You Can't Be Friends With a Slave

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part nineteen

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

A SERVANT

Then he fucked me for the second time. And there wasn't anything I could do about it, except kneel there and take it. I felt the familiar fear, anger, shock, rage, humiliation and disgust rise as he prised my butt apart and started to run the tip of his dick up and down my crack. He was breathing heavily and almost crooning to himself as he fiddled around, and then he put his hand in the middle of my back as if to steady himself, and with his other hand he must have positioned his dick head at my pucker, because I felt its insistent nudging at me.

"There, Steve...", he crooned. "Any moment now.... Are you ready...."

I didn't need to reply, as the next instant I felt the pressure increase as he tried to force his way in. I gritted my teeth, as I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was both hurting and humiliating me. The pressure increased, and I couldn't help it - I went to move forward, as if subconsciously I was trying to get away from him. But he followed me up the bed, and there was nowhere to go, really, was there, as my head was soon at the headboard, nestling against my cuffed hands. The remorseless pressure on my hole increased, until I think Billy-Joe lost patience - there was a lightness, as if he pulled back, then a "slam" as he thrust forward. In spite of myself and my determination to make no noise, I couldn't help it - I gave a cry, as my sphincter was stretched and his dick slid in.

Once you're in you usually give the other guy time to recover, don't you? The stretched sphincter muscles need time to relax a bit, and then you slide the rest of your dick in nice and gently, going as slowly as you need to in order to make sure the guy you're fucking is happy with it. And only after that do you speed up. Look, I know I hadn't always done that to Billy-Joe when I'd fucked him recently as he actually liked it "rough". But I wasn't like that, was I? He knew I hated taking dick. He knew I was almost a virgin. He knew that I had no experience of rough sex. But did that stop him? No - once he'd broken through my defences he simply went at it in a fever of excitement, thrusting his whole dick in to start with without stopping, so that I felt his wiry pubic hair right up against my butt. Then he was off, in and out, in and out - long, hard strokes, without any consideration at all for how I felt.

I buried my face into the crisp starched pillow, to help me stifle my shouts of humiliation and pain. I don't think I revealed to him just how much I was hating this. Although he could fuck me, I wanted him to know that I was still a real man, a man capable of taking whatever he chose to dish out in his perverted way. It went on and on. I couldn't really understand it. Billy-Joe used to be fit and active, like me, but recently he'd put on so much blubber that I felt sure he couldn't perform such feats of athleticism. If he'd had to run a hundred metres, or race up two flights of stairs, he'd have been totally out of breath. But I've since noticed that there's something happens to guys when they start fucking - it's as if their bodies find some hidden reserves of strength from somewhere to enable them to do that most primeval of all the human body's actions: that rhythmic muscular action that forces a dick in and out until it climaxes.

Finally, he gave a great shout of "OH, fuck... I'm cumming... fuck.... fuck....", and then it was over, or mostly over. I felt the huge weight of his flabby body, his skin slicked with sweat, press down on my back. He kind of struggled a bit and pushed at me, and I understood that he wanted me to lie flat, so that he could rest his whole body on me.

He lay there, and now I could feel his heard racing as his chest pressed into my back, and his head was on my shoulders. "There, Steve...", he half whispered. "That's how it's going to be, boy, every night. You and me, and my dick up your ass. That's what it's a all about, Steve, having a body servant - a slave who's only job is to satisfy the needs of his master. Are you going to enjoy serving me like this, Steve? Are you going to start craving the feel of my dick up your ass...?"

I said nothing, just lay there.

"Well it doesn't matter anyway. It's immaterial what you want, and what you like. Because you're a fucking slave, aren't you? A fucking slave, who gets fucked by his owner when his owner wants to do it. All those years we roomed together and played on the same football team, and you never once even let me play with your dick. Well, Steve, now I'm going to play with your whole body, every night, and some afternoons, too. So get used to it, boy, as this is your life from now on."

He lay there for a couple more minutes, and it was getting really uncomfortable for me - he was a heavy guy, and having him sprawled on top of me was making it hard for me to breathe. I was glad therefore when he finally pulled his detumescing dick out of me, then rolled aside to lie beside me, and then he said "Roll over, on your back, Steve."

Well I did, it seemed harmless enough. I was conscious of my own sweaty pits as I lay there, my hands still cuffed above my head.

"Are you OK? The cuffs not too tight?"

"Master, please can't you let me go, it's uncomfortable..."

"No, Steve. It's for your own good, you know. I want to make sure that the cuffs aren't cutting in to you, as I don't want your skin damaged. But it's in your interest to remain shackled - I might want to fuck you again during the night, and I know you're not yet fully accustomed to it, and I remember how you usually react... Well, that behaviour was all right when you weren't a body slave, and I quite enjoy a little rough and tumble with a big strong guy like you. But a body slave's different - there must never even be any idea that a slave whose job is to serve his master intimately would do anything at all to prevent his owner from using his body, or to resist, or to fight back. If a body slave ever did that, his owner almost has a duty to do something about it, and I wouldn't want to have to do that to you. Even though you're a slave, we used to be buddies, after all. And even though you can't really be friends with a slave, you can remember what it was like when you were. So you'd better remain shackled."

"Please, master... Please.... As you said, we used to be buddies. Buddies don't do things like this to each other. Please, let me go free - I hate being shackled like this... I won't do anything, I promise."

"Hush, Steve. Calm yourself! Look, for the sake of our former friendship, let me lay it on the line for you. I don't think you can help reacting the way you do when you're being fucked - why you're so upset when a guy just does something perfectly natural to you, I can't imagine, but you are. So until we get you properly used to it, I'm going to shackle you in bed every night. And as I said, it's for your own good - if I had to have you 'calmed' if you did anything to hurt me when I was possessing you, you'd hate it. You'd hate it even more than being fucked, I assure you."

"Please, master.. Please... I'm prepared to take the risk.... I'll let you fuck me, but please let me go free.. I can't bear being tied down like this..."

"No, Steve. You'll thank me for this one day. You'll thank your old buddy who thought about you so much that he went to all the trouble to keep you tightly controlled until you'd learned your job properly. Look, if I had to have you 'calmed', the doctor would take one of those lovely balls of yours out of that fine big sac. And then, when you're a free man again, you'd always know that you weren't quite a man.... That there was something missing, something that's quite important to most men, and especially to big studs like you who take a pride in their bodies. You would never be really free."

"Master, are you going to free me, really? As you said you would when we thought of his 'voluntary enslavement' thing? And, anyway, if you took one of my nuts, you'd spoil me - how much money are you making from 'studding' at the moment? And what would I look like pulling your rickshaw with only one ball - people would laugh at you, for not being able to afford a 'proper' man to do it..."

"Oh Steve, of course I'm going to release you, once conditions are right. I need a slave now, as you know, and the Colonel won't pay for it, won't let me have the life I'm entitled to. But one day all of this will be mine, I'll own the estate, and then I'll be able to afford all the slaves I want. And then I can think of letting you go free. But don't delude yourself about losing a nut - it wouldn't make any difference at all to your stud fees: the male testes produce zillions of sperm, you know, and it only takes one to fertilise the egg. And half of zillions is still zillions more than you need. And there's hardly any diminution of the volume of your cum, either, as only a small proportion of it is actual sperm from your balls, and the rest of it is the seminal fluid from your prostate. You should have listened in those High School biology lectures, instead of thinking all the time about how you were going to get into other pants of the cheerleaders! Don't delude yourself about appearances, either: the doctor would slit your sac up the back so there would be no scar afterwards, and whip out one of your balls, then before he sewed you up he'd slip in a prosthetic one. I've had slaves like that - and you get to choose: the size of the replacement, and how it feels: the new plastic ones are completely lifelike and when you're rolling the balls around in your hands afterwards you can't tell which is which (until you squeeze them, that is, then the slave reacts to the real one!). On the other hand you can have a really big, heavy stainless steel one put in - it doesn't feel right, but it makes the sac hang spectacularly: you know how on most guys one ball is bigger and hangs lower than the other? Well, if you take the little one out and replace it with a big steel one, then it hangs even lower than the originally larger one. Far from detracting from the aesthetic of the slave's body, it can actually improve it."

As he was speaking all of this, in an almost "stream on consciousness" way, Billy-Joe had reached over and was playing with my balls... Very gently, kind of testing them with his fingers a they lay in the palm of his hand. I was totally on edge, expecting that at any minute he'd give them a sudden twist, to emphasise a point or something, but I think he was just enjoying the sensation, the feel of my balls in their shiny smooth sac. Still, it was good to know he was still planning to free me - although why didn't he say it loud and clear, rather than all this "I can then think about it....?"

"So you see, Steve", he went on, "We'd better not take any risks. Even though you could be improved with even bigger balls, let's not go there, shall we? Let's not force me to have to have you 'calmed'. As a conscientious owner I need to protect you from yourself... So for the time being, until I'm certain you've accepted your new role, we'll have you shackled. And, you know, it's kind of exciting - I rather like the idea of you being totally powerless, totally unable to stop me doing anything I like to you..."

He leaned over as he said that and bit my nipple! I gave a shout, and my body arched upwards. Billy-Joe relaxed his teeth, but kept my tit in his mouth, and proceeded to suck at it and play his tongue over it. I couldn't help moaning with satisfaction as he did this, and I felt my dick thrusting upwards against the smooth sheets, tenting the bedclothes upwards.

"See", he said as he pulled his mouth away. "That's fun, isn't it? And don't you find it more exciting as you can't stop me? Isn't it more fun to know that if I want to chew your nips until they're raw and sore, you've just got to lie there and take it? Your dick seems to think so, even if you won't admit it to yourself, Steve."

As he finished speaking his face went down into my armpit. I've always been ticklish, and as his chin and then this tongue started to lick around and play with me, I couldn't help writhing on the bed and starting to laugh and call for him to stop. My laughs turned into a shout of pain, though, as he sank his teeth into that really soft skin just where the arm and shoulder join onto the body - even when you're heavily muscled, like me, there's a kind of little ridge that's incredibly sensitive, and I couldn't help protesting as his teeth bit into it.

"There, again.... That was fun, wasn't it? And now you're lying there wondering what's next. What new part of that delicious body of yours shall I attack? Where shall I play with you, Steve? How can I make you appreciate your own body and its reactions? And isn't it better that you're helpless: all that power in your body and you can't prevent me from using the tiniest little force to make you shout and squirm. There's so many ways I can cause you pleasure, Steve, or is it pain? Or do you know the difference - a lot of guys can't, they don't understand that something that seems to hurt them is also the most incredible turn on."

As he was speaking I felt this hand move down from where it had been resting on my tit, over the plane of my upper belly, and hover above my navel. Then his little finger stabbed downwards, with his nail trying to burrow its way into my body. I got that incredible sick feeling you get when you try to clean out your navel - no, not exactly sick, but sort of nauseous, coupled with a weird tickling sensation, coupled with the feeling of 'something' unusual happening to me. I always have to stop, even if there's one of those irritating bits of lint or stuff down there, as I can't stand it, even if I use a gentle cotton bud. But Billy-Joe's nail wasn't gentle, and it didn't stop - it probed, it twisted, it turned... And I was at once almost on the point of throwing up, almost wanting to shout with laughter, and almost wanting to cry out with pain. My legs were kicking feebly up and down, and my body tried to arch away from him, but he grabbed my balls with his other hand, and that forced me to lie almost still.

"There, Steve! Wasn't that fun? How would you feel if I did that for ten minutes, rather than for just a few seconds? And with the sharp tip of a pencil, rather than with my blunt finger nail? I could, you know. That's the power of having a man helpless, that's the excitement for both of us. You're like clay under my hands, to be moulded to my will, and you're powerless to do anything about it. So for all those reasons, let's keep you manacled, at least for the time being."

He sat up now, and looked down at me. He pulled the sheet back so that my upper body was totally exposed, then hauled himself up to sit astride me. I craned my head forward, and saw his thick, dead-white thighs pressing onto my muscular bronzed chest. His dick was resting on to me, and I could feel the got moistness of his ass hole pressing against me as his legs were splayed outwards, making it very accessible.

He kind of waddled forward, until his knees were pressing into my arms as they lay above my head, and his big, fat dick was hanging down over my chin. I smelt the sweat and semen from it, and thanked God that I'd been properly cleaned out that night so there was no shit around. It was bad enough having to endure the stench of my own body fluids and his cum.

"Right, Steve. An owner should have no secrets from his body slave, and there's no personal service that a body slave shouldn't perform for his owner. So after sex I don't like to sleep with cum and ass slime all over my dick, so I need cleaning up. Open your mouth, and get that nice big tongue of yours to work,,,,"

"Please, master, please... No, not that..."

"Yes, Steve. Now stop being silly - it's mostly your sweat and stuff, and some of my cum... But where's the problem in that? One man's cum tastes a lot like another ...."

"Master, I don't eat cum..."

"Correction, Steve. Yo used not to eat cum. Are you telling me you never even tried your own?"

"Yes, master. I never did."

"Oh, come on, Steve! All guys try their own cum at one time or another, when they're a lad. How could you just resist running the tip of your tongue across the palm of your hand when you've just jerked off? You must have done..."

"No, master."

"Well it doesn't matter, anyway. I like being cleaned up, and I'm your owner, so fucking well get to work!"

As if to emphasise his point, he reached backwards and grabbed my balls again. "Play time's over, Steve. Now, get to work, before I hurt you properly."

So I did. What else could I do? And I guess once you've tasted cum, it's not a huge problem, is it? I mean, it smells pretty vile, but it doesn't taste like that. In fact, it doesn't taste much of anything, does it? Rather like when you've got catarrh, and you swallow a whole load of mucus: it's much the same. As I licked away at his dick and his balls, he guided them to me, pushing his dick this was and that to make sure I could cover all of it. And he raised himself up on his knees and moved forward a little so that he could drop his balls almost into my mouth. That taught me one thing - it's really sensible to have your balls shaved, as it was horrible to be left with some of his pubic hairs in my mouth. I tried to spit them out, but somehow they wouldn't go - it's funny, isn't it, how pubic hair has an incredible tendency to get stuck between your teeth, and to sort of hide in your cheeks? Billy-Joe saw my attempts to get rid of his hairs from my mouth and put his finger in.... "Steady, Steve.... You bite me, and I'll have you calmed, remember?"

It felt odd having another guy's finger in my mouth, especially a he probed around my cheeks and gums finding the errant hairs. When he'd finished he left his finger there for a moment, and stared down at me. Somehow, I don't know why, I did something I'd never done before - I started to suck on his finger. Why, I don't know, but it somehow felt right.

"Hey, Steve, good boy! Remember this action. We'll give you something bigger and better to suck on later in the week, but you seem to have the right idea...."

He got off me, came and lay beside me again, and sort of snuggled himself close to me. I could feel his flabby body, more like a woman's, and not at all like the tense muscularity of Grunt. He threw his arm over my chest, and pulled his head close to mine.

"Goodnight, Steve... But don't sleep too deeply, as if I wake up in the night I might need you to service me again. And if I hear you snoring, I'll make you stop - they always say it's involuntary, but all the slaves I've had in this bed who snored always stopped after a couple of nights, as I slap them awake - slap their balls, that is!"

With that, he reached out and turned out the light, and we lay there together. Well, other than with Grunt I'd never slept with another guy, and it was tough with Billy-Joe: unlike Grunt who just lay there and was happy to be in my arms, Billy-Joe tossed and turned, threw his arms about, kicked out as he dreamt, and I was totally unable to do anything about it with my arms still cuffed above my head. I hardly slept at all - there was no time to go into that deep sleep when you snore - I doubt that I had more than a few uninterrupted minutes the whole night, so that when dawn broke I was really still tired and exhausted.

I wondered what to do about Billy-Joe. I felt that I shouldn't wake him, as he was sort of a late riser and it might anger him, and I could do without that. He woke up naturally, though, and I was glad - his head had been resting on my chest, and the irritation of his hard bristles rubbing over my sensitive nips as he moved in his sleep was causing me problems.

He reached down as he came to wakefulness and his hand grasped my dick. "Ah, Steve - that morning hard-on you always have. You can't know the number of times I lay there awake at college, watching the bedclothes tenting up as you slept on. You've got me aroused, too...." He moved his body against mine, and I could feel his dick stabbing at me.

"Still, not time for that now - I've got to breakfast with the Colonel, and then I need to go into town. So, rise and shine...."

With surprising agility he threw back the bedclothes and got out, his dick waving around in front of him. Then he came and leaned over me, and undid the buckles on the cuffs. I sat up, and sat there for a moment massaging my arm muscles - I had been able to move my arms a bit during the night, so it's not as if I was completely stiff from being totally immobile. But you know how it is, when you're used to being free - any constraint on your movement is a difficulty.

I was dying to piss, and I got up off the bed and went into the bathroom, kind of scratching my head as I went - it's one of those things I always do when I first get up, like yawning, and stretching. I started to hose piss down into the pan, when there was a hard slap on my butt that almost made me lose control and go all over the floor.

"Stop that!", Billy-Joe commanded. I did try, honestly, but you know how difficult that can be when you're in the middle of a long, hard piss that you've been wanting to do for some time! It took me a few seconds to manage to squeeze the muscles hard and stop the flow, and it's not a pleasant experience, is it? Billy-Joe slapped me again as I tried to do this, telling me again to stop, and that didn't make matters any better. I stood there eventually, the last dribbles of piss leaking out of my slit, and turned to face him.

He'd got a massive piss hard-on, and he snapped "How dare you use this before your master! In future, you wait until I've finished, then you ask me if you might do it, understand?"

I started to nod, then remembered the conversation last night, and said "Yes, master."

Billy-Joe then stood there and took his time to empty his bladder, and it made it difficult for me as I still needed to go, and all that running water made it feel worse, much worse. When he'd done, he shook his dick a couple of times and turned around to look at me. I stared back, and muttered "Please, master, can I piss now?"

He nodded, and I went to flush his piss away, but he snapped "Don't waste water, Steve! Haven't you heard of ecology? You know the Colonel's keen on saving the environment, which is why he has all the slaves around? What's wrong with seeing your owner's piss anyway?"

I just stood there and let go - it was such a relief, as Billy-Joe watched. When I'd finished, he said "Right - the next thing in the morning ritual is a shower, and a shave. Turn the water on for me and get it to the right temperature - not too hot, not too cold: I'll let you know if it's OK when I get in."

Billy-Joe's shower was a large walk-in cubicle with the controls on the far wall. I soon found out why I was supposed to turn it on - it was impossible to reach the controls without getting covered in the water that cascaded out! I had to stand there fiddling with them, as I successively got icy cold jets, then really hot ones. I suppose the designers always knew that the owner would never be turning the water on for himself, and so they put the controls in the most aesthetically pleasing place, rather than the most convenient one. Whilst I'd been doing all this Billy-Joe had gone and sat on the lavatory and shat; he made a perfunctory attempt to wipe himself clean, flushed the water, then came over to continue to watch me, with a faint smile. He called out "You'll soon get used to it - I find that initial cold blast helps to wake my slave up in the morning. Now, is it all right?"

"Yes, master."

Billy-Joe came into the cubicle and stood there, and commented that the temperature was fine, and that I should remember it for the next time. Then he looked at me expectantly, and said "Well, get on with it, then!"

"With what, master?"

"You're a body slave, Steve! Think! What do you expect a body slave does in the shower? He washes his owner."

Now of course I'd been in showers with Billy-Joe before when we were on the team, and if it had bee raining and we were all very muddy, some of us helped out the others by soaping their backs, in those areas it's really hard to reach by yourself. But it's very different from doing that to going to completely wash another guy: I couldn't believe I was massaging shampoo into Billy-Joe's long hair, and then having to rub soap all over his upper body. Billy-Joe seemed quite used to it, though, as he moved around almost in sympathy to me as I worked, for example by raising his arms slightly when I had to soap his pits. I'd finished his upper body, and he looked at me, put his hands on my shoulders, and pushed me down to my knees.

I knelt there on the wet floor, looking at his dick, and he nodded at me as if to say "get on with it!".

I'm not sure whether having to wash his dick and balls was the worst, or whether it was running my soapy hand down his ass crack. I'd avoided doing that and run right down his thighs and done his feet, but he called down to me reminding me of my omission. I couldn't help thinking of how he'd just dropped a huge turd, and the very tiny effort he'd made to clean himself. Still, I suppose my hand was covered with soap, and it's antiseptic, isn't it?

Billy-Joe rinsed himself off, telling me to soap myself quickly as he stood there enjoying the water cascading over him, and I had to do it all in about thirty seconds, then I was allowed to rinse off. I had to dry Billy-Joe then with one of the huge fluffy white towels that I remembered were such as feature of the bathrooms of the house from my time there as a guest - but there was none of that for me! I had to hurriedly get as much of the water off my body as I could with the towel that was now sopping wet from him.

I had to shave Billy-Joe, too - he sat in a towelling-covered chair in the bathroom, and I was expected to crouch down by the side of him and lather his face, then shave him with an ordinary razor. When I'd done he looked at me and said "You only shave every three days, Steve - I like to see that manly stubble all over your face. Now, time to get dressed...."

Frankly, I thought it was stupid: he was an able, grown man, and I had to help him into his clothes just as if he was a little kid - holding his boxer shorts open for him so that he could step into them, then pulling them up for him over his waist. He even expected me to "settle him in" to them by making sure his dick was comfortable - I ask you, how on earth can you do something like that for another guy? How can I be expected to know if he's hanging properly?

I buttoned his shirt, helped him into his expensive casual slacks, then he raised each foot in turn so that I could slip his soft leather loafers on. Even though he was only breakfasting with his father, the Colonel, this was apparently a formal affair, so after he had selected one of his silk ties from the many tens of them in his closet, I was expected to tie it for him. Have you ever tried that? Even if you're used to tying a neck tie for yourself, it's just impossible to do it "the wrong way around". Finally, as he got more and more impatient, Billy-Joe ordered me to stand behind him, reach around, and do it from the back so that it was more as if I was tying one for myself. After I'd helped him on with his jacket I had to hand him his stuff - wallet, keys, gold wristwatch, expensive pen, silk handkerchief: Billy-Joe pointed out to me that it was my responsibility to take all these things off him when he returned in the evening, and to make sure they were all given to him again when he next went out.

Somehow seeing Billy-Joe getting covered in his clothes and now being there totally dressed and fitted out with all his finery made me acutely conscious of my own nakedness. I'd hated being naked in bed with him and in the shower, but that now didn't seem half as bad as having to stand there, my dick semi-erect, as Billy-Joe gave himself a final check in the mirror.

He slapped me almost affectionately on the butt and said "Not bad for your first morning, Steve", and stood there, waiting for me to open the door for him. I'd never felt to be made so small, and insignificant - the way he'd slapped my butt, just as if I was some sort of pet animal he was encouraging.

He left for breakfast then, but told me to go and get he rickshaw out as he was planning a trip that morning. I went down the rear stairs, the ones reserved for slaves, seeing a couple of the houseboys sniggering at my nakedness, then strode across the yard to the garage block and got the rickshaw out. Straughan came past, looked at my body, and said "You owner's on to a good thing there, slave! You really look the part - a naked pony slave with a body like yours. He must be the envy of all his buddies to have something like you pulling him! But make sure you clean that rickshaw properly - I think I can see some flakes of dirt on the wheels!"

How the fuck was I supposed to make time to do that? If I was taken straight to Billy-Joe's quarters after we returned from a trip? But it wasn't wise to argue with Straughan, so I just said "Yes, sir."

Fortunately there was still time to go and get my helping of slave chow, and I joined the other outdoor slaves jostling along to the scanner so that our portion could be determined - mine, I noticed, was smaller than usual, and I suppose that was because they now thought I wasn't working as hard. My former fellow outdoor slaves were really nice, telling me how sorry they felt for me having to expose myself all the time, but it didn't really help.

I went out and as I picked up the shafts of the rickshaw Straughan again came past, and instantly snapped my wrist restraint closed. He slapped me on the butt, and told me to "Giddyup.." round to the front steps.

Billy-Joe ran me into town that morning, then tied me up outside his club whilst he lunched with his friends. And in the afternoon I had another studding - the usual, with me being blindfolded as the owner and some of the estate workers watched me fuck some slave girl who I never got to see. Actually I suppose it wasn't so bad now - having to spend my entire life naked, it wasn't now so awful to have to take my shorts off and fuck in front of an audience: I guess I was losing my civilised sense of "what's right" and what a man ought to do. I was even getting used to the feeling of running free - my balls had stopped aching from their motion against my thighs.

The thing I couldn't get used to though was pissing. Like after my studding: when they washed me down for the journey home, the slaves at the estate gave me a big drink of cool fresh water - after all, when you've been fucking away you do sweat a lot, don't you, especially in the southern heat? And I must have drank at least a couple of litres as they held the hose they were washing me with up to my lips and let me take my fill. But water works its way through you, doesn't it? And Billy-Joe was in no mood to stop to let me piss as I ran home - there as some trash TV programme or other that he didn't like to miss in the early evening. I turned around in the shafts as I ran along at a fast jog and asked him if we could stop for a moment, but he said no and gave me a light lash across my butt "to encourage me". The pain in my bladder got worse and worse, and the constant motion of my feet on the road only added to it. So ultimately all I could do was let it go, so the piss hosed out of me as I ran along. Of course it made my legs and feet wet as it splashed down as there was no way I could hold my dick into a good position with my hands cuffed. Billy-Joe saw it, and laughed. He called out "That's right, Steve - better to let it loose as we go along, rather than making an unsightly puddle when I tether you at the end of a journey. Remember that - in future, if I come out of the shops, or my club, and see you've pissed in the main street, I'll really flay your hide. Understand?"

Through half-gritted teeth, I called back "Yes, master."

End Of Part Nineteen.

YOU CAN'T BE FRIENDS WITH A SLAVE, Part twenty

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

DECORATIONS

So life went on for a couple of weeks. I certainly wasn't enjoying it, and, actually, I don't think Billy-Joe did much, either. He didn't seem to have any real friends - none of the guys he hung out with at the club in town ever came back to the estate, and he never took me to any of their houses to visit them, either. He always insisted on having me manacled to the bed, but after the first two or three times he'd fucked me, he stopped doing it: I think he'd rather have had me fuck him as I used to, but now he'd made his position as owner of a body slave clear, he evidently felt he couldn't back down and have me start fucking him again.

The first night he didn't haul me to my knees and get me ready to take his dick I was surprised, but Billy-Joe muttered something bout having had a hard day - well, no harder than usual for him, I think! Getting up late, having me run him into town, a few hours at his club, then a run back, slump in front of the TV, eat dinner, and on to bed. So it was a pretty pathetic excuse. He played with my dick a bit, though, and that was sort of OK - I mean, if you've got a real boner and you want to go to sleep, you'd jerk yourself off, wouldn't you? Well, I couldn't do that having my wrists shackled, so having Billy-Joe teasing my dick helped - I closed my eyes and though of Grunt, and found myself shooting. I don't think Billy-Joe was very pleased, though - I guess he'd wanted just to make me feel hornier and hornier, and then leave me alone to try to sleep with that big hard on. He got his hand covered in my cum, as he wasn't expecting me to shoot so quickly, and had to wipe it on my chest hair to clean himself up.

Another night he straddled my chest again and started to feed me his dick into my mouth, telling me to "suck good and hard". I'd never really given anyone a blow job before, and I didn't like it much. But, after all, I'd had to lick his cum and my own sweat off that dick after he had fucked me, so just sucking him was less of a problem, I suppose. He did all sorts of stuff - slapping my cheeks with his dick, rubbing it all over my face, telling me to suck it, then to nibble it (gently!), and finally heaving himself right up over me and pretending he was actually fucking my mouth. Actually that was the worst - his dick was thick and quite long, as I've told you, and when he thrust it right in, so that my nose was buried in his pubes, it tickled the back of my throat and made me gag. Billy-Joe seemed to like that, but it didn't help him much: after about ten minutes of sucking, pumping and generally pretending to be enjoying things, he gave up and lay beside me. He hadn't cum, and he didn't even lie there and jerk himself off. It made me start to think that he really didn't like being "master" quite as much as he knew he was supposed to.

The studding work fell away - Billy-Joe never said why, but I suppose it might have been that all the females from around about who needed to be bred with a white guy had been "covered" by me. Or perhaps it was that Billy-Joe was charging too much. As I stood outside the club one day waiting for Billy-Joe as usual, I did overhear a couple of the local farmers talking as they went down the street, and they were using words and phrases like "boycott" and "teach him a lesson." So I had more and more time back at the estate.

In the afternoons now Billy-Joe generally just sat slumped in front of the TV, and I was called on almost endlessly to change channels, and to fetch him more beer. Fortunately he often fell into a deep sleep after about half an hour on the couch, and lay there, head back, snoring. That gave me time to catch up with my "chores" - in particular, keeping Billy-Joe's clothes immaculate.

The laundry was done by the normal indoor servants, but Billy-Joe insisted that everything he was going to wear was specially ironed, and I had to stand there at the ironing board and press all his boxers and Ts again, and to run over all his shirts to make sure there wasn't even the tiniest crease. I used to stand there and look out of the window as I worked away at this, watching all the outdoor slaves working on the lawns, and in the gardens. When I'd had to do that, clad in just my shorts, with the thought of the tawse always in my mind if I slacked, I'd hated it. But now, standing there, doing this really sissy stuff, I wished I was back there again. I'd always hated ironing my own stuff, and never did underwear; and I ironed as few shirts as possible as I hung them up to dry. After all, who cares about a few creases - if you buy shirts a size too small and make them stretch over your body, no one cares: they're so busy focussing on the outline of your muscles through the tight fabric that they fail to notice the small creases! Billy-Joe generated a mountain of the stuff, though: he changed his mind several times about what to wear, and after trying a shirt on, would just drop it onto the floor and try another: I had to iron those discards and put them neatly away, and I hated being used as a skivvy in this way.

His boots and shoes were a big problem, too: he always wanted them to look almost like glass, and this took hours with the polishing cloth and brushes. And, yes, I found out that the "spit" in "spit and polish" really is true - if you want that absolutely perfect high shine, that's what you have to use. It felt so odd sitting there naked, with a big leather boot on my lap, spitting on it and polishing it.

I did my best to keep really fit: the runs into town were good for my heart and lungs of course, and for my legs and butt. But I hated the way I was losing that perfection of tone I used to have in my upper body. When Billy-Joe had passed out I'd do endless press-ups and trunk curls, and I even filled a couple of his suitcases with books and shoes and used them as weights for some simple training.

I asked Billy-Joe if it wouldn't be better to let me go back outside to work, but he said that he liked having the same slave tend to all his bodily needs, and that he didn't want one of the indoor lads coming into his quarters and ironing whilst I was "enjoying myself out there on the estate." I doubted that it would be enjoyment, with the overseers' whips always hovering, but I hated the confinement.

It was as if he needed to find new ways of humiliating me. One night after we'd finished dinner he made me sit at one end of the couch, then he lay on the rest so that his feet were in my lap. I had to trim his toenails for him! Well, you know how tough and leathery a grown man's toenails can be, and how difficult it is sometimes to get the scissors to cut them - you have to be really careful you don't hurt yourself, don't you? Billy-Joe cautioned me that if I so much as made him flinch he'd bring his other foot down hard into my balls, to teach me a lesson. I bent over his feet, trying to do it well, and I hated it. One man shouldn't have to do this for another. As I was working away, me, Steve, who'd been "top dog" amongst the outdoor slaves, there was a knock at the door and Billy-Joe called out for them to come in. Charlie and Coon - who I hadn't had chance to talk to for a long time, as I was now either in the rickshaw, or in Billy-Joe's rooms, came in with a big slave I'd not met: I'd seen from the window that someone else had been given my job on the farm cart, and realised that instead of "promoting" one of the other slaves, they'd gone out and bought a really big worker. He must have been six foot six, and was heavily muscled as you'd expect for a special job like that.

The new slave stood there, proudly defiant, and I saw him look down at me and almost sneer - he obviously thought I was some poor indoor slave, just there to service the needs of Billy-Joe's body, not a real man like himself. His shorts were tight across his muscular butt, and the way they bulged at the front suggested that his dick was in the same heroic proportions as the rest of his magnificent body.

"Are you a virgin, slave?", Billy-Joe asked.

"No, sir. I've been a slave for eight years, and my original owner took my cherry. And since then, sir, well, you know how it is, sir, in the slave quarters..."

"I suppose that you generally 'top' the other slaves? Your size, your strength..."

"Sir, yes, sir!" The slave broke into a grin now. "There's none of them that can really resist me if I choose to take them."

"Stand up, Steve", Billy-Joe now commanded me, and I got to my feet and stood there. The new slave and I were both eyeing each other up and down, and I could see an evil glitter in Billy-Joe's eye as he noticed this. The new slave, after generally looking at me, was now focussed on my dick - I was, after all, the only one in the room naked.

"So, I have two slaves here who both prefer to 'top'. How interesting. I wonder which of you would win out if I ordered you to have sex?"

"What do you think, Steve?", he continued. "He's got two or three inches on you, and he looks a lot tougher - you've let yourself go a bit recently. On the other hand, you're very keen to avoid dick up that ass of yours, so perhaps that would give your fighting a certain desperation that might enable you to beat him.... Of course it might be more interesting just to have you put on the horse, and let him take you anyway: you haven't been stretched much these last few days as I've been a little tired...."

I knew Billy-Joe was taunting me, trying to make me have some outburst of anger, or even of protest, or supplication. So I just stood there, head slightly bowed. But fancy the bastard saying I'd "let myself go"! I'd done all I could to exercise properly, confined as I was most afternoons to this small apartment, and with all Billy-Joe's personal needs to attend to.

Seeing that I wasn't rising to the bait, Billy-Joe switched tack. "I haven't seen a good sex show recently", he continued. "I suppose we could run into town and I could hire a DVD. But on the other hand, with such excellent material to hand, it seems a waste of money. I suppose I could try my hand at directing my own little scene..."

My heart was starting to beat more quickly and I could feel a damp clamminess on my skin as I started to sweat. Billy-Joe was perfectly capable of devising some cruel thing for the new slave and me to do to each other, I knew, and I wasn't certain that I actually could beat the guy if it came to a fight. He carried on looking at us, then ordered the slave to drop his shorts, which of course he did, without any hesitation.

He truly was magnificent. Like all of the estate slaves he was 'skinned and he had a long thick dick with a flaring head. As he turned round on Billy-Joe's command, his brand stood out well on the strong, working butt that flared out below his classic triangular upper body. I couldn't help admiring him, and then it struck me how much I had changed - the idea that I might be looking at another guy and thinking about his dick and how his butt looked would have been unthinkable at one time - well, at least, I might have peeked at a guy like that in the locker rooms, but only out of curiosity, as we all do, not with any real interest in seeing him as a sexual being.

"Let me see that dick of yours ready for action", Billy-Joe commanded, and the slave at once started to stroke himself to life, without any sign of embarrassment or shame. So that's what eight years as a slave did to you, I thought. He stopped after a very short time, and stood there with it jutting out proudly at just above the horizontal - that's hard, as those of us with big, thick dicks know: only guys with asparagus dicks generally manage to get erections that reach up to the sky, as gravity does its job on those of us who are exceptionally well endowed.

"Nice, very nice.", Billy-Joe commented, then turning to me he said quietly "I think that would stretch you nicely, Steve. Would you like to feel that monster sliding into you? You always make such a fuss whenever a dick approaches that ass of yours, that I wonder what you'd sound like when there was really something to make your muscles ache! Perhaps we should have a little scene here, now, instead of the TV tonight - you on your knees, butt in the air, and this new slave fucking the shit out of you."

I knew that anything I said would only goad him on, so instead of asking him to spare me, I just stood there, silently, head bowed. After all, I reasoned, if he was going to have the guy fuck me, that's what would happen; and I determined not to give Billy-Joe the satisfaction of having me beg him to spare me, so that he could simply order it done anyway.

My strategy seemed to be working, as when Billy-Joe saw I was not rising to the bait, he had a change of tactic. "On your knees, Steve", he said, "In front of the slave. He's top dog around here now, I guess, so perhaps he should exercise his rights."

I knelt there, and his huge dick and balls were hanging right in front of me. He'd evidently been cleaned out and showered as there was no smell or anything, but there were those characteristic wet traces on his dick head from where there had been a tiny trickle of pre-cum a very short time ago.

"Right, Steve... Clasp your hands behind your back. I don't want to see you move. And open your mouth and put your tongue out."

"And you", he continued, turning to the slave, "Jerk off. I'm not going to get Steve here to suck you, as I prefer to keep his lips for my dick. But when you cum, I want your dick pointing at the back of his throat - it's all to go into his mouth. Not a drop is to be spilled, or I'll have you both caned, understand?"

The slave said, matter of factly, as if it was perfectly normal, "Yes, master", and I mumbled "Yes, master" a great deal more reluctantly. Look, I didn't want to suck the guy's dick, but I didn't want his cum in my mouth either. I suppose it was the least awful alternative. And it's not as if I didn't know what cum tasted like now - Billy-Joe had after all made me clean his dick off often enough after he'd fucked me. I knew that his cum tasted just like my own, tasteless, nearly, and so I thought I could probably take it when he shot. It was the fucking humiliation more than anything - Charlie and Coon were standing there watching, and they'd know that I'd had to do this, had to just kneel there and act as a receptacle for the new slave's cum. I used to be the biggest and best slave, and now here I was, kneeling in front of the dick of this new guy, and about to have to serve him in this utterly humiliating way.

I watched in fascination, almost like the snake watches the flute of the snake charmer, as the slave stroked his huge monster into full rampant erection. Then, in close-up, I saw the circle made by his thumb and first finger striking the thick flange of his dick head, as he began jerking away. I wanted to pull back, to get up and stand there and shout "No!", but something stopped me - look, I know it's utterly humiliating to be made to kneel there and prepare yourself to take cum, but what was the alternative? The alternative was to take a beating from Billy-Joe and STILL have to do it, as he could have me cuffed and chained down and my mouth held open by clamps. More importantly, that would give him greater satisfaction - he'd enjoy forcing me to do something that he would know was totally against my nature. I couldn't bear the thought of being seen to be weak like that, and so the least awful alternative was just to take it, take it where there was still some shred of choice left to me.

I felt something warm spray onto my face, and my eyelids twitched almost reflexively: drops of pre-cum must be flying out of his dick and spattering on to me. I couldn't help moving my head slightly, and Billy-Joe saw it and snapped "Keep still, Steve, and keep that tongue out...."

Then I felt it, felt his dick head on my tongue, and the next instant I almost gagged as a stream of his thick, warm viscous semen hit the back of my throat. I controlled myself, though, and tried to swallow - not easy with your tongue out, and I didn't dare close my mouth as I didn't want to risk injuring the slave - after all, it wasn't his fault, was it, that he was being made to do this? He was just as much of a victim of Billy-Joe as I was.

He'd finished now, though, and Billy-Joe told me to lean forward and to clean the last threads of semen from his dick head, as he didn't want them dripping on to the floor. Well there wasn't much point in disobeying, was there? I'd already had a big mouthful of the guy's cum, and a few more drops weren't going to make any difference to me. So I reached out and lapped at his dick, but it was difficult, as he'd started to go soft, and the dick head was now pointing down.

It's funny, isn't it - you somehow know the right thing to do. I reached out and put an arm around his butt to steady myself, feeling his hard musculature slightly covered in a faint sheen of sweat (se he was as nervous and pissed off as I was!), then with the other hand I gently raised his dick up so that my tongue could run all over the head and clean him. As I did so I felt a shudder run through his body, and if I hadn't been gently restraining his butt I'm sure he would have pulled away - like me, I thought, he must have one of those dicks that's incredibly sensitive when they've shot, and which can't bear to be touched or anything for a few minutes afterwards. The touch of my tongue as it feathered its way across him must be causing him all sorts of amazing sensations.

And that was that, really - Billy-Joe didn't look very pleased about the little tableau he'd arranged, and I knew I'd kind of won - he was expecting tantrums and arguments and perhaps even a struggle, followed by some real use of force, and all he'd got was obedience. He dismissed the slave, and Charlie and Coon went to take him away. I could tell by the way they looked at me that they hadn't understood what had happened - they gave me pitying looks as if to say "How could you sink so low, you who used to be in charge? How could you kneel there and take this new slave's cum like that? You're nothing but a cum dump now, to be used by any other man who needs his dick in a mouth." Nevertheless, I was almost happy - I'd done what I knew was the right thing, and hadn't let Billy-Joe totally triumph yet again over me.

Billy-Joe's general mood of ill humour continued for the rest of the evening, and there was no relief for me - he kept me kneeling all night as he drank endless beers from the salver I had to hold out to him, and he was in that mood of querulous dissatisfaction that drunks often have when it was time to go to bed. I was of course manacled into the bed, and tonight Billy-Joe just wouldn't leave my dick alone - he kept stroking me almost to the point of climax, and then stopping, leaving me helplessly erect and with my balls aching. I tried wriggling around to get my dick to rub against the sheets in the hope of finishing off, but it was no use - the moment Billy-Joe realised what was happening he grabbed my balls, squeezed them in warning, and told me to hold still. On and on it went, over and over. I was almost maddened with the need to shoot. My shaft was almost raw from Billy-Joe's rubbing, and his foul, alcoholic breath was making me feel almost ill. I actually don't know which was worse - having him continue to work on me like that, or what ultimately happened: He sort of got tired of this amusement, and fell in to a deep sleep, thrashing around and sweating heavily, as you do when you've drunk too much. The consequences of that were that I hardly slept, and my erect dick continued to cry out for relief. The human body's a marvellous thing though, isn't it? Some time in the middle of the night I woke up from a doze and felt better - my dick was lying down, and I felt at ease: as I moved around I realised why: there was a wet feeling against my thighs as they moved over the sheets, and I realised I must have had something that had not happened to me since I was a kid and first learned about jerking off: I'd had a "wet dream", and a big one, after all that stimulation earlier. The sheets around me were absolutely soaked. And as his body heaved next to mine, I could feel that Billy-Joe was almost stuck to me with a layer of dried cum.

I suppose I should have known that I couldn't "win" for long over Billy-Joe, though. It might have been a very small triumph for me that night, but he had ways of taking his revenge the next day. We ran into town, and instead of going to his club, Billy-Joe directed me down a couple of side streets to end up outside a tattoo parlour. I'd kind of thought most of these had gone out of business, as with most slaves being tattooed with their owner's names and their universal slave identification numbers (SINs), free men now considered tattoos too "slave like". Skilled tattooists weren't needed to put owners names and SINs on our hides as it was mostly done with an automatic tattooer - you just dialled what you wanted, pressed the business end to the slave's skin, and pressed the button: rather like those label-making machines that you can use for making those sticky plastic labels.

It hurts! I'd experienced the one-off short hurt when I'd been tattooed on my shoulder with my SIN and the barcode to drive the food dispensers. But what Billy-Joe now had the guy do to me hurt for a long time - it took over five hours for the tattooist to do his work, and I was in acute discomfort for all of it.

He was a nice enough guy, and did care about me as I lay there, and gave me the stuff he used with all his clients - a short wooden rod, like the handle of a garden implement, to hold in my hands and squeeze on if the pain got too much, and he told me that there was also a rubber bit that I could bite on, but I declined that.

He wouldn't tell me what he was doing as I lay there, but I could feel the areas of acute discomfort moving all over my back. He chatted away as he worked and told me that he mostly now did very small tattoos, and that a "big piece" like I was having was a rarity these days, confirming what I'd thought about how free

men no longer wanted their bodies inked. He also said how nice it was to have good, hard muscle to work with, as so many of his customers were a "bit flabby", and I noticed that he seemed to be taking advantage of my firm flesh by resting one of his hands on my butt as he worked. Still, it's an innocent enough pleasure, I suppose - he enjoyed it, and it didn't particularly bother me as I'd got used to free men looking at me and generally touching me, so I did and said nothing. Other than the constant background pain, it wasn't so bad to lie there for a couple of hours, enjoying doing nothing.

It was terrible when he'd finished, though - there, stretching right across the top of my back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, was the word "SLAVE", and underneath, so that it only just finished above my butt, was the word "Steve". The letters were huge, chosen so that they filled all the available space across my body, and were in dark, bold black.

The tattooist saw the look of horror on my face at the way I'd been disfigured, and said "Sorry, bud, but your owner was very insistent. Look, it's permanent, but after five years or so the letters will fade a bit so it's not quite so prominent. Now, I haven't finished yet - he's ordered some for your front as well. I wouldn't normally do a back and a front the same day as it will be 'uncomfortable' for a couple of days and you'd probably like to sleep on your back or your front, and if I do both, that's difficult! But your owner says he's in a hurry, and as he's paying.... Come on, on your back..... Here... I'll put this soft pillow under you so that you don't have to lie on the hard surface with that inflamed back of yours."

He did his best, I suppose. He complimented me on the firmness of my belly, but he used a magic marker to plan out another set of big letters running across me from hipbone to hipbone, just above my pubic hair and below my navel, saying "SLAVE" again. This time it hurt a bit more, but I suppose I no longer cared - I felt horribly disfigured. All eyes would be on me when I appeared like that in the streets. People couldn't help but stop and stare, and when they did, they'd look closer at my dick, wouldn't they?

When it was over and I stood there, I felt like a complete freak. OK, so I was a slave. And wasn't my collar meant to tell everyone that? Why did Billy-Joe have to have me inked like this? Of course I should have known, the answer was clear as I pulled him through the streets on our way home - he even "invented" little detours, pretending to need to go to stores, then to the library, then back to his club as he'd forgotten something, to make sure I was in the streets as long as possible: they'd got used to seeing me naked, and he needed some new sensation to make people stop and stare, to say "There's Billy-Joe, that fashionable man about town..."

"Steve, you look absolutely fantastic!", Billy-Joe had told me when he got back to the tattooist. "And you'll be glad to know you're in the very forefront of fashion. 'Modern Save Owner" this month says that all the best people in Manhattan, and in the Hamptons, are having their slaves inked, especially those who go around naked. The author says it adds interest to otherwise plain bodies - well, I can see the point: somehow I found you were sexier when I had you wearing that tiny pouch, and the totally nude look is boring after a time, so this makes a big difference, turns you from the 'just ordinary' into 'something special' again."

"But master, please.... How am I going to get along when you free me? It was bad enough being branded: the other guys at the sports club would have looked funnily at that. But now, I'll never be able to change in the locker room again: I'll have to be like those shy guys who lurk in one of the special cubicles and don't go in the communal showers...."

"Steve, don't worry about it! By the time you're a free man I don't expect you'll want to play much sport. Football players do give up, you know, in their late twenties..."

"Master, please... You were going to free me when you can afford to...."

"Steve, stop worrying, will you? You've got a good life here... You work hard, but you've got nothing else to worry about, as I've said before. So stop being so fucking ungrateful, especially as I let you sleep in my own rooms rather than those slave dorms. It's almost like old times, isn't it, you and me together?"

Yes, I thought to myself, just like old times if you don't count being naked, whipped all the time, and being manacled to the bed at night whilst your old buddy plays with your dick!

My day's ordeal wasn't over yet, though, and those bastards who write for "Modern Slave Owner" have a lot to answer for. When I'm free I'm going to go up to their nice cosy offices and punch them out! After telling Billy-Joe how to join the fashionable set by having me inked, the very next article talked about how the look of the slave could be improved by rings. They'd even had a special "readers' offer" of a set of rings, in heavy stainless steel, for only a few dollars, and Billy-Joe had sent off for them the week before, it seems, as soon as the magazine had arrived.

So our next port of call was the doctor again, and Billy-Joe didn't tell me, at first, why we were going there. I assumed he wanted to get me something for the general discomfort from my fresh tattoos, or to get some cream to stop them oozing blood, or something.

It was only when the doctor told me to sit in the examination chair and then swiftly snapped the wrist clamps shut that I began to suspect that something was wrong. When he cuffed my ankles, to stop me kicking out, and then pulled the belly and shoulder straps around and really heaved on them to make sure they were fully tight that I knew something was up. I saw him and Billy-Joe discussing something, and then the glint of the lights on the stainless steel, and then Billy-Joe told me that I was to be tit ringed in both tits.

"You know, Steve, the article specially recommends heavy tit rings for slaves who do a lot of physical activity, like you. It says that as they bounce up and down they send you constant signals to remind you that someone else owns your body, that someone else controls your life. For indoor slaves they say that the normal ornamental rings are satisfactory, but it needs really heavy ones to bring the message home to an active slave like you. I must say I agree with them - sometimes you see slave boys with those tiny, open-ended rings for ornament, and I think they're a bit 'twee'. But these rings from the magazine are really different - they're much larger diameter, they're really heavy so they'll be that reminder to you, and once the doctor has put them in, you can't take them out as they'll be completely closed."

The doctor interrupted at this point saying he was ready to begin, and he was holding a syringe in his hand. "Good!", Billy-Joe told him, "But we don't need that stuff - Steve's a tough guy - or likes to think he's a tough guy - and a little pain whilst you do the ringing isn't a problem for me."

"Oh, very well, you're his owner, you know best. Now - before I start, I need to arouse his nips. Shall I do that, or are you more familiar with the body, sir, and wish to do it as you presumably usually do?"

Billy-Joe didn't usually touch me there, as when he did play with my body he always went for my dick. But as usual he didn't want to be seen not to be "in the swim", and said "No, of course I'll do it - there's no one knows a slave's body as well as his owner."

He grabbed my left nip between his thumb and forefinger, and started to roll it around, and tug at it, pulling it away from my pec. I tried to wriggle and squirm, as I'm really sensitive, but all that happened was that the restraints cut into me. I shouted out - I couldn't help it - when he squeezed particularly firmly, and Billy-Joe slapped my face, hard, and told me to stop whining!

My nip was erect, of course, and Billy-Joe indicated it to the doctor, who nodded. He quickly painted some antiseptic on with a cotton swab, and momentarily I felt the chill as the alcohol in it evaporated, then before I could hardly think, he did something with an instrument, and I screamed out. I screamed again when he withdrew it, and he stood there looking at the bloody needle he was holding: but this was no ordinary needle, not like the tiny things you use for sewing. No, although this one started thin, it was kind of tapered, getting thicker and thicker towards the handle. He'd just plunged it through my tit and pushed it on in to make a wider hole. This was only a momentary pause, though, as he did the same to my other nip (which had erected and swollen in sympathy with its brother and hadn't needed Billy-Joe's ministrations).

"There!", he told Billy-Joe. "The pilot hole. For these big rings I'm going to have to make it bigger - you're lucky your slave has such pronounced teats, as you just couldn't do this to some of the slaves I get in here. Now this will hurt him - I'm going to use a special tiny high-speed drill with a very sharp bit to go through the hole I've just made and actually open it up, drill out more of the flesh. Are you sure he shouldn't have the anaesthetic? Look, if it's the cost, I'll throw it in free.... "

"How dare you!", snapped Billy-Joe. "How dare you even suggest hat I can't afford your fees! It's not the cost at all - if there was a problem with this slave I'd pay any price to have him fixed up. But for something like this, it's unnecessary - I don't believe in pampering slaves, and, anyway, I particularly want this one to remember his ringing, so that every time he sees them, or they jog up and down, he'll remember the pain he suffered in order to please me. It's sometimes too easy for these slaves to forget who actually owns them, and a little pain every now and then is a salutary reminder of who's boss. Go ahead, please.... But perhaps we'd better gag him to avoid disturbing your neighbours....?"

The doctor nodded, and a standard rubber bit was offered to me - I had to open my mouth and take it, as they would otherwise have squeezed my balls to cause me to open up - and the straps were tied behind my head.

The drill was smaller than a domestic drill, but from the whining noise it was making I knew it must be rotating at very high speed. The doctor held a wooden block behind my tit, then simply pushed the drill through the pilot hole, and, yes, it did hurt. It hurt possibly worse than I've ever been hurt before. It hurt more than the whippings. As much as the branding. And there was blood and bits of my flesh splattered everywhere when the thing was pulled out.

He drilled my other tit then, and I shrieked once more, although the gag stifled it. Actually, it's somehow satisfying to really let go like that - a man can't cry out normally, can he, in case other guys think he can't take it? But once you're gagged, you kind of lose that inhibition - I think it was good to be able to scream at the top of my voice, without them really knowing I was a coward, as it helped me to bear the agony I was in.

Threading the big heavy rings through my bored-out nips was painful, too, and the doctor used a kind of pliers to close up the ends, making them perfect circles, after first wiping the surfaces with some sort of adhesive. "There", he told Billy-Joe, "A really good job...."

Billy-Joe leaned over and flicked them up and down, almost experimentally. Then he held the rings and slid the around, through my flesh, hurting me again as the blood had just started to congeal. "Excellent!", the doctor commented, "You'll need to do that for the next few days as the flesh forms scar tissue around the wound, as you want the rings to be free-moving."

"Have you decided about the other one we discussed?", he asked , conversationally.

"Yes, I've decided to go ahead. I agree with the stuff I've read that a good ring should be visible at all times, even if the slave is clothed - not that that's normally at issue with this one!". He laughed, almost conspiratorially.

"Right - but we need to make a few more preparations. It's really important he doesn't move...."

What the fuck was about to happen? I didn't like all this talk of rings that were always visible even when the slave was fully clothed - oh shit, they were going to put something through my ears, I bet! My suspicion was strengthened when the doctor produced a kind of big clamp from a cupboard, and screwed it into a fitting at the back of the chair. The two sides of it went around my head, just above my ears, and after he'd screwed it closed so my head was pretty immobile, a leather strap joined the open ends together, across my forehead. When this was jerked tight I absolutely couldn't move my head at all, either from side to side, or backwards and forwards, or up and down.

I was wrong again. The big silver stainless-steel tool he produced (rather like a pair of pliers, but with ends shaped like those cherry-stoner gadgets you can buy: a spike on one side, and a small circle with a hole through it on the other) wasn't destined for my ear lobe, but for my septum! He pushed the open ends up my nostrils and fiddled around for a moment or two - I could "smell" the metallic tang of them, I felt sure, and it made me desperately want to sneeze. Then he moved and kind of braced himself, put both hands around the ends of the device, and squeezed with all his might. I heard, and felt, a kind of scrunching as the spike punched a hole through my septum, and then smelt and tasted the salty tang of the blood that started to stream out form my nose. The doctor pulled the pliers out, and dabbed up my nostrils with a tiny cloth soaked in something - something that stung like hell and made me cry out again, but which seemed to staunch the bleeding.

There was a third ring, bigger even than the tit rings, but in the same shiny stainless steel. He pushed and prodded it to get it into my nose and through the hole he'd made, and down the opposite nostril, and all the time thrills of pain went through me as my sensitive membranes reacted to its presence. Then a dab of glue, and the other pliers to close the ends up, and he turned to Billy-Joe and said "done!".

He wiped my blood off his hands with a fresh towel and said "You know, sir, the only thing that surprises me about this is that you haven't had him ringed before. It used to be the done thing to ring the noses of slaves who were being studded - as I understand you do with this one - they say it makes them easier to handle, as you can just put a hook on a stick through it and lead him along to the studding bench when he's cuffed and blindfolded."

"I'll have to consider that", Billy-Joe told him. "Although the studding's died off a bit recently - I think he's covered all the available brood slaves in the immediate area. But if you hear of any of your clients who want to lighten the colour of their herd a bit, be sure to refer them to me - the fees are always useful, and this one has a good track record for fertility, and there aren't a lot of pure whites available for stud."

"Will do, sir. Now, the bill..."

"Can you add it to the Colonel's account for the estate?"

"Certainly."

What a cheap skate, I thought. Having all this done to me, and then getting the estate to pay. Still, that was typical, wasn't it? The doctor undid the clamps and straps, and I was able to stand up. It immediately felt "wrong" - the weights in my tits, the way that the cold steel hung down on my upper lip. I just stood there, dumbfounded at what had been done to me - I thought that after being collared and shaved and branded and made to prance around naked, there was nothing left: now, inked and ringed, I began to see that there was almost no end to what an owner could command for his slave.

I got my first experience of running with the rings in, then, as we headed for home. Not only did it hurt as the rings teased my skin that was trying to heal, but the constant stimulation of my tits had another effect - I threw bone after bone, as I'm sensitive like that. I don't know if that was what Billy-Joe intended, or if he genuinely only wanted me to be ringed for "display", but I can tell you it's probably the ultimate humiliation: having to run naked through the streets when everyone else is decently clothed is one thing; running naked through the streets with a massive erection is another. Even the townsfolk who'd got acclimatised to seeing my body naked now stopped to stare in open-mouthed amazement at the sight of the huge tattoos, and my constantly erect dick. It's awful to try to run with an erection, too - it waves around and up and down, and it makes you ache for hours afterwards. The constant motion also stimulates you, and for the first few days I stood there and blushed as tiny threads of pre-cum fell from my dick on to the roadway - Billy-Joe who had previously tethered the rickshaw to convenient lampposts now tied me directly - he had a chain with a clip on both ends: one went to my nose ring, and the other closed up the end of the chain once it had been looped around some convenient object.

You need to try it before you can understand just how it feels. Everyone else is in jeans, Ts, dresses, shorts, and so on, and you're buck naked. OK, you've got a fantastic body, and all the men are envious of your wide shoulders, flat belly, muscled thighs, and bubble butt. But that doesn't compensate for being the only one totally naked. The only one with huge tattoos saying "Slave" on his body. The only one attached by a ring through his nose to the nearest lamppost. The only one with an erect dick drooling pre-cum. I just stood there with my head bowed, wondering when this was all going to end.

END OF PART 20