You Can't Be Friends With a Slave

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

Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

OLD ACQUAINTANCES

Those of you who follow the Gladiator Games will of course know exactly what master Rafe had planned for the slaves. And I suppose most of you have watched it at some time or another, even if you're not true aficionados - although it's estimated that over three quarters of the American male population do watch it at least ten times a year. We've never been off the air since that first season. I think it's that unique combination of things that makes it so immediately appealing to the audience: the men are all good looking, young, and fit. Even the ugly, old, fat and out of condition like to dream that they could have bodies like that. They fight naked, of course - officially it's so that you can replay the motion slowly, and see the skill of the moves (we simulcast on ten channels, each one from a different angle, so that whether you like butts, dicks, faces, pecs, or whatever, you can always find just the scene you want) - but I think it's because of the appeal at some deep level to that primeval part of every man who likes to believe that totally alone, unaided, without any fancy props or anything, he could take on the world and win.

And then it's the excitement of seeing the end of the contest, especially when it's a "new boy" who hasn't fought before. No one can doubt that these fights are for real, not faked, when they see the look of anguish on the loser's face as his vanquisher forces his dick up the guy's ass.

At first the Christians violently opposed it, and petitioned the stations, and held vigils outside Congress... All the stuff they always try to do to stop people enjoying themselves. But we won through - the amount of money involved was just so huge.

That first day, though, with our small band of slaves, all of this was still in the future. After breakfast, I drilled them, until master Rafe came out and inspected them briefly, then told me to put them through the showers and get them all properly trimmed and shaved. "You know how well enough, Steve! The same look as you - cropped hair, neatly trimmed pits, just a nice pubic bar, shaved ass and balls.... You can leave hair on their bellies and chests, but no hair on their backs." They'd none of them done this, and the easiest way for me to teach them what was required was to strip off and get in the shower with them, and then do the first slave myself. I insisted they did each other after that, though, as it's really important for team building that men get to really experience their fellows, isn't it?

They were all looking much more presentable, like proper slaves, by the time the doctor arrived. The local blacksmith appeared shortly afterwards, and master Rafe came out and told me to cuff the slaves. He whispered, so they couldn't hear me, "We can't risk them revolting, Steve, and they're not going to like this..."

I lined them up and cuffed their hands behind their backs. The first slave we'd bought - I never asked his name, as it's best not to personalise the slaves you've got to sometimes punish harshly, I think - didn't seem too happy about it and his body was stiff with tension as I snapped the cuffs closed. I stroked his dick, put my mouth near his ear, and said quietly "Look, this is going to be tough. But you can take it. You're a tough guy. Just hang in there."

He was one of the ones who had to be 'skinned, along with two of the others, and after they'd heard the first one scream as the doctor cut into him, I had to be quite forceful in getting the other two onto the table and holding them down. I suppose I agree with master Rafe that a slave needs to remember special occasions like that in his life - I certainly still remember when they took my 'skin - so, as in "the old days" (actually only a few years ago, when I was done), the doctor was told to do it without anaesthetic.

It was the branding that caused the biggest problem, though. They none of them expected to be branded, and when I held the first one down as the "S" for slave went on his arm above his SIN tattoo, his screams sent a shock wave through the others. The blacksmith had set up a small portable coke hearth, and I had to really threaten the slaves to make them take it in turns to pump the bellows that made the coke glow white hot, and heat the iron to the high temperature you need.

We did all the arms before we started on their butts. Actually, if you think about it, it's easier to do butts - it's really hard to hold the arm of a struggling slave perfectly still so that the brand gets a good, crisp edge. But it's much easier with the butt - you just lay him on a standard flogging horse, spread his legs and cuff them to the rear legs, then jump astride him and sit yourself down in the small of his back - he really can't move his butt at all then, and the blacksmith could do a really great job in holding the iron in so that it seared through into the deeper layers of muscle for a really long-lasting brand. Mind you, I got a badly scratched back as some of them feebly scrabbled with their cuffed hands against me, as if that would make any difference.

Even I was shocked, though, when I found out what was going to make out fortunes. As we all watched, the blacksmith got a heavy iron anvil out of the back of his truck - I saw his muscles heaving with the strain of lifting it down. It was a warm day, and with the heat of the coke forge and everything, he was just wearing a leather apron that covered his chest, belly and thighs - from the back he was entirely naked, and it was somehow very erotic to see his big strong butt and back muscles straining like that, as a contrast to his completely covered front. It turned out the anvil needed to be so heavy as there was an attachment that bolted onto it, using huge, industrial sized bolts that he strained to tighten very securely.

"Sir, I'm ready for the first one", he told me, and as it didn't matter which, as all of them were being processed the same, I just took the first slave standing there, who happened to be the first slave we'd bought. He was shaking, unable to control the spasms running through his muscles, but was silent. "See", I said, to encourage him as we walked over to the blacksmith. "You've survived so far, as I told you you would. Hang in there, bud, you know you can take it..." I really don't think I'd have been as optimistic if I'd known what was coming!

The blacksmith almost threw the lad to the ground and opened the attachment on the anvil and forced his head in. He turned a handle, and the slave's head was, I realised, held in a giant vice. He fiddled around a bit - you needed it so tight that the slave couldn't move his head at all - but not so tight that the jaws of the vice left a permanent mark on the side of the head (or, as happened to one unfortunate slave some seasons later, crushed the skull completely).

The blacksmith got out a battery-powered saw, and stood there, sawing off the slave's collar. I was astonished, as I knew that all slaves needed a collar as a permanent mark of their slavedom - you could after all always tell a free man from a slave, just by looking at his throat.

"Master, what's going on?", I asked Rafe. Well, I was allowed to ask questions now, wasn't I? I want a real slave any longer, even though I knew he was my master.

"They're going to be fighting, Steve. They can't be collared - it would be too dangerous. An opponent could hook his fingers in, and start to strangle the guy. So no collars, in their own best interests."

"But master, the slaves need to be collared - that's how you tell a slave."

"No, Steve. The law just says that a slave must be recognisably such, even when fully clothed. Most people think that's done with the collar - but watch! I've had my lawyers go over it, and this is equally good... And you know I have very good lawyers.... Look at what they did for you."

At that moment the blacksmith called "Sir, we're ready. Could I ask you to sit on the slave's legs, sir? Although his head is completely immobile, I don't want to risk a muscle spasm causing him to twist so violently that he breaks his neck."

I squatted down on the nicely-muscled thighs of the young slave, and patted his dick encouragingly.

Well, you know all about the famous "GG" brand, don't you? Actually, if you look closely, you'll see that each "G" is enclosed in the open loop of the more usual "S" of a traditional slave brand. It's a registered trade mark of ours, of course, and that's master Rafe's real genius - the public expect that all slaves who fight on Gladiator Games will be burned with the GG on the left sides of their faces, but we own the trademark! So all the slaves who fight come from our establishments, or other places have to pay us a hefty fee to use it. We were the first, we innovated, we set the public's expectations, and we've continued to reap the rewards of our innovation.

Still, it's not pleasant to be there, up close, when the whit-hot brand is pushed into the slave's cheek. I've never got used to it, not after all this time. In fact, I try to be out of the office on the days when a new batch of slaves is being branded. That day, though, there was no avoiding it - the smell of burning, charring, singed flesh, like meat that's been left too long on the barbecue. The terrible scream of the slave - even the two brands he'd already taken have not prepared him for this. I can't speak from personal experience as my face has not been done, but I know how the shoulder and butt brand hurt: having watched it so many times, I can attest to the fact that every slave I've seen it done to finds the cheek branding far, far worse, though.

I don't think master Rafe really knew the risk we were running, either - or perhaps we were just lucky, or perhaps he did know, and decided to go ahead knowing that another slave could always be bought for a few thousand dollars. You see, if the brand isn't done just right, there's the risk of spitting into the slave's eyes, that can cause loss of sight. Or you might burn out the jaw nerves, so the slave is left with his lower jaw permanently down, and he drools constantly - not a nice sight for the TV viewers. Or if you're too vigorous, you can burn right through as the cheeks is relatively thin, not like the big muscles of the arm and the butt, and that spoils the whole effect.

We got through all of them without mishap, though - still, luck often does favour those who are prepared to take risks, doesn't it? And master Rafe told me to lock the slaves in for the rest of the day, as it wasn't fair to expect them to do more exercises until they'd recovered a bit.

Most of them were in a pretty bad way, of course, twitching uncontrollably, crying and sobbing, and some had been unable to control their bowels and were streaked with their own shit. It was only kind to clean them up a bit, even though the shock of the water on their brands caused them to cry out again.

Look, I've never condoned cruelty to slaves. I'd never employ an Officer Hughes to take his own pleasure out on slaves who were not there for that reason. I'm never cruel or violent to a slave who's serving me, just for the fun of it - it gives me no pleasure to hit a slave without good reason, or to order a whipping, or whatever (unlike some masters!). I felt pretty badly about how we'd treated these guys, and it took all of master Rafe's powers to remind me it was in their own best interests - now they could be totally naked, without even a collar, and still be proper legal slaves: no one seeing the brands on their cheeks could ever now mistake them for free men.

Actually, it's been part of our success. As I've said, we always pick pretty handsome young guys. And from one side, they retain those virile good looks. But from the other side... Well, a brand on the face somehow turns even the mildest looking slave into a harsh criminal type. No one seeing one of our fighters from his branded side could possibly doubt that he's a cruel, vicious fighter, who wants to rip his opponent's ass open! I think it's this Jekyl and Hyde disposition of these two facets of the slave - the boy next door, and the hardened cruel miscreant - that so fascinates people. I saw some statistics recently of the numbers watching the simulcast channels, and there are almost as many folks tuned to the face cameras as there are to those focussing on the dicks - even when the final fucks are in progress.

I was really uneasy as we talked that night, but master Rafe was reassuring and told me not to worry, as they'd soon get over it. "You, most of all, Steve, should understand that any physical pain like that soon dies away - you have, after all, been branded yourself." And he was right, as usual - two days later, even though they looked terrible and were not nearly as capable as they'd been on the first morning, I had them out running to start them on a proper programme to build their fitness. Mind you, the physical pain goes, but the emotional scarring of having your flesh marked at the command of your owner can last a lifetime: but, I suppose, that's why we do it. I certainly only really began to understand slavedom fully when my own 'skin was cut, and I was marked.

Master Rafe and I divided the taking of their cherries between us - in fact, we still like to do as many as we can, as we think it does the slaves good to know that the owners of the business really care about the type of slave we're buying, even if we haven't been able to oversee their selection personally as we're a big organisation now. We still do it the same way - both of us together, each with a slave under us. We don't compete or anything, well, I don't, but master Rafe is of course very competitive and if I'm going for a long, slow burn, he tries to cum after me. And if I'm just doing a quick, workman-like fuck, he tries to cum before me!

I don't know much about fighting, so master Rafe hired in an ex-marines sergeant, who'd been made to resign for some reason or another. He certainly knew how to fight, though, and his method was brutally simple: he went into the training pit with a slave, and beat the shit out of him. And it went on day after day, always the same moves, until the slave learned by experience how to counter them. He's still with us, and he's not a sadist or anything - he just likes to use his body for fighting, much as I like to use mine for gymnastics and running. And he takes big risks, of course - sometimes we get ex-marines as trainees, guys who've offended an officer in some way and have been court-martialled: then it might be him that gets the shit beaten out of him, but he doesn't mind. "All that's important, Steve, is that the slaves learn to fight, and entertain the public. I don't mind the occasional black eye, or broken rib: it means I'm doing my job properly", he once told me.

Our pilot programme - how amateur it all now looks - convinced our backers that they had a runaway success on their hands, and they pumped more money in. We expanded, built more dorms, hired more instructors, and bought more slaves. Master Rafe kept telling me how well it was all going - our company owned the basic rights, and the Gladiator Games brand. We were going to be rich.

As the operation grew, I got more and more dissatisfied, though. I wasn't a deal-maker, like master Rafe, who thrilled to be shouting down the phone all the time. And although I worked in a big corporation after graduating from college, my life as a slave had shown me that I was more interested in using my body than in driving a desk. I worked at first as the chief physical training instructor for the slaves, but master Rafe didn't really like it: he wanted me near him. He was still absolutely the "hands on" manager, and liked to be all over the place, watching everything, correcting everything, changing things that weren't right... He wanted me to ride around with him, but I've never really liked horses. Well, it didn't take a genius to find the ideal solution, did it? I went back to pulling him in his rickshaw.

It's a really great way to get around, as the driver, sitting high, can see everything that's going on. And with an intelligent puller like me, all master Rafe had to do was to say where he wanted to go, and I did the rest. A lot of the new employees, and almost all the slaves, never knew I was a free man - somehow not having a collar was almost "normal" on our place, and when they saw the huge words "Slave Steve" tattooed on me when I pulled off my T in the warm weather, they naturally just assumed I was a slave, especially as I called Rafe "master" all the time.

I never thought I got enough exercise, though, and when master Rafe needed to go it to the bank to sign some mortgage papers or something, I insisted that I pull him in the rickshaw as I needed a good long run. As fate would have it, that was also the day that Billy-Joe was parading up and down the main street showing off his latest fad - he was being carried on a palanquin carried on the shoulders of eight huge muscled blacks. Even Billy-Joe hadn't been able to find eight clones, but he'd done his best: they were as alike as its possible to get men to be, especially if you strip them of all their hair totally, polish their bodies so that the glint of sun of them almost hurts the eyes, and then give them huge gold rings in their ears, noses, and nips; then you cinch their dicks and balls out as far as they can go (and it almost looked painful), and finish the whole thing off with heavy Prince Albert rings protruding from the piss slit!

Even the townsfolk who were now used to Billy-Joe's infantile displays of his wealth seemed to be impressed, as he was, I believe, the first to consider using a litter instead of a rickshaw. And certainly none of the slaves in town usually had PA piercings. But their stares all were directed at master Rafe and me as I jogged steadily and unfussily down the main street towards the bank.

Look, I suppose it's obvious now - but they all knew I was a free man as it had been in all the newspapers. And they could all see that I wasn't collared, so even if there had been any doubt, they could at once recognise that I wasn't a slave. But I was pulling a rickshaw! The thought of a free man doing a slave's job was just so amazing that the at first couldn't adjust to it - then whilst master Rafe was in the bank, I heard them whispering and talking about how rich and powerful he must be to be able to make a free

man act like a slave. They started laughing at Billy-Joe who squandered money on slaves and rings and stuff in a pathetic display of gauche vulgarity, whereas master Rafe's exercise of wealth and power was so much more subtle, so understated, so "totally now", as I heard one kid say. Billy-Joe heard this, too, and commanded his litter home, without even calling in at the club. Master Rafe wanted me to join him for a drink, of course, but I didn't want to go in - I mean, I was hardly dressed for it, was I, as I'd just grabbed a pair of slave shorts to run in as we'd left home. And, anyway, it was a nice balmy evening, and I wanted to relive old memories, and didn't mind standing there patiently, waiting for him as I had done before. This only increased his reputation, of course, as the members arrived and left for an after work cocktail, and saw me standing there patiently. As if by reflex, I'd clasped my hands neatly behind my back, and bowed my head.

It hadn't been totally satisfactory for me, though, as I just hadn't worked hard enough. I ran fast on the way home, and at the dreaded hills I tried to keep up the pace, but of course my body betrayed me. I felt so frustrated, as I just wasn't getting the satisfaction from my muscles that I wanted. Then I knew what I had to do. I stopped, walked back and looked up at master Rafe, and took the whip out of its holster. I handed it to him, dropped my shorts, folded them neatly, and put them in the luggage holder. Bowing my head, I aid "Please, master... Please make me run properly, as a slave should... I can't do it myself, master, I need you firm hand to make me."

"Cut it out, will you, Steve! Look, run bollock naked if you like, you know I like looking at your ass. But none of this whip stuff."

"Please, master Rafe..."

"No, Steve!"

"Well, master, then I'm afraid we're stuck. I can't make myself move without feeling the touch of the whip. And I believe those new boots you were so proud of this morning are a bit tight... Do you want to walk five miles home, master?"

"Manipulative bastard, Steve! I could use my cell, and call my car..." He was laughing now, and so was I.

I stroked my dick, so I was erect, and said "Whilst we wait for the car, master, shall I fuck you? Fuck you hard? Pull you down off there and fuck your brains out? Take you on the grass at the side of the road, take you without any preparation, take you so you squeal with pain as I force my way in?"

"Oh Steve, please don't... I'm scared, Steve, scared of your dick, please don't fuck me now, Steve. Do it properly later tonight, after you've lubed me with my cum..."

We were both smiling as we joked like this, so I went on "You'd better whip me, master, to prevent me from fucking you... To make me stop thinking about ravishing you... You'd better whip me master, even if only lightly, to get me moving along the road again, master..."

So he did. And I knew that once he'd started, he wouldn't be able to stop. His light blows to my shoulders soon became sharper ones to my butt, then harder ones to my thighs, then slashing, curling, vicious swipes to my butt again. And every time the whip hit I surged forward, I gave more power, I ran faster, my heart speeded up even more, my stride lengthened as if that could stop the punishment. I fell into almost a trance of ecstasy as I experienced the road flying under my feet.

When we got home and I took the whip from his hand and helped him down, he looked at my panting, sweating body, with the red lines of the whip marks criss-crossing my back, butt and things, and looked shocked at what he had done. Then the look of shock turned to lust, pure simple naked lust, the desire to possess me, to dominate and control me in bed as he had just done on the road.

Did he tear his own clothes off in his desire to fuck me, or did I tear them off him? How did we make if from the front door to the bedroom? And who fucked who first? Who first sank his teeth into the delicate flesh of the others throat and shoulders? Who shouted and screamed the loudest in the frenzy of their passion? I don't remember, and, actually, I don't think we even knew, or cared, at the time. As we lay gasping in each others arms after all our passions were spent, though, we agreed it was the best session we'd ever had in bed. Master Rafe was very worried later though, when I'd rolled over onto my belly in order to get to sleep. He turned on the light, ran his hand lightly down my back, and whispered "Steve, I didn't mean it... I didn't want to do this to you..."

"Yes, you do, master. Once the whip was in your hand, you wanted to use it. And I wanted you to use it, master. I want to use my body, to give you everything I have, to give you that extra part of me that my body holds back against my will, until you drive it out. Please, master, don't deny me the satisfaction of giving you everything I have. I'm your slave, master, you know that, in spite of not having a collar, and I want to serve you completely."

"No you're not, Steve." He'd gone deathly serious now, and I lay there, scared of what he might say. Had I gone too far in revealing things about himself that he might prefer not to know?

"No, you're not my slave, Steve. You're my friend. We're buddies, remember? And you can't be friends with a slave, Steve. So you'd better choose, buddy... Which is it to be?"

Tears were rolling down my face as I rolled over, sat up, and gently took his face between my hands. I bent forward to kiss him, and he felt my tears. At once, he brushed at them lightly with the tips of his fingers, then with the tip of his tongue. Then he kissed me, and took my head in his hands as I had his.

Looking into my eyes, and fixing me with his uncompromising gaze that occasionally felt as if I was looking directly into his brain, he whispered "Oh Steve, I'm sorry... I've really hurt you... A real friend wouldn't force you to make that choice..."

We made love again, and it was completely different - slow, sensual, touching, caring. It was as if our bodies were fused into one. And I did not have to tell him my answer. Was he making it easy for me to avoid the answer? And was it as a true friend, or as a a wise master? Or did he even know that I would have told him had he let me get around to speaking when I first held him so gently? Or did he know, and did not think he'd like what he heard, so I needed to be silenced before irrevocable truths were told? You never know with human relationships, do you? These questions are impossible to answer, really, so is it perhaps best just to move on, knowing that they seemed vitally important at the time, but that as the years passed and as our relationship, complex as it was, deepened and strengthened, it would not matter anyway?

That first year we were so busy in starting our business and in making it successful that we hardly had time to care about events in our own locality. They were happy times, doing things together, and knowing that what we did was for our mutual benefit. So I was shocked when, on the way back from the city where we had been to sign a new sponsorship deal for the second season of Gladiator Games, we went past the Colonel's estate (I still thought of it as that, even though he had of course been dead for some time) and saw big "For Sale" boards at the roadside, and that the estate, usually so totally immaculate, was looking rather rundown - there were even weeds sprouting through the gravel of the long, sweeping driveway. I commented to master Rafe as our limo swept past that I never thought that Billy-Joe would sell up - his place in our local society, such as it was, depended so much on his owning that beautiful house and vast estate.

Master Rafe always took a more lively interest in local business, though, and explained it to me. "I think you told me, Steve, that the Colonel was always complaining about costs, and was always keeping Billy-Joe short of cash, and asking him to curb his extravagant habits...?"

"Yes, but I assumed that he wanted his son to give up his dissolute ways...."

"Well, it turns out there was a real cash problem. The estate was only just profitable, and that was when Straughan ran things really efficiently, and the Colonel's tastes were modest. Even then they relied on 'good old fashioned Southern ways' to scrape by - they could delay paying bills for a month or so, wheedle discounts from suppliers, and so on. It takes a lot of money to support all those slaves - about seventy, didn't you say? And they were mostly non-productive as they were waiters, gardeners, that kind of thing... You didn't actually produce anything?"

"Well, the vegetables were sold..."

"...and I guess they paid for the local taxes, just about. I think the Colonel was mostly living on his inherited wealth, drawing on his savings all the time.

And that's disaster, you know - the more you take out from your savings the less there is to generate income, so the more you have to take out the next year.... I guess having Billy-Joe squander money all the time did no good, either, although it was kept in check when the Colonel was alive as he kept a tight rein on the purse strings."

Master Rafe settled himself more comfortably in the luxurious seat, and I rested my thigh against his, to feel him close to me. He paused, and went on "So I guess the bubble has burst - Billy-Joe just can't afford it any longer. I suppose there would have been taxes to pay on the Colonel's death, and with his extravagance unchecked.... I mean, how much do you think those identical twins cost him - tens of thousands, I'd think - and then those eight useless blacks carrying his litter.... Anyway, I read in the paper last week that he was being sued for debt, and it was such a tragedy, as I hate to see those old places broken up, and over something so trivial, as well."

"How do you mean?"

"As I said, the estate always relied on paying bills late, that sort of thing. There was something really stupid - the cable fee, I think, just a few dollars - that Billy-Joe just tossed to one side to pay later. Then, as he was so chaotically disorganised and was occupied with his latest toy, he forgot. They wrote to ask for the money and he ignored it, then they said they'd take action in the courts, and I heard him say at the club that they were just a load of ignorant Yankee pen-pushers and didn't understand the ways of a gentleman... Anyway, their computers automatically spat out a court order for payment, and then the sky fell in: once that was registered with the court, it was "seen" by all the other big companies the estate did business with: the electricity company, the gas company, water, slave chow suppliers, everyone in 'modern' business. And their computers, fearing their bills would not get paid, automatically applied for court orders for payment, too. If only he'd just acted normally and paid the cable company, he might have carried on for a few more years. As it was, he's having to sell up: prices are low at the moment, and there's not much call for ornamental slaves, or gardeners, or waiters...."

"What's he going to do, do you know?"

"He seems to have dropped from sight. He hasn't been around the club since it all blew up in his face - I suppose it's not the done thing, for a 'Southern Gentleman' not to pay his debts."

As I said, we were frantically busy, and Billy-Joe's problems quite slipped my mind. I caught a glimpse of him one day a couple of weeks later when I'd just pulled master Rafe into town - he looked dishevelled, was now driving himself in a small, old car, without even a single slave as chauffeur. He was coming out of the liquor store with a huge package. I thought he looked even more unfit than usual - he seemed to have ballooned in weight, and his face was an unhealthy, pasty white.

A week later we were just leaving the main auction rooms after successfully looking through the stock destined for the mines, pleased with our purchase of a young Slav who had been enslaved for entering the USA illegally. He was actually a real beauty: naturally hairless, except for a tight black bush around his big dick, and with deep black eyes that seemed to cry out "fuck me." As master Rafe said, once we'd branded him, and he looked more dangerous and thuggish from one side, he'd be completely irresistible; and guys would be creaming themselves over the sight of his wonderfully muscled, rounded butt.

I heard "Steve please.... Help me!"

I looked around, as I thought we were the only men in the viewing room as the auction wasn't until the next day, and most people leave off inspecting the goods until the morning of the sale. Then I heard it again, but the room still seemed still to be empty. I put my hand on master Rafe's arm to stop him, and looked around again: no, we were alone, and it didn't seem possible that one of the thirty or so slaves arrayed for pre-sale inspections would have dared to speak. But then I saw him, about five slaves along: Billy-Joe. But a Billy-Joe I hardly recognised.

Gone was his usual neatly combed hair, and now he had a standard slave crop. He'd been collared, and, as was customary, his wrists were shackled to the back of the collar so that he was available for display. It was no longer the fashion to exhibit stock totally unclothed, and so he had the standard tiny loin cloth hanging down in front, but his flabby body was otherwise there for me to see: the bulging gut, the pecs run to fat so that they looked like embryo breasts, the heavy thighs veined and creased as he stood there. He didn't hold himself tall and proud, like some of the other slaves, but kind of slouched with his shoulders drooping and his whole posture saying "loser".

I turned and went up to him. He smiled, that ingratiating smile he used so often socially, and said "Steve.... Please... Help me...."

"Billy-Joe... What happened?"

"Those Yankee vultures, Steve. Applied for payment of all their debts. I had to sell the estate, and all the slaves, and still they wanted more. So they made me bankrupt, and I'm being sold, as just about he only asset left..."

Master Rafe came up now, and looked at Billy-Joe standing there in abject misery. But Billy-Joe ignored him and carried on "So please, Steve, help me... Buy me, or something... They say I won't sell so I'll be shipped out to the mines... Please, Steve, help me..."

"Forget it, Steve!", master Rafe said. "He's not worth it. Look at him - fat, unfit... He's right, I don't expect he'll sell. Folks want energetic, good-looking slaves, and there's lots to choose from here." As he spoke master Rafe pulled aside the tiny loin cloth, and grasped Billy-Joe's dick. He continued "This is about his only asset... You were always complaining it was so long and thick that it really hurt you. Pity about the rest of him..."

"He used to be like me, master", I explained. "When I was captain of the football team, he was just about the second best looking guy in the squad."

"You mean, after you?"

"Of course!"

"Well, that shows you, doesn't it, what a good healthy life as a slave can do for you, Steve? Come on, we're late, forget it...."

"Steve, please!" Billy-Joe sounded desperate now, and pulled forward to the edge of the platform, until the shackle around his ankle restrained him. "Please.. Help me! We were roomies, buddies... You're my last chance... Please help out a friend, Steve."

"Hey, Billy-Joe... You were always telling me 'You can't be friends with a slave'." I put my arm around master Rafe's shoulder, and we walked out together, companionably.

End Of Part Twenty Nine.

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

Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

PONY SLAVE

I was tossing and turning in bed that night, unusually, finding it difficult to get to sleep. Master Rafe threw one leg over my butt and one arm over my shoulder and pulled himself close to me. Pushing his face close to my ear, which was just about uncovered by my arms as I lay there, he murmured "Steve, he upset you today, didn't he?"

"Who?"

"Billy-Joe. He upset you. You didn't like seeing him like that. I can always tell when you're upset, a you don't drop into that sleep of the dead you always have, and lie there keeping me awake! Now, come on, what's the problem?"

"Well, Billy-Joe and me... We were roomies at college.

He was in my football team. He and the Colonel were good to me - invited me down here in vacations, showed me a life I didn't know. He was my buddy, a friend. And I don't like seeing him like that today, as a naked slave, up for auction..."

"You can't be friends with a slave, Steve, you know that. Look, just forget him, right? He was a bastard to you later - reneged on the voluntary enslavement, raped you, used you as a naked pony, studded you for money, and then sold you off when he was tired of you..."

"Yes, but I think he meant well... He did think that the voluntary enslavement thing was the way out for me, but when it went a bit wrong, well, he just didn't work to correct it. And at every turn it seems as if he would have done the right thing if it wasn't for the money, or whatever... He's one of those guys with masses of good intentions, but who can't follow through, I guess. And, anyway, we shouldn't think too harshly of him: we wouldn't be together now, and I'd be sitting in my office, with my 2.4 kids...."

"...instead of the fuck knows how many 'breeds you sired!", master Rafe cut in. "So you're feeling guilt, or gratitude, or something, are you? And I suppose you want to buy him?"

"Well, yes. And I knew you wouldn't agree. And I hate arguing with you, master..."

"Look, Steve, he'd be useless around here. He's fat, unfit, he's arrogant, and thinks the world owes him a living...."

"But he wasn't always like that... He was a really good football player, a real team member..."

"You mean he needs direction, a strong hand to tell him what to do."

"I suppose so."

"Well, I can't stand you thrashing around all night. Look, we'll buy him, if that makes you feel better - it will only be a few hundred bucks at most. But I want you to train him, and train him properly: no favours, no 'Steve, old buddy, this...' and 'Steve, old buddy, that....', you understand?"

"Master, do you think I'm totally stupid? Look, I owe Billy-Joe something, and I'm paying him back by saving him from the mines. But that bastard used me very badly, and I am going to get my revenge... I sometimes think you don't know how tough I can be..."

He smiled, and kissed my ear, something I find incredibly sexy. "Oh yes I do, Steve. I know exactly how tough you can be when you want to... I've found out often enough, when you're in the mood to really fuck me whether I want it or not...."

I didn't go to the auction myself, as we were busy, so placed my bid on the phone. As master Rafe had predicted, he was cheap - two hundred and fifty, I think (plus taxes and commission). They shipped him to our place along with two other bucks we'd bought for our real business, and as the three of them were unloaded and stood there naked, looking around, you couldn't help but see the contrast between their sleek fitness and his bloated body.

We branded all three of them the next morning - but Billy-Joe only got the one on his shoulder and the other on his butt, as I decided to leave his face clear: he was too old to take part in Gladiator Games, how ever much his fitness improved. And, of course, I had him circumcised, like all slaves, reminding the doctor that it was unnecessary to anaesthetise him. I was a bit ashamed for him, actually: the two other slaves bore it all with fortitude, understanding that it was their lot to be marked and 'skinned, but Billy-Joe blubbered and cursed and shouted and cried all the time.

I deliberately stayed out of sight all that day, but the next morning I went on my usual tour of inspection (although he thinks he's a good hands-on manager, there are things master Rafe just never sees, and I make sure that they're covered!). When I'd finished, I stood in the training yard and told one of the guards to bring Billy-Joe out.

He shambled out from the dorm building, then saw me and looked totally astonished. "Steve...", he called out, and came over.

"It's master Steve, Billy-Joe. Surely you know how to address a free man - haven't you heard enough slaves in your life...?"

"But Steve, I'm your buddy..."

I nodded, and the guard touched him lightly with a discipliner. He fell to the ground, crying. I waited a few moments and then looked down at him as he lay there.

"Listen to me, slave, and listen well, as I'm going to tell you this only once. You're not my buddy - a free men can't be a friend with a slave, as you often told me But I feel I owe you something, and I'm going to do one thing for you that you need: I'm going to give you back your body."

He squinted up at me. "So Steve... Master Steve.... You're going to free me?"

"No, Billy-Joe. You're my slave now, and will be for as long as I choose to keep you, and then I may sell you. No, I'm going to give you back your body. You drink too much, and that has stopped. You're overweight, and we'll soon starve that off you. And you're unfit - but our trainers here are used to getting the best out of slave muscle. You used to be a tough, fit, football player, with pride in his body, and you are going to get that pride back. I'm going to give you back your body, a proper man's body, one a guy can be proud of."

"But master.. The brands, and the 'skinning..."

"There's nothing to be ashamed of there, Billy-Joe. A good body is enhanced by brands, and a skinned dick looks better when it's flaccid, in my opinion. Now, this is the first day of the rest of your life.... I'll see you again in a month."

As I said, we have good trainers! And a month later, when I told them to bring Billy-Joe to me, I was truly impressed - there was that football player again, but older, of course. He stood there, in the proper "rest" position, his head bowed and his eyes cast respectfully down. His muscles looked good under his tanned hide, and when I told him to shrug his shorts, I was pleased to see that there were no tan lines.

"You know what's next, don't you, Billy-Joe?"

"No, master."

"Traditionally, this is the time I'd take your cherry - have you strapped across a flogging horse, and fuck your hole. But I've fucked you often enough, Billy-Joe, and I'm going to skip that step. So it's straight to work. Follow me..."

He went to pick up his shorts, but I snapped "Leave those!", and we went outside.

I didn't want Billy-Joe using "my" rickshaw, the one I pulled master Rafe in, so I'd ordered a new one in the latest style. He stood there, looking at it, and I snapped "In between the shafts, and close the wrist restraints!"

"Please, master... I'm naked. Please don't make me run like this..."

"Billy-Joe... you're not naked! Don't you remember? A slave is never naked as he's always collared. A collar is all the clothing a slave needs , Billy-Joe."

And, of course, later that morning I had to remind him that he did need to be whipped, as otherwise I couldn't ensure he returned to me those extra percent of his effort that a slave's body involuntarily holds back.

I don't usually go to the club in town, but I did that day. As I shackled the rickshaw to the hitching post outside, ensuring Billy-Joe couldn't move as he was manacled to the rickshaw, I patted his butt as one does an animal, to say "well done."

"That was a good pull into town", I told him. "But when I come out you're going to find it a little harder, as it's uphill almost all the way back, and I do like you to keep an even pace. So I'll need to encourage you, just a bit, with the carriage whip - I was just sizing up your butt to see how much I think you can take. But perhaps we'll find that out as we go along..."

I went up the steps, turned, and looked at him. "Oh, and by the way, the doctor is coming tomorrow. It will be easier to tether you here next week, once your nose ring has been fitted."

As I write this memoir, those events of almost thirty years ago seem almost real, as real to me today as they were then. But perhaps that's because the experience of slavery, and the branding, and whipping , do burn indelibly into your brain.

I didn't write this for publication, but to please master Rafe, the master I still love and respect. Since he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's five years ago his grasp on our current times has steadily weakened, and he spends more and more of his time living in the past; a past that, as I now recall it in my writing, now seems so simple, so innocent, somehow.

We have pressed together in bed talking softly into the early hours of the morning about each chapter as I finished it, and it seems to comfort him: perhaps by expressing my own recollections of those times it shows him once more that he's not alone; he has a companion as he once again spends his time treading those past highways and bye-ways that are now all his brain remembers. He's started on a journey from which there's no return, but I know he understands that his faithful Steve, his pony, will always be there by his side to help him along.

Even with our enormous wealth there is still, sadly, no cure for this dreadful affliction. Other than a few small bequests to close business associates, when my time comes my fortune will pass to the charity that still struggles to find a cure for this condition that is cruelly, little by little, taking the master I know and love away from me. I am totally in charge now, both of the empire we built arising from Gladiator Games, and of course of master Rafe's life. But then, as perhaps readers may not always appreciate, I always was, even if in the eyes of the world I was a slave, and then the junior partner in our venture.

In the complex interplay of relationships that govern how two people think and act, there is no simple way of understanding who is "master" and who is "slave". The "slave" subtly manipulates the "master" to do the things the "slave" wants, and the "master" modifies his behaviour, even if he doesn't realise it, to satisfy the "slave". I think master Rafe and I came close to understanding this after he had "set me free" (in the sense that legally I was again a "free man"), when I once more started to pull his rickshaw. Who was in charge? Who was really controlling who? Master Rafe, cracking the whip, or me, giving him the whip to crack? I don't now know, if I ever did, and it no longer matters: master Rafe and I had a relationship, a lifestyle that suited us both. I usually deferred to him, but there were areas where he prudently did not go.

So there we have it. Once day, when I have more time, when, as I know must happen one day soon, I will be truly alone, I will tell you more. Late at night, with an empty space in the bed beside me, I will write again. About how master Rafe's brilliant innovation in creating Gladiator Games fundamentally changed our world. In giving disaffected youth an outlet for their energies, he removed most of the causes of that discontent and desire to destroy that sweep over many men in their late teens and early twenties. Both of us were astonished when the first free men started to apply to appear in "the Games", and I think we were wise to insist that the only route to entry was enslavement. The "GG" brand on the cheek has become a mark of honour, and men are proud for the world to know that they were courageous enough to give up everything; to bear the agony of branding and the loss of their freedom to be able to do what man always has needed to do: to fight, to conquer, and to win. And how better to do it, that totally naked, stripped of all artificial devices and aids, just two men, pitted against each other in primeval combat?

But all that is, as I say, for another day. I need to go to master Rafe, to slip again into those days of our youth, and to help him believe that the world he now inhabits is the real one.

One day, I will write the further history of Billy-Joe and me, and of how many of my sons have fared (yes, the desire to discover that was too strong: there's something fundamental in the human condition that requires a man to understand what happened to that seed he planted, even when the planting was unwilling). But, as I have said, that must come later. Please, readers, do not write and ask me for details. I need to focus on the present, to conserve my great strength for the corporate battles, and the more personal one which I fight daily with the failing mind of my beloved master.

Steve Harris.

From "The Times", electronic edition, 7 June, 2XXX

"Friendship", By Steve Harris

It is perhaps not surprising that Mr Harris's book has stormed to the top of the best seller lists in every continent, and has been translated into over eighty other languages within a month of its first publication. Readers might have been drawn to it expecting to hear of the epic battles fought in the boardroom and the courts that turned a simple TV programme into the dominant force in today's society. But after the first page they will have discovered that this intensely personal memoir is not about that at all, but about the love of one man for another, a love that transcended all kinds of obstacles in early twenty first century society.

Mr Harris has no clear answer to those issues that still confront modern man: what is "friendship", what is "love"; who is a "master" and who is a "slave"? His unrelenting honesty in telling us of his feelings and revealing to us his innermost thoughts is simply astonishing: few other major public figures would, we suggest, dare to expose themselves to the spotlight of public scrutiny in this way. We are used to autobiographies of politicians and so-called "celebrities" where the difficulties are glossed over, and where we hear little of the protagonist's true feelings: not so for Mr Harris, who seems unashamed of any facet of his personality. Perhaps Mr Harris's experiences in running naked through the streets as a slave have given him an inner strength, and lack of concern about the opinions of others, that we can all envy.

This book is one of the classics of the English language, and, we suggest, it will be read long after "Gladiator Games" is forgotten (although that seems unlikely to happen). Mr Harris has already been nominated for the Nobel prize for literature, and we earnestly commend this book to the distinguished judging panel, and to those of our readers (probably very few), who have not yet read it.

THE END Pete Brown, petebrownuk @ yahoo.com London, and various European cities, April-June, 2004.