THE SPOILS OF WAR by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 4
We sat chained in our coffle in that fucking truck for what seemed like another couple of hours. The driver was in spirited conversation with a guard on the "goods inwards" bay who was going through the paperwork the driver had, looking at things on his PC screen, and making phone calls. It seemed clear that whatever they had in store for us couldn't take place with the paperwork in a mess - it was just as if we were a shipment of stock into a warehouse, and not a load of men who needed food, a piss and a shower.
Eventually there was a lot of signing of forms, as evidently we were "handed on" from the driver to the loading bay guard, just as packages moving around get signed for, and the driver winched down the ramp on the truck for what was to be our last time. He came in and undid the coffle chain from the front, and told us to get out. As we stumbled and staggered onto the loading bay, shivering slightly as there was a cool breeze in the air, the guard turned to the driver and said "Fuck this, these stink! Man, I don't know how you can do your job, having to drive filthy animals like this around. You'd think that they'd keep themselves clean, even though they're only slaves, wouldn't you?"
We all looked at each other, and I felt certain that one of us would burst out and tell him how unfair that was - if you don't allow guys to shower, make them piss in the straw they're lying on, force them to crap in the woods, and give them nothing to catch their cum on when they jerk off, what do you expect? But it would probably have done no good - they'd only have punished him, I guess. But it did show me what a gulf there was in the way that "ordinary" people saw things, and the reality of slavery for us slaves.
The guard pressed a button and a door slid open with a hiss of compressed air, and he snapped "Get your filthy hides in there....". We staggered through the door, to find ourselves in a small chamber, with a steel floor, walls and ceiling. The door hissed shut behind us, and it was kind of scary - standing there in that totally featureless space, with no windows, strip lights in the ceiling buried behind tough-looking glass, and not even any handles on the doors. There was another hissing noise then - more ominous sounding, and a white vapour started to appear from grilles at floor level. Some of us started to panic then, shouting that they were going to gas us, and young Dylan pushed himself against me and put his arms around me, as he looked terrified. The vapour rose higher and higher, and it smelled awful - it was clearly some powerful chemical, and one guy got hysterical, screaming that he could feel himself choking. Some of the others, too, started pounding on the doors and walls, trying to find some way out, and shouting that they didn't want to die in here. I could feel my heart racing and sweat breaking out all over me as my body did the classic "fight or fly" reaction (although neither was possible!), but then, mercifully, there was a click, and a loudspeaker somewhere said "Slaves will remain calm in the fumigation chamber. This is for your own good, to protect you from lice and other infestations before proceeding to processing. We are required under Federal law to remind you that this chemical has been judged as safe for use on slaves and farm animals. Men should take suitable precautions if handling for prolonged periods."
This did at least quieten down most of us, and a couple of the guys held onto the one who was almost hysterical as the white vapour rose around us. It was pretty disgusting - you could breathe, but it had a vile smell and almost made you gag, and there was no avoiding it at all as it completely filled the chamber and went into every pore of our bodies. We were all sincerely grateful when there was a whirring noise as fans or something started to suck the stuff out, and a few seconds later a door opposite to the one we had entered by hissed open.
We were in a conventional shower area then, and all twenty of us stood there feeling really great as the water started to sluice down on us from nozzles in the ceiling. There were cakes of soap lying around on the floor, and soon we were all soaping up - it was almost like being back in a barracks again (excepting for that fucking coffle chain!). Some of the guys couldn't hold it as the water continued to pour down on us - they must have been desperate to pee, and it was just too much: I saw several bright yellow streams hosing from guys' dicks, and that pungent smell of warm piss wafted through the air. Still, it was good to feel really clean again, and when the water stopped, a further door opened and we went through into yet another empty room.
Strangely, this room was also bare but had no ceiling - there was just a heavy mesh on top, and there were guards, armed guards, strolling around up there and looking down on us. The loudspeaker voice started again: "Slaves! You are in the United Confederacy's Department Of Slaves' Slave Processing And Auction Facility for the greater Atlanta area. Under Federal law slaves can only be auctioned in approved facilities like this, once the slave had been properly verified and examined to ensure he is medically fit. Whilst here in the facility slaves are enjoined to obey all orders issued by officers, to remain silent unless spoken to by an officer or are in a designated slave relaxation area, and to be respectful at all times. Federal regulations allow officers at this facility to punish slaves being held for auction as if they were the owners of those slaves, so the full range of lawful punishments is practised, up to and including use of the bullwhip. Slaves are reminded that the penalty for escape, attempted escape, or striking or harming an officer of the facility in any way, is death. Guards patrol the overhead catwalks constantly, and will not hesitate to shoot slaves who appear to be endangering the staff, customers or other visitors to the facility."
It was the first time that the true awfulness of life as a slave really came across, I suppose - the fact that there were physical punishments regulated by the state ("up to and including the bullwhip"!), and that we could even be killed without trial. We stood there, looking up, and a guard pointed a rifle down at us, play-acted pulling the trigger, and gave us a cheery wave.
Once again a door opened, but this time a guard came in. He was in the blue uniforms that the Confederates seemed to favour, with a short-sleeved shirt with epaulets saying UCDS - Atlanta, and tight-cut cotton pants that seemed to be cut to emphasise his muscular butt, tucked into black leather combat boots. He carried a short whip of the riding crop school - leather handle, and about a foot of semi-flexible shaft terminating in a thin leather strap - and clipped to his belt was one of the slave prods with which we had become familiar. "Line up at attention, slaves", he snapped. "You were all soldiers, so you should know how to do that!"
We shuffled into our order on the coffle chain, and once again it felt so odd to be "on parade" in this military stance I was so used to, but now naked, and in chains. The guard snapped "Stand easy!", and we all did it in unison, as you'd expect from soldiers, except for Dylan who I cold just see out of the corner of my eye. The guard moved along the line and stood in front of the boy. "Don't tell me - you're the one they added in at the last minute, the newly-enslaved sixteen year old? You're the one that's been causing all the trouble - we were just expecting some of the captured insurgents, and all the paper work's fucked up now. So have they all been fucking you, boy, on the transporter - marines always like a nice young ass? You're cute enough...."
"Sir, no, sir.", Dylan said simply.
"I resent that", one of the guys shouted out. "You are impugning the honour of the US Marine Corps. Marines don't fuck ass.... Sir."
The guard strode up to him, stood with his face close to the slave, just as if he was a sergeant on the parade ground, and snarled "The next time you speak without being spoken to, slave boy, I'll give you a level five prodding. For your information, marines do fuck ass - and even if they didn't before they were taken as spoils of war, they surely do now. Most of you men, who were such wimps you allowed yourselves to be captured rather than fighting to the end, like real men, will end up as some owner's fuck toy. So you may be glad to fuck ass, as a change from having your asses fucked by your owners and their friends."
I couldn't bear it any longer. "Sir, no, sir, no way....", I shouted. I wanted to tell him firstly that we were not "wimps" - marines don't surrender, just like that. We'd only laid down our arms because we were totally out of ammo, and hugely outnumbered - our Captain had ordered us to do so, to save needless and pointless loss of life, in the hope we might escape and still be able to fight again. And secondly, that there was no way I was ever going to fuck ass, or have mine used in that vile way.
The guard strode up to me, and the next instant I was trying to scream. I say "trying" as the pain that had shot through me was so intense that my limbs had all contorted and I'd started to fall to the floor, to have my fall broken by the coffle chain which was now strangling me. The guys on either side of me who were also being choked grabbed me and helped me try to stand upright in spite of the cramps that were causing my body to convulse. The guard just stood there looking, and said, calmly "There's always one that protests when we talk about the sexual habits of marines. But let this be a lesson to you - that was a level five prod, and there's two more notches we can use, too. You heard that slaves are not allowed to speak here in the facility unless spoken to, or unless you are in a designated slave conversation zone. This is your last warning, for all of you. Behave, or be punished - that's the motto here."
"Now", he went on, "I'm going to take that coffle chain off you as we need to process you through into the holding cells. Let me repeat the warning you heard - any attempt to escape, any violence against officers or visitors, and it's death. No second chances, no arguments - the guards up on the catwalks are all trained marksmen, and will take out any troublemaker." The guard strolling around above our heads again pointed his rifle down at us, mimed pulling the trigger, and waved again. The guard continued "And just as there's always one who gets a warning prodding as you saw a moment ago, there's always one who doesn't believe us, and gets taken out.
Don't let it be you - a life as a slave is better than no life at all."
"Now, remain standing at ease, until I order you to move off." As he said this, he started to come down the line, using a small tool to remove our collars. The "clank" as mine, and the chain, fell to the floor was one of the best sounds I've ever heard, and I had to fight my body to remain "at ease" and not reach up to massage my neck where the odious thing had been for the last days.
When he released Dylan, from the end of the chain, he said, more quietly, "Look, lad, you'd better stay with these slaves until we sort out the paperwork. I don't like leaving a young guy like you with all these older toughs - they may have treated you OK so far, but once they're processed and in the dorms, their natural tendencies will come out and they'll all try to fuck you. I've got a soft spot for young slaves like you - my own sons are only seventeen and fifteen, and I can almost visualise how terrible if would be to have them standing there naked, as you have to. If they try to 'interfere' with you - you know what I mean by that, son? - shout out."
"Sir, yes, sir. I do know, sir. My previous owner 'interfered' with me, sir."
"Oh, you poor kid! I'd hate to think of that happening to my own sons. They fool around with each other, I know, but having an older man use them when they're so young would be terrible. Look, I wish I could take you out of all this, take you home and let you live with my sons, but I can't afford you, on a guard's pay! But whilst you're here, we'll try to make it as easy as possible for you. Have you spoken to any of the men here, is there any one of them who has tried to help you already?"
"Sir, yes, sir. Steve, sir."
"One pace forward, the slave known as Steve!", the guard snapped, and almost automatically, as that's how our parades ran at base, I stepped forward and stood there smartly. The guard came up to me and faced me.
"You're the fucking trouble maker! Not a good choice as the boy's guardian - but the kid's chosen you. Now listen, soldier boy, you're responsible for this kid, understand me? Make sure he gets treated right when he's with you lot. Make sure they don't fuck him. Make sure he gets his fair share of the food. Make sure he's tucked up in bed at night.... If I find he's been abused or 'interfered' with or is unhappy, I'll personally ream out your asshole with my slave prod. Understand, boy?"
Inwardly I was amused - if anyone was going to do any "interfering", it was likely to be Dylan, not any of us soldiers! But I kept a straight face, and just said "Sir, yes, sir."
"Good! Now, you men - we've got your medical results from when you were first captured and sentenced to enslavement. So the rest of today is going to be quick and easy - you all need shaving, most of you need a hair cut, we need to mark you and collar you, and then you can go to bed! There's two weeks to sale day, and tomorrow we'll start the exercise programme that will get you in peak condition. Now.... Right turn.... March...."
We were shaved next, and it was fantastic to get those days of beard off - I've always liked to be clean shaven, although as I'm dark and have a fast-growing beard, I often look as if I've got "five o'clock shadow" by noon! And when I've been in foreign parts, especially all those engagements in South East Asia, it was a real treat to be able to go to a cheap local barber and be shaved every day - so much easier than standing there with all your buddies around trying to get to the same wash basin and so on. So I was used to being shaved by other men, and the two slaves who went along and did us were really excellent - proper cut-throat razors, not those new plastic things. Of course there were complaints - a group of guys always bitches about something, don't they? But three of the guys had 'taches, and these had to come off, and I heard the slap of the guard's lash once or twice as the guys had spoken to the slaves, complaining, and they were reminded that we weren't allowed to say anything.
I hadn't been able to have a haircut for weeks, either, so that was good, too - I've always liked to keep my hair in a good marine's buzz cut, and hate it when it gets long. The trouble for me started at the next stage in the process.
We had to go one at a time in front of a couple of guys who looked us all over, and decided what was to be done to us. For me, they said something like "A real hairy one here - shall we have him shaved all over?"
"No - it's becoming more fashionable to have a masculine looking slave. And these really hairy ones don't shave well anyway - it re-grows very quickly, and it's constant maintenance."
Turning to the two slaves who were acting as barbers he then snapped "Trim his pits, as I can see some pit hair squeezing out when his arms are at rest. Shorten that pelt on his chest, but only a little. Take off about half his pubic hair, and shorten the rest to an inch. Then the standard sac and crack."
The two slaves had the electric clippers they'd used on my head, and gestured for me to raise my arms above my head so that they could each do one side of me - there was a dreadful buzzing, and it tickled as my pits were shortened. And it was really odd having the clippers on a high setting go up and down my chest. But I went to push them away when they started on my pubes, and the two men who'd given the orders gestured to a guard, who came forward threateningly with a prod, until I just resigned myself to my fate.
Look, I've always had a lot of pubic hair - a big patch, running from one thigh right across to the other, all dark and bushy. They deftly shaved the sides off all of this, so I was down to a circular patch centred on my dick, then this was shortened to about an inch all over. I hated it as they held my dick between thumb and forefinger to allow for the passage of the clippers - I mean, this is not the kind of thing one guy ought to do to another, is it? But when they gestured at me to sit in a big high chair and lean right back, and then took hold of my balls, I wanted to lash out at them and only the guard standing right there prevented me.
Have you ever had your balls shaved by another guy? It's fucking awful, I can tell you. They have to hold your most intimate parts, then they have to pull and stretch at your sac to get nice smooth surfaces to shave: you know how convoluted and pimply your sac is, and therefore how long it takes, and how much prying at you they need to do! And all the time there's this worry that they're going to really fuck it up, and really hurt you - they didn't, of course, as they were experts. But when a guy has your balls in his fingers, you just sit there really on edge, always expecting it to happen. Worse was to come, though. I'd wondered what "sac and crack" was, and I now knew about the sac part; and when they then told me to get out of the chair and go and lie with my belly on a table and my legs spread apart, feet on the floor, I guessed what the "crack" was going to be!
One of them pried my ass cheeks apart so that the other could run the clippers all down there, and then I felt the warmth and tickling as the shaving brush was used to lather me up. That scraping of the razor down both sides, then the awful feeling as, ever so carefully and gently the tip of the razor "tidied up" the loose hairs right around my hole itself. I'd never had anyone do anything like this to me before, and never had another guy look at my ass so intimately, even. It was so fucking humiliating. And when they then told me I could get up as I was done, it felt really odd as I walked across the room - my ass cheeks kind of slithered against each other - you get used to the hairs there, I suppose, so you don't notice them until they're gone! And then there was a mirror on the wall, and I caught sight of myself - I did look better, actually, without quite so much hair.
But my dick and balls looked huge now, and somehow so exposed and vulnerable, as the white of my skin on my sac was now so clearly visible against the black hairy nest all around.
I was ushered into the next room, and there was Dylan, waiting. He almost threw himself at me, and was really upset - they'd shaved him completely smooth, except for a really tiny patch of his pale brown pubic hair just above his cock. He looked three years younger, and so very fragile and vulnerable. "Steve", he almost sobbed, "I no longer look like a mature guy - this is how I was when I was a kid in eighth grade!"
I felt so embarrassed, I can tell you, standing there nude, with this naked kid with his arms around me, especially a naked kid who looked as if he was jail bait! "Hey, come on, Dylan - it will soon grow again. And shall I tell you something - its well known that when you shave hair off, it comes back stronger! So providing your new owner lets you grow it, you'll soon look just like me!" He grinned at this, but I could tell that he was still embarrassed at being made to look quite so young and innocent.
One by one we were called through into the next room, and this was the "marking" they'd promised. I had to sit there whilst a slave with an automatic tattoo gun pressed it into my upper right arm, by the shoulder, and my slave identification number - or SIN - as they called it, was inked into me. "It's easy for you army guys", he told me, "As they're just using your army serial number with an S in front of it, so that all the paperwork at the army records centre doesn't have to be cross-referenced."
It felt awful just to be numbered like this on my arm.
I was dehumanised, somehow, having a serial number inked into my skin. I know we all have social security numbers, passport number, credit card numbers... But having a SIN, and having it inked onto your body, as a permanent indelible label, turns you from being a human being into a piece of property, that can be listed, catalogued and accounted for. Still, I thought, with any luck my owner will let me wear a shirt most of the time, so it won't be so visible. Oh, fuck me - I was starting to think like a slave now - I was accepting that I'd have an "owner". But just as this thought was going through me, the slave with the tattoo gun told me to put my left hand down on the desk, flat. He put his palm over my fingers to hold my hand steady, then brought the gun down and put those same numbers on the back of my left hand! Now, I knew, everyone would always be able to see that I was a slave - there would be no way of hiding those big black numbers in such a place that's always so visible. I felt like punching someone out, I was so furious, and so desperately needed to release some tension.
Above the horrible insistent buzzing of the tattoo gun I'd heard this kind of metallic clanking noise, and in the final part of my "processing" I found out what it was - the automatic collaring machine. In the final room of this "processing suite" there was this big machine, about he size of an office desk. On one side there was a big coil of stainless steel tape around six feet in diameter, electric motors were visible in several places idling away, and the was some sort of hatch thing to one side with one of those warning notices saying "Danger - isolate supply before opening: high voltage welding equipment". The most striking feature of the whole thing, though, was the curved depression in the centre of the machine, and another one, on a heavy-looking metal beam, suspended about two feet above it.
"Right....", the slave who was in charge of this piece of apparatus said. "Name and number."
"Er, Steve Masters. 86607016"
"That's just 'Steve' in future, slave. Slaves don't have more than one name as their SIN identifies them anyway, and their name is just for the convenience of their owners. And your SIN is S86607016 - and you don't have to remember that - just look at your hand!"
I felt myself burning with shame again a I looked at those big black characters on the back of my left hand, but saw that the slave had the same thing, too, and it didn't seem to be worrying him. No doubt that this was another adjustment I'd have to reconcile myself to in my new life.
"Right - I've dialled this into the collarer here. Now you go and kneel on the platform and put your neck into that curved bit there...."
Feeling very apprehensive, I did as he said, and rested my neck down, feeling the cold of the steel of the machine, and the throbbing that was pulsing through it.
"Right, Steve, now don't be alarmed. Federal law requires all slaves to wear a collar, and this little beauty does a custom-made job just for you. The top bar is going to come down now, and it will squeeze your neck, but only for a moment. It's measuring the diameter, so don't flinch - keep your neck muscles tight. It's not going to strangle you or anything, but it might feel like it just a for a second! Then just stay there, and keep perfectly still - this little beauty takes that steel tape, fashions it into a tube and welds it closed, then bends it around your neck and welds the end together so that you're perfectly and permanently collared. On the way it etches your SIN into the collar, too. It's really great - a really humane piece of technology for the slave and a huge advance over the old ways: you guys are really lucky. It does really perfect joints, completely smooth, so this collar shouldn't chafe and scar because of improper manufacture or anything like that. This collar will be as good on the day you die as it is today. Fantastic... Here goes...."
It wasn't bad at all, really. If you don't mind being collared, that is! All I had to do was kneel there and feel this "thing" doing things to me. But he was right - it was "humane" (if you can accept that making am man wear a slave collar is "humane"), I suppose, as the thing cooled the welds so they didn't burn, and it didn't take long. When I was allowed to stand up, I now had a two inch thick band of steel around my neck as my slave collar, and it looked pretty dammed permanent - no way of getting this off without special tools.
Amazingly, I was then given clothes! Simple, basic cotton slave shorts, cut very high on the thigh and tight around the ass, with a fly that was just overlapped - no buttons, or fastenings, so that I felt as if my dick might pop out if it went erect; and a loose kind of T, with no arms, and cut quite low so that my nipples were almost exposed, and which was so short that there was a gap between the low waistband of the shorts and the end of it, exposing a good stretch of my belly and its treasure trail. Still, after all these days, some clothes were better than none.
As our "processing" finished, we were taken off to our cell, and the twenty of us that had shipped in together all ended up in the same one. It wasn't so bad, actually - not unlike some primitive barracks I've been in (except that one wall was completely made of steel bars, floor to ceiling, with a locked gate to gain entry). Plain concrete floor, simple iron bunks stacked two high, very close together, with just one blanket per bunk, and at one end, a crapper in case of urgent need. There was no window, but the lighting from the fluorescents in the corridor outside the bars was adequate, and there was forced air flow, keeping it well ventilated. The only jarring note, and that would clearly distinguish it from a jail cell in a barracks, was the huge injunction painted on the wall "Slave Holding Facility - Obey Or Be Punished".
We all stood there, looking at each other, and rubbing a finger almost nervously around our collars as we struggled to adjust to this most public and obvious way of differentiating us as slaves, from men. Mind you, I suppose that mathematicians would argue that nothing had changed: topologically, there is no difference between a welded-on two inch stainless steel collar, and a standard set of marine dog tags! But in terms of the pride that a man can feel in himself, they're worlds apart.
I felt sorry for young Dylan more than for myself, I suppose. I'd been in some tight corners in my military career, times when my life had been in severe danger, and this just wasn't that bad - it was unpleasant, humiliating, and not to be recommended, but not as bad as being in danger of losing my life. For him, though, it must be really awful: only three moths ago he was a young guy of sixteen, at home, brothers and sisters, mom and dad... And now he was a collared, shaved slave, a slave who'd been used sexually by his first owner, and made to do terrible things to some of the guys in this room. I went over to him, put my arm around his shoulder, pulled him close to me a little, and said "OK, Dylan?"
"I guess so, Steve. What do you think happens next?"
I tried to sound cheerful, but I guess, deep down, I was worried sick. But there was no point in alarming the lad, so I put brave face on it and said "Well, sounds like a couple of weeks of fun - I'm looking forward to working out again, and getting back into peak condition. And I'll show you some stuff that will help you put muscle on, too. Then the sale - well, I suppose the buyers just look us over, and that's that - well before Christmas you'll have a new owner, and will be properly settled in. Who knows - our owners might even let us call our folks to tell them we're OK."
Dylan looked much more cheerful then, and I chose a bottom bunk, and he said he'd sleep on the one above me.
End Of Part 4