Steve's First Job by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at Groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 2
Stu: Well, if seeing the slaves shaved and collared in the morning wasn't erotic enough, in the afternoon we moved on to having their brands burned in. I know it's controversial, but it is the law - I mean, how else, ultimately, can you tell a slave from a free man if you can't see his brand? An escaped slave can always have his collar removed, or a tattoo effaced, but there's no way of getting rid of the deep scarring from the branding. Anyway, I know we've talked about it in the past and you think it's cruel, but that isn't the point: it's the law, and owners who don't have it done face extremely heavy fines, and even imprisonment. Jon says that branding is good for the slaves, though: once they understand that they are so totally in our power that we can order the mutilation of their bodies in this way, it brings home to them that their life has changed irrevocably and that they're now no longer "men". They might entertain the hope that one day some change in their circumstances would lead to their freedom and they could have their collars cut off and return to "normal" life, but the fact that we can order them to be branded signals clearly and finally to them that this is never going to happen. A slave's hide, marked with an ownership mark, is so clearly "property", just like we have the china in the workers' canteen marked to prevent them stealing it.
Jon said that the branding would best be done after we'd eaten, as the stench of the burning skin could upset the stomach, so we left the slaves in the "crush" and went over to the canteen - but not before we'd used the moveable barrier at the rear of it to really "crush" the slaves up tight against each other, so that their dicks were lodging in the butt cracks of the guy in front, and their bodies were in contact along their whole length. We just left them there and went off - they couldn't escape from the barred "crush" after all - and Jon said it was another part of the bonding that they needed to go through: in our forty minute lunch break it was inevitable that some of them would have erections, and they'd start to overcome their shyness and embarrassment at knowing that their fellows could feel it.
Our company treats its workers well and the canteen for the depot workers is subsidised - again, dad says that it's only common sense, as with cheap, good food the workers stay there during their lunch breaks and only use their forty minutes. If we didn't do this, they'd go out, it might take longer, and they might end up in bars and so on and come back with a drink or two inside them, which would lower productivity. Dad's good like that, understanding how to make a "win win" situation that's good for the men and good for the company.
The slaves don't eat lunch, though: they're fed twice a day, normally, although as I've explained, during their initial training we vary this a bit so that they learn to understand their total dependency on us for everything. Jon said it was a good idea to water them before the branding started, though, and he insisted I do this. "They're your team, Steve, and they need to learn that it's from you that their sustenance comes. Think of it like training a dog - a good owner always feeds a new dog himself, so it knows that the hand that feeds him is his master's." So I went down the line of them as they stood there in the "crush" with the waterer - that's what we use most of the time: it's a big bag of water on a strap, that you sling over your shoulders an under one arm, with a pipe coming out of it. You put the pipe in the slave's mouth, then squeeze your arm down to force the water up and into him. It's a pretty standard way of doing it, as it ensures no water is wasted because everything goes into the slave's mouth. Some of them wanted to refuse the water, but Jon had warned me not to allow this. "They're worried about having to piss in the "crush", Steve. But a slave needs water to be able to work properly, and they've got to learn that when their master gives them some, they take it: if you start to let a slave make decisions for himself, you're on the top of a slippery slope where soon it's him who's deciding everything, not you." Mind you, I didn't like having to force their mouths open to get the pipe in.
I don't know what it must be like to get an erection when you're standing so close to the guy in front that your dick forces its way between his butt cheeks, but it can't be all that bad, surely. But when one guy started to piss after the watering, a whole lot of shouting and argument broke out. Well, what else could the poor guy do? And it's not as if there's a real problem with piss, is there - I mean, it's perfectly sterile. Still, I suppose the first time you feel a stream of hot piss bursting in your butt crack it must be a bit unsettling.
The slaves all started to look really worried when they brought in the branding kit - a stout frame, to tie the slaves down on to, the same slave who'd collared them that morning, and a glowing charcoal brazier which he tends. Jon told me that it is now possible to brand slaves with a branding iron dipped in liquid nitrogen or some such, but that we prefer the "traditional" way as the heat, the smell of the searing flesh and the sizzling sound as the branding iron burns its way through the skin and subcutaneous fat layers all add to the atmosphere and remind the slave that this is it, this is his life from now on.
The first slave in line in the crush, the first one who was going to be branded therefore, was a blond guy - big boned, open faced, bright blue eyes, and with a shock of curly dirty blond hair before he was trimmed.
He looked a typical farm boy, and as we went to get him, he blurted out "Please, sirs, not this! I'm a southerner too, sir. I ought not to be slave, sirs, so please don't brand me - my folks live in Arkansas, and although they're only poor farmers, I'm sure they could scrape together enough to buy me from you, sirs, an release me back to our family."
I was a bit startled by this, and thought he must be lying, and so I snapped "Rubbish! You're a northern soldier, who came and tried to invade us."
"It wasn't my fault, sir. I was in the marines, and my unit was stationed up north when the war began... So what could I do, sir? We were ordered to come down south when the war started...."
"You should have done the right thing, boy!", Jon cut in . "No real southerner would bear arms against his fellows. You should have deserted or something, and made your way back to your folks. Or rejoined the southern forces, properly."
"But my buddies, sir..."
"So where are your buddies now, to help you? No, boy, you brought this on yourself by denying your heritage.
You're a slave, and you're a slave, and that's it. There's no going back, and I doubt that you'll ever see your folks or that Arkansas homestead again." Jon was really tough on things like that, and I suppose he's right - I mean, if you or I had been in New York or somewhere when the war finally erupted, we wouldn't have fought for the Yankees, would we, Stu? We'd have got back home and joined out forces, defending our right to the way of life the southern states have chosen. Mind you, it did make me feel a bit uneasy - I wondered how many other southern boys had been enslaved like this, as there were far more southerners in the old combined forces than northerners - all those Yankees work in offices and such, and the poor southerners have always traditionally ended up in the army as there was no other work. Still, that's one of the penalties of fighting a civil war, I suppose - there are always going to be some cases of unfairness, but it's pretty minor in relation to all the other things that went on.
He carried on shouting and arguing as Jon and I herded him over to the frame with our prods, and Jon showed me how important it is to have the slave tied absolutely immovable. If his body can even twitch a little, the edge of the brand won't be sharp and crisp, and it spoils the effect. We use an adaptation of the standard "flog and fuck" frame - the slave can be secured on his belly on the cross piece and his legs strapped rigidly to the back legs, and then you throw a strap around his waist and really haul it tight to make sure his butt can't move. There are additional straps that go around his thighs, too. It's the right arm that's the real problem - the left one is just cuffed to the front leg as usual, but there has to be a special platform to take the right arm straight out. Jon really tugged at the binding around the slave's wrist to keep his hand flat on the platform, and then it's really fiddley to tighten all the individual ones to hold the fingers down. Jon explained that it's pretty bad when the branding iron sears their butt, but there aren't all that many nerve endings per square inch down there. But on the back of the hand, it's different and it's so much more sensitive.
Actually, I'm glad we'd eaten lunch before the branding, as I'm not sure I'd have fancied it afterwards as it's pretty stomach-churning. I'd not been to one before, and I suppose that like a lot of people I was just aware of seeing the slave brands on the butt and hand, but hadn't really considered how they got there. There's an awful lot of noise, of course - all the slaves, without exception, scream as the branding iron goes into their flesh - and remember it has have to stay there for five or ten seconds, to sear through the outer layers of the skin, and all this time the slave's screaming is really pitiful. They tend not to stop, either when you put them in at the back of the "crush", and stand there sobbing for a couple of minutes. If you add in the shouting and pleading form the slaves still to be done, it's pretty wearing, I can tell you. You'd have thought that big tough soldiers would be more stoical, and would have seen that what was going to happen to them was inevitable, but it didn't stop all of them shouting all the time. But it's the smell that's the worst - not so much the smoke and smell of burning meat, as that's not all that different from a barbecue at home.
No, it's the fact that most of the slaves lose control of their bowels and bladders, and there's soon the awful smell of shit everywhere. The big slave who's in charge of he brazier and the heating of the irons has to clean up the mess off the floor after each one, but it's still not very nice.
It's bad enough for the slaves, I suppose, but I have to tell you, Stu, that your old buddy Steve was pretty scared himself! Jon insisted that I actually do the branding myself, as it's another powerful way of reinforcing to the slaves that I'm in total control of them. I've never done anything even remotely like this before, and I was terrified of fucking it up and potentially ruining a valuable slave, especially as Jon went on and on about making sure I pressed the iron in with a firm, even pressure, about not being distracted by the slave, and by him telling me of the need to keep count of the time - as you first touch the iron to the skin you start saying to yourself one and two and three and four.... To make sure you leave it there long enough, but not too long. It's not so bad doing their butts, actually, as it's a nice big area, it's not so critical for timing and pressure, and at least you can't see the slave. But when you come to do the back of their hand, it's different - you have to get it lined up quite precisely, you have to make sure you don't press too hard as you don't want to risk destroying any of the nerves that control the fingers, but what's worse is that the slave is looking right at you. His head is there, just where you're trying to work, and he's screaming and shouting away with a terrible mixture of fear, pain, and downright hate for you.
You know, Stu, it was made worse by thinking about what that young Arkansas guy had told me. If the war hadn't finished, you and me might have been fighting, just like him. And the northerners could have captured us, and it could have been us strapped there on the frame, waiting to get our butts branded. But then, I suppose it wouldn't have been so bad for us, as the northerners don't have slaves, do they? That's what got this whole stupid civil war thing stated in the first place.
I was pretty upset, and not a little nauseous, by the time all nine had been done, and Jon said hat that was enough for one day: we still had some stuff to do the slaves, but they needed to be allowed to recover. So one by one we took them out of the "crush" and marched them over to the slave sheds, and locked them in to "their" cage. It's a lot of effort, when you need to escort them individually like this with your slave prod, and I'll be glad when they've finally become resigned to their status - Jon says it always does happen - and are no longer at risk of escaping, and just obey orders. Steve.
Steve: Frankly, it all sounds absolutely barbaric. How can you get involved with this? Stu.
Stu: Hey, it's not very nice to get these critical one-liners from my oldest buddy. Don't blame me, blame the system! Mind you, I didn't like branding the guys much as it really did hurt them, and over a beer last night I talked about my concerns to Jon. He made a number of points, that I think you ought to consider before criticising me!.
Firstly, it is the law. All slaves must be branded. No exceptions, no excuses, as I've told you. Dad's company has to use slaves to be competitive, and so we have to brand them. Or else we'll be fined.
Secondly, think about the consequences of not branding them - or, indeed, of not having slaves at all. Jon says that in all major wars in the past soldiers were ultimately repatriated to their homes. But that's when foreign soldiers come in and invade, and even then it's far from total: we and the British ultimately repatriated the Germans in WW II, but the Russians kept many of them for a long, long time. But it's different when it's a civil war - these guys aren't foreigners, who invaded the country, Stu. They're our own countrymen, who came down here and tried to change our way of life. What are we supposed to do with all the captured soldiers? We can't just send them back and let them go free, or the north would be tempted to do it all over again, so they've got to be kept down here in the south. So either they've got to stay in prison for the rest of their lives, which costs a huge amount to do, and which isn't very good for the guys anyway, or we have to adopt the solution we have: gradually sell them off as slaves, so that they cost society nothing and the men can lead useful and productive lives. Now, if these guys were "foreigners" who were enslaved, that might be OK as you can generally tell a foreigner from one of us. But they're the same as us, Stu, we were all citizens of the same county, speaking the same language, used to the same laws and customs, and everything. So if you make a guy like that a slave, how are you going to be able to locate him amongst the rest of us if he escapes? Collars can be cut off, and the brand is the only sensible way of permanently identifying them.
And thirdly, Jon points out that it's best for the guys themselves. I know that sounds odd, but it's difficult for a free man, especially one brought up in a country like ours, to accept that he's now a slave. Stripping him and collaring him starts the process, but once you've burned a brand into his skin, the guy can be in no doubt about what he is. Stu says it's a kindness, really, to help them through this difficult transition as quickly as possible.
I'm not a complete monster, you know that - or, at least, I hope you do! That night, when they were all in their cage, I went along with a big jar of burn salve that Jon gave me - again, it's me that has to do this, as they're "my" men and they need to know that it's me who's looking after them. They have to be branded without anaesthetic, Jon says, as you want them to really remember their transition to full slavery, but there's no point in prolonging their suffering unnecessarily and so the burn salve was there to help. I must say the branding scars look pretty horrific at this stage as I smeared the antiseptic analgesic stuff on to them, and I didn't even get the expected "high" from getting to feel their butts! But Jon tells me they'll scab over very quickly, the when those drop off, the brands will be sharp and clear and not at all unpleasant to look at. He said Idid a good job with the branding iron, and there's not many guys my age could have performed as well - I feel quite proud. Steve.
Steve: Look, stop making excuses, will you? You sound as if you've got it all worked out, but it's not right to take free men and turn them into something approaching animals! Do you realise that you've never even mentioned any of these nine men by name? You've already effectively dehumanised them. I'm not sure I want to hear any more about the horrible things you do to these poor unfortunate guys. And I think you should talk to your dad again about getting out of this whole mucky business, and coming to college here in Atlanta. It's fun, and I miss having my old buddy with me - the other guys in the dorm are all very serious and don't want to sneak out and try to bluff the bars into serving them a beer, and life would be a whole lot brighter if you and me could chase the tail together and do again some of that "good guy, bad guy" stuff that made us so successful at getting laid in High School. And are you certain that this Jon is a good influence on you? He sounds pretty cold-blooded to me. Stu.
Stu: I hate to say this, but I think we're growing apart. They say that always happens when people go away to college: you lose touch with your buddies. You're there, going to classes, "chasing tail", living in the dorm (from what I hear, those places can be fun), fooling the barmen, and still living the kind of life we used to when we were at High School. But I'm a working man, Stu, doing a responsible job. I've got other worries now, like making sure my slaves are properly trained, and convincing Jon that even though I'm young, I'm as capable of doing the work as the other draymen are. You probably can't understand how hard it is for "the boss's son" to be accepted as a genuine worker by his colleagues, either. I think you're just postponing "real life" by majoring in eighteenth century English poetry - if you were out in the real world, as I am, you'd begin to realise how hard it is to make a living these days with the economy still on its knees after the war - we ought all to be trying to do our best for the country, not idling away our time in some Elysian academic paradise. And, I'm beginning to think, Jon's a pretty great guy in spite of what you said in your last note - he looks after my interests, advises me, and really knows "the world". I really admire him, and hope I'll be half as good one day as he is now. I must go now - I've got to be at the yard by six to get the slaves started. Think about what I said, buddy: I hope I can still call you that. Steve.
Steve: Hey, lighten up! Do you remember that story we studied in English class about the dictator who said he was fighting a war for "truth, beauty, poetry, and things like that". And then when it had been going on for years and years he asked for a poet to write a commemorative eulogy for one of his generals, and was told that there were no poets any more, as they'd all been drafted into the army to prosecute the war effort? Well, I think you're in danger of being just a little bit like that - sure, we need to rebuild after the war, and civil wars are particularly hard to recover from so history tells us. But there's no point in guys like you working away to "rebuild" unless there's something to "rebuild" - we need poets, just as much as we need slave drivers, Steve. But please let's not quarrel over this - I value our friendship, and I don't want to lose you as a friend, and I'd hate to miss out on our correspondence, even though I find some of it a bit - well - upsetting, shall we say, and leave it at that? And I'm still concerned that this Jon is too much of an influence on you. I guess the worst is over for your slaves anyway?
Your buddy...(?) Stu.
Stu: Hey, just stop criticising me, OK? You do your thing and I'll do mine. Don't worry about Jon - he's a great guy, as I've said. I really enjoy working with him. And you are coming back home for the holidays, aren't you? I ought to have my team properly trained by then and you can come out for a ride on the dray with me. I thought it was all going well today - I got to feed the slaves myself for the first time, as it's another of those things the drayman does himself to bring him closer to the slaves. It's awkward until they're properly trained, though, and you can trust them to be out of the cage, as you have to do each one individually and it all takes time - you get the slave to kneel in front of you with his back straight and his butt resting on his heels and his hands clasped behind his back, then you press the spout of the feeder into his mouth and give one turn of the handle, and there it is!
The feeder is a special thing that I've not seen before - the slaves at home eat normal food, the scraps from the table, supplemented by slave chow. But the slaves here are fed a special very high protein low volume diet and you literally stuff it down their throats! As you turn the handle on the feeder the very small quantity of food paste goes directly from the feeder's spout down the slave's throat. Jon says this had two benefits - firstly, the slaves' teeth keep in good condition, as there's no sugar and stuff in the mouth to rot them, and you don't need to keep cleaning their teeth as there's no food lodged in the cracks or anything. But the very low volume concentrate has a major benefit in that the volume of crap the slaves produce is tiny, and it's hard and consolidated into one, or at the most two, tiny turds a day. This means that it's very unlikely the slaves will have a desperate desire to shit when they're working in the streets, and, if the timing is wrong and they absolutely have to, the very hard, small turd is relatively inoffensive, and can simply be rolled down into the nearest drain in the street.
I thought I'd got the hang of it, and was doing OK, when one of the slaves, as I let him out of the cage, tried to take the feeder himself and said something like "I'm not a goose, to be stuffed like that, as if you're making foie gras...". Jon was close by and slapped his face, hard, as that's simply outrageous behaviour for a slave, and the slave in turn swung a punch at Jon and almost felled him. It was fortunate that I had my slave prod to hand, and I was able to help Jon to his feet as the slave lay there writhing in front of us.
Jon looked grim. "Ah, well, at least it's happened early", he said, and we began preparations for what I thought would be the day's work by leading the other slaves off to the "crush" and imprisoning them there. The slave who had struck John and was still twitching on the floor from my prod (I'd had it set to the default of "maximum" as I hadn't been expecting to use it) and we hauled to his feet and secured him to a flogging horse that's always waiting there in the area - his legs were spread wide and you could see his big dick and balls hanging down between his thighs. Jon didn't bother with the waist and upper body cinch straps, just the ankle and wrist cuffs, as he said that for what we were about to do it would be more instructive for the other slaves to see this one as a "buckaroo" as he called it, when the slave's body is mostly free to move but where he's still unable to escape from the horse.
Jon went to the cupboard and came back with a strange instrument with a handle on the side that looked a bit like a pair of pliers - no, more like a chuck on an electric drill, as there were several pieces to the "head" - and a thick black ring made of rubber, with just a tiny hole down the middle. He went over and walked down the line of slaves standing there tightly jammed together in the "crush", showing them the ring, then slipped it over the drill chuck thing and turned the handle on the side of the instrument. Slowly, very slowly, very slowly indeed as the thick rubber of the ring needed a huge amount of effort to stretch it open, he continued to turn the handle until the jaws of the thing were right open and there was a large hole through the rubber ring, now stretched extremely tightly indeed.
He walked over to the helpless slave on the horse, knelt down, and began to "knead" the guy's balls, massaging and pushing them so that they were right down low in his sac, then, as the slave almost groaned in pleasure from this, he slipped the sac down into the instrument, moved something that released the jaws, and the thick black rubber band snapped back to its "rest" position, but now firmly around the root of the slave's sac - we heard the "snap" of the rubber, but it was instantly drowned out by the slave's totally agonised screaming, It almost made me vomit, to think about the pain the guy must be in as the ring squeezed those delicate tendons and tubes in his sac, and I don't think I'd eve heard anything before quite so terrible as the howling from the guy - it just went on, and on.
Jon beckoned to me, and we went outside into the fresh, morning air, leaving behind the horror he'd just caused. I started to remonstrate with him, and he said quietly "Steve, you're not thinking! Look, why do you think we buy nine slaves when we only need eight? It always happens, one of them takes a shot at us, and we always do this."
"...but the slave's in agony", I blurted out, and he said "Yes, but only for a while. It only takes about an hour for the guy's balls to die, as that ring totally cuts off the blood supply."
"....but it's cruel...". He shook his head , as if in disbelief. "Look, Steve, you're not thinking like a drayman yet! You've got to control eight slaves, right? They've got to understand that they are slaves, and that if they disobey, the most terrible punishments are waiting for them. And you've got to control them on the open streets, where there are unlikely to be other guards and so on around. And they're not chained up when they're working, remember - they've got to load and unload the dray! How do you think you're going to do that? Well, I'll tell you - firstly, by being the acknowledged 'leader' of the pack of them - that's not as hard as you'd imagine, as they're all soldiers, and by their nature, soldiers tend to be the type of men who are predisposed to follow orders. But secondly by having them understand that you are ruthless - you'll prod them if necessary, order them to be whipped if they displease you, and you'll even be prepared to make them pay the ultimate sacrifice for a man, and take his balls."
"But even so...."
"No, Steve, it's best this way. One of them suffers, suffers terribly, I'll grant you that. But the other eight have learned a lesson they'll never forget, and it's kinder for them, in a way: this one demonstration of our power over them, done early, will save them from a whole load of trouble in the future, and if we hadn't done it, you'd have almost certainly have had to order a few whippings for them - and that's not pleasant, as making them work with whip scars and fresh blood, with the flies and all...."
Well, to cut a long story short, we left them for a couple of hours, and when we went back in the slave's balls had gone all black, and he'd stopped screaming and was now just whimpering, almost to himself. Actually, it was the slave I was most worried about - he'd got those kind of thick, "brutish" features that implied he was a real redneck, and he had a kind of swaggering insolence where his whole attitude was one of "I know best". I think he'd been some sort of corporal, and I could well imagine him terrorising the younger recruits in his platoon. In a way, I was glad he was gone, as I thought my task of controlling the other eight would be much easier now - so I could see that maybe what Jon had said was correct.
The other eight in the "crush" glared at Jon and me but didn't dare to say anything - they were beginning to learn that held tight in there they were very vulnerable to the lightest stroke of the prod, and it didn't just hurt one of them: the others, making close electrical contact because of their sweaty skins, caught it too. We called in slaves to take the eunuch away, and Jon told me, in a voice loud enough for my slaves to hear, that the ring was left on for a few more hours, but then the sack and dead testicles had to be cut off as otherwise there was a danger of gangrene setting in. "He'll end up as some lady's servant, probably", he went on. "As you take this crop of fine male slaves on your delivery runs, you might even see him, trotting behind some lady as she goes shopping ,carrying her packages, her umbrella... All that sort of stuff. It's quite the fashion now to have a gelding performing these little services for fashionable ladies."
We really had to press on then with the remaining pats of the slaves' "processing" - firstly, one by one, they were taken out of the "crush" and fitted with permanent cock rings - well, not the sort of recreational ones that guys like to wear sometimes, but proper "working" ones. The rings are so tight that there's no way you can get the dick and balls through them, even when the slave's not erect, so the blacksmith fits them - there's a special shaped pliers that squeezes an open ring tightly closed and the ends are glued together: Jon says that it's not so long ago that they had to be welded shut, and that was a big problem as there's just no way you could stop the slave's body and balls getting burned at the same time, so we do seem to be making progress in dealing with these guys humanely - that ought to please you. And finally, long after it was our normal lunch time, we had the tattooer in to ink them.
They're required by law to have their SIN tattooed under their armpit of course, as are all slaves, but in the Company we also have it done as a barcode on their right biceps as it makes it easy to use modern technology to scan them when we're doing inventory and so on. Jon whispered to me that it's also good as yet another means of reminding the slaves that they're just property now, and accounted for just as we do for any other items on the company's asset register. And finally, just as they thought they were finished, we took them all out again and one by one we had their backs inked. I'd read their files by now - we got them from the Department Of Defence as part of the war settlement, so I knew their names - and thought that we'd just use shortened forms of these on them: Dan instead of Daniel, and so on. But it just shows you what a good man Jon is, as he counselled me to only have numbers on them: the big digits 1 to 8, running from their necks to just above the start of their butt cracks. "If you let them use their names, Steve, it seems as if they're almost like men, whereas a number reminds them that they're just 'things' now. Some guys like their slaves to have 'pet' names and have them inked with 'slave' names like Binky and Snotty and so on, but I don't think that looks very professional - we are part of a major business here, and so I'd advice you just to go for numbers". So I did.
I was really peckish after all that, I can tell you, and was ready for lunch. But before Jon and I could eat we had to take them out, still individually, to the "exercisers" in the yard. They're like big treadmills that you find in the gym, except that they slope upwards so the slaves are always running slightly uphill as it's better exercise for them, and there's a big elastic harness you put on them that drags them backwards and which they have to work against. It looks pretty good exercise, actually - of course the slaves have to be cuffed to the side bars to prevent their escape, but once you've done that, you can just leave them: you set the timer and speed control for the amount you want to exercise them, and that's it. The spiked bar at the back means that they can't stop, or else it's pretty painful for them! Jon says my slaves are still in pretty good shape as they were in a holding camp that made them exercise, and it ought to be only a week or so before they've re-build enough muscle to be able to get them to work properly. This slave stuff is really interesting, the more you get in to it. Steve.
Steve: I know you said "stop criticising me", but, old buddy, don't you think it really is cruel to be treating the slaves like this? They are men, after all! And castrating that one, even if he was a swaggering bully... I'm not sure I can go on writing to you. Stu.
Stu: You know nothing! You just don't understand, do you? These aren't men, they're slaves. The sooner they acknowledge that, the sooner they understand that they've got a different life now, the better it is for them. And none of the things we did are really cruel - castrating that one did I'm sure make it a whole lot easier for the others. And the cock rings are a big help - if you are going to live and work totally naked, imagine how you'd always be worried about catching your dick and balls in things, or even sitting down "wrong" : the rings keep them all up and more out of the way. And I do need to be able to command the slaves, so I have to be able to distinguish them and what easier way for a naked body than by a big number that's clearly visible? And I'm sure it is kinder to do that than to keep reminding them of their former lives by using their names. I think you'd better shut the fuck up about things you know jack shit about - your dad won't even have domestic slaves, after all, so perhaps you just don't understand anything at all about the slave mentality and how he needs to be made to work. Steve.
Stu: OK, I did put the phone down on you. But you sounded so fucking self-righteous when you rang me after my long note, when we hadn't corresponded for a week as we were both so pissed off. Look, I miss you, Stu, as I need someone to talk to - all the other guys here are much older, as they say you can't be tough enough to be a good drayman until you're thirty or so, and I come in from a fair amount of joshing from them.
I reckon it's a test dad's putting me through. And it's worrying enough, trying to handle all these big slaves and making sure I'm doing the right thing, without having to go around worrying about what my oldest buddy thinks. So let's just agree to differ on this, shall we? I'll tell you how I'm getting on, and you can tell me about college life, and when you come home for the holidays we'll really sort it out - I'll take you for a ride on my dray (I ought to be properly in control by then).... And I'll show you one or two other things I've learned, old buddy.... Jerking off isn't the only thing that two buddies can do together! OK? Steve.
Steve: Look, you'll never convince me that owning slaves is right. But we've been buddies for so long, it would be stupid to break up over it. It was so good to hear form you again, Steve - and what's all this about "what we can do together"? Stu.
End Of Part Two.