A story written by Pete Brown. (Part 18 of 21). Click here to see all the published chapters of the story.


My new life was just awful.  Rob never allowed me out, not ever. I would have been glad to go down to the garage and polish the Porsche – anything to break the tedium of my life. Rob usually got up around ten, and snapped and snarled at me for about an hour as he got ready to go out – he’d probably got a hangover from the previous night’s activities, which didn’t help him.  Then, as he left for a seemingly endless round of lunch parties and teas, all I had to do was clean the apartment, do the laundry, and iron Rob’s clothes.  I stood there, pushing away at the iron, looking wistfully out of the window at the scene all those floors below – I’d have given almost anything to be able to join those ants scurrying around down there.

Rob always took the controls for the TV and CD and phone with him, leaving them tantalisingly out of reach in the narrow hall way, and so once my “chores” were over, that’s it.  He’d told me that he didn’t like slaves sitting on the furniture, and so I mostly sat on the floor and just looked out.  You may wonder why I didn’t just ignore him, but one day he came back – I heard the door latch of course, and so jumped off the couch where I’d been sprawling.  But Rob felt the leather, found it warm, and punished me:  he had a light cane, and it was so humiliating to be made to lie across the knees of my old buddy as he rained down the strokes on to me. “Perhaps this will teach your ass to stay off the furniture, Steve”, he said, with huge satisfaction.

The thing I hated most was losing my fitness – I realised my superb muscle tone was fading, and even though I tried to cut right back on the amount of slave chow I was eating, I even thought I might be going a bit flabby around the belly!   It’s hard exercising without the proper machines, but I did make an effort:  I did push-ups, squats, jumping jacks, and even improvised barbells and weights from empty plastic containers which I filled with water.  Still, it wasn’t easy, especially with that dammed ankle chain trailing around after me wherever I went in the apartment.

Rob came back at about four, usually, to change and prepare to go out for his evening’s entertainment at around six. He then came home some time around midnight, and then the trouble began – he was often mildly drunk, or worse.  And like a lot of guys who can’t take their liquor he became quarrelsome, argumentative, and bad tempered.  He’d pick on small faults that he said I’d been guilty of, and then I often got caned, usually once or twice a week.  As I’ve said, it was only a light cane, and you do get used to it – that sharp stinging pain only lasts for a couple of hours, usually, and the red marks across my ass had always faded by morning.  I think it was the humiliation, though – lying there across his lap, smelling his liquored breath as he grunted and panted with the exertion, and feeling his erect dick pushing at me as doing this to me clearly turned him on.  You may wonder why I put up with it – I was tougher and stronger than Rob, after all, and I wasn’t half drunk – but what would have happened if I had tried to stop him, if I’d refused to go along with this?  That’s the insidious nature of the slavery system – I might have been perfectly justified in refusing to be caned for a trivial infraction of Rob’s rules, and I might have stayed his hand at the time;  but what then?  The next day, or even at that moment, Rob could have called the Slave Patrol and have me taken away and flogged.  No one would question it, no one would think Rob wrong: he was an owner, and owners were always right.  And more extreme measures were out, too – supposed I’d gone to the limit, and broken his fat neck?  Well then, what?  I’d have been chained to the floor of the apartment still, with a corpse beside me:  sooner or later someone would come it to attend to some of the building services, or even if they didn’t, sooner or later I’d run out of slave chow and starve!   And as you know, there’s not even a real trial for slaves who kill their owners – just a court appearance to order the execution:  as there’s no defence to a slave killing his owner, and no mitigating circumstances and no alternative sentence there’s no point in hearing lawyers, or even the slave himself, so the theory goes.

Illustration by Theo Blaze

After the caning Rob invariably fucked me.  As I lay across his lap he’d spread my ass cheeks apart and run his finger nail across my hole, muttering “Yes, Steve, and now to use this properly, as it’s meant to be used….”  Again, there was no getting away from it, no way of stopping him:  he always just fucked me “doggy” on the edge of the bed, and I just had to stand there and take it.  Mind you, he was so drunk sometimes that he just couldn’t get it up, and after a lot of fumbling around and swearing and cursing, he’d “pretend” that he’d managed it, although of course we both knew that he had not – he was then in an even worse temper, and would frequently decide that I needed further punishment, which he’d administer as I still half lay, half stood, there.

Even after all this time I still don’t really understand why Rob treated me so badly.  We really had been good friends, real buddies, before I was enslaved and he inherited all his money.  Even as his slave we could have got along well, I think:  sure, in “the old days” I always made the running and Rob generally had to follow my lead if I decided which party to go to, or whether  to go up to the lake that weekend, or whatever, but he’d always seemed happy enough and never argued (well, not much).  So as an owner and slave he could have made more of the decisions, and there’s a lot of stuff we could still have done together and which he always said he enjoyed, like swimming and stuff;  and we could have worked out together as we used to, as he really needed it.  Stuff like that would have been good for the two of us to do together as we had before, but no – he had this stupid new life, and it was almost as if he needed to constantly punish and humiliate me in order to somehow justify his own shallow existence.

Absolutely the worst thing that went on, though, was the poker session that we’d always had every two weeks, on a Friday.  Rob and me and a bunch of regular guys used to get together at his old place, or mine, or wherever, and just play for the fun of it.  It was good to relax after a week’s work with a lot of guys, drink a few beers, and play a few hands.

I found out that Rob still went to these sessions, and shortly after he’d bought me, he invited the old gang back to Harbour View Towers for the next session. That afternoon he fussed around, getting me to move the dining table this way and that, unable to decide which was the best place to play in the enormous living room:  I got tired of dragging it from one end to another.  Then he wanted a side table for the beers and pretzels and stuff, whereas before we just used to go into the kitchen and help ourselves when we wanted to.  “Oh no, Steve”, he told me.  “We’ll have them neatly set out on a side table, then when someone wants them you can serve him:  there’s no point in me having a slave, after all, if I don’t use you for tasks like this.”

As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was going to have to wait on my old friends, Rob wouldn’t allow me any shorts to wear!  “Don’t be stupid, Steve – we’re all guys together.  We’ve all seen asses before, and most of us have seen yours in the showers at the gym – so what’s the problem?”

“But please, sir… It’s different.  I’ll be the only one naked.  All my friends will be dressed…”

“I’ve told you before, Steve, they’re not your friends any longer:  you can’t be friends with a slave! They’re my guests, and you’re there to serve them, and to please them generally – you are very easy on the eye, you know, and most guys take an intelligent interest in another man’s body – it will be something to do, in-between hands, looking at you.  I might even get you to do a few press-ups or something, to show you off better.”

“Please, sir, Rob, please… Please don’t.”

“Steve, I do believe you’re embarrassed or something! Look, I keep telling you:  there’s nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about – you’d be obeying your owner’s orders, and that’s all that ought to concern you.  If there’s any embarrassment or shame, it would be mine – a slave just can’t feel like that, providing he’s doing as he’s told.  So let’s hear no more of this, or I’ll be fed up with your constant whining and you’ll get a touch of the cane.”

He sat there flicking the TV channels for a few minutes, but then said  “Mind you, perhaps I won’t have you totally naked.  It might cause some of my guests embarrassment to see a well-hung stud like you, as we know that some of them really have got tiny dicks.  So perhaps you’d better wear a loin cloth – leave your ass naked, as everyone will enjoy seeing that, but wear that loin cloth I bought you.”

Actually, it was worse in a way – this loin cloth didn’t contain me or support me at all:  there was a fine gold chain that was slung around my hips, really low down, so that it cut across the top half of my ass crack and was only prevented form falling off by the flare of my butt.  Then at the front, a tiny piece of thin, white silk was hung over the chain, to hide my tackle from sight.  When he’d first bought this home, Rob had spent an hour with me standing in front of him as he cut the width of the thing down, inch by inch, until it was just wider than my ball sac.  Then he’d snipped away at  the length until the bottom of it just covered the end of my dick and balls.  Provided I stood absolutely still then it was true to say that my dick and balls were covered;  but any movement, or an attempt to kneel or sit, and the thin silk wafted aside to give people glimpses of my dick.  And, of course, if I got a an erection, or even just went half-hard as you often do, then there was absolutely no concealment at all.  The whole thing was just designed to be titillating, to make more of a “show”, rather than having plain old fashioned total nudity. Rob had me fussing around for what seemed like hours, smoothing out the green baize cloth that covered the glass dining table, lining up the new packs of cards, polishing the ashtrays and glasses, and so on.  Then when the doorman phoned to say the first guests were on their way up, he had me pull my loose chain and make neat circles with it by my ankle, and then kneel just by the entrance passageway.  As all my old friends came in, Rob just pointed at me and said “This is my slave – just tell him when you want a drink, or a snack – or anything:  he’s here to serve us all evening.”

Most of the guys didn’t really know what to do.  They all knew that Rob had me as a slave, I guess, so they kind of sidled past me, and went to admire the fantastic views.  But Greg, someone who I never particularly liked, more tolerated as he was one of the group, put his hand under my chin and lifted my head up as I knelt there.  “So, Steve, a slave, eh? Well, you certainly look like one!  I always thought you ought to have most of that hair of yours cut off.”  Then, turning to Rob, he asked, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “Does he fuck well?”

I think even Rob was surprised by this question, as he almost stammered “No… Id don’t let him fuck…”

“Sure, Rob, of course not!  What I meant was  ‘has he got a good ass, does he take fucking well’?  He’s a slave, for christ’s sake – I wouldn’t expect him to fuck you!  But you’re his owner, and any owner with a nice piece of man flesh like this one is going to use him, isn’t he?”

“Oh,  sure, Greg.  He’s got a nice sweet ass – and having that nice muscular butt to plough through on the way to the hole is great. It’s quite changed my life – having a fuck toy like this one is so much better than jerking off.”

“You dog, Rob!  I wish I had your money.  I’d get me a piece of ass like this slave straight away.”

They all sat down and started playing then, and, as Rob had ordered, I spent the time fetching and carrying for them – more beers, plates of snacks, emptying the ashtrays, and so on.  When ever I went near Greg he’d reach out and give me a slap on  my butt, that caused all the guys to laugh.  And when I served him a beer, he moved the tiny flap of silk “covering” me to one side.  “Hey, Rob – you’ve had him ‘skinned!”

“No, they did that at the first place that owned him. Mind you, it does improve his look, doesn’t it?  Do you remember in the showers how he used to stand there and ‘skin back to clean himself?  Well, it’s so much easier now.”

“So you didn’t own him from ‘new’ – from when he was first enslaved?”

“No, I found him at ‘Slaves For Your Pleasure’ – he was one of the guys there servicing their clients….”

“Rob, what were you doing at ‘Slaves For Your Pleasure’?  Can’t a stud like you get it without paying for it?”  As Greg said this all the other guys started to laugh and josh Rob, who started to blush, and get embarrassed!

But Greg soon started questioning again.  “So he’s fully trained to service a man?”

“Oh, sure.  He can do everything…”

I hated being talked about like this.  But I saw Rob keep giving me glances that said “remain silent”, so I just stood there, head bowed, hands clasped behind my back.

“So can I have a go?  Lend him to me, Rob.”

“Hell no, Greg.  He’s mine, an a man doesn’t like to fuck an ass that’s been used recently…”

“Well you must have done when you first bought him – he must have been used a lot before then!  Come on, Rob, buddy – surely it’s share and share alike?”

“Hell no, Greg!  I’ve told you, I don’t like fucking ass that’s been used recently, and I have plans for Steve tonight…”

They stopped talking then as the next round of cards had been dealt, but as the evening went on Rob got steadily drunker and drunker, his play got wilder and wilder, and the stack of chips in front of him went down and down.  He was betting on one hand that he evidently thought was good when he ran out, and asked if he could give them all an IOU as he’d not been to the bank that day.

“Hey, Rob, you know the rules!”, Greg said.  “You pay up front in this game, and that’s it.  We said no IOUs so that none of us would run up big debts – you put your money in at the start of the evening, and that’s that.”

“Hey, I can afford it….”

“Sure, Rob – but the rules we agreed on are the rules we play to, the rules we always played to.  I guess I win this hand then….”  Greg reached across the table to scoop the pool, but Rob put out a hand to stop him.

“Come on, Greg – let’s play the hand out properly.  I tell you what … The rules say no IOUs, only what’s here when we started.  Well, Steve was here when we started…. And you wanted to use him.  Well, you can – half an hour of him for fifty!”

There was stunned silence.  Then Greg counted a pile of chips and pushed them to Rob.  “Sounds a good deal to me”, he muttered.  “Now, what are you gong to do….”

This was so gross!  Look, I’d been unfairly enslaved, taught to fuck when I really didn’t like men, made to work in a high-class brothel, had the guts almost fucked out of me by Hispanics and blacks, and now this:  I was just something that Rob was gambling with!  You really aren’t meant to treat guys like this:  I’m a man, a human being, not something like a pile of gaming chips that you could bet with.

As ever, Rob messed it up.  He was never a good gambler at the best of times, and with a huge amount of beer slopping around in his guts, he was even worse.  Greg was smiling all over his face at having won, and everyone then agreed that the evening was at an end.

“I’ll bring Steve back in the morning, then…”, Greg began.

“Hell, no!  Look, I keep him chained, and I don’t want to have to find the key… And you know the rules, anyway  – we always  cash in our chips before leaving.  So as we were gambling with Steve, you need to take him now:  fuck him, then go home.”

“Sure…  “.  Greg turned to me and said, quite casually, “Get on the table there, boy, with the other chips – on your belly.”

I think all the guys were a bit shocked by this, but none of them made a move to leave.  I did as he’d told me, feeling the baize under my naked skin, and just stood there.  Greg put his hands on my butt, and I wriggled a bit as he stroked, almost caressed, my firm muscles.  “Hey, Rob…. these marks on Steve’s butt….?”

“Oh, just residual markings from his last caning. – he can be a bit ‘uppity’, like a lot of slaves, so I need to keep him in check….”

The next instant I jerked forward and almost cried out, as Greg landed a powerful slap from his open bare hand on my butt.  Greg’s a bit, powerful guy, and it really hurt.  “So, Steve… Your owner needs to keep your butt tender, does he?”.  It was a rhetorical question, and I just gritted my teeth and continued lying there.  Three more great slaps, and I could feel the heat in my butt and knew that the guys must all be looking at the hand prints that would have appeared.

Then I heard that characteristic sound of a belt being undone, and jeans being pushed down.  Surely Greg wasn’t going to fuck me like this, in front of all his friends, and my former friends?  But he was – and he was a big guy, and didn’t waste any time.  I wasn’t prepared, no lube, nothing, as even in my worst nightmares I hadn’t thought that something like this would happen.  I heard Greg spit, though, and from the odd comments from the watching men, knew that he was slathering his dick with spit.  Then  that pressure, the feel of his dick against my hole, as he harshly pulled my butt cheeks apart and positioned himself for entry.

I could stand no more.  “No!”, I screamed, “This isn’t right….”  I tried to get up, and managed to stand upright, pushing Greg back.

There was silence at first, then Greg snapped “Hey, Rob – I thought you said you had this slave under control!”

“I do!  But, well, it’s late.. .why don’t you come back tomorrow, and we can enjoy him together…”

“You’re not trying to welsh on your bet, are you, Rob?  I won the use of this slave fair and square – you’re not trying to stop me collecting, are you?  You’re not one of those guys who tries to get out of paying his dues…?”

“Fuck you, Greg!  Of course not!  You want his ass, you can have it!”

“Well, Rob, if I were you, I’d want to give me more than that – this fucking slave here has tried to stop me taking what’s mine.  You said he was ‘uppity’ – well, what are you going to do about that?  Your caning him doesn’t seem to have done all that much good…”

“You guys without slaves sometimes don’t appreciate how hard it is to get a slave properly trained and totally obedient…”  “Well, if he were mine, I’d beat the shit out of him until he was properly under control…”

“Fuck you, Greg – it’s not that easy!  They get used to being beaten…..”

“Are you sure it isn’t just you, Rob?  I don’t think any slave of mine would ever get used to the kind of beating I’d do… ”

“Don’t flatter yourself…”

“So you want me to show you?  Fetch that cane you say you use….”

Greg now snapped at me “Back on that table, boy! You’re going to get a real caning on that butt of yours, one that you’ll remember.  That will teach you to refuse a man’s dick…. And will nicely tenderise you before I fuck you”   He saw me hesitating, and shouted “I told you to get down, boy – now, do  it!”

Well, what were my options?  There was no ultimate escape, after all.  All Rob had to do was call the Salve Patrol, and that would be it.  Reluctantly, I lay back half across the table, and shuffled my feet a bit apart on the floor to get as comfortable as I could.

“Any of you guys want to help me out?”, Greg asked, and when there was a chorus of agreement, he asked one of my former friends to get up onto the table and sit on my shoulders.  “Put your ass fair and square down just below his neck”, he said.  “Either way round – but if you face the rear, you’ll be able to see the fun!  I don’t want him to be able to move at all, as this is going to be a session he’ll remember and it may get a little rough….”

My former friend gave a cry of “Gee… haw….”, rather like a cowboy as he sat down on my shoulders, and dug his knees into my ribs.  I felt the rough fabric of his jeans almost cutting into the sensitive skin around the base of my neck, with the warmth of his body coming through.  And his weight made I hard to breathe – he could at least have tried to take some of it on his knees! I suppose I was used to Rob’s canings now.  Sure they hurt, as the thin cane stung like a wasp, but Rob wasn’t all that strong and he always seemed worried anyway that he might be “harming his investment” as he so nastily put it.  But Greg was different – he was much taller and more powerful than Rob, and he didn’t give jack shit about Rob’s investment!  When I heard the swish of the cane through the air and when it landed, I knew I was in trouble.  This wasn’t just like a wasp sting – this was real, pure, unadulterated hurt.  I shouted out, both in surprise, and in agony.

“That’s good”, Greg almost shouted in glee, “I like to hear a boy appreciate the lesson he’s getting – it shows I’m getting through to him…”

The next blow landed, and the next ,and the next…. And I could hear myself howling from the agony they were causing me.  That bastard Greg didn’t just uses the cane on my butt, but ranged up and down my thighs, too:  and, believe me, it hurts a lot more to take the cane on our thighs than it does on the big muscles in your butt.

I’ve no real idea how many strokes landed in all – I simply wasn’t able to keep my brain focussed on counting after about ten, as I was in such pain.  But when he was satisfied, I know I was just a whimpering heap of flesh, lying there, pinned down, unable to think about anything else other than the fire that was raging in my butt and thighs, and the constant spikes of agony that kept coming to me.  Greg wasn’t finished then though, of course – that had only been the preliminaries!  This time, when he pulled my butt apart to get access to my hole there was a new explosion of hurt through me, a hurt so dire that I really didn’t notice his dick nudging me for entrance.  But even the pain I was in was forgotten when he slammed himself home – this was no gentle entry, no being careful not to hurt me as he eased hi dick head through my sphincter:  no, this was a calculated, hard, brutal ramming of his whole dick into me all at once.  And as his body slammed in to my butt and his wiry pubic hair scratched my red hot skin, I just couldn’t help it – I screamed, a long, low howl of utter hopelessness and despair.

He fucked away – he didn’t give even a moment’s consideration to me.  No, all he wanted to do was please himself, give his dick an outing that I guessed it rarely got!  I carried on shouting, and this seemed to please the guys watching, my former friends:  they were cheering and shouting, encouraging Greg to go even harder and faster!  Fortunately this huge air of excitement, and the force with which he was going at it, meant that he wasn’t long in cumming, and I heard him give that shout that so many guys do when they cum, and felt his body slam into my butt one more time as he buried himself into me to get his cum right in – that reflex action we all do, when our heads go back, and our bodies arch.

The party broke up almost immediately then.  Although they all congratulated Greg on his performance, were they just a bit ashamed at what they’d witnessed, I wondered.  No one spoke to me, and even Rob was quiet – I was just left to lie there, half on the table, with Greg’s cum trickling down the inside of my thighs.

When they’d all gone, Rob came back into the living room from saying goodbye at the front door, and stood there behind me.  “I could fuck you now, Steve”, he said, “But I’m not going to.  I don’t want ‘sloppy seconds’ with Greg’s cum up there – but I am going to fuck you tonight, so get into the shower and clean yourself out…..”

“Rob, sir, please… Just for tonight… Please don’t,  sir.  My butt’s on fire, and my ass is really sore – he wasn’t properly lubed, I didn’t get stretched….”

“Quit whining,. Steve!  That’s all I ever get from you.  You used to be a really great guy, fun to be with, a load of laughs.  But these days whenever I come back you’re all sad and depressed looking… I don’t know what’s wrong with you:  you’ve got a great billet here, one most slaves would give their eye teeth for!  I feed you properly, you’ve got a fantastic place to live, and you only have to do a few simple chores:  most big bucks like you are out there working in the fields, or the quarries, or the mines – too hot, too cold, not enough to eat, at the mercy of all the overseers and guards!  Wise up,  Steve, this is a great life you’ve got, so why not try to show a little appreciation?  I don’t know what’s happened to you since you became a slave – I’d have thought it would be easier for you, without any of those worries about your job, and you were always complaining about not having enough to pay the bills – now I take care of all of that, and you ought to be stress-free.”

I just lay there, wondering what to say.  I wanted to tell him that he was a bastard, keeping me imprisoned with nothing to do, that I hated being used by my old buddy, that he had no idea how to treat a slave properly… But what was the point?  All he would do was take my words and twist them…. So I just lay there, trying to stop my sobs, as I didn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing that I was hurt.

“See?”, Rob snapped.  “That’s what I mean!  Sullen silence, just because I’ve pointed out the truth to you.   I ought to beat you again, as slaves should not be dour and sullen – you’re meant to be for my pleasure, my entertainment!  Still, I really don’t care – get yourself cleaned out, as I’m going to take my pleasure anyway, and a good fuck always makes it easier for a man to sleep at night!”

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Pete Brown – the interview with the author



Pleasure Slave (all chapters)



Overview Pete Brown stories



Kinky Art by Theo Blaze