steve.... We need you erect again, please."

Well, I hated it - having to get an erection again just so that he could take a photograph of me! What did they need a picture of my erect dick for? And it was worse because I still had a 'skin - he took shots of me with my head covered, and with me 'skinned back.

"You can put your clothes back on now, Steve... I'm all through."

One advantage of the slave "uniform" is that it doesn't take long to undress and dress, I guess, and I stood there in front of him.

"Right - you'll stay here overnight whilst I analyse all these samples. Then, assuming everything's OK, I can hand you over to begin proper training tomorrow.

He led me towards a door on the opposite wall to the one I'd come in by, and there was a corridor with basically "cells" on either side of it - small enclosures each of which contained a bed and a lavatory. The front of each "cell" barred, with a barred door, and he opened the first one we came to and I went in.

The vet pulled the door closed behind me, and locked it.

"Don't worry - we don't usually lock slaves in here at the Double J", he told me. "We train slaves in obedience at this place, but as you're new you haven't been taught to stay where you're told yet. And I don't want to risk a new slave contaminating the others, or, if I get any slaves in here who are sick today, in getting you contaminated by them. So you're always locked into these holding cages if you have to stay at the vet's. Now, are you OK until the morning?

There's an intercom on the wall as you can see, and if you press it you'll be connected to the central guard room..... But only use it in an emergency, right?"

"Sir, yes, sir", was all I could say.

He went out, and I lay on the bed. I was so tired, so bone weary - not just from all the travel, but because my life had been turned upside down. None of the sixteen years of preparation had really prepared me for what being a total slave would really be like.

The following day I was, of course, found to be perfectly fit, and I was called to the office of the chief Trainer who told me what life would be like for me. He told me that at the Double J they didn't believe in unnecessary physical punishment of slaves, as we had to learn that we needed to take responsibility for our own actions - no owner wanted to keep whipping a pony slave, after all, and they relied on the training we would receive at the Double J to ensure we performed properly throughout our working lives.

The Trainer then told me of the regime at Double J, one that was to be the core of my life for the next two years.

We got up at sunrise, and all the pony slaves, whether being trained as sprinters, marathon ponies or hacks, like me, did an hour and a half of general exercise and callisthenics - they primarily focussed on developing upper body strength and in encouraging good cardiovascular practices,, as the work we did later in the day exercised our legs sufficiently. We wore the "uniforms" from the previous day for this, and after the session, we streamed through the showers, were given fresh uniforms, and our first meal of slave chow.

After that there was generally the morning run - you may think that a pony slave only has to run, but it's much more complicated than that: as a "hack" I had to learn how to pace myself so I could deliver the speed my owner might want at one time in the day whilst retaining some energy to be able to deliver later on, as well. And owners want to see their ponies running proudly and confidently, so the correct posture and carriage is important, too. You never know when your owner might have guests who bring their own ponies with them, so our lessons covered running side by side with another cart (you want to keep the two carts close together, so your owners can converse easily, but you have to be very careful not to bang one against he other with consequent damage and disturbance). Alternatively, you might get to pull a larger cart with the two of you in tandem, and then your owners would of course want you to run perfectly in step. You also have to learn how to take your owner's instructions, to know the different paces and so on.

Some days these morning runs were with us in a close formation as we jogged, sprinted and ran along, and sometimes an individual trainer took us out in a cart to see how we were developing. I soon found out that pulling a cart is more difficult than you imagine - on level ground the additional load on you is not enormous once you have the thing rolling, but the moment you get to a hill - even quite a shallow incline - it gets much, much harder as you are then effectively dragging both the weight of the cart and the owner up that hill. We learned to keep the same pace, irrespective of the ground conditions, and going uphill was at first a terrible ordeal as the sheer physical effort caused you to break out into a sweat and for your heart and lungs to pound as if they were about to burst.

We were allowed to rest from noon to three in the hottest part of the day, and if you'd had a tiring morning it was delightful just to do nothing, lying on the grass with your fellows. The Double J provided a huge swimming pool in this rest area, too, and that was good if your muscles were aching - being able to float in the water and take all the weight off them really helped. You had to swim naked, of course, as you didn't want your "uniform" damp for the afternoon, but after I'd tried it, I wondered why guys would ever want to swim any other way - having the water running all over your naked body as you swim is so much better than having your dick and balls confined in swimming shorts or, even worse, Speedos!

I now saw why all the ponies had good tans - in general everyone swam at some point ,and then you lay in the sun to dry. Over any reasonable period of time even these few minutes, repeated every day, would give you a smooth even tan over your entire body. There wasn't any problem with being naked there, as you were with your fellow ponies who you saw in the showers every day, and occasionally even trainers would come over and take a dip, too.

The afternoons were given over to "lessons" - simple mechanical maintenance of pony carts, the best ways to clean them, proper "etiquette" for us, like not speaking whilst working, and useful skills like simple first-aid, and self-care: we were told the signs we should look out for and alert our owners to if we got muscle strain, or rashes, or small wounds, and needed to go to the veterinarians. And our day always finished with another massive run - one that was guaranteed to use up our remaining energy and strength before we were allowed to shower again and got our last meal of slave chow.

At the Double J we all slept in plain but simple dormitories - twenty to a room. You simply filed in and filled the next available bed, as you were of course not allowed any "private" space or personal belongings of any kind. The beds were very close together, and so you always knew when the guys on either side of you were jerking off, but the "convention" was that you didn't refer to it - everyone did it, after all, but no reference was made to it.

The only problem I had was on my first night in a dorm - I'd followed another pony in and, like him, got under the single sheet still in my T and shorts. When I heard him jerking off after "lights out", I knew I desperately wanted to do the same, so I pushed my shorts down and soon shot a huge load. The next moment the sheet was ripped off and the two guys on either side of me were standing there looking really cross.

"You disgusting young fucker!", one snapped. "Don't you care about the guy who's going to sleep there tomorrow?"

I was blushing with embarrassment, and hurriedly tried to pull my shorts back up to cover my nakedness.

"Answer me! Don't you care?"

"I'm sorry... I don't know what you mean"

"These sheets are only changed once a week. We all sleep in the next available bed. So someone is going to have to sleep tomorrow night on that undersheet that's stiff with your cum! Don't you care?"

I was red with embarrassment now, but managed to mumble "I'm sorry, I though...."

"Well, what did you think? That you're still in your nice bed at home, where you can make the sheets as stiff as you like and your mother will just wash them anyway? I bet you didn't make that disgusting mess all over your bed at home, did you?"

"No... I always jerked off into a wad of tissue....."

"Well here we do what proper men do - you catch your cum in hour hand, and swallow it. Got that?"

They left me alone then and got back into their own beds, and I pulled the sheet up over me and felt really miserable. How could I be so stupid? They must think I was some sort of idiot not to have considered that but, actually, it had never occurred to me that a slave might not even have his own bed.

I never made that mistake again, and soon got used to swallowing my own cum - I hated it at first and tried not to jerk off, but you can't avoid it, can you, especially when you're sixteen and very fit, and very horny?

I don't think my life varied at all for those two years I was at Double J. Every day was more or less the same, as I have outlined, except for the mornings about every three moths when I went to the vet's for a complete physical check. The training did wonders for me, though - my muscles expanded and filled, and I had a "man's" body rather than a "lad's" one. I learned to rely on myself, to know my body and what it was capable of, and how to drive myself to give my all when I needed to. I became self reliant, and confident in myself.

You don't make friends in pony training, really - you live with all these other guys, but you soon realise that there's nothing that makes for a real friendship - no shared interests, nothing to talk about, no sports or hobbies to do together. Everything was so much the same that we didn't have much to talk about at all, and none of us wanted to talk about our former lives. So you really didn't get to know other ponies well, even though you were with them all the time.

There was no prohibition on sex at all, and I guess that if I'd been inclined I could have joined in with some of the other lads when they jerked each other off, or even fucked. I was a bit surprised when I first saw guys doing this around the swimming pool during our midday break, but began to realised that there was nothing wrong in it - it was just another way of keeping yourself fit and healthy. I just didn't want to do it, though, and so I always lay on the grass away from the two "areas" that seemed to be "known" as the places where you went if you wanted someone else to jerk off, or if you wanted "proper" sex. All the time I was at Double J I just jerked myself off at night in my bed, and that, too, became part of my normal routine.

You'd see Master Dave and Master Jay around from time to time, but they seemed to be off the ranch - probably on buying and selling trips - most of the time. They did take an interest in us, though, and the first time I saw them after my arrival Master Jay actually stopped and asked me if I was all right.

Some how the time seemed to slip by, and I was actually happy, I suppose - I wasn't in any pain, I was well fed, I enjoyed the exercise, and I had absolutely no worries.

Then, at the end of a regular vet's inspection, they told me I was fit, and that I was ready for sale.

End Of Part 4