Steve's First Job by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at Groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 1
When I was a lot younger I semed to have more time. There always seemed to be time to talk to my buddies on the phone, or, when they went away to college, to type them long e-mails. In spite of all my aides and secretaries, I never seem to have time for any of this stuff now - it's tougher at the top that most people think. But last weekend I was clearing out the private files on my PC - the very private ones, that not even my trusted executive assistant is allowed access to - when I came across some old copies of notes I'd sent to my then best buddy, Stu, when he'd gone off college in Atlanta.
As I read them, it took me right back to those early, more innocent days, right after the war when there was still some degree of chaos as the states sorted out their new responsibilities and the two new governments set themselves up in Chicago and Denver. Stu and I hadn't been affected, fortunately: the war finished just as we were about to be drafted, at sixteen, so we didn't have to slog around the country fighting the North as so many young men from our high school had to. And with the fighting over and the truce in place, it was much easier for rich and influential men like my father, and Stu's, to buy us exemptions from the draft - or perhaps they had to buy a couple of slaves and send them, or pay a bounty, or something: it's all detail, and I forget.
Anyway, at the time of these notes Stu was just away in Atlanta, as I've said, and I was still arguing with my father about why I couldn't join him. "Look, Steve", he told me sternly. "It's not a matter of the money, you know that. But I need you in the business.
You need to learn about it properly. You'll inherit all the demesne one day, and its associated businesses, and it's large and complex. If you don't start getting to grips with it, you'll be wasting your inheritance."
"But dad, Stu went.... What about their holdings? Isn't their demesne much the same size as ours?"
"Yes, and Stu has several brothers already working in their business. Let him enjoy college now, as I think he'll have a tough time later on - younger brothers don't usually do well in family businesses, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if your buddy ended up as a doctor, or lawyer, or something.... Not as one of the owners of a demesne, as you will be."
"But dad..."
"Steve, I don't want to hear any more. You will either do as I say, or leave now, leave totally, and go and make your own way in the world. Your mother left you a small inheritance from her own fortune - the part that didn't come to me on marriage - and that should be enough to get you started. But don't expect any support form me unless you're going to act like a dutiful son should, and take your proper place in the order of things, and knuckle down and get stuck into our business!"
"But dad..."
"No more, Steve. Get to work, or get out. Make your own mind up."
Well, I'd half a mind to just walk out, go to the train station, and buy a ticket to "somewhere". Dad and I are both incredibly strong willed and I knew there was no shaking him, and I was really pissed off and ought to have gone my own way. But it's hard, at eighteen, especially when you've always had the finer things in life: my own suite in the big house, my own personal slave to look after all my clothes and stuff... Sure, times had been difficult during the war, but the supply of the good things in life had never been much affected where we were deep down in Tennessee: it was annoying not to be able to travel to all the "fun" places like New York and San Francisco as we had done when I was a child, when mom was still alive, before the war started: she was not really "of the south", as dad was, and relished those trips "to civilisation, to catch up on the plays, the music, the art....", as she put it.
More than most of my contemporaries, I suppose, because of these trips I knew how expensive things could be out there in the real world, and how unpleasant things could be without slaves to take away most of the irritations of modern life. Much as I wanted to show dad that I was at least as capable as he was at making my own decisions, in the end common sense prevailed and I stayed at home. And then dad began his programme of introducing me to the businesses on which our family's fortunes were based.
I'd forgotten most of this stuff, and it was only finding this old copy of my notes to and from Stu that brought it rushing back: it's a miracle that the software still existed to read them after all these years, and I sat there for half an hour as I pored over the display, reliving those few weeks in my life.
I think it will be interesting for my grandchildren to know how it was in those days before the almost universal use of "bred" slaves swept away some of the practices of the day, and so I've copied and reproduced those exchanges of e-mail here. If I had more time, I suppose I could add comments to them, or give them a definitive time line, but I think that as a "taster" of how things were, they are sufficient in themselves. All those interested can of course always access the national archives, with all the news bulletins, documentaries, films and such like from those days.
So here it is, after all those years, just as it was written.
Stu, you old dog! How are the bitches in Atlanta? I know you - be careful: some of those sophisticated city ladies won' be expecting a country-boy cocksman like you, and will swoon when you start some of those tricks we both learned on the nigga girls from our demesnes. On the other hand, old buddy, they might have tricks you might not be on the look out for: they do say that they deliberately get in the family way, and then expect you to marry them; and if you won't, they take your folks to court and sue for megabucks. I can't imagine your dad would be pleased about that... And he might even decide it would be cheaper to let you get sold off as a slave. Still, don't worry: if that looks likely just tip me the wink and I'll make sure I buy you - I've always fancied your ass, as I've told you, but you've never let me in. As a slave, you'd have no choice. Write to me, and tell me what it's like in the big wide world out there - I feel stifled down here sometimes. Steve.
Steve: God, it's so formal here in Atlanta. A jacket and tie is required all the time in college. And if I "date" a young lady, as they call themselves, it's a suit, especially if we "visit with" her parents, as they call it. No more jeans and Ts for me. They say its so we are distinguished from the slaves, who are dressed "for work". Unlike back home where the niggas only work in the fields and around the house, slaves here do all kinds of stuff - in offices, stores... You even see slaves managing other slaves. You often can't tell at first, especially as some of them are whiteys, and I've sometimes made the mistake of saying "thank you" when a slave has served me in a store: I was with a few guys from my frat once when I did this, and they almost screamed the place down with their laughter. It seems they have a sixth sense for who's a slave, and don't have to keep looking for the collars, as I do. The women around here just don't put it around - unless, as I said, you "visit with" their folks, and practically get engaged... And then, god help you if you don't go through with it. Fortunately the frat has a few slaves up in the attics.... But especially on the weekends they're very heavily used and although I know we're supposed to be frat brothers and all that, I'm not sure I like using a slave when she's still slimy with my "brother's" spunk. Thanks for the warning, though - I'll make sure I don't get enslaved: the thought of that big dick of yours forcing its way into my tight hole doesn't bear thinking about - it's making me wince even as I type this. Still, there are enough niggas on your demesne that your dick isn't lacking in exercise, I assume? Take care, buddy... Stu.
Stu: Don't worry about your hole, old buddy. If you were a slave of mine I'd soon get you nicely stretched and you'd be panting for your owner to service you. Especially as I'd keep your dick in a chastity cage so you couldn't fuck or even jerk yourself off - the only time you'd get relief would be when my dick massaged your prostate. Must go now, as dad is sending me off to work in our hauliers - it's one of our most profitable businesses, and he wants me to learn the ropes. It sounds a bit dodgy, though: instead of going to the Board meetings and stuff, he wants me to work with some old-timer in charge of procurement, and "work my way up". It sounds a stupid way of doing things to me: owners should manage and set strategic directions for the business, not become involved in the day to day detail. Still, after the huge row with dad about college, I've got to humour him a bit. I'm pretending to go along with what he says, so that when I want six months off to go and see Europe, I can point out that I've done everything that he's asked me to. Will you come with me? Those foreigners might be pretty peculiar, and I'd like my old buddy close by - very close by - to help me. We could share a bed, and you don't have to take my dick - well, except in your hand. I do miss those mutual jerk-offs. Steve.
Stu: Hey, it was good to chat on the phone. I do understand why you can't come to Europe as you'll have to work in the vacations from Atlanta - folks can be a real pain, can't they, always trying to stop guys having a bit of fun? Anyway, my dad got me started today, and what a day! I kind of thought I might be in the office or something, but when I got to the depot downtown and spoke to the receptionist, she activated a pager, and this really old guy eventually came out to meet me. Well, I say "old" - he was probably only forty! But he had a hard, mean look and he was clearly used to working physically, as he packed tight jeans and a T, and those tan leather work boots with thick soles. He shook my hand - it was kind of hard with patches of tough skin on it, and he squeezed me as if he was testing me: I'm glad we did all those workouts in the gym as I think I gave back as good as I got. His name's Jon, and he seems to be some sort of supervisor at the depot - not the manager, who does sit in the office, but the guy down there "on the shop floor", who actually runs things. Not really knowing what to expect, I'd worn my new dress chinos, my designer leather casuals, a smart shirt, and had a jacket in deep tan linen, and the first thing he said was "Boy, you'd better go home and change: we've got to go off to the military today, and the men there can be pretty rough on someone who's dressed fancy". And that was it. I'm just dashing this off to you as I change - I guess I can't go wrong if I follow his lead, so I've pulled on my faded jeans - the ones you laugh about as the bottoms are all frayed - but which I like as they're so snug and I think they show me off to good advantage. And that plain dark grey T you gave me last Christmas. See ya later. I'd better dash back, as that Jon looks pretty businesslike. Steve.
Stu: Wow! What a day. Jon told me that my dad wanted me to see the business "from the bottom up". As you know, we're big in logistics and distribution, and the depot services the last leg of the thing - the big trucks come in and the loads are broken up for the locals, and deliveries take place from there. We use drays, mostly, as the costs are pretty much unbeatable compared with stuff powered by gasoline or diesel, since the huge price hikes. Anyway, the depot's expanding and we were to go and buy and train a new set of dray animals, and then I'm going to use them deliveries for the next few months - so long to Europe, I guess! Jon and I were going to the big base on the outskirts of town, but when we went outside and I went to get into my trap, he was almost offended. "You can't go in that, Steve!", he told me, "They'll think you're some rich guy and hike the prices. Anyway, the government usually provides transportation back, and you'll want to be with the animals. So I had to send Blackie home by himself - the lazy fucker didn't even run as he set off, and if this behaviour persists he'll need a good whipping. Then we caught the street car out to the base - I haven't been on one of those for years and it's quite interesting, actually, to see all the other folk riding, going about their business.
The streetcar stops four blocks from the base - you probably remember it, as when we were kids they used it for training marines, and there were all those hunky guys around who we used to like to look at. Now, though, since the war, they've turned it over to keeping the POWs. They're all under normal military discipline as they say that's the easiest way to keep them under control - they're mostly self-policing, with their own officers and stuff, and it's only the perimeter that needs guarding. Mind you, it's pretty grim as you approach it: several layers of high wire fencing with that "razor" stuff all over it to stop them escaping, and guard towers with machine guns - you can see they mean business. You can just make out the POWs exercising as you walk up the drive - it' funny, really, as it's so impeccably neat, with all the stones along the edge of the drive painted white. There are guards on the gates, of course - our soldiers, obviously, and they checked our ID and let us in, pointing out that we wanted the "sales" building, rather than "Base Admin".
You kind of expect military stuff to be all drab and green or grey, but the sales building was different: more like a Realtors, with big green plants, spotlights, comfortable chairs in front of modern desks. Our sales advisor was a guy in his twenties in a good suit, and when we sat down he asked us what we were looking for. Jon looked at me, as I'm supposed to be picking and choosing, but I had no idea. So I asked him to specify our requirements, and he rapped out pretty smartly "Nine. Not younger than twenty two, as we need them to have properly developed bodies. Not older than thirty two, as we want them to have a long working life after we've trained them. Tall. Muscular - prefer heavy set, as it's powerful work they have to do, rather than something for speed.
Cart horse, rather than race horse, as you might say. That's about it, really."
I wondered about the nine, as our drays are usually puled by teams of eight, but Jon clearly knew the ropes, so I said nothing. They asked us to wait and there were comfortable couches with the Wall Street Journal, Newsweek, and all that sort of stuff, and a young slave came and took our orders for complimentary coffees, and Danish.
Our sales associate collected us after only twenty minutes or so, and told us the stock was ready for inspection, and we followed him through the base towards one of the huts that were lined up in neat rows - all very military. As we went, we saw groups of the POWs exercising: some groups were drilling, marching up and down and stuff, and some were out doing what looked like heavy-duty physical jerks, all under the control of their own officers, as I've told you. The sales associate told us that they were kept like that, with normal military discipline maintained, as it not only ensured the men remained fit and healthy, but it required far fewer of our soldiers to act as guards and stuff as the POWs were usually so tired that they had little energy to try to escape.
The hut we went in to was almost bare inside, but they'd lined up the stock already and they were waiting for us - at least twenty guys, in what remained of their military uniforms: mostly camo pants, and khaki Ts, and army boots. Some of them must have been fresh from those exercise fields, as their Ts were stained with sweat, and overall there was that "male" smell about the place that you get in sports clubs and stuff - sweat, piss, testosterone.... well, you know. I felt myself getting hard - not just from the smell and the sight of these fit, muscular guys, ut because I was going to actually select them! Jon looked expectantly at me, and I kind of shrugged. "Shall I help you pick, then, son?" He asked. He'd called me "son" several times, and I hated it - I mean, he's only about twenty years older than me, and I am actually the son of his employer, and I think a bit of respect is due. Still, I did need his help, as I haven't a fucking clue about what to look for, so I told him to go ahead.
We went along the line of men and he made some simple choices first. There were five black guys, and he rejected all of them. He says that he's not personally prejudiced, but niggas can be awkward, especially niggas from the North, who have lived almost like ordinary men before being called up into their army. And he says there are some prejudiced guys around, and it can be more difficult to get proper "bonding" in the team with a nigga in it, as some of the others don't like having to work with blacks. There were three Asiatics, too - big, tough guys who were initially probably from Korea or somewhere like that - not little Thai boys, as we'd specified height and strength. They got rejected as he says that when the going gets really tough, towards the end of a long day, with tight deadlines to meet for the last few deliveries, they tend to collapse under the whip and don't respond to it properly. I guess he knows best, from his experience.
So that left us twelve to pick from, although I guess they'd bring more in if these were not suitable. We walked slowly along the back of the line then, and he pointed out something I've never really thought about before - all the POWs were about the same height, six two to six four, but they were differently proportioned: their waists came at very different heights as some had long legs and short bodies, some long bodies and relatively short legs, and so on. We were apparently looking for "good balance" as you need good long legs for the pulling, but a lot of that strength is wasted if they haven't got good, big sound lungs to power the whole thing. He rejected six on this count, and so we had too few, and we indeed did have to wait around whilst the sales associate shouted orders out of the door, and ten more POWs were marched in.
Jon was pretty fussy I'll say that for him, and he seemed to know what he was looking for. Occasionally he'd run his hands over the flanks or the butt of one of the POWs, and I wished he'd have offered to show me what he was looking for - it would have been good to get my hands on that strong, male flesh. But there were enough complaints from the men as it was as he did this, and he looked rather cross. "We'll'' soon teach them proper manners, once we're at the depot", he told me rather curtly.
. Finally, we had twelve who were "mostly up to standard" as Jon called it, and then he told the sales associate to have them strip so we could get a proper look at the bodies. They didn't like doing this, you could tell, but the sales guy threatened them with a standard slave prod that he had clipped to his belt, and they all complied, but with a lot of grumbling, and they stood therein their army cotton boxers in khaki, and their socks. I was embarrassed as my dick was rock solid now, seeing all their bodies starting to get displayed, and in those jeans there's just no hiding it! Jon went up and down the line, front and back, again, and a couple were rejected as they had "unsightly" tattoos on places like their calves, and shoulders. Jon said that small tattoos - arm bands, "semper fi" for the marines, that kind of stuff, was acceptable mostly, as the public knew that most slaves were ex soldiers, but anything too big, or in an unsuitable place meant rejection as they'd be going around the streets for our company and we needed to keep up standards.
He looked at me then and said "Well, there's ten here, which nine shall we take?". I honestly didn't know - they all looked much alike to me, so I asked him how we could tell. "Well, if all else fails, there's always the dick test", he said, smiling, and asked the sales associate to have the men made to totally naked.
Some of them really protested at this, and I saw Jon making what looked like a mental note of these potential trouble makers. And the sales associate actually had to unclip his prod and wave it around in front of a couple of them before they all dropped their boxers and stood there to totally nude except for their socks. I was in big trouble now - I felt certain there'd be a damp patch on my jeans as I was leaking so much pre-cum at the sight of all these hunky bodies. But even I could see which one to reject then - he was outstanding, or, rather, to totally underwhelming! Actually his dick wasn't all that tiny, but compared to the size of his body, it just looked ridiculous. He must have been used to being teased about it, though, as he just shrugged when Jon said that we didn't want one with a kid's dick like that.
So then we had our nine. The sales associate asked us to accompany him back to the sales hut to draw up the contracts, and the men went to start dressing - but Jon said that wasn't necessary. "Just boots and tags" he told the sales associate: the tags so we can register them properly before we collar them, and the boots as their feet aren't tough enough yet until we have them trained. My dick gave another jerk at the thought that we could order these big tough guys around just like that, and I felt like asking Jon if we hadn't better see if they could all shoot a good load - that would have been a real sight. But he'd moved off, and I wasn't sure about what exactly we could, and could not, ask to see.
There's quite a lot of paperwork, actually: you need the POWs name and army serial number, and all that kind of stuff, and they won't accept credit cards or anything: Jon had got a certified cheque before we left the office, as he knew the ropes, but we'd have been in trouble without that. I guess it's a bit like buying a used automobile from a dealer's lot - you don't trust him until you've seen the registration papers, and he doesn't trust anything other than a certified bank cheque (or cash, I suppose) for payment.
Jon was grumbling about the price being so high, when there were so many POWs available, but the sales associate had what seemed like the "approved" government answer "We've got tens of thousands of these northern POWs and we can't release them all on to the market simultaneously as prices would collapse and many free men would be put out of work. It's the government's policy to release new stock in an orderly, controlled rate that the market can bear, and in the meantime the other POWs have to be guarded, housed, fed, and so on. The price you pay reflects this, and the government thanks you for your support."
So there! It was only afterwards that it occurred to me that I ought to have asked why the POWs just couldn't be repatriated back to the north, as you usually do after a war. But I suppose it's because a civil war causes all kinds of different problems, and it might mean that those pesky northerners might again try to stop us living our own lives in the way we've chosen.
It seems that the price included transportation "a reasonable distance" and after everything was signed and sealed we went outside and saw a small standard carriage cage on the back of a flatbed truck. The nine we'd chosen were then herded out of the hut we'd been in by guards with guns, and once they saw they were to go into the cage, some of our purchases started to protest - mostly because they said they weren't slaves, but POWs, but a couple because they didn't want to be carried through the streets naked. It's as if the whole thing had started to become real to them at that point - or perhaps it's the odd sensation of being naked out of doors, - you know how it is, like when we went camping that time, and we felt so strange even when there weren't any other folks around for miles. One was so violent that they actually did use a slave prod on him and the soldiers then picked up his twitching body and just threw it into the cage, and the rest them followed, although very reluctantly.
The driver was a young soldier and I sat between him and Jon as we drove out of the base and back towards our depot. I asked him if he liked being a guard there, and he said it was better than actually fighting: some of it had been pretty brutal in the northern cities before they finally surrendered when their oil ran out (most of the oil fields are in the south of course) and the electricity was cut from those big generators on the southern rivers. "I guess that if the war had gone the other way you might have been in a POW camp in the north, and you might have been in the cage at the back, rather than up front, driving", I joked. "Hey, it's not such a bad life for them, and I don't know I'd mind all that much", he told me. "I've got a wife and two kids to support on army pay, and that's pretty tough. At least those guys have got rid of all that baggage and are free to be themselves." I wondered what he meant by that, and Jon explained that most of the stock we bought was that bit older as we didn't buy the POWs who were "raw recruits". So they were mostly "career" soldiers, and the culture of the army meant that you had a family and such like.
We got back to the depot and Jon made sure there were a number of our own handlers, all with slave prods at the ready, before the cage was opened and they were allowed to clamber out - slowly and carefully, as they weren't used to climbing around naked and were evidently worried about their balls! We moved them immediately into one of the over-night sleeping cages where the teams are kept, and once the door was securely locked, Jon gave an almost audible sigh of relief. "It's the most difficult time for a slave, Steve", he told me. "Look, they were all soldiers, then POWs. They kind of knew - knew intellectually, if you like - that they'd be sold as slaves one day, but they've been in that base for over a year waiting, and it didn't happen, and they must have started to think it never would. Now it has, and they haven't adjusted and still think of themselves as soldiers, and soldiers try to escape, and to fight. So it's a dangerous time for us - and them - until we can start convincing them that their life has changed, changed utterly. It's best we keep them here tonight and start fresh tomorrow - but they're your team, your responsibility now - make sure they're comfortable. You need to do that every night, so your team bonds with you and learns that you're responsible for them."
I asked him what was to be done, and he looked a bit exasperated, as if it ought to be obvious - but how the fuck was I supposed to know what you do with a bunch of naked slaves? At home, our own guards look after all that stuff. "First, have they got enough bedding? Just check the straw in there and make sure there's enough to keep their bodies off the bare concrete. Secondly, is the water spigot working? Just flick the tongue plate up and down - you can reach it through the bars - so that when they need to drink, there's clean water available. And you also feed them, but we'll skip that tonight, as they'll react better if they're hungry tomorrow."
It was a real pain getting home, as I've told you I sent Blackie back earlier with my trap. So I had to go on the streetcar again, and it was rush hour. I don't know how all the poor folk manage every day - we were packed in like cattle. Steve.
Steve: Well, old buddy, you seem to be turning into a real live 100% slave driver. Look, we've debated this before, and I don't want it to come between us. But you know that my whole family is opposed to slavery - dad even imports Mexicans to work our demesne, and mom and dad don't much like me being buddies with you at the best of times. They almost forbad me to see you that summer when you came over and saw me cutting the grass, and offered to go back and fetch one of your dad's slaves to do it as it wasn't "dignified" for a free man to be doing work like that. So if you meet mom or dad, just chat politely and ask how I'm doing - that will fill the time, as they're really proud that I got a scholarship here; and for fuck's sake don't tell them about how you're getting on at work! They say that the northern POWs are just that, POWs, and entitled to be treated as soldiers, who need "rehabilitating" but then repatriating back to their homes and families in the north. Their church has cake sales and collections to raise money to advertise for the anti-slavery society, you know that! Anyway, take care. I've met a stunning girl whose over here from Sweden - she's so much more relaxed about "things" than our southern girls, and I'm confident I'll get my leg over tonight. Must rush - I need to shower, so I'm fresh and sweet. Stu.
Stu: Chasing tail, as ever! I was expecting an up to date progress report this morning, but as I had nothing from you I expect you did the dirty deed and managed to stay over at her place? Take care, buddy - you don't want to get lumbered until you've had time to play the field a bit more... But maybe it's too late for that anyway? They say those European women all take the pill, so perhaps you'll be OK. I always thought it was a crap idea to ban contraception for the unmarried as it would reduce promiscuity - sometimes our southern senators can be real assholes when it comes to logic, and they are too much influenced by the church, who are a real bunch of killjoys. But is it true they don't shave their pits, or legs... Or anywhere?
I drove Blackie down to the depot this morning as I couldn't face the streetcar again, but mindful of what Jon had said about not being "different", I sent him home when I was a couple of blocks form the depot. It was still very early (at least for me!), but Jon was already there as he has a small apartment that's kind of part of our compound - a lot of the single guys find it's good to live right on the spot, and dad encourages it by making worker accommodation available at very reasonable rentals - he says the men are then on hand, in case of problems, and the money he loses on the low rentals he saves form not having to have a lot of guys on "stand by" and "call out", and he doesn't have to pay cab fares to get them home if the shifts overrun or anything.
Jon led me through into the barns where the slaves live, and "my" group were still asleep, mostly, sprawled out all across each other on the straw. Jon says that we deliberately keep them in small cages so that they can't avoid each other, and can't help being in close contact with each other's bodies - it helps them to "bond" properly as a team. He banged on the bars of their cage with his prod, and it was comical, almost, as they scrambled to their feet: most of them still had their morning hard-on, and when they realised it, they tried to cover themselves with their hands. It's funny - some of them came awake almost immediately, and some of them were yawning and rubbing their eyes for two or three minutes. Just like ordinary guys, really. And, as guys do when they wake up, some of them were scratching their balls, and some their pits. Jon said to me that a lot of this would be fixed later in the day.
Jon told them all to have a good drink as they wouldn't be getting any more water for a long time, and we had to wait as they all knelt down in turn in front of the spigot and press their mouths around it to release the water. One of them asked Jon when they were going to be fed, and he snapped that slaves didn't ask questions - they just waited, and sooner or later, when their handlers were ready, they'd be fed. He turned to me and told me that for the first few weeks we deliberately changed feeding times at random, and sometimes skipped meals altogether, feeding them double the next time: it apparently helps the slaves to realise that they're no longer in charge of even simple things like that, and that they're totally dependent on us.
It was a bit gross then, as it was time for them to piss and crap - they weren't used to the idea that slaves just crouch down and do it over a hole direct into the sewers. I guess Jon was ready for it, though, as he'd lined up some of the other handlers, with their slave prods at the ready, so there was no trouble. He whispered to me as we watched them do their business that this morning was the really difficult part - by the time we'd finished with them and they were all collared and so on, they'd have started to adjust to their new status and would be much easier to handle.
It seems the depot deals with a fair few new slaves, so we have the facilities on site, rather than needing to send the slaves out for processing. The best thing of all is the "cramp", that keeps the slaves secure during processing: it's just two lines of bars, really, just a couple of feet apart so the slaves can only line up one behind the other and can't get out of line or anything. There's a gate at one end so you can take the next slave off the front of the line, and it's a bit like an airlock as only one slave at a time can get through. Similarly, at the other end there's another arrangement of gates so you can return a slave there after processing. But in addition to that there's a kind of moveable plate that slides along rails on both sides of the rows of bars - you can push this from the back towards the front from the outside and thus "cramp" the slaves together. I couldn't understand this at first, but its use became obvious as the morning progressed.
The handlers directed the slaves into the cramp, and then the first one was pulled out of the gate at the front. He stood there in his army boots and dog tags, and Jon directed him over to kneel in front of an anvil thing, with a hollow for his neck in it. He was very suspicious, but kept a wary eye on Jon's slave prod so it seems they all know what happens if one of these touches your bare skin. There's a full-time blacksmith in the depot as there's always work to do with the slaves or the drays and he went over and measured the slave's neck, then fetched a collar, slipped it under the slave's neck in the hollow in the anvil, then used a "shaping tool", I suppose you'd call it, that fitted in to the anvil and allowed the collar to be bent in a smooth curve to close up. There's a lot of noise and some sparks fly as he uses a red-hot rivet to close the collar permanently, and it's quite a sight to watch: it's perfectly humane, though, as there's a bit of wet sacking thrown over the slave's shoulders so he isn't burned by the sparks. The blacksmith is a real sight, too - a huge, muscular guy, with biceps that stand out almost like footballs as he wields the hammer or strains to bend the collar - he just wears a leather apron to cover his front and protect him, but his back is to totally bare and you can see the sweat running down his back and funnelling into his ass crack. The slaves at home all have thin, stainless steel collars, but the ones at the depot working on the drays have the conventional thick, heavy black cast iron ones, riveted on, as I've explained. Jon said that firstly it looks more reassuring for the public to see slaves heavily collared like that, and secondly that these big men need thick, heavy collars so that everything is in "proportion" - actually, I think he's right: those thing stainless steel things would look too frail on these big guys, even though they're probably just as strong and as difficult to remove.
When the slave was allowed to stand up he seemed surprised by the weight of the collar, and his head was slightly bowed. But then there was nearly trouble, as the blacksmith reached up and cut through the thin chain holding his dogtags on, and tossed them into a bin. The slave protested, and Jon almost had to drive him back to the cramp and in through the rear gates. "See, Steve, the realisation is beginning to set in", he told me as we watched the blacksmith take the next slave from the front of the line. "Whilst they still have their dogtags, they can still think of themselves as soldiers. Now he's beginning to realise that he's just a common slave, collared like all slaves are."
With all the collars securely in place, Jon asked me what I wanted to do about the hair on my team. Well, I had no idea. So I asked for his advice - always a good thing to do, as I was finding out. "It's a difficult one, Steve", he told me. "You're a fashionable kind of guy, judging from those clothes you turned up in on the first day, and that pony you had on your trap had the fashionable 'naked' look, I noticed. You have him totally shaved,, right?" So I told him that yes, I did have Blackie completely shaved as "Gentleman's Quarterly" had said that this was all the rage in New Orleans and the other fashionable places. I'd wanted it permanently removed with electrolysis, but dad had a fit when I told him how much it would cost just to do Blackie's balls, let alone his head. "Well that's OK for your personal pony, I guess", Jon said, "But it's a lot of work here - you'd have to wait around all the time, supervising them, to make sure they shaved off every scrap of stubble almost every day. Don't you find it a problem with your pony?" I shrugged and pointed out that at home we have a stockman to take care of things like that, and he just laughed! "No time for all those idlers, Steve. You're the 'stockman' for your team, so unless you want to spend a lot of time monitoring them, I'd say the naked look was totally out - mind you, it does help the bonding between the team and their driver, as running your hands all over their skulls and bodies every day gets them to accept your touch. But if I were you, I'd go for a compromise look: head hair at half an inch, as most of them have anyway from the marines, but with no sideburns and with the napes cut crisply in a sharp line. Loose all their pit hair - they'll sweat a lot as they're working and as they lift the crates and stuff on and off the dray, it's more aesthetic than showing a big ugly patch of wet hair. You only need scrape it clear every week or so, so it's not too difficult to manage. Then the pubes and so on - well, I always think all slaves' balls should be shaved, as it makes them look tidier and of course we are going to 'ring' them and that's harder when their balls are all hairy. And most of them have really unruly pubic thatches , that's most unsightly So I'd recommend you have them much reduced, to a nice neat patch just above their dicks, and then have that trimmed to no more than half an inch. As for the rest - well, personally I think a bit of variety is nice, seeing all the different combinations of colours and shading and growth on their pecs, bellies, arm and legs, so I'd leave well alone.".
Look, I don't want to bore you with all of this, and it's getting late as it took a fair old time to get them all properly trimmed and so on.... There was a lot of complaints as they were shorn and shaved, but Jon told me to ignore it as we don't listen to slaves, and it just showed that they were starting to realise that their lives had changed for ever when another guy could order their pubes to be clipped! But nothing prepared me - or them, I suppose, for the branding, as I'll tell you about tomorrow! But tell me - was she all hairy, and do you want my advice about the management of body hair? I must be starting to be an expert. Steve.
Steve: Look, buddy, I know you're trying to be humorous, but please don't compare my girlfriend with your slaves. Not even in jest, OK? And to answer your question from yesterday, no she doesn't shave her pits! But it's actually quite erotic, as there's another place to sniff and lick. Look, Steve, I don't think it's good for you to be around all these slaves, as you seem to be losing some of that sensitivity that makes you such a nice guy to be buddies with. You don't have to work for your dad, you know- you can always get a job elsewhere. Or why don't you tap some of the other members of that big sprawling family of aunts, uncles and cousins of yours and get to a college? At least with a proper education you could make your own way in the world. Stu
End Of Part One