Rebuilding a Gladiator

MASTER-SLAVE BONDING

Wow! This afternoon I get married, I, uh, connect with three of my four masters, I get some gigs and a new playmate, I FaceTime the warlord that owns me, the owners and Boss Henry tell us how Hardwicke Co turned hardass, and we start gladiator training.

Mike tells me I remember what guys did, especially to me, better than what anybody said because my Marine muscle head uses muscle memory. No pain, no memory. That makes these last couple chapters -- mostly what got said -- way harder to remember and write. Mike says I'll get better, produce quicker. He'll help. Like the cane n blacksnake that got me into the chair to write this.

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WHERE WE LEFT OFF IN 13

Even in a mess hall half-full of mostly naked construction studs, me n Mike (he wants me to write, Mike and I) get whistles in our gladiator straps -- more thong or tanga, like a bodybuilder's posing strap, than bikini, with an uplift loop in the pouch around the balls and dick. Mike's a heavyweight gladiator, 6'3" 230 lb, I'm just over middleweight, 6' 190 lb, both solid, tapered muscle. Then too, even for slaves our hides look abused. Mike has 11 blacksnake cuts from last night's competitive initiation; l have 12 from that plus a half-dozen from yesterday morning and a couple dozen from this morning, not to mention yesterday morning's bullwhip (Chapter 11). And both our butts must glow purple from gettin caned by our guys this mornin, then strapped in a blowjob race (Chapter 13).

Just before we walked in, Mike proposed by blacksnake, blacksnake broke me, as my fiance and master. Cold shower could've lasted longer. Deodorant, sunscreen. Clean glad straps. Little head still shows interest. Mirror shows I look like a hamburger jigsaw. Walk into the mess hall. LOTS more looks, whistles, hands-on attention to all our blacksnake stripes, uplifted pouches, caned, strapped glutes, plus the tanned, toned muscles underneath.

Keep a straight face; look straight ahead. Get our trays through the line. Find the table with the owners, lawyer Jon, n my four guys. Plus overseer Pete and Dr Shrink (from this morning's testing and career counselling).

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INTRODUCING THE BLACKSNAKED BRIDE

All our crew -- slaves, owners, attorney Jon, Dr Shrink (from our career testing that included dick-monitoring) -- stand up to welcome me n Mike (Mike and me). Our four guys -- my 23-year-old lifers Jamie n Darren, their 18-year-old indentured kid brothers Luke n Demon -- know we've been practising their initiation events tonight, but they eye my latest stripes. Mike says I've just made him the happiest man in the world by accepting his proposal to marry him. Jon, the owners, and our guys all wrap around us. Hug, squeeze, swat, pinch. Congratulate us. Dr Shrink stands back but smiles.

I should reintroduce our owners. Hardwicke Co's Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore own Mike. Mr Kraus, who owns Kraus Co, owns me. I own Darren and Jamie outright and their brothers by indenture. That is, my offshore trust owns them. Mr DD, Demon and Darren's dad, and Mr JL, Jamie and Luke's dad are both directors too. (Chapter 12).

Jamie asks Mike if he gave me a ring. 13! The dozen y'all see plus one that y'all don't (the titanium ball ring). The dozen they see are wraparound blacksnake welts; actually another pair too. Guys laugh, squeeze, swat, pinch.

Congratulations, you two studs, Mr Hardwicke says real proud. Private ceremony just for us, between gladiator practice and dinner.

Mr Whitmore asks if me n Mike want to wear shorts and overseer muscle shirts to help initiate the guys tonight. Mike says I need to show my stud stripes; besides, the Hardwicke guys expect to see what our initiation did last night. Everybody else laughs. I blush. Maybe as red as the welts.

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CAREER COMMITMENTS

All of us except head overseer Pete, who Mr Whitmore said had his regular work, meet back in the office. Dr Shrink stands by the monitor, goes over all the results. (Chapter 13) Team profile. Gladiator suitability. Blaster suitability. That we'll all train and qualify as master blasters in about six months between this company boot camp and the guys' school term next fall.

The team profile impresses all us guys. This morning maybe I didn't understand it the way I do when all the guys talk about it. Nobody'd ever told me I was brighter than three out of four other dudes -- top quarter or 25% ranked by aptitude. Always just heard that I had to sit still and talk better (French at school, English in the Marines and now with Mike). Mike says this score validated me, but his top 10% still dominates my top 25%. Jamie and Luke got validated too, top quarter like me. Darren and Demon kinda smile at their top of the lower 50%.

The guys all got their results private from Dr Shrink before lunch, while Boss Henry's bullwhip drove the owners through an easy run, Pete's bullwhip drove Jon and Mr Kraus through a hard one (Jon won), and Mike's blacksnake was proposing to me after a short, easy run.

The guys talked with their dads before me n Mike came down. Getting to become an architect thrills Luke. The architecture tech, estimator or engineer tech, eventual OVERseer really turns Jamie on because he'll design kewl stuff, natural overseer who'll drive other dudes to build it.

Their dad, Mr JL, says a 12-year contract is worth it, and he's very grateful to Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore. He'll work out with Jon how he can contribute to their tuition and books without messing up the ownership percentages. Start with what the gladiator stable paid him for Jamie when he had to sell his firstborn (but at least the County let him do it without convicting Jamie, and let the dad get the money).

Demon, Darren, and their dad, Mr DD, all look forward to the stud meatheads (Mr DD's words) as bricklayers, masons. Demon will extend for the 12 years.

Jon sums up what could happen after the 12 years, too (Chapter 13). Demon and Luke eye the big brothers that they may end up owning. Or all four might get free plus Mike, so I'd be the only lifer. Mike my trustee as well as my husband, my whip hand, my master. Mike holds my thigh real tight, real possessive, like my husband, my whip hand, my master, my next trustee. Unless we go to that place in the mountains with my warlord.

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JON'S COMING OUT

After their bullwhip-motivated runs, Jon and the owners look great, especially for older free men, in their gladiator straps. 23-year-old overseer Pete's back shows a dozen fresh bullwhip cuts, so he looks kinda like I feel. This comes from their three-way match, when overseer Pete drove 38-year-old attorney Jon and my 38-year-old black owner, Mr Kraus, with a bullwhip. Jon came first, so he beat Pete in the run and after, then fucked him. Mr Kraus finished second, fucked Pete too.

Jon looks like a misbehaving hardass slave with yesterday's 12 bullwhip cuts on his naked torso (he took half what I should have gotten, then got over-endorphined and got the lashes doubled) plus six cane cuts like me (Chapter 11), then 10 cane cuts from the owners (Chapter 12). The owners show a few bullwhip tracks each, random patterns, meanin Boss Henry motivated their runs. They got what Mr Hardwicke calls phase one of a gladiator-owners' orientation. Before today's two gladiator practices.

Mr Hardwicke says the men met Dr Shrink, and he went over the test results with each one, but they still need to talk with their owners -- their dads.

We sit down. Jon sits down carefully. He's not used to getting caned, and the gladiator strap leaves his caned glutes directly on the wood bench.

I ask him how crew practice went. He blushes but laughs. He had to wear yesterday's slave collar until the owners changed out of their suits just now. Pete didn't leave the tool to open it when he drove Jon and Anne home last night -- or Anne didn't want to use it. Anne is Pete's sister; she's carrying the son I impregnated her with after her body twice rejected Jon's offspring.

So Jon wore yesterday's slave collar to his eight-lawyer-plus-lawyer-cox crew practice. He wore a warmup suit to drive there, collar up, so nobody noticed. But his slave collar, bullwhip tracks, and cane cuts cracked up the locker room. All the crews, not just his. He tried to explain that he represents a gladiator team, which is true, and that he got oriented, which isn't quite. He started to take half of what the slave barracks wanted to give me, like I said, but got overendorphined and wound up matchin my 12 bullwhip lashes and six cane cuts.

The cox recognized him as the naked slave who took a dozen bullwhip cuts next to me, holding a pullup position, in yesterday's Slave Steve's Greatest Hits.

His crew made him row in just a thong, not shorts, and no shirt. (No two-strap jock because you want no strap between the working part of the butt and the seat.) They made Jon stroke, sit facing the cox so the cox could snap his chest with a belt. The guy behind him said Jon inspired him, and he thought Jon's caned glutes made Jon sit better on the wood bench. They want him back like that every day, with a proper whip for the cox. Jon wants to dress more lawyerly. His team say they'll, uh, see.

He wants me, Mike, Darren, and Pete in the boat for the lawyer-client regatta. Says we'll wear gladiator straps.

Mr Whitmore asks Jon if he thought his crew buddies might sign up for weekend warriors, train like gladiators with gladiators. He agrees straight up. Rowing crew is physically demanding, physically competitive.

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NO HEAD SHOTS

Mr Hardwicke says the other men might wonder why they'd invest so much in gladiators, guys who're gonna fight, when most gladiators end up punch drunk, useless, under bridges or down mines. Most gladiators end their fighting careers from getting knocked out, concussed, too often.

Did he mention yesterday that Hardwicke gladiators won't take head shots or give them? When their regular guys fight, company policy has always prohibited head shots and punished it severely, way heavier than just fighting.

The companies that they're talking with about a gladiator league agree because they want to keep their workers working too. They expect our working-stud crews to draw enough, sell enough tickets and ads and TV and pay-per-view time, that the gladiator stables will agree to get our guys into their stadiums on our rules.

So what if a guy hits a man's head anyway? Three obvious consequences: forfeit, get flogged, get kicked in the nuts while he holds his protector cup in his teeth. Unavoidable accident, shake hands and fight on. If the hit's an avoidable accident and the other guy gets up and checks out okay, just the kick, to even the rest of the match. If the hit's intentional and the other guy can go on, kick plus flogging. Match end means forfeit plus kick plus flogging.

So we'll have no-headshot fights. Our dudes are fucked up enough as they are. Slaps my blacksnaked back.

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INKFREE ZONE

Mr Hardwicke asks if I mind if they erase my dudes' slave-number tattoos but leave their gladiator name tattoos on left shoulders front n back plus dick. Laser this Friday. Their left delts will be a little tender for a couple days.

Sir! No Sir!

He says Hardwicke Co's been an inkfree zone since his dad's time, except for any small service tattoos like a couple Eagle, ball, & anchor of the (Marine) Corps. Everything else goes -- tropical sunsets, gang IDs, manga stories, Disney characters, ex-girlfriends or boyfriends, bad-dude shit like Fuck off on one dude's forehead. Boss Henry?

Sir! Until your granddad retired and your dad took over as president and made me head overseer, we ran kinda like a turn-of-the-century civilian prison. Dudes organized by gangs, tribes. Baddest bastards were overseers because they scared every other dude into line, kinda. That made it quiet for the owners but not very efficient or effective. The overseers' least favourite dudes worked too much; got scared too much; got abused too much. Their favourite fuck buddies slacked too much. All this shit made it hard for a man to care about his work, hard to take pride in it, hard to take pride in the company he belonged to. Men need to belong to what they're proud of.

But your dad, Sir, wanted it run more like what he learned in the University of Alabama business school, the same one he let me graduate from -- and more like the Army Airborne you and Mr Whitmore served as majors. We broke the gang culture by removing all the gang tattoos, plus all the rest. The skin sore after lasers boiled out the ink got the men's attention. For a while. No ink makes lash marks show better, too. Dudes take pride in their shape, stand taller.

I talked private, confidential, with every man. I fought, flogged, and fucked every overseer, every lead hand. Six-four, 250-lb ex-all-Southeast Conference defensive linemen helped. So did coming from outside the jail-gang culture. Demoted the overseers, lead hands that knew intimidation but not construction. Sold the worst as experienced construction overseers, experienced construction lead hands to outfits that still ran that way.

Bonus was our trademark fit, tanned, barechested workforce. Proud prime beef do prime jobs.

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HARDASS CREW, HARDASS OWNERS

Mr DD and Mr JL, the outside owners, ask how Hardwicke Co got so hardass military. So does Mr Kraus, my owner, who owns his own construction company. (I asked this our first morning -- Chapter 4.)

Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, his co-owner, look at each other, shrug, ask Boss Henry to explain. Boss Henry's the head overseer, sergeant-major. He's my other master in the company (Chapter 10). He's Mr Hardwicke's and Mr Whitmore's master too (Chapter 13).

Boss Henry tells us about a new slave's traditional initiation, pretty much like what Mr Kraus described this morning (Chapter 13). The slave started at the slave bureau, where he gets oriented with cane, strap, tawse, flogger, and bullwhip. Probably S-branded, slave-number tattooed. Shoot for the lab. Get skinned or circumcised if he wasnt already. Then the naked cage ride to his new home. For life. Becoming a slave punishes him, like his future life. The new slave ended up here the way losers used to go to jail.

Here at the company, unload the naked loser. The head overseer and the new dude's crew chief used to stand the flogged, sore-brand, sore-dick bastard up in the mess hall, flip a coin. In Kraus Co, it's Mr Kraus and the head overseer. Heads bullwhips, then facefucks while tails canes, then buttfucks. That's the part the other guys see.

Then the head overseer used to take the naked dude to another room, blindfold him, and put him on his knees with all the overseers standing around him. Maybe lead hands, senior slaves too. Naked blindfolded dude gets tawsed from one dick to the next, sucks em all, maybe gets fucked and caned or flogged. This shows the dude he's a worthless cocksucker. Might make him easier to manage. But it didn't build a proud hardass construction stud.

That's pretty much how Mr Hardwicke's grandfather got me here for my initiation from the Greyhound, Boss Henry said. My full premium orientation including the 12 bullwhip lashes plus the lifer's brand, number tattoo, and dickskinning. No blacksnake stop, though, and I already had my number chip.

Boss Henry ran the company after Mr Hardwicke's father and brother got killed by that drunk dumptruck driver, while Major Hardwicke and Major Whitmore were deployed with their US Army 82nd Airborne, until they could get back to Ft Bragg, get discharged -- and get oriented. Major Hardwicke commanded a combat infantry battalion. He recruited Major Whitmore, brigade logistics officer, as half-owner to help run Hardwicke Co. Wearing suits, shades, and cowboy hats against the sun, they visited the company with some random dudes, like visiting Chamber of Commerce types, maybe prospective customers.

Boss Henry explains that Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, the new owners, believed they should experience what their men did, the way Army officers did. Especially Airborne officers. The new owners told Boss Henry to show them the operation from the bottom up. That's how the six-month bootcamp started, rotating the new dudes through all the operations to see where they'd fit.

For the story that Boss Henry picked them up in ratty jeans and t-shirts (that they still like to wear) at the Greyhound station and took them for beer and barbecue. Then he drove them to Slaves R Us and the back room, where random men learn blacksnaking by practising on random naked dudes.

Two buff Army Airborne dudes, Tom (Hardwicke) & Jerry (Whitmore), made prime targets. They learned for sure that Boss Henry's the top blacksnaker, and they collected the stripes that made the Hardwicke men believe Tom & Jerry were indeed two hardasses the Army wanted smartened up in the baddest indenture.

When they looked well tenderized, the staff stuffed em back into their cages to ride to the slave bureau for processing. They used their real fingerprints, eye retina scans, and Social Security numbers but not their full names. They were already skinned, from West Point, and no brand, no number tattoo. But they got their number chips. Plus the premium orientation -- 12 cane, 12 tawse, 12 strap, 12 flogger -- instead of just the basic six. The blacksnake welts showed they understood the bullwhip, so they skipped bullwhip, there. They shot for the lab too.

After the naked cage ride here, Tom and Jerry looked rougher than the buggers that got the full bureau process. They looked right sorry. And they felt like they looked. They got introduced to the company with the traditional initiation as lowlife cocksuckers. One of Boss Henry and Boss Big Dog bullwhipped and facefucked, and the other caned and buttfucked.

Then those two overseers blindfolded the newbies and put them on their knees in a room where the other overseers and lead hands tawsed them from man to man to feed them dick. This showed the new men that they were worthless except as cocksuckers. They weren't construction studs.

The morning after their slave-bureau orientation and first company initiation, Boss Henry still marvelled, Mr Hardwicke told me to set up the initiation like y'all's (Chapter 3). Cane tawse quirt flogger bullwhip, six each, to show the new dudes that the company and its men mean business, to show them that the new dudes mean business. That mostly duplicated what the slave bureau did to the incognito owners the day before.

Now we orient the dude here first, like Darren, Jamie, Luke, and Steve got their first night (Chapter 3). Register at the slave bureau the next day, like Steve did (Chapter 9). Most men get the strap there too, the way Steve did, because we don't usually use it. Shoot-for-lab, get skinned. Usually no brand or number tattoo, as Mr Hardwicke explained earlier.

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JUST THE TWO OF US

Mr Whitmore says the men and their owners (dads) need to talk. So me n Mike (Mike and I) should go break in our new cell. Next to Pete's, our names on the door. Gladiator straps (thongs) off, stay here; hot lube on.

Mike's titanium ring around my ballsac stays here. His thumbprint opens it. It's light, smooth. I'd almost forgotten except for a dull ache now it's off. Wow! Balls miss it.

Boss says, stay close on the way -- Mike hugs, squeezes my left shoulder (he's 6′3″ to my 6′); I hug, squeeze his right glute. Smile at the dudes that smile or whatever at the two well-whipped horny naked studs. Shrug, say Gladiators if anyone asks. Talk only about why and how you want the other guy to fuck you.

Mike says he wants it lyin on his back so he can see me, see the face he loves, and work my trained, blacksnaked shoulders pecs tits. I show him I'm stud enough to own my stud husband and master. (My offshore trust will own Mike after my first five years hard labour with Hardwicke Co). Show his hole my dick's stud enough to ream him right. Man enough to cane his cold pussy hot enough for my hot stud dick. Okay ... This is the husband and master who just broke me with the blacksnake our owners gave us

I say I want the full-nelson fuck so I can feel his strength, feel his bullwhipped chest on my bullwhipped, blacksnaked back, feel his voice. And if there's a mirror ...

Flex our RFID chips into our new cell. Stand to face each other. Your hands on his shoulders. Your eyes on his eyes. First dick up, fucks.

One more time, I win. Or Mike lets me. Or my dick wins because I need to fuck my new blacksnakin master more than he needs to fuck me. This time. We have to stay competitive, even though he's my bigger, stronger, older whip hand who may become trustee of the BVI trust that owns and my men . We'd both hate me if he won everything, every day. Try to forget that he may have let me win.

He stretches n flexes on his back. I stand on his right side. His flex, his look stiffen my rigid dick. He crosses his ankles, hauls em way overhead, flexes his cold-pussy hamstrings n glutes. His 20 cane cuts this morning from us five guys, plus the strap from our blowjob contest (Chapter 13) leave his ass looking real ugly. I swat, hard, pinch, hard. He smiles. I step over to grab the tawse instead of the cane, step back, flex, snap, practise ranging swings. His free right hand takes my balls, pulls me closer. I adjust my stance and rangin swings. He says, Don't pussy me, draws n flexes hamstrings n glutes. My hot lube gets hotter.

My tawse surprises him, damn near splits him open. I said CANE, boy!

Sir! I'm protecting my valuable property, the earning power of whose ass I don't want damaged. It's fired enough now that just my hand, like THIS! (HARD!), should fire YOU. But if this TAWSE don't get you hard enough, hot enough for my stud dick, in 24 cuts, cane it is. Sir! (as the tawse lands along cane tracks midglute)

Mike makes one of his evil grins. Boy! If your pussy tawse don't get me off, your pussy ass gets the cane for real.

He grins, compresses my two balls to the size of one real sharp. I pivot around the balls to land a shot that makes him twitch. He holds the balls real solid but sexy. I tell him, count hits till he shoots. Not quite one, Sir, he grins. Tighter on my balls. Sharper, on the tawse. Each stroke, but mixed with some brainfucking handwork on and around. Swing! Bite!

Damn! I'm into this, both heads n every muscle. When I caned Darren in training, that was work, not fun. Hurtin people don't turn this Recon Marine on. Protectin em does. When I nailed Mike n Demon their four cane cuts this morning, Mike had to provoke me into abusing him. I tawse damn hard. Mike shoots. I rub him nice, snap him another six. Hurts more after shooting. He breathes hard, says, Sir! Ready, Sir! Kewl to hear him call me Sir. Kewl I got him off doing what he needed, not what he said.

Good stud! I mount, drive in. Punishment fuck but with hot lube. He wraps his knees over my shoulders, around my leather neck. Squeezes there in time with his hand that's moved onto my glute, off my balls. This is how I like to drive.

Wow! I feel connected. Partly because we connect physically, me in him, his strong shaped legs over my strong shaped shoulders, his hands on my tits, pecs, shoulders, my hands on his massive chest n shoulders n biceps. We don't talk much but we sure communicate. Don't look much in the mirror, don't need to.

The man of my dreams is on my happy dick. His strong pecs are in my hands. I zone. I feel safe, secure -- the way I never did in my Recon Marine deployments, the way I never did in the Philips Fuckers & Fighters gladiator stable.

Mike rips off my tits (damn near). Eh, BAW-EY! I ain't no SQUEEEEZE toy. This ain't how no stud slave ramrods his stud master, BAW-EY.

Fuck! Sir! Yes, Sir! Pull out, head above sphincter. Deep breath. Use his tit rip to drive deep, hard, WAY inside. Again. Again. If his hole feels like my dick, he's ramrodded now.

That all you got, pussyboy? My tits yell goodbye.

Sir! No, Sir! Out. SLAM in and down. Slam his hand onto my balls too. Didn't notice when that hand moved.

That all you got, pussyboy? My tits yell goodbye.

Sir! No, Sir! Out. SLAM in and down. Slam my balls. Mike twists his face, head. MAYBE I score. Sir! One, Sir! About fuckin time, Sir! Harder. Sir! Two, Sir.DRIVE with everything from ankles to ears. Dick maybe don't enjoy it. Sir! Three, Sir! He shoots again.

I score. What a frag (whole-body orgasm). I collapse onto him, my mouth onto his. His legs slide off my shoulders; his hand releases the balls and traces my chest muscles up before it and the arm wrap me; my dick eases out of his ass.

When we can talk, he says when he got picked up from the quarry where our old Phillips Fuckers & Fighters gladiator stable disposed of him, he rode a slave cage what felt like all day through the mountains to our local Slaves R Us for blacksnake training with attorney Jon, overseer Pete. He recognized Jon from when Jon n Anne had me n Mike fight back at the gladiator stables. (The winner (me) fucked Anne, became the father of their son, then fucked Jon. What Jon explained in his cage ride with me yesterday morning, after he got bullwhipped with me at the slave barracks. Chapter 11. Y'all see why I have to work to write this out.)

First thing Mike asked Jon wasn't about himself, his cage ride, or where he was or why. He asked Jon, how's the fucked-up hardass (me) he didn't know he loved until I was gone.

Mike asks if I know what we'll do in our cell. I say fuck, maybe sleep. Mike laughs, twists a tit, asks what else. I look at the pullup bar on the wall, the one across the room, dip handles, weight bench, say we'll train too. He'll train me. He grins, nods at the rack for our whips and other implements, twists the tits the other way, asks me what HE'LL do. I say he'll master me. That means flog and fuck.

And what else? he grins. What about the two-man desk on the far wall?

Okay. He'll fuck me over it? Right, stud. What else? Remember we work there too? What do you (me) have to write? Okay, these stories that he'll motivate me for. Then they sprung me

What about studying for the master-blaster and millwright-apprentice? Right.

And you'll help tutor our guys and other Hardwick studs in the math parts of their GEDs (high-school equivalents) and apprentice and college courses.

Fuck! I hope I don't look, sound as dumb as I feel. Me? Tutor dudes? In math?

Damn straight, stud! Remember our aptitude test results this morning? Just remember to use English, even if it's redneck Marine English, just not Canadian backwoods French. He's got me puffed.

He asks what I want from him. I say his strength (makes me feel safe, proud, horny). He asks what else. I say his respect. He nods, says damn straight. What else?

Sir! I hope your love, Sir! He nods, says Damn straight. What else? Boy!

I blush for the hundredth time today. Sir! Your whip and your dick, Sir!

Why, stud?

Sir! Because they help you master me, help me know you master me, make me remember my master when I feel em later, make me feel strong, make me feel safe. Even loved. Sir! Fuck! This ain't no Recon Marine, like I'd always wanted to be, like I was for 10 years. Not even a gladiator, like I was for almost five years. Still learning who I am now. What I am.

Mike pulls me down into a hug, looks me in the eyes, knows what I'm thinking. Steve, you're the toughest, strongest, most competitive, hardest-assed, and hardest-headed stud ever. I'm DAMN proud you're my stud. When we hit the gladiator circuit, the Marines will be as proud as I am. Damn! Hard again.

Then he stumps me again. Question. When you and I do our full-nelson fuck and flog, who fucks you, who flogs? Don't say I'm the boss so I decide. I need to know who'll turn you on.

Sir! YOU fuck me, please, so I feel your strength. With a mirror so I can SEE your strength too. Darren would flog me okay, like a job. Demon would get off on it more but he's smaller than me, don't (doesn't) have a history with me, don't have to compete with me. Luke would blacksnake me, do it well enough, as part of taking care of me, relating to me. Jamie would do me best. He needs to outcompete me. (Fuck. Pole grows when I say this.) Jamie would give his left nut to blacksnake me into next week. When can we get him qualified, Sir?

Mike says they'll qualify Jamie and a spare, but Jamie's my man. Jamie's my whip hand for playtimes. Wish this didn't make me harder.

Let's practise, stud. Face me under the bar. Grab it palms to me (that opens the pecs for him), pull up and hold it, close your eyes and keep them shut. Zone on my voice.

I wish this didn't turn on both heads and everything between. Sir! Yes, Sir!

Count em, stud! Tell me where they hit, where they hurt. Shoot on six.

Brace, boy! Blacksnake whines, snaps to my left. It doesn't hit me, but it jolts me as though I feel it. Sir! One, Sir! It hovered left shoulder to right tit, then snapped n bit, Sir!

Brace, boy! Blacksnake whines, snaps to my right. Sir! Two, Sir! Right shoulder, right pec, left tit, Sir!

Three more. I flex, feel, bark. I feel number five wrap left pec, left tit, right tit, right pec,

Brace, boy! Number six. Blacksnake whines, snaps to my right. Sir! Six, Sir! Right shoulder, right pec, left tit, Sir! I shot when he said to.

Mike says keep my eyes closed, keep hanging on. I hear the whip drop. Then he wraps around me, pulls me down, my tapered muscular chest to his massive one, three inches longer than mine. My dick next to his, mine through his thighs, his through mine. (Our legs and arms are the same length, so we fit to full-nelson-fuck, but he's three inches taller than me.) Damn! Just his holding me like this feels awesome, keeps me hard. I work not to get my dick off between his thighs.

He says I need Jon to reprogram me so when someone's persuading me I don't have to hold out for six lashes before I shoot, say yes. Mike and the owners can blacksnake up to 36 lashes me to persuade me to agree to something. Jon says not to agree before six,

Sir! Six is the lowest number to persuade me, Sir. Three and five are odd numbers so I couldn't take fore n aft. Four's unlucky, sounds like death in Chinese and Japanese. Why condo towers in Vancouver and Toronto go from floor 3 to 5, floor 13 to 15. And I can't just always say yes, Sir! Damn! Makes me harder.

Seems like forever but too soon when the intercom calls us to shower. Mike rubs me hard but says don't shoot. Grab clean gladstraps and hit the office. Maybe I glow: the dudes we pass grin.

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ALL THE WHIPS N DICKS MAKE ME FEEL SAFE

Mike says the owners, overseers, and our crew need to hear why I feel safe, when every dick, every whip has my name on it.

Sirs! No random dude has me in his rifle sight. Especially while his buddy does something to a woman or kid that I'll try to stop. No random dude fingers his cell phone while he watches me walk past the North Korean antitank mine that he's buried in camelshit. Like what I lived with, lived through for 10 years Recon Marine.

And nobody will throw me away, like the Recon Marines did me, like the gladiators did Mike and Darren.

Y'all have taught me that y'all's whips n dicks are tests of manhood that won't kill me. Won't cripple me. Just make me belong.

Like I told Boss Henry, I don't WANT your whip (unless I'm endorphin buzzed). I don't want your dick (unless I'm endorphin buzzed). But whoever's man enough to give em to me, I'm proud to take em.

Fuck! I hope this makes sense, Sirs. Besides, Mike will marry me and y'all are investing in me -- fight me as a gladiator, hire me out for stud service, train me for driller n blaster, train me for millwright, work me DAMN hard. Make me stronger. Make me hornier. Y'all will protect me to protect my earning capacity. I'm still learning. I'm proud that studs like y'all want to own me, Sirs. This makes me harder while I blush. Fuck!

==================

JON & ME NXXXT

Mr Hardwicke says the owners need to talk with Mike about his hard-labour career in banking or construction management (Chapter 13). Jon and I make the same walk, same session, that Mike and I did. Fresh hot lube, balls dicks holes. Wear nothing else.

Jon mastered me Saturday -- he fucked and whipped me after he outran me. But he became my master, the first man I belong to, when showed he committed to me by getting bullwhipped with me at the slave barracks (Chapter 11), like I said. (Mike says, as I said.)

Jon holds me real tight, even tighter than Mike, says he envies Mike. Says he wants me to fuck him on his back, like Mike said, so he can see and feel my strength. I say I want his full-nelson fuck, like I told Mike, so I can feel his strength all around me, feel his bullwhipped chest muscle on my bullwhipped, blacksnaked back muscle, feel his strong rower's body dominating and supporting mine, feel his love and his strength up my ass, plus I can watch all this in the mirror.

Jon's dick wins, like the way mine wanted. He's 6′2″ to my 6′, bigger, stronger, five years older. Plus he sprang me from the gladiators, got me Jamie, helped me buy Darren, planned out my new slave life, to protect me (Chapter 9. Fuck!). His full-nelson fuck holds me close, makes me feel safe, just like Mike's did when he held me to get blacksnaked this morning (Chapter 13). Jon's expert dick takes us both away, the way he moves me on it. His muscle all looks as awesome in the mirror as it feels, when we look. One more frag, full-body climax. Together.

Jon asks if I miss the blacksnake. Damn! I do, at least in the full-nelson fuck. He works my pecs n tits hard instead.

Jon wants his turn too. Yes, SIR! On his back with his strong rower's legs on my strong slave traps rhomboids lats, hands on my pecs tits delts arms. He feels as awesome on my dick, under me, as he looks. GREAT fuck but no frag.

Still holding me tight with me in him and on top, he asks, You know what's going down? You understand it? He was a psych major before he was a lawyer. I ease in and out, maybe to help me think, mostly because he feels good, looks good on my dick.

Sir! Not really. I know you have me in a slave system -- lifetime indenture to my offshore trust that sells the rights to me through a Delaware corporation. Steve's Studs Inc. I own 40% -- enough to block any change until I get blacksnaked enough to agree. Hardwicke Co owns me n my guys for at least the next 12 years. Mr Kraus, my black owner, leases the rights to me (Chapter 12). I do hard labour under the lash, which I'll love. Mike will marry me, master me, damn near own me for these 12 years. Maybe own me outright after the 12 years. You're my trustee, my first master. Sir!

But I feel fuckin clueless, Sir. Talkin about owners n masters turns both heads on. Wakin up with Luke wrapped around me with his dick in me turns both heads on. Full-nelson fucks with muscles n blacksnakes turn both heads on. I love you, I love Boss Henry, I love Mike. I thrust when I remember, Sir!

Jon stretches under me, flexes, squeezes, says, You'll love your fourth master too, Mr Kraus. (Okay ...) But what do you FEEL?

Sir! Besides endorphin-buzzed, fuckin lost. I can't really remember the Recon Marine sniper who took bad dudes out but who didn't DO dudes. That's who I was for 10 years, who I'd always wanted to be, but I didn't belong. Recon Marines didn't own me. Then they threw me away.

Only Marine buddy I bonded with was Jason. We deployed together my last two enlistments. Now I see he spent all his time with me trying to get into my shorts. Then he turned up as the prick free-man overseer at the gladiator stable. He raped me.

I don't really know the gladiator who fought to compete but never belonged to Phillips Fighters & Fuckers. They held me prisoner but they never owned me. I got to know Mike, Darren, Jamie -- and my mostly naked body. You n Anne sprang me before they could throw me away like they did Mike and Darren. Y'all got me Jamie too, found me Darren where they'd broken him, thrown him away. Then the stable wanted to get me back cheap, for life, with some bogus third arrest and third-strike conviction. Why they put up the Castrate Steve FaceBook page, the Youtube of me in court and the punishment centre. That's what you saved me from, Sir!

Now I'm a slave who belongs to four men. The black one owns me. And that turns both heads on. (I stiffen, thrust, get Jon's attention.) And none of this makes any fuckin sense. Uh, Sir!

Jon says I'm becoming the real Steve. Not #SlaveSteve. He's just a brand to market. Stud Steve. He says men's relations are complicated anyway, belong AND compete AND love. Adding owners and masters fucks it all up even worse. Especially when owners own masters, like Hardwicke Co's Boss Henry masters Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, who own him, like I'll own my master Mike in five years. But Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore master Mike, besides owning him. We'll talk some more. Both heads look forward to that.

Back to getting to know your mostly-naked body, he grins crosseyed while I thrust again. You're a sex object. The trick is to keep that turning you on. That's why you'd rather ride naked in a cage in the bed of your Steve's Studs' truck than drive it. Why you'd rather run alongside it than drive it. You need to feel your body and to know other people want it, want you for it. You don't flaunt it, don't swagger like some military-gladiator types, don't bully because of it, like your Jason did. You stand out because you stand TALL. You're just YOU.

So maybe Jon knows me. But I don't. He says we'll work on it.

He asks if I know why Jamie rags me. Why he used the gladiator stable's guards and slave prods to program me not to discipline him, not to fuck him.

Sir! He's an overseer on the make? I'm his toy, his challenge?

Jon eases me out, smiles crooked. Steve, Jamie wants to provoke you to master him. Visualize. See yourself, feel yourself grab him by the gills, flog him hard front back ass, fuck him up, fuck his ass, fuck his face. Like Mike taught you to cane him this morning. (Chapter 13) He pulls me back in. Hard.

He asks how I compare this construction-stud gig with Recon Marine. Wow! I try to think. I hope what I say makes sense. This hurts more, all the flogs n fucks, but it's more fun and I feel bonded to Jon and my men, Mike, Darren, Luke, and Jamie. Now Demon too. And there's my company master, Boss Henry. My black owner Mr Kraus. Even with all the whips and dicks, this feels way better than captive gladiator did. I'm proud to belong, proud be owned by studs who want me. I don't get bored like in Recon, trying not to get jumpy, waiting for something to happen. Even my body gets WORKED way more, way harder, worked way better than when I was just a gladiator or a Recon Marine.

But my Recon Marine helped make some small corners of the world better, especially for women and children. I'll miss that. He says they may have an opportunity for me, a chance to help women and children in trouble here, too.

He says when we get back to the office, I need to tell them all about the warlord who claims me, because they need to know how to handle that claim. It may make a good cover story for my BVI trust. If anyone finds out there's an offshore BVI trust that owns me for life, we need an answer why. That's the trust that owns my 40% of my Delaware corporation. Nobody but us studs and owners know I'm the beneficiary (Chapter 12).

Intercom hits too soon, again. Shower, deodorant, no sunscreen, clean gladiator straps, rejoin the grinning crew, even Mike.

============

THE WARLORD WHO CLAIMS ME

Jon says, tell us about the warlord that captured you. Fuck! Sirs! The summer before I turned 19, just at the end of my first Marine year. My first Recon deployment. I'd done my basic training, advanced individual training, Army jump school, Recon qualification, Recon unit training, especially sniper, demolitions, and disarming random boobytraps and IED explosive devices. One more job I'd rather do than watch. They gave me those jobs to keep me focused. So I got combat pay plus demolitions hazardous duty pay, but I sent most of my pay as a family allotment to my brother's widow. This was the calmest my dick had felt in hours.

We didn't stop shaving because we'd wear our uniforms, wear dogtags, carry ID. We trained high-altitude in the Rockies, practised 100 words you'll needin Tajik and Pashtun. We deployed in August to that funny place in the western Himalayas where Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and China's Xinjiang all meet. Most people, most places there speak or understand Farsi (like the Tajiks, like the Afghans who call it Dari) or Pashtun (most other Afghans).

A tribal chief I'll call Warlord A was marauding. He set up roadblocks for payment. He robbed crops, not just opium poppies but even grapes and cotton and wheat. He interfered with irrigation systems, cut power lines. The folks he was disrupting worried about stocking up for winter.

The Tajikistan government asked Recon to help. They wanted Recon because we get in and out quiet, not like SEALS live on CNN. Especially not like SEALS live on Fox. Right after we set up and met some locals, we split into recon patrols to get oriented off the roads, meet some folks, maybe find what kind of help folks needed. I went with a buck sergeant E5 and a gunnery sergeant E7 (Gunny). I was a brand new lance corporal, one chevron with a rocker, E3. We bivouacked okay our first night. The next morning we got surprised, captured by men from Warlord B, one of those we were supposed to help.

It turns out that the local army had some of Warlord A's men, so Warlord A took a Warlord B irrigation crew. Us three Marines were trading stock. Warlord B's men took our flak jackets, helmets, weapons, night-vision goggles, satellite phones, MREs (meals ready to eat),all our gear except our water, bedrolls, and changes of socks and underwear. Plus my deodorant and sunscreen. They walked us back to their compound. They kept us busy talking with us in their Tajik Farsi dialect to distract us from our route and the landscape.

Warlord B was the tribal chief and district governor. He was an honest one, and his district and towns looked prosperous because the farmers and traders got fair prices, kept what they earned except for the traditional 10% income tax. His granddad had broken up the big farms and got the land sold on fair terms to the workers. He paid his police and other workers through a credit union by each worker's' own phone app, so nobody could skim their pay. The water and power systems, natural gas and sewers in the cities, worked well 24/7. Roads get kept in good shape. All this pissed off Warlord A because his people wanted him to act like Warlord B. Besides, District B had way better crops to harvest than District A because the farmers got their full pay for growing them.

So our warlord apologized for capturing us. He said he'd treat us well. We'd join local work crews. We say, donate our pay to girls' schools. My sergeants told me to chill, do what the locals tell me.

They put me on a crew of young dudes, teenagers like me, humpin machine parts, cell-tower hardware, cement bags, n other supplies along some mountain tracks to some irrigation works and microwave towers you couldn't reach by jeep or ATV. We built the tower structures for the technical parts, dug and maintained irrigation channels, worked on roads. I raced a fun dude up a tower, got bullwhipped for that, just like last Thursday with Darren (Chapter 6).

We prayed three times during the work day, facing west-southwest to Mecca, plus before we left and at sunset. I wore more sunscreen than uniform. By the end of the first week, I wore what the other dudes did -- more loin cloth than shorts. Still sunscreen but no deodorant. Second week I traded my boots for their footgear. They wore ballcaps, so I kept my fatigue cap. I stopped shaving, so mostly looked them too, especially since as a halfbreed I look more tan than white. I worked on my 2,000-metre (a mile and a quarter) high-altitude aerobic capacity. I loved it.

The dudes helped me with my Tajik Farsi. We competed friendly. Who could hump what weird, awkward, heavy shit across what steep, gnarly track fastest. But no slips, no rockslides, no accidents -- crew chief carried a bullwhip besides the quirt he drove us with.

The warlord's son my age was supposed to start university in Dushanbe, the capital, but stayed home to train with me -- and translate. He traded his ballcap for my Marine fatigue hat. He took care of me.

They told me about their lives and homes. Some of them took me to meet their families on our Fridays off. When they asked, I told them about my backwoods Franco-Ontario, the family I'd lost (Chapter 12). After work we smoked what might have been weed; no alcohol.

They taught me their Olympic, Graeco-Roman wrestling. I lost all the matches but started learning. The gladiator stable never got interested enough in me to ask this brawler about wrestling.

We showed them how to use the commo and night-vision gear, our assault rifles, my sniper scope. The sergeants walked their defences with them, learned how that part of the world worked, made some suggestions. I demoed some ways to clear boobytraps, IEDs. I put the uniform on to work with the French teachers in the district, and we helped improve security at the girls' schools. Liaison and training like we actually came to do.

It all went down kewl until the governor relaxed one evening, smiled at me, said he'd like to keep me and let Warlord A keep his sorriest two or three irrigation workers. When everything seemed cloudy and quiet, I slipped away. I remembered the route they'd brought us. I forgot they had our night-vision and commo gear.

They caught me, made me strip, made me tie my bootlaces around my balls, tied a line around my wrists, and walked me back. More like dragged me back, in the dark, barefoot over the rocks. Some dude flicked my ass with what they drove donkeys with -- now I know it was a quirt. So that's the first time I got whipped, but I didn't tell the Marines. Not even my sergeants.

I'd escaped. I got caught. Two mistakes. I'd disrespected the man who captured me. I disrespected his tribe and mine (the Marines). I belonged to him now. He'd punish me. That happened to men who ran away.

My sergeants tied me to a frame, wrists and ankles. Like they'd expected this, maybe done it with other rookies. Somebody took my bootlaces off my balls. The warlord took a bullwhip, just like in a western, rubbed my face and chest with it, flicked it around my neck, then slid it off. He beat the living hell out of me, front, then back. I didn't shoot. Too scared. But I probably yelled loud enough to scare the villagers and the livestock. He said he'd stop after I took 12 more lashes like a man. Damn near bit my tongue off. I did. He did.

He told my sergeants to go with their work crew, who'd all stayed to watch. He left me there in the sun what felt like all day. I missed water. They said I was lucky it wasn't Ramadan -- no food, no water until nightfall. I hurt too much, felt too scared, too stupid, to pass out like I wanted to. After the sun showed it was midafternoon, they threw some water at me. Gave me water. This was the real whipping, the one me n the sergeants told the Marines about.

The warlord and his son untied me, half-carried me into a building. He said, now we make you know we own you. I bent over a table on what felt like a scratchy barracks blanket on my back, legs apart. They rubbed something into my whipped chest, arms, shoulders, legs too, even balls and dick. Massaged me. They turned me over, chest down. The son, ate my head, held my shoulders, rubbed my whipped back and shoulders, dug in some knuckles, held and rubbed my head and neck too. The warlord, the dad, rubbed my unmarked ass, dug in some knuckles. It all felt good. I relaxed. Maybe my dick came out of hiding.

The dad rubbed a stick over my ass -- I guess a cane. He thrashed the living hell out of my sore sorry ass. Then he fucked it. Told me to get his son's dick ready to fuck me next. Right -- our 100 words included mouth, dick, and fuck. The dad worked the cane in time with the son's facefuck while his dick ground deeper down my throat and his hands and knuckles dug deeper into my traps delts rhomboids lats. Then the father held me, fucked my face, ground my shoulders n back while the son spanked my ass (first time since my dad started using a belt when I turned six), caned it, ground it, fucked it. My first fuck, first facefuck.

They stood me up. Dad in front, arms on my shoulders. The son behind me in my first standing full-nelson fuck. Only time till this morning. I spread my legs, bent my knees because his legs were shorter than mine. Dad bullwhipped my chest again. Harder. They told me that I belonged to them. For life. The father gave me to his son, who fucked hard, proud.

They showed me I belonged to his son. The dad stood me up in my second full-nelson fuck while my new master, the son, bullwhipped my chest. The son showered with me, gave me my shorts and sandals to put on. When he offered me my fatigue cap, though, I just set it aside because Marines' heads aren't covered indoors. After prayers and dinner, the son took me to bed and fucked hard, soft, crossways what felt like all night. He said it was his first too. His Mom, Dad, and sister acted chill with their new houseguest.

They said they'd send me to back to the Marines. With the sergeants when they made the grand exchange. But when I got out, I belonged to them. They told me how to contact them for instructions and airfare. They made me repeat it till I got it right. The son and I swore in blood -- put two wrist cuts together. We sealed it with bread and salt. The sergeants never asked about this part. I never told anyone. Until now. Damn dick.

The son told me I don't take dick from any man but him, his, dad, or the overseer (crew chief), that I fuck any married woman when she and her husband both ask me (they want strong sons like me), I fuck any man that asks me and that I fancy (thought about it with a couple dudes I outwrestled but no way), but fuck no unmarried woman.

The next day, every day, I worked with my master and our young-dude crew. The son took care of me with the quirt, drove me with it, fucked me every night. Bullwhipped me but not every night. I won more hauling competitions, some with the son. When he and I wrestled, he won and fucked me. Finally I won a couple times, fucked him, my first. I was almost sorry when summer camp ended and they traded me back to the Marines. Okay. Sir!

Jon told me he'd found the capture in my Marine records. My warlord got killed last year. The son, the new chief and governor, wants me back to reinforce his security. This was the owner he told the barracks about to explain my transfer from the BVI trust to the Delaware corporation. The transfer that Jon and me got bullwhipped, caned, and face-fucked, and fucked to get witnessed. (Chapter 11).

Jon, the other owners, and I agreed that the son should have a claim because I belonged to him, not just to explain the BVI trust and Delaware corporation, Steve's Studs Inc. Not a share of operations and profits, but the right to match any offer to the corporation when I, uh, get disposed of and to get a half of what Mike calls the proceeds of disposition from the trust if I get sold to someone outside the company. Even Mike if he gets me from the company rather than through a tax-free reorganization (Chapter 13).

But the son doesn't want anything like shares in a company, doesn't want to be beneficiary of a trust, doesn't want any offshore assets. Weird. Both heads feel proud that I belong to a stud warlord too.

Jon says, Sit here. Look at the monitor. Okay ...

Khaled! My first civilian FaceTime. It's with the new warlord, the son I belong to.

I remember, Sir! It's good I'm sitting down.

Khaled -- Stand up in front of the camera, Steve, flex, turn real slowly, so I can see my favourite warrior slave. Jon helps me stand, puts me in line with the camera. (Warrior slave! That's me. Thought I'd get there with the Recon Marines but didn't. What I am now. Mike's warrior slave.)

Magnificent! I've missed you every day, every night for 14 years. I want you here. I want to work you up and down the mountains every day. Build you up even studlier. Show you every day that I own you. Flog you, then fuck you crosseyed every night. Find you a good woman to take care of you, give you strong sons. I see you want this too.

Fuck! Damn number-two head. You master. Me warrior slave.

But we really need you for our security. My dad got killed leaving the girls' high school after he presented the diplomas. If you'd been his bodyguard, he'd still be alive and I'd still be the youngest, fairest judge in Dushanbe, the capital. After you qualify as a master blaster, as a millwright, we could use a dozen of you in our work here in the mountains.

You'd really help our gladiator team too. We want them to win internationally, starting in Xinjiang. China accepts gladiating as a martial art in Xinjiang, where they suppress every other Uyghur Muslim activity, so we can cross the border that way.

You remembered your capture well, but you didn't know that I'd asked my dad to say what he did about keeping you because I wanted you to try to escape. Damn! Makes sense. Damn pole grows. Khaled sees it, says his does too. Reminds me to call him Cal. I say I need to call him Sir.

It happened on your 19th birthday, but I got the present. Of course, you did get me.

Khaled gestures for me to sit down. I adjust my pole. Jon says you're about to marry that massive stud, Mike, who's looking protective. Congratulations to you both! I'll want the chance to buy him too. He could help our credit unions and our construction work.

You didn't remember that the morning after I mastered you, you stood me up with your dick up my ass for the overseer to bullwhip me when I told him he had a year to work me, whip me into shape like you. But you were pretty buzzed from your capture and, uh, initiation. You didn't have to worry about getting bullwhipped that day because a man bullwhips his slave to master him, like I did you, like the overseer did me, but not other random dudes except for discipline. Like when you raced up the microwave tower.

Fuck! Sir! Right, Sir! You scared me spitless when we met the crew the next morning, when you told me to lose the shorts, fatigue cap, sandals while the overseer flicked a bullwhip that I expected he meant for me. Then you shed everything too, worked body parts to scare my scared dick alive, stood me up and backed onto my dick. I thought I'd never forget how studly, how electric you felt on my chest and dick. I wanted to be your warrior slave forever.

Sir! I said too late.

My sergeants say when we got back to our base, I ran them damn near to death keeping me stimulated. They were ready to fuck me themselves before they replaced all my gear and started me running wearing half my body weight. Windsprints uphill till I looked ready to crash. Skipping rope in full gear. Then endless burpees dips pullups plus weights. They got me settled enough for rifle practice, especially running a course with popup targets, then moving distant sniper targets. Disarming boobytraps almost relaxed me. I kept training, wrestling with the younger dudes. I joined all their work details, their active training. Nobody fucked me, nobody flogged me. I missed you and your whip and your dick that told me I belonged to you. My company wouldn't let me take the bus back to visit you on leave because they knew I'd never come back. The rest of my deployments went to French-speaking Africa. Sir!

Khaled -- I tried not to cry when you left after you fucked me our last morning. I spent the next year, till college started, working with the dudes' crew. Working as hard as the overseer could whip me. Mountain hauling like you did, cotton harvest, wheat harvest, road work, plus security with the militia. Got to know the district. Let the people get to know me as my own man who works with them, not just the chief's kid. The same way that you Marines having worked as our captives got you a better reception everywhere.

Best year of my life, best shape too, except I wanted you so much. Look here. He pulls off his shirt. 14 years later, at 33, he's still a stud, but still smaller than me. I get harder anyway.

Khaled flexes, poses. So after you left, a couple other dudes and I captured our own warrior slaves. District A has too many punks not in school and not working except in the cotton harvest, when they mostly don't get paid. So they're a nuisance, slipping over the mountains into our valley to steal stuff to carry back home.

My 15-year-old could barely read and write. Half starved too. I gave him to my dad's driver, Faisal, who was dad's warrior slave, to live with his family. Faisal's son's like my big brother, two years ahead of me in school. Faisal got killed trying to protect his master, my dad.

Faisal sent my kid to school, civilized him, taught him to use plumbing, kept him whipped into shape, sent him to the dudes' crew on school breaks and after he graduated. He shaped up real well, says he's grateful I captured him. When I married a neighbour chief's daughter and set up as a lawyer in the capital, I sent him to train as a driver and bodyguard with Blackrock, the mercenary company. I keep him worked, whipped, and fucked, his wife helps mine in the house, and his kids are growing up with mine. His family moved back here with mine when my dad and Faisal got killed and I became chief and district governor. He's great and we love each other. But he's not you.

And you'd like the sons you gave the three couples. Well, you'd mostly like your 13-yearold teenage sons. We'll buy your sperm when your company milks you. Ouch?

I'd have had to circumcise you, but I see from your photos on the web that that's been done. You wore the only foreskin in our county. Not even the Marine sergeants had fluffy dicks.

But when the Marines kicked you out, you didn't contact me the way you knew to do. We'd have had you in a car to Dulles, then on a flight to Frankfurt with a shower, clean but revealing clothes, and a Tajikistan passport the next day. We'd have made you WAY more welcome than the gladiator stable did. How come you didn't? Damn! Dick likes this.

This conversation with a man on the other side of the world feels totally natural. Sir! I had no phone, no web access. At my first trial, they didn't give me the chance to contact anyone. That's the trial that convicted me of sexually assaulting a woman in a bar, that got me caned, that got me kicked out of the Marines. They hustled me off the base like toxic waste because the Marines worried about bad publicity in the election that fall (Chapter 9).

The second trial convicted me of sexually assaulting the truck driver who picked me up hitchhiking, then tried to make me go down on his dick. The fine would have enslaved me for life without the lady lawyer in an office across the road who found the gladiator stable to buy me for five years to pay my fine and her fee. She kept telling me how much she hated sex offenders. Like me. Especially trained killers. Like me. I figured she'd turn me in for a terrorist if I mentioned you. Sir!

Damn! I'd have loved ALL that back with Faisal as his stud warrior slave. But then I'd never have given Jon a son, never have rescued Mike, Darren, Demon, Jamie, and Luke. Just been a disgraced ex-Marine hiding out way out back somewhere. Never become a stud gladiator.

Khaled smiles, shrugs, say he wishes he could, uh, hold me the way he used to. He knows I can't visit -- no passport, no export licence, I might not get out again if I went -- but maybe he can come here. He tells Mike to take care of me, keep me well-worked, well-fucked, well-flogged, until he has the chance to buy the two of us after our 12-year term with Hardwicke Co (Chapter 13). I damn near shoot.

============

& MR KRAUS

My dudes and their dads need to talk contracts or something for the next while. Boss Henry needs to get acquainted with Mike, the way he, his whips, and his dick did me on Saturday night (Chapter 10). He won't master Mike, though. Plus they'll sort out how they share me, share mastering times with me.

Mr Kraus needs to get better acquainted with me. He's the black man who pegged me as the free slaveowner in the weekend at Doc's to pay for Doc fixing Darren's leg (Chapter 2). He owns a construction company, and for at least the next 12 years he owns me even though I live and work with Hardwicke Co.

Same drill. Same fresh hot lube. He's about my size. He walks on my right, as owners do with slaves. (Mike's proud I didn't write like.) He wraps his left hand around my left glute. My right hand goes around his right one. Damn, he feels tough when he walks. Even his glutes. He's a black Apollo because he works with his men when he can. He says I'll teach him to full-nelson fuck, first me in him, then him in me.

Luke n Jamie are waiting in our cell. Luke smiles kinda shy, flicks a tawse easy. Jamie snaps a bullwhip out real proud. (He's not qualified on blacksnake. Yet.) Luke lubes my dick n hole. Jamie does Mr K.

Mr K turns his back to me, backs his back onto my chest, his hotlubed crack onto my ready dick, his arms up. I thrust, wrap his study neck, shoulders, take his weight. Full nelson holding my stud black owner, muscle to muscle, feels AWESOME. Tawse bites my butt the same time as the bullwhip nails Mr Kraus's chest. Tawse thrusts me forward into his hole, onto his back, onto his traps delts neck, even glutes, hamstrings. Bullwhip drives him onto me n dick chest abs. Mr K feels electric when the bullwhip bites him. I feel like the studliest fucker ever when the tawse bites me when the bullwhip drives him onto me. Luke understands, tawses my back, hamstrings too. Me, Mr Kraus, Luke, n Jamie all frag together.

Mr K says it's just his second frag. His first was that Saturday night at Doc's, when I tawsed n fucked him in the pickup bed after he'd bullwhipped n fucked me on the pickup tailgate. (Chapter 2).

Switch. Damn he feels great holdin me, stretchin my pecs open for Jamie's bullwhip. Jamie gets off on floggin me, both his heads, both mine too. I feel Mr Kraus jump into, onto me n thrust me into the bitin bullwhip when the tawse hits his glutes. We frag together. Again.

The dudes leave. It takes the two of us a while to settle down on the bed, holding each other. Mr K says I know he committed to me when he paid for my 12-year indenture what Hardwicke Co paid for lifer Mike. And so far I've done to him what he's done to me, except my tawse for his bullwhip that first night. But he'll REALLY commit to me this Friday night, when he and lawyer Jon will do the gladiator challenge (Chapter 12) for first rights to me. Wow!

Then he says on Saturday, my Hardwicke Co's football team will play his Kraus Co, and I'll play for Hardwickes. Slave rules. Winners fuck losers. Kraus and Hardwicke Cos have a side bet too. If Hardwickes win, we cane the losers, then fuck em, even the owners. Winnin Krausco straps, then fucks; winnin Hardwickes cane, then fuck. (Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, Hardwicke Co's owners, flip a coin so they don't double-team Mr Kraus. Heads gets Mr K. I'll be his second owner, so when Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore flip the coin, tails gets me.)

Then to be fair I'll take my place with the other Hardwicke men, win or lose; Mr K says this hedges my bet. Finally Kraus Co's overseer on a white horse (!) bullwhips the losers into formation, the runs them home, even the owners; losers wear boots n jocks for this run of shame. Winners get steak dinners and microbrews; losers get vegetarian slave chow and warm Diet Pepsi. So I better hope Kraus Co wins.

Sir! If my Hardwicke Hardasses lose, I'll run real proud with them, then run back to y'all's base, Sir! And if we win, I'll run real proud alongside you and your men, Sir! Okay. Runnin in boots n jock with the bullwhippin overseer on the white horse sounds like a trip for this fucked-up stud. I hope the endorphins hold up for the football game n this one.

He grabs tighter, grinds sore spots. We'll welcome you properly Saturday night. That's why I'm learning the full-nelson fuck and flog. We want to show you a good time, at least turn you on for our men -- better than just our usual stand for bullwhip, then bend over for facefuck with cane, buttfuck. As I said, the overseer and I flip a coin. Heads will bullwhip you in your full-nelson fuck, facefuck you while you get strapped. Tails will strap you and full-nelson-fuck you. Heads or tails, I go first.

But first we shower you, put you in a clean jock, show you around, let the men make you feel, uh, welcome. Showtime after dinner. Steak bloody rare if we win the game? Yazoo microbrews. Lose and the warm Diet Pepsi with the vegetarian slave chow. Wow!

The overseer with the white horse and bullwhip is our trademark. Taxpayers, especially white ones but proud black ones too, love to see him running our mostly-naked black boys. We'll train you on the pick and sledgehammer Sunday for a Monday road crew. You'll put on a great show, the way you like. Mike will give you a couple lessons this week on quarry picking and sledging. We'll send you back home to Hardwickes after Monday dinner. If we wait an hour after dinner, the overseer can run you, the way you want.

You and our Boss Lucy (Lucius Clay) have something in common. You both belong to Boss Henry. And I belong to Boss Lucy the way Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore belong to Boss Henry.

Kraus White Horse does mostly reinforced concrete structures, lots of roads, parking garages, skyscraper foundations, and warehouses. Sophisticated stuff too, like freeway interchanges, water works, sewage plants. I graduated in Civil Engineering from Auburn, so there's a kind of rivalry with y'all's Boss Henry, the Alabama grad. After three years as a lieutenant, then captain in the US Army Corps of Engineers, I signed on as a trainee overseer with what's now my company. They did mostly roads, pavement but also basements, parking garages.

The company didn't run its new overseers through y'all's boot camp, but trainee overseers got something like that except nobody wanted us to learn any grudges. Another dude and I had the basic cane buttfuck bullwhip facefuck initiation, then a night blindfolded with the overseers, but no full nelson. You'll, uh, like yours way better.

============

FLAMES AND A MODELLING CAREER ON THE WORLDWIDE WEB

Mr Hardwicke says to sit down, but before I watch the monitor I need to know what the web says about me. You've gotten the usual flame mail. Best one wants to fuck you with a power augur. He meant auger like what digs the holes for power poles. Augur is what the priestesses at Greek Delphi prophesied, stoned as they were on volcanic gas.

Besides your Greatest Hits, you post at Facebook Save Slave Steve, Twitter @Stud Steve and @SlaveSteve, and two Kink.com channels -- one in Bound Gods, one in 30 Minutes of Torment. Free content that invites folks to pay for the good stuff.

You have proposals of marriage from women and men, offers to buy to work and to torture. You'll date some of them, for a fee. You have a couple propositions we'd like you to approve. (Okay.) Calvin Klein wants you to model.

What? Calvin Klein bullwhips? Jockstraps? Jamie.

Easy, stud, Mr Hardwicke answers. Here. Watch this.

The monitor shows me in a gladiator's come-n-get-me pose. Voiceover says, Y'all know Steve. Sometimes it's hard to make him look good. Monitor flashes me dirty, bloody after a gladiator match, writhing while I held a pullup to get bullwhipped at the barracks yesterday, then my ass bent over while I got caned (Chapter 11).

Voiceover chuckles, Especially in a size 44 suit. Monitor shows me standing studly, then photoshopped into an unbuttoned off-the-rack suit jacket, which bulges over my chest and shoulders before it flares out to the waist, where I taper in. My delts, biceps, and triceps bulge the sleeves, which don't reach my wrists. And two of me could fit into the pants.

Voiceover continues, Sure there are trimcut separates for less muscular guys. It shows Luke and Jamie in gladiator straps, then photoshopped into suit pants, then jackets. Or maybe not photoshopped, they way they're vamping.

But now, we can make Steve look good in our Athletic Tapers. Me photoshopped into suit pants, then jacket. And if we can make Steve look good, think what we can do for you.

Mr Whitmore stands, flexes, looks real pleased. You approve this continuing engagement? For you, Luke, Jamie, and Mike. You'll like the work and your 40% of the fees for the four of you.

Sir! Yes, Sir!

==============

NEW PLAYMATE

Mr Whitmore asks if I remember Brad, from the gladiator stable. Sir! He's the gymbunny that won second place at armwrestling to cane me, then fuck me yesterday (Chapter 11). Great kid, Sir! Trains really conscientiously. He'll want to grow up to look like overseer and bodybuilder Pete. Why, Sir?

It turns out Brad's in his third year of an indenture to a car-experience club, where members get to drive kewl cars from Corvettes to Ferraris and McLarens. They'd promised to apprentice him as a sportscar mechanic, but those mechanics just change oil and swap what the computer tells them to. Brad details cars and wears shorts to ride his skateboard to deliver them and pick them up. Meeting the client means pulling on a tank top and giving blowjobs. Sometimes the client calls to get the okay to cane him with the cane in its slot between the trucks, then to fuck him.

Brad likes riding the board and driving the cars, never mind the client interactions, but he's grown too big to drive most sports cars -- all but the Corvettes and the Ferrari 488. The way Mike said yesterday he can't drive a 911. So he sees no future there like my men and I have.

He liked the way I trained him in the slave gym at the barracks. He caught Pete at yesterday's barracks session. He's Pete's height, 6′2″, two years younger (21), 15 pounds lighter. Cute with short, curly, dark blonde hair. He wants to join me and my team, to train with us, especially Pete, and to train with me as a driller and blaster and to apprentice with me as a millwright. He'll be Mike's understudy blacksnaker too -- Brad's caning me in Chapter 11 shows his interest and aptitude for that. He'll extend for our 12 years. He'll be a partner for Pete. He and Pete will share a gladiator challenge Friday night.

He'll cost less than my modelling pay, so I get my 40% of him without tapping my Marine Corps Credit Union account. Sir! Yes, Sir! He'll join us tomorrow.

============

A MONEY-MAKER I WON'T ENJOY

Mr Whitmore says there's a gig that doesn't need my approval because it lasts just 30 days, and only over 30 days needs my approval. But they want me on board, to approve, to, uh, participate willingly.

Remember how your gladiator stable tried to keep you six months too long? (A 10% amnesty cut six months off my five year, 60 month term. They didn't tell me, but Jon and Anne, my attorneys, caught them.)

The stable didn't give me the sendoff that's supposed to get the dude to reenlist -- extend his indenture -- instead. Like the bullwhipping and probably mass fucking they gave Mike when they sold him down the quarry. So they want me back for a proper sendoff. Plus they want me to train them how to fight without head shots.

They wanted to pay just the one month. Mr Whitmore says they want me bad enough that they'll pay 15 months slave rental for the 30 days. My 40% of that pays me for the six months they tried to steal.

The 30-day gig includes 10 fights, one every three days, plus they bullwhip me 18 cuts on day 1, day 15, and day 30 (I expect before the day 15 and day 30 fights). Make sure they can't get me for discipline too. The fights in their 100-seat gym will sell tickets plus pay-per-view; Steve's Studs Inc gets half.

I train with each dude for three days, and we fight on the third day. the dude chooses the regulation there five-minute rounds or five three-minute ones. They train me their way except where I show them how to train away from head shots, how to protect heads. Winner canes and fucks the loser. Then I move in with the next dude, who fucks me that night. They'll start with dudes around my weight class, then alternate heavier and lighter.

Meanwhile, every guard and gladiator in the stable fucks or facefucks me once, average two a day, no more than three.

The small-scale pay-per-views will get seen but especially talked about. Show folks fights where neither dude gets carried off to emergency. Build a buzz for the stables to fight outfits like ours.

============

DUDES DON'T DIS BITCHES -- I GET TO HELP WOMEN AND CHILDREN, PAINFULLY

Jon reminds me that I miss helping make life safer for women and children. He says I might be interested in some opportunities to help women and children. There are some propositions for short-term gigs so they don't NEED my consent but won't work unless I volunteer. Okaaaay.

Mr Hardwicke sits me down beside him, asks if I know dudes don't dis bitches. Sir! Forgetting that made me a slave instead of a Recon Marine. Damn straight I know it, Sir!

He smiles, nods. He means @dudesdontdisbitches (DDDB), a twitter feed and organization that protects women and children from abusive men. They run counselling and shelters for frightened, abused women and children. They also work to educate dudes. I can help fundraising to support the counselling and shelters, and my, uh, example can help educate clueless dudes, steer them more constructively.

I've been invited to a fundraising event, on a card with a bodybuilding 23-year-old fireman (Flame) and a 17-year-old small-town quarterback (QB). Each one frightened his girlfriend by trying to buttfuck her at a party to impress his bros. Now they need to redeem themselves. No good college team will touch QB. Flame can't fight fires in homes or offices because the department can't have him alone with women, so his career's buttfucked too. They both got caned -- QB county punishment centre and team locker room, Flame in firehall gym and club gym. But that wasn't enough. They need an event. They hope it's one with me.

Ouch! Sir, what do I do to raise funds at this, uh, fundraising event, Sir?

It turns out I get flogged. 24 lashes. People will pay thousands to see me get bullwhipped on pay per view. Sir! If people hate me that much, don't bother working me in construction or fighting me as a gladiator, Sir. Just flog me on pay per view, Sir! I sound as scared as I feel.

He lays his hand in my crotch, squeezes, which calms me! Easy, big guy. Some will pay because they fear you, some because they resent you, and some just because they like to watch studs in extreme action, but we especially want the folks who admire you, who respect you for what you're doing to show that real dudes don't dis bitches. And remember this is national. Maybe a million folks will see Stud Steve showing what he can take for a cause he believes in. So imagine what he'll do in a fair fight. Best thing ever for the Steve's Stud Gladiators brand.

DDDB will use the state university field house on a Saturday when the football team plays a 4 pm game. They figure they can raise a third of million from folks paying for every stroke you and your bros take, plus another hundred grand or so by selling tickets and national pay-per-view. You take two dozen bullwhip lashes at $3,000 and up -- say three grand for standing front or back, four grand for hanging front or back or full-nelson front, 10 grand for standing fore and aft, 12 for hanging fore and aft. You're worth 100 k. Flame takes $2,500 per basic stroke, QB takes $2,000, and they raise $150,000. Tickets and pay pr view do the rest. Or would you like to take it to half a million?

Sir! It depends, Sir. How's it work, Sir?

Mr Hardwicke asks Mike to explain. Mike says he volunteered in a gladiators' charity flogathon right after he became champion, before my time with the stable. First the tops, the men who'll flog, demo their power -- tip speed for the speed camera plus landing length and force on an instrumented dummy. Then they intro the targets. Us. Folks pledge, say, $50 or $100 and bid on some scenes -- say Mike standing fore for Top A, hanging aft for Top B. When a scene funds, gets enough bids for its target price, it happens. Those bids pay and those bidders get invited to bid again.

As for raising more, Mr Hardwicke again, blacksnake with 36 strokes would about double the 24-bullwhip take.

Ouch! Double what I take too, Sir!

Right, stud, but doubling your personal impact and personal fundraising would explode your value as a gladiator. Good guy plus tough dude that every American hears about, a million watch live, and the rest get teaser clips. We'll work to pitch you right, between hardass stud good-guy who doesn't deserve the punishment and scary thug who deserves more pain than he gets. Mr Whitmore, Mr Kraus, and I top you as owners, Boss Henry, Pete, and Mike top you as overseers, and Boss Henry and Mike hold you for the full nelson. Whaddya say, stud?

Fuck! Sir! Yes, Sir!

Great! Your first three fore-aft hanging pairs are booked: Kraus White Horse, Hardwicke Co, and 'Parents of Stud Steve's Sons' -- Jon and Anne for now, more by the day of the event.

Some details, stud. You three stars wear jocks to keep y'all comfortable plus safe to view on prime time AND make it easy to full-nelson fuck y'all. To keep you three targets in the game and eager for the next cut but your dick not rigid, we clean y'all out just before the show, then shove a rock up y'all's asses. We have the monitors on your arms and dicks to keep y'all, uh, safe. Pete full-nelson fucks Flame. QB's still a minor, so Child Welfare says he gets no blacksnake and just 24 bullwhip, but Luke can fuck him in full nelsons.

'After the event, the trainers get y'all. Fuck to relax you, cold plunge, massage, feed y'all, clean y'all up, and stuff y'all into gladiator straps n runners. Then y'all jog through the crowd to the stadium to watch the game from a box on the 50-yard line where the cameras can pick y'all up. Y'all march onto the field at half-time for the crowd to cheer or boo. Y'all're guests of the state police that night, get a great steak dinner, and the night in the state police guest house with y'all's fuckers, uh, partners. You might entertain a couple special paying guests.

Y'all're super horny but your dicks won't come back till after dinner. That night you and you partner will fuck each other twice. First your dick's a blacksnake to show him to ramrod you the way a whipped-up stud needs. Then he ramrods the hell out of your hole, tortures whatever else you showed him too. Next Flame and QB show their men how their girlfriends will want to be loved, and then they get loved that way. They'll get to that event by mistreating their girlfriends, so we don't want them even rougher after they meet Dudes Don't Dis Bitches. This reprograms them. After you and Mike trade rock drills, you and maybe Mike will entertain a couple special guests.

Sunday morning, the State Police headquarters gym hosts the next event. You and Flame, QB too if Child Welfare approves, are the prizes in a first-responders? raffle that DDDB expects to raise another quarter million, mostly from ticket sales. A couple dozen winners cane, facefuck, and fuck you two studs, also on pay per view. There dozen if QB gets to play too.

That evening we drop you and Mike at Doc's cabin on the lake (Chapter 2) for a week to get you and the cabin and grounds in shape for the winter. Mike's call whether you ride in the cab or a cage. You'll need endorphin detox, need working very sore, uh, muscles. The water will still be warm enough to swim, especially on Monday. So you swim with an escort, walk the woods, run easy, exercise easy. It's up to Mike how, how much he works you, how much he whips you after the endorphin detox. You'll get pick and sledgehammer action in the grounds work. Jamie and Darren will go along to help take, uh, care of you. Demon and Luke too, if Mike wants them, for master-man bonding. But absolutely no whip on Monday. After that you're in your men's hands.

Making sense, stud?

Sir! Yes, Sir! Wish it didn't make me hard, showing stud on national pay per view.

============

PHOTO OP. OUCH!

Calvin Klein and DDDB both need a scene they don't have of me. Hanging fore'n'aft flog. Just six bullwhip. Keep the glad strap on so it can show in prime time.

First the camera or computer have to register the welts I'm already wearing so they can be erased from the image to let the new ones show. Fuckin ouch. I stand, reach up to the bars, then turn slowly. Pull up and hold, turn both ways until the system has me looking unmarked so I can get marked up again. High-tech slavery.

Mike in front, Pete behind, both flex, laugh. I pull up for the first bullwhip pair, but it feels fake. Sirs! Real writhin, muscle-flexin action needs real blacksnake, hard, Sirs. I'm so fuckin endorphin buzzed.

Blacksnake it is, HARD. The first pair, front and back hit together. The second pair, back hits first. Front opens the third pair. So the action's realistic, I'm showing out for the camera, and I'm buzzed enough to want it not to stop when they quit, call drop! Mike sits me between him and Mr Hardwicke.

============

OTHER KINKY CHARITIES

The directors want me to volunteer for a couple more charity events. On the Coast, in Los Angeles West Hollywood and in San Francisco. After that dudes don't dis bitches event, I'm not a virgin any more. Just hope they don't turn me into a blacksnake whore.

For each one, we fly out on a Thursday -- I wear whatever clothes Calvin Klein wants to showcase me in (or out of), over my usual gladiator strap. Our shop will provide the bullwhips plus quirts and tawses (no blacksnake). I'll carry them and may need to demo for airport security. (Ouch. Warm me and the audience up for the gig.).

We get Trusted Traveller preclearance numbers -- we're controlled well enough to stay out of trouble. We fly business class, so board early and flex for all the other passengers. An announcement will invite them to support our fundraiser.

Each place, a gladiator stable will host us. Two men, a middleweight like me who's my partner and competitor for the weekend plus his top, collect us at the airport and take us for a tough slave run and workout. The two tops decide when my partner and I ride in cages.

That night and Friday, one couple rent Mike and another rent me both nights. Two women want Mike to father their children -- he's top 10% intellectually and physically plus damn good looking. After dinner each night, he'll sleep with one of the women. A husband and wife who've had trouble carrying the husband's embryo -- like Jon and Anne -- have rented me. The Thursday night the husband gets me, fucks me, works me as rough as he can for sleeping with his wife; my quirt and tawse reinforce the damage his dick does. The Friday night, with that out of the husband's system, he goes to a game with the guys while the wife and I share a romantic evening and make romantic love. Friday our hosts take us to surfing, then to Muscle Beach. Saturday morning the women's shelter that we'll raise money for hosts us for breakfast. I'll wear as little as Calvin Klein allows.

Saturday noon both towns, my gladiator partner and I fight on pay-per-view, The winner canes than fucks the loser on pay-per-view too. Viewers can bet all through the match, and the shelter gets half. The organizers focus-group whether the regulation three five-minute rounds or five three-minute ones will draw better betting action. Saturday in LA, a Colt Studios porn shoot with us four studs at a beach or a canyon or somewhere in the afternoon. Saturday afternoon in San Francisco me, Mike, and our hosts shoot for Bound Gods at the Kink.com armoury. Maybe my partner and I reverse on our tops midscene.

Saturday night in West Hollywood, a leather club hosts a 24-bullwhip-lash flogathon. If it goes well, my partner and I double the fees and extend to 30, maybe double again to 36. Mike flogs the other dude, and his master flogs me. Both tops will do fore-n-afts. Viewers will pay to vote to choose whoever from dudes who pay for the chance to full-nelson us. Viewers will pay to vote for what my partner and I take, like at Dudes Don't Dis Bitches.

If the same dude wins the fight and the flogathon, he tops the loser that night. If each wins one, we stage a gladiator challenge with bets all through the 12-stroke-each event -- elbow-toe plank for cane, low pushup for tawse, back bridge for quirt (pecs, then balls), hold pullups for front flogger, pull-up for each back bullwhip. Blacksnake tie-breaker till one man drops. Bets all the way.

Saturday night in the Kink.com Armoury, my partner and I and our masters shoot a special, competitive episode of 30 Minutes of Torment. Viewers bid for what happens to us and bet all through the, uh, match, and the shelter gets half. Again, if one of us wins the fight and the 30 Minutes, he stars in a play party. For a tie-breaker, the viewers pay to choose a second 30 Minutes, a gladiator challenge, or a flogathon.

Both Saturday nights, we play at a high-ticket play party whatever the dudes pay for whatever's safe. Sunday morning we train at a club; other dudes pay to train with us. Sunday afternoon at the beach, Sunday night at a club again, Monday and Tuesday the four of us at a beach resort with a good dining room, good gym. Wednesday fly home. Easy Thursday with Mike for me.

Fuck. Sir, Yes, Sir!

============

ONE LAST PROPOSITION

Quick break, stretch. Sit here, Stud! Mr Hardwicke sits close, his hand in my crotch again, feels good. So does his body next to mine.

We want to buy Jason. We need you to vote your 40 shares in favour. Mike agrees. Jason was my Marine buddy turned free-man prick overseer at our gladiator stable. The man who raped me. Probably raped any other stable dudes that didn?t want him to fuck too.

Mike agreeing means he adds 12 blacksnake cuts to the directors' 24, under our marriage contract (Chapter 13). That's the first day. Then 9 to their 18 the second day, six to their 12 the third day.

Sir! Y'all know there's no fuckin way, Sirs. What fuckin good is that arrogant bastard to our gladiator stable. Just start my 36-blacksnake warmup for Dudes Don't Dis Bitches now, Sirs!

Okay. Sirs, how do y'all BUY Jason. How's he for sale, Sirs?

It turns out that this upstanding Recon Marine coached youth soccer and molested a couple kids. Knowing he'd end up indentured, his attorney sold him to our gladiator stable as a kind of overseer. A Marine NCO who knew how to keep men uh, whipped, into shape even without whips. So the free man was bullshit. Now getting convicted as a sexual predator a second time makes him a lifer slave. Cheap too, since the county can claim his balls. But his experience in our old stable's gladiator business would help us in our business. He helps the trainers train us. He helps set up fights for us.

He joins the Big Dawgs. He's lead hand for our gladiator training but just the lowest grunt otherwise, under captains me and Mike, lead hands Jamie and Darren. At night he's Brad's fuckbuddy.

He'll do the gladiator challenge Friday with Brad and Pete, but his scores will rank with all of ours. (Score means how many of the 12 cuts you take of the cane, tawse, quirt, flogger, and bullwhip.) Since he's been the bullshit free man overseer who didn't have to train hard, he's way out shape. We all expect to outscore him. So we all get to top Jason. All the time, any time it don't interfere with work.

Yeah, gladiator rules. Like Brad, new gladiator Jason canes n fucks me n Mike. Then we do him. Then we turn Darren n Jamie loose on him.

They tell me to think about it, to talk with Mike, Jamie, and Darren, before I commit to taking 36 + 27 + 18 blacksnake cuts in the next three days. Let them know tomorrow after dinner.

Sirs! Y'all can start flexin now for tomorrow night, Sirs.

Quick snack, washroom break. Mike hugs me tight, tells me to ease up, to enjoy owning 40% of Jason.

============

FIRST GLADIATOR PRACTICE -- CIRCLE JERK

Gladiators and owners, all in glad straps, head to the gym room next to the weightroom. Rubber-mat floors. The head trainer or kinesiologist plus five assistants meet us there. So do Pete, Boss Henry, the apprentices, and Ape -- they all train with us this week, wearin just jockstraps. Part of their punishment. With Ape, we make 17. Six gladiators, five directors plus Jon, and the four Hardwicke guys plus Ape. Not quite three targets per trainer and tawse.

We stand in a circle, facing in. Boss Henry's in the centre. Drill is, we do what Boss Henry does for 90 seconds. Then in the 30 second break, he moves out to the circle, we grab a drink from our water bottles, and the next guy, Mr Kraus, goes to the centre, and for 90 seconds we do what he does. An exercise can get repeated once but only after at least two other guys lead other exercises.

Head trainer calls this the circle jerk. Says gladiators need quick moves, body control, quick perception, endurance.

Boss Henry starts with a yoga move! Stand tall but loose. Stretch up, rise up on your toes, flex, swoop down, bend from the hips, flat back, flex, back to start. The moves show Saturday's two dozen blacksnake bites on his six-foot-four fireplug carcass. A minute and a half of this feels like maybe an hour. Sounds like we all get popped with a tawse, especially for bendin from the waist instead of the hips.

Mr Kraus next. He keeps the stretches up and down plus hands on floor, jump feet back, raise glutes by bending at the hips, flat back. Keep heels to floor. Downward dog. Stretch one leg at a time. Ouch. Lots of tawse action to get us to bend at the hips. Back flat glutes to shoulders. Move to butt down, dick just off the ground, back arched up, head and shoulders up. Upward dog. Jump back.

Mr Whitmore goes military. Eight-count burpees. Bored jock's friend. One squat, two jump feet back, three four pushup, five six pushup, seven jump in, eight stand and stretch.

Mr Hardwicke does pliometric jumps, one foot in front of the other, squat, jump, change feet.

Mr DD gives us a break with jumping jacks. Mr JL brings an old disco move, grapevine or chain step right then left.

Pete does back-bridge pushups. Says any guy who can't get tawsed into position -- shoulders, hips n butt in air with hands on ground overhead -- then shoulders down and extend one leg at a time.

Mike starts side lifts. Lie on right hip first, right elbow on the ground for balance, facing in. Left arm out front to brace. Raise chest and legs, hold, lower. Nice break. I do the left-hip ones, so the men all swap ends.

Jamie does teasers. Lie back straight, arms overhead, toes pointed. Raise both ends, hold, lower but don't touch, hold arms and legs out straight.

Darren does corkscrews. Lie back, arms to side, raise legs and hips, twist right, lower, twist left.

Luke does superman flying. Hands and knees. Extend right arm, left leg. Hold. Switch.

Demon goes back to his favourite. Burpees.

Plumbing apprentice Mario does left-side planks, left hand down, elbow straight. Right arm straight overhead. Raise right leg, bend elbow down then straighten for one-arm side pushup, lower leg. Electrician apprentice Sparky does the other side.

Poor Ape looks real un-jock but does duckwalk.

Break. Another round, same exercises, 45 seconds plus 15-second changes.

Mr Hardwicks says we all look too relaxed. Finish with pushups. No prize except the glory for the man who does the most. Maybe a private bet or two. He looks at Mr Whitmore. Pete, Mr Kraus look at Jon. Mr DD n Mr JL bet a beer, tomorrow. I match Mike.

We're fuckin dead. Assistants hand towels around. Refreshment table but drink n eat easy, don't overload abused guts, don't spoil dinner.

Watch a Youtube on log PT. For after dinner.

============

A MAN & HIS MEAT

Pete says the apprentices want to ask me something. They want to be my meat. Fuck! My meat? They're Bulgarian, so maybe that's something from over there?

Pete smiles crooked. Saturday night, when we talked about senior guys grabbing us for a little sex and violence, he didn't tell us the whole story because he knew Boss Henry would be claiming me. He just told me that if I didn't fancy the guy that wanted me, to look him dead on and ask if he was sure. (Any man past bootcamp can claim a slave in bootcamp. Like us six. Any man can claim a slave who he outranks, so overseer can claim lead hand, lead hand can claim worker, journeyman can claim apprentice. Besides fuck or facefuck, overseer can cane or anything else up to bullwhip. Lead hand can quirt. Us six are just in bootcamp now, but Jamie n Luke work as lead hands, and me n Mike will rank as overseers. At least for other gladiators.)

Pete tries to explain. Being a man's meat or boy means that the man can fuck with you but another guy who wants you has to go through the man. If the man says okay and the boy don't mind, it goes down. If the boy don't want it, the man tells the other guy. That guy can accept and shake hands.

But if the guy takes the man's boy, the man has two choices. He can challenge the guy to a regulation fight the next night and they fight double or nothing -- the man if the guy wins plus the boy, or shake hands if the man wins.

Guys fighting wear protector cups in their jocks. Or in their glad straps. But to make a fight fair, if one guy's bigger or more skilled, like y'all, he don't get a protector cup. (Ouch!) Make sense so far, big guy?

I say it does, kinda. So I gotta expect to fight for my guys' honour and let the other guy kick my nuts, to keep it fair. But if the guy don't accept the fight, then what, Sir?

Then you take him on right there. Two guys fight, both get bullwhipped. So the other guy has to accept that to get to your boy. Weird macho guy thing. A guy with an advantage gets blacksnaked. So a man wants your boy, your meat, knows he's gonna get beat in a fight, then bullwhipped, but he knows you'll get blacksnaked. He gets your boy after if he hasn't had him already.

It comes down to something like a game of chicken. If he knows you'll take the blacksnake, he has to ask himself if his honour and your boy are worth him gettin punched out plus bullwhipped so you'll get blacksnaked. Call it the code of the hills.

Call it raising the cost, Mike laughs.

Mr Whitmore's been watchin, listenin. The target can go after the guy too. I did when I was in bootcamp. I told the man, no. He didn't stand down. I decked him with a gut punch. Caught his fall so he couldn't hit his jaw or head. He got bullwhipped. I got blacksnaked because I'm a trained Army killer. He caned me, fucked me, but no other guy laid a finger on me. After my bootcamp, when all the guys saw I was co-owner with Mr Hardwicke, the guy came around to see me. He worried about getting blacksnaked into dog food, or at least getting sold. I shook his hand and thanked him for the opportunity to show my balls. He's still warehouse overseer.

Boss Henry puts his arm around me. He's big enough he could've picked me up. You have one advantage being my meat. I can't abuse my position to protect y'all from EVERYthing. Dude can do whatever to you, but I can do anything to him. Dude knows if treats you or your boy normal, I stand down. But he knows if he goes BAD, I'll nail him. Mike would say that raises the cost even more. So you defend your honour and your boy's, you take the fight or blacksnake, and the guy fucks with you or your boy or both. But not bad.

Pete says to me and Mike that I have four boys in my harem -- Jamie and Luke, Sparky and Mario -- while Mike has Darren and Demon plus me. Jamie and Luke's dad told Jamie to stick with me, and he indentured Luke to me. Darren and Demon's dad told them both to stick with Mike, even though he indentured Demon to me. We'll both be helping their competitive gladiator initiation tonight, anyway -- what we took last night and practised this morning. That's a lot of fights and blacksnakes for me, not to mention leaving Mike alone while I service my four. Or they service me.

Mike taking Darren solves the problem that he was a gladiator slave with me. He likes me, he's grateful to me, he respects me, and I own him. But as he and Jamie showed me and I showed them after Mike blew off my caning and fucking this morning, I know Darren too well to master him, to make him BELONG to me. If that makes sense. That's what their dads meant yesterday, too, when they told me the guys missed me as master. I answered that it would feel like abusing subordinates, they asked me to try, and I said I would. Jamie will take more work for me than Luke will.

Me n Mike look at each other, shrug, say, sure. We'll see. I take Luke and Jamie tomorrow together, then Sparky and Mario Wednesday.

Ape asks Mike if Mike would please take him on too. Sorry, Ape, but getting fucked n fucked up by the other guys is part of the slave scene, part of the dues we all pay. You've not paid many dues yet. But Steve, our boys, and I will be happy to help you pay. Pete sends him off to shower. Meet us outside the slave entry after dinner. Jock and boots. Log PT.
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BLACKSNAKE WEDDING

Mr Hardwicke at his most expansive. Wedding-bells time. Grab a towel, wipe down your partner or choose a partner to wipe down, and welcome Mr Justice Peace.

He wears a navy suit, white shirt, what looks like a regimental tie, while everybody else wears a gladstrap or jockstrap. He looks like this is another perfectly normal event.

Me n Mike wipe each other down, looking into each others' eyes, special attention to groin and crotch. Our guys pair up as usual. Jon's linked with Mr Kraus. I think but I'm not sure, wasn't paying enough attention, that Mr DD paired with Mr JL, Mr Hardwicke with Boss Henry, Mr Whitmore with Pete.

Mr Whitmore clips a leather bow tie around Mike's neck. Mr Kraus clips one around mine. We wear them now and at dinner, then on special occasions. We stand facing each other, maybe six feet apart. Mike slips the titanium ring around my balls, in the gladstrap pouch. Both heads get more alert.

Mike stands on my right, the blacksnake over his left shoulder. Damn! What a stud. Mike, if you were wearing khakis and boots, you'd look just like that professor from Ark of the Lost Raiders.

Everybody cracks up. Raiders of the Lost Ark -- Mr Whitmore. The whip was a 10-foot model 458 from David Morgan. Were use lighter Cherokee bullwhips but David Morgan blacksnakes. Okay.

Gentlemen, the JP begins. We have come together to join these two men, Mike and Steve, in lawful matrimony. Who gives these men?

Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore stand by Mike, one each side. We give Mike to Steve. Each one swats a glute to step him forward, towards me.

Jon to my left, Mr Kraus to my right, say, We give Steve to Mike. Each one hugs me, then swats a glute to step me forward towards Mike.

Mr JP goes through the ceremony. I remember some but I tried too hard not to look too hard in my gladstrap. Steve, do you take Mike to be your lawful wedded husband, to love, honour, and obey, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, in slavery and in freedom, till death do you part?

I do.

Mike, do you take Steve to be your lawful wedded husband, to love, honour, and cherish, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, in slavery and in freedom, till death do you part? (I obey. He cherishes. Like old-fashioned wife and husband,)

I do.

Steve, have you something else to pledge to Mike?

My cue. The gladiator oath. Notice blacksnake coiled over Mike's left shoulder, so his right hand could grab it. Mike, I'll take a whip with you, I'll take a whip for you, I'll take a whip from you; I'll take a dick with you, I'll take a dick for you, I'll take a dick from you: because I belong to you.

Mike, have you something else to pledge to Steve?

His gladiator oath (I take, not him). Steve, you'll take a whip with me, you'll take a whip for me, you'll take a whip from me; you'll take a dick with me, you'll take a dick for me, you'll take a dick from me: because you belong to me.

Guys laugh, cheer, clap. I expect Mr JP to tell Mike he may now fuck the husband. He just tells us we may now kiss. We hug, grind, kiss. Mike slips off blacksnake. He'd have to bend down, so he picks me up instead. My dick feels his hard abs. My balls feel his hard dick in my crotch. He says, don't shoot, but okay to frag. We do. We hold on. Don't want him to set me down.

There's champagne while Mr JP, Jon, Mr Kraus, Mr Hardwicke, and Mr Whitmore sign the certificate. Mike and I give our thumbprints. The county doesn't expect slaves to know how to write.

Mr JP leaves. The others all head up to the slave shower to shower together. That leaves Mike time to make love to me, looking into my eyes, which don't take long. He wipes my spunk, his dick, instead of feeding them to me. Gladstraps stay off for the walk, so guys notice how hard, how happy we both look. Blacksnake over Mike's left shoulder, while his left hand holds my right glute.

We hang the bow ties and blacksnake on a hook, join the men in the slave shower. They all wash me n Mike, wipe us down. Hard not to shoot again. They must notice my titanium scrotum ring, and some feel, wash around it, but nobody mentions it.

Clean glad straps, even Pete n Boss Henry. There's no size small enough on the rack for the apprentices, so they're back in jocks. Me n Mike back in our bow ties. Boss Henry carries Mike's blacksnake, so the company guys won't know it's Mike's to use on me.

Mess hall erupts when we all walk in. Me n Mike first. Gentlemen! A very proud Mr Hardwicke. May we introduce the newly-married gladiator captains, Mike and Steve. Hardwicke company invites all y'all join us in the lounge after the gym, when they help initiate gladiators Jamie and Darren and Luke and Demon, plus apprentices Mario and Sparky -- like Mike and Steve's initiation last night. Classes cancelled tonight, any work postponed. He tells the other couples to stand. Looks like maybe one guy in three or four is married, mostly older than us.

More cheers. Lots of hands-on attention in the serving line. Steaks tonight! Rare!

Mr Hardwicke says to the owners and directors that the company's way less brutal than the way I look right now. He tells every man who's been blacksnaked in the last month to stand. Besides me and Mike, the four other gladiators plus Pete (from my scaffold race with Darren -- Chapter 7). Nobody else. Bullwhip? Us six, Pete (Chapter 9 plus Chapter 7), Jon (yesterday morning with me -- Chapter 11), and Mr Hardwicke (after I won a pullup contest -- Chapter 3). Nobody else. Cane? Us six, Pete, and Jon.

The mess hall explodes. Mr Hardwicke almost holds a straight face when he says, "Gentlemen! Let's thank our Steve's Studs for their entertaining FIRST week!" (Ouch!)

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Later, y'all, but Chapter 15 comes WAY sooner than this one. Thanks for ridin with me this far.