A story written by Pete Brown (Part 4 of 30). (Here you can find all the parts of this story.)
I got my credit card and the official receipt and all the other paperwork with no problems, but whilst I was at the desk I noticed several Scabbard & Drass patrons casting admiring glances at Reb as he stood there next to me – he was plainly embarrassed by the thin, tight boxer shorts as his face looked flushed, and he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot and moving his hands around loosely as if to sort of symbolically cover himself. One big guy wearing the typically flamboyant clothes of an independent dealer even thrust a business card at me and said that if I ever wanted to sell ‘my property’ I should call and get a valuation from him. I felt the pride of ownership you get when other people are admiring your stuff – as some guys at High School did with my car. But now these were real people, businessmen, even, who could see that I had a good eye and could make a wise choice of slave. It was even exciting to hear the dealer call Reb ‘property’ – I’d never owned a human being before.
Reb got a lot of looks in the street, too. I reckon it wasn’t his near-nakedness, as downtown it’s almost usual for rich ladies to have a young slave follow them around to carry their shopping and their parasols and stuff like that, so the sight of a naked male torso shouldn’t have been that surprising. No, it was, I believe, the fact that he was such a big, well-muscled man, a man who looked like a man with his virile body hair – most of the ‘shopping’ slaves were slim youths in their late teens or early twenties. It did make me reflect for a moment, though, on how fortunate I was in owning Reb, rather than being one of those young slim youthful slaves…. I guessed that they too must once have been free, like me, and had made some stupid error in their life.
I think my car surprised Reb when we got into the garage – as we’d passed the ponies and traps on the lower floor it was as if he expected me to stop and untie one of the slaves. He gave a low whistle as he saw me unlock my little two-seater. “Hey, your family must really be rich to afford something like this….”
“My dad does OK”, I told him. “Get in.”
Inside the car I was of course very close to him – even dad can only afford a very small car these days, and Reb’s big solid body seemed to almost fill the space, let alone leave much room for me. I couldn’t help looking at the way the muscles on his belly were forced together as he bent his frame into the small seat, and notice the red stripes across the skin from the strokes of the punishment cane that Jacob had inflicted on him. He had trouble sitting down not only because of this, but also because I suspected my own thrashing of his ass was still painful – still, that would be a valuable lesson for him, I thought. His intoxicating scent soon filled the tiny cabin as I drove out and headed for home, and he sat there staring out of the window.
“So?” I asked after a time
“That should be ‘So what, sir?’, I snapped. Next time you forget, I’ll cane you when we get home. If you have a problem remembering how to treat a superior, think back to when you were a marine – I bet you didn’t forget to be properly respectful to the officers. Now, try it again!”
“So what, sir?” I thought the ‘sir’ was a bit kind of grudging and possibly verging on the insubordinate from the tone he used, but decided to let it go.
“You were staring out of the window and were very silent. So I assumed you were deep in thought – and wanted to know what it was about.”
“Sir, you can control my body, I suppose, as I’m a slave now. But you can’t control what I’m thinking.”
“I wasn’t trying to! It’s just that we’re going to be spending time together – a lot of time as you’ll be my personal slave at college – and I thought I ought to get to know you properly. So when you seemed to be so deep in thought, I was interested, that’s all!”
He looked at me, long and hard. “Well, if you must know, I was thinking about all the guys on the sidewalk – how they were free, probably going home to fuck some bitch or other….
And here I am, a slave. I guess I was thinking how long it would be before I was free again and could pick up my life and start over.”
“The answer to that is simple – it’s never! Hasn’t anyone told you that enslavement is final? You’re not enslaved for a few years, like if you were sent to prison or something. Once the Court pronounces you to be a slave, that’s it – for ever.”
He looked at me again, as if some terrible realisation had struck him. “You mean you own me… For ever ….Sir?”
“No, actually. I don’t plan to own you for ever. Once I’ve finished college and got a job and am earning I shall sell you and buy a slave more suitable to my status.”
“What the fuck does that mean…, Sir?”
“Look, stop thinking of yourself as something special! You may have been some sort of hot-shot marine, leader of your pack or squad or whatever they call it, respected by your buddies, and all that stuff. But you’re actually a pretty poor slave for a guy like me to own.
Even though my dad’s got money and he gives me a car like this, he won’t give me money to buy a slave, so I’ve had to pay for you myself. And, frankly, you were all I could afford. You were right at the bottom of the price range for slaves – a college guy like me ought to have a young slave, properly trained to service my needs. And I’ve got you – you’re too old, really, and I don’t suppose you know jack shit about keeping an owner’s clothes immaculate, or about being able to rustle up snacks and stuff if my friends are around, or about doing some of the tedious slog of researching and writing my term papers…. You’re a pretty poor choice, actually, and I only bought you as having some sort of slave at college is better than having none at all. Beggars can’t be choosers, as the old saying goes! But as soon as I have enough money you’ll be replaced by a younger, better-educated model.”
Reb glared at me. “Hey, that’s crap! I’m a real man, not like some of those weaklings you see mincing around….”
“Shut the fuck up! I really don’t care what you think – it’s what I want that matters, remember that – you’re here to obey my orders.”
He was silent then, and I find it hard to be in the car with a guy and not talk. So after a few minutes I asked “Your body is in pretty good shape – I like a guy who’s not gone to fat. I guess you exercised a lot in the marines?”
“Are you serious? Don’t you k now anything about life? Of course a marine keeps himself fit…. What the fuck do you think the country has fighting men for…. sir.”
I felt my anger rising, but was determined not to rise to the bait. Time enough for polishing the rough edges and meeting out punishment for insolence later. “And does that include swimming?”, I asked, keeping my voice calmer than I felt.
“Well, you’ll not be totally useless then as I swim a lot to keep myself in shape, and it’s more fun to race other guys than simply swim lengths. Most of my buddies from high school are away on vacation, and the pool’s getting tedious.”
“There’s no point in racing unless there’s a prize, sir. And as a slave, I guess I don’t own anything so I can’t bet or anything….”
“We’ll think of something. How about I punish you if you don’t win?”
“And what do I get if I win, sir?”
“You won’t, so it’s a hypothetical question. An old guy like you, with that heavy body, can never hope to win against an athlete like me.”
He smiled, and I think he was starting to relax a bit and we might have gone on talking, but at that point I realised we were passing a small strip mall and there was stuff I needed – I’d noticed a store tucked away in there called ‘Dave’s Slaves’ and as we were nearly home, it seemed a good place to stop.
I ordered Reb to stay in the car as I wanted to browse the place by myself, and told him he could wind down the windows as it was a hot day, and went inside. It was interesting as they had a lot of good stuff like slave shorts and tunics, loincloths, g-strings and other clothing, but I decided that I needed to think more about what Reb was going to wear before I bought a whole lot of stuff – and that he could make do with some of my old workout clothes for a couple of days…. Or, even go naked, of course! That was an exciting thought for me: I had the power to keep him totally exposed, if I wanted to.
In the ‘control and discipline’ section I was amazed at the choice of exotic things like thumbscrews and nipple pincers, ball crushers and penis clamps, and stuff lie that. But I‘d more or less made up my mind that I was going to be fairly conventional and rely only on a slave prod and a punishment cane – until I saw the price of the prods! I called one of the slaves who worked there over and asked if the price was correct, and he nodded. “I’m afraid so, sir. Even though it’s relatively simple electronics and this is the bottom of the range – made in this country and not one of the exclusive Chinese imports – it’s the government tax that makes it so expensive. All ‘advanced’ slave goods are subject to a special surcharge on the sales tax.”
I must say I hadn’t realised that, and when the slave saw my look of surprise he added “It’s the same with clothing, sir. You can probably buy yourself a new shirt from your tailor for less than the price of a pony pouch, and don’t even think about fancy harnesses unless you’re extremely wealthy.”
“Does this tax apply to everything?”
“If it’s destined for slave use, then mostly yes, sir. Slave food is exempt. But to most other things, yes. I’m told it’s because the government needs to raise money somehow, and the boom in slaves has resulted in this new source of income – governments are always looking for new ways to raise taxes, sir. But there are ways around it, of course.”
Seeing my questioning look he went on “Well, for example, take the simple punishment cane. If you buy one intended for your kids, it attracts only the regular tax. But if it’s for slaves, you have to pay the surcharge. And as for clothes…. Well, a lot of owners, sir, buy ‘regular’ clothes and then modify them for their slaves – reduce the length of shorts, for example. Or tear all the buttons off a shirt so that the slave’s torso is nicely exposed….
That kind of thing.”
I thanked the slave – he seemed surprised, and I realised I really wasn’t totally into this slave thing as you didn’t need to politely thank a slave in the way you would a normal assistant in the store. I looked again at the prods and the prices then, and decided that I was going to discipline Reb only with the cane, and picked up one from the section marked ‘Not intended for use with slaves. For use on children and young adults only.’ When I swished it through the air experimentally, though, it seemed to have just the same ‘feel’ as it’s substantially expensive counterpart in the next section of the display which was for slaves. And that was it, really – except for a fifty kilo bag of slave chow which I paid for at the checkout but which the cashier said a slave would load for me. I must have been feeling generous, as I decided to feed Reb on the ‘variety’ chow, rather than just buying the cheapest which was based solely on fish meal and was optimistically labelled ‘with the real taste of the sea’.
Reb was leaning against the car when I went out. “I told you to stay in the car”, I snapped.
“It was hot, sir”. He saw me looking angrily at him and added, a small smile moving the corners of his mouth “…and I thought you would like me to keep my tan topped up, sir….”
Recognising that Reb was actually quite smart to think up that excuse on the spot, I suppose I was rather pleased that he might not simply be a big dumb hunk, and let it go at that. He saw me toss the cane on to the rear seat, and I smiled at him. “I thought this would go well with your white ass – the red stripes make a nice contrast…. But perhaps I’ll have you get an all-over tan.” I could see that he understood me – he’d pushed the limits, and I’d let him get away with disobeying me by standing outside the car, but he knew now that this was about as far as he could go. Still, as he was outside I ordered him to go around the back of the store and pick up the chow I’d ordered, rather than driving around there and have the store slave load it for me – he loped off, and soon came back with the heavy sack casually perched on his shoulder, one arm stretched up to steady it: it was a great sight, as his whole body was under a slight tension from the weight, and I could see that his bare torso and the flat planes of his belly as he stood there were agreeably beaded with sweat.
He dumped the sack in the tiny compartment at the back and was about to get in to the passenger seat when I told him to stop, as he was covered in sweat from where he’d been in the hot sun and I didn’t want to get the seat stained. “Dry off!”, I ordered him, and when he stood there looking dumbly around for a towel, I added “Drop those boxers, use them to towel yourself down, and then re-dress – and hurry up, I haven’t got all day.”
“But sir, there are people around….”
“It’s OK, we’re not in the central area any longer.”
“No sir, I mean I’d be exposed….”
“It’s not illegal here in this area for slaves to be naked. Now get a move on!”
It was funny really – he pushed the car door wide open and then tried to use that and the body of the car to shield himself from the passers by. I suppose he felt better as it was only his rear that they could see, but on the other hand from inside the car I had a great view of his dick and balls flying around as he hastily wiped the sweat from his body, and then hopped from one foot to another as he pulled the boxers back on. He almost threw himself into the seat then and slammed the door. He was looking flushed and embarrassed, and a little angry.
“Is something the matter?”, I enquired innocently.
“It’s not right, sir! A man shouldn’t have to expose himself like that.”
“You forget that you’re not a man, Reb, but a slave. And a good-looking one, too. So there’s no reason for me not to have you nude all the time if I choose. You were keen enough to stand out there flaunting your body when I was in the store, after I’d told you to stay in the car…..”
“I wasn’t ‘flaunting’ myself – I was hot! And I had those fucking shorts on!”
“Are you forgetting the ‘sir’? And having the shorts on, you will recall, is something I let you do. In fact, perhaps it would teach you a lesson if we drove home with you wearing appropriate attire for a slave – that is to say, nothing. Get out, get naked, then get back in.”
He stared at me for a couple of seconds and I wondered if I’d gone too far at this stage of his adaptation to his new life. I began to sweat slightly, wondering what the fuck I’d do if he totally disobeyed me: he’d almost certainly refuse to bend over the car and be caned for disobedience, and then I’d have no choice but to call the police and activate the Court order – I couldn’t risk having a ‘rogue’ disobedient slave, after all. But fortunately, glaring at me and with his muscles all tensed up as he tried to suppress his anger, he obeyed, throwing open the car door, stepping out, stripping off my boxers in a flash, then hurling himself into the seat and slamming the door.
I reckon I was lucky to get home without causing an accident! It had been distracting enough driving with a nearly naked Reb next to me, but now I found it was hard to stop myself glancing down frequently at his dick as we drove along – especially as he was one of those guys who partially bone-up when they’re travelling. He saw me looking at him and casually moved his hands into his lap so that he sat there almost concealed – but even though he’s got big hands, he’s also very well endowed so it was only partially successful.
He seemed to be impressed when I turned into home and waited for the gates to open as they sensed the car – we have a long, straight driveway with the house sitting squarely and imposingly at the end. Some of my buddies have a slave at the gates – well, during the day and early evening at least, I don’t think any of them make the slave sleep there all night – but dad wouldn’t pay for that, and I think it detracts from the general impression, especially when we have guests. After all a young slave standing smartly to attention then opening the gates for you says “welcome”, doesn’t it? Especially if he’s dressed in a fashionable uniform – when I go to my buddy Bobby’s it’s kind of interesting to see how you get glimpses of the slave’s dick and ass as he scurries around undoing the latch then opening one side after the other: their slave is in a dark green tunic with matching cap and they have matching dark green bands around his ankles. The expanse of bare leg and thigh between those bands and the hem of the tunic, which is just low enough to conceal the dick when the slave is standing still, really enhances the whole scene. Still, as I say, there’s none of that ‘show’, as dad calls it, for us. “It’s OK for Bobby’s parents to do all that stuff”, he once told me when I was as usual complaining about the lack of slaves at our place, “But they’re ‘old money’ and it’s considered acceptable. I work for my money, Steve, and apart from not wanting to squander it, some in society would consider we were acting very ‘nouveau riche’ if we did it, and reputation is very important.” Who was it who said ‘better to be nouveau than not riche at all’? I think they had a point.
Reb looked at the slaves who were manicuring the lawns along the sides of the driveway as I drove in, and looked shocked when their overseer suddenly lashed out at one of them with his tawse. “Don’t worry, they’re not ours”, I told him.
“But the slave didn’t deserve that….”
“I told you, it’s OK – they’re not ours. It’s up to the contractors to get best value for money out of their slaves, and if they need to use the tawse – or even a whip, I guess, although they probably do that back at the depot as most customers don’t want to see blood dripping everywhere, – then so be it.”
As soon as I’d parked around the back (dad doesn’t like the symmetry of the house spoiled by parking at the front) I told Reb to get the chow out, and follow me. He stopped and pulled on my boxers, and I was going to order him to strip off and stay naked when I looked at the time and saw that Mrs Williams would have returned and would be starting to prepare dinner, so I let it pass.
We went into the kitchen and before Mrs Williams had time to greet me she shouted “Get out, you filthy slave! How dare you come in here to make a delivery! Go back outside, ring the bell, and wait for me to come out. What is it, anyway? We’re not expecting anything.”
Reb simply stood there, the sack balanced on his shoulders, still presenting a perfect picture of masculine splendour. “It’s OK, Mrs Williams”, I told her. “It’s not a delivery as such – Reb here has got the sack of slave chow I picked up on my way home….”
“We’re surely not going to start pampering the slaves are we, Steve? They get trucked in to work here, not to sit around all day snacking….”
“No, Mrs Williams. This is Reb, and he’s sort of permanent – he’s my slave. I bought him this morning.” I tried to sound nonchalantly casual as I said this, but somehow saying out loud that I’d been able to buy a man like Reb, and that he was now mine, was exciting and I felt my voice rising towards the end.
“Well, Steven, I don’t know what your father will have to say about it.” I knew I was in for trouble then, as all my life Mrs Williams had called me Steven when she was displeased with something I’d done. “I’m surprised he changed his mind, as he’s always been so adamant that we only have contract slaves…”
I shuffled a bit as I do when I’m a bit embarrassed and lowered my head as I muttered “Oh, he’ll be OK about it. I’m a man now, able to make my own decisions….”
“Steven, you’re not eighteen for two weeks! You should have got your father’s permission first.”
“I’ll sort it out tonight with him, honest.” I felt like a little kid again as I said this, as it’s the sort of thing I used to say when I’d made mistakes when I was growing up. In an effort to change the topic of conversation I added “Is there any chance you could make me a sandwich, please? I missed lunch, and I’m starving….”
I knew by now that references to food and hunger were a powerful motivator to Mrs Williams, and although she looked disapprovingly at Reb as he still stood there, she moved towards the fridge, saying to me “Sit down, then! A growing boy like you can’t afford to miss a meal!” I hated being referred to as a a ‘boy’ – I’m a man now, old enough to own a slave, but Mrs Williams never recognised me growing up. She continued “And you… Slave…
Reb, is it… You can go into the larder there and put that sack on the floor, in the corner.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Reb’s tone was cheerful, and he had a broad grin breaking out over his face.
“Those look like your boxers that Reb is wearing, Steve”, Mrs Williams observed as she started to thickly slice the home made bread she prides herself on.
“Uh, yes. Slaves don’t come with clothes when you buy them, and I couldn’t take him naked through the streets to the car….”
“I should hope not! And I trust there’s going to be no displays of nudity here, either.”
“Reb’s a slave, Mrs Williams. It’s OK for him….”
“No it is not, Steven! Not while I work in this house. He can stay like that for now as this sandwich is almost ready, but after you’ve had your lunch you can take him up and find him something more decent to wear, something that does not display him like that.”
I knew I was beaten. She’d called me Steven again, and that usually meant no more arguing. And was there a threat that she wouldn’t work there if Reb was naked? I couldn’t risk that – dad and me relied on her to cook and keep the place in good order, and if I upset her and she left, dad would kill me. So I put a good face on it and said “Sure! He’ll only work naked when he’s in the grounds, like the pool boy. And, hey… I’m hungry, but not that hungry….” I pointed out the mound of bread as I said this.
“I expect Reb is hungry, too.”
“That’s what that sack is for, Mrs Williams. It’s slave chow – that’s what Reb will eat.”
“No in my kitchen he won’t. People in this house eat properly!”
I felt like telling her that Reb would go outside the back door and eat his chow there, but she was gesturing for him to sit down at the table, opposite me, and I knew I was on to a loser and let it go.
Mrs Williams loaded some of the bread with big slices of rare roast beef (remains of our last night’s dinner), expertly sliced fresh tomatoes and added those, together with some horseradish and slices of avocado, then expertly sliced through the stack and slid the sandwiches onto two plates, to which she added crisp green salad. “Is beef OK for you, Reb?” She asked. “I know it is for Steve here, but some people don’t like rare beef….”
“It’s fine, ma’am. It looks great, no, wonderful – thank you. I haven’t been fed for two days, and I haven’t had a sandwich like that for years, since I left home: mom used to do them like that. In the marines you make your own sandwiches in the canteen, and it isn’t the same.” Reb was smiling at her as he said this, and Mrs Williams slipped a second sandwich onto his plate.
“A big man like you needs proper food. Did you say you were a marine?”
“Yes, ma’am, I….”
“Mrs Williams, Reb’s a slave, regardless of what he was before. He’s my slave, and I decide what he eats.”
She ignored me and asked Reb why hadn’t eaten for so long. “At the slave dealers, ma’am, they don’t treat you all that well. They keep costs down by only feeding you small amounts of slave chow. And I was due to be shipped out today, so there was no point in feeding me at all….”
“Oh, you poor boy! I’ll cut you another.” Mrs Williams used ‘boy’ not in the way that we do, as a way of speaking to slaves, but rather in the way that a concerned mother does to a grown son.
“No, he will not have another, Mrs Williams! He’s got to keep fit, and lean. And it’s no kindness to start to get him used to habits that I won’t allow.”
Mrs Williams threw me a very cross look, and as I like to keep in her good books I added “But, just this once, he can have a handful of chow to supplement what he’s already eaten.”
As I said this I gestured towards the larder where Reb had put the chow, and Mrs Williams pushed an empty bowl at him and he went to get the stuff.
“He’s had a hard time, Steven”, Mrs Williams began. “An ex-marine, someone who served this country…”
“Yes, EX is right. We don’t really know why he’s been enslaved – it’s pretty serious normally, isn’t it? So the marines would be certain he’d done something very wrong. So we need to think of him as a hard, tough criminal – not some favoured son who needs pampering and….” At this moment Reb came back and sat down with a big bowl of the multicoloured biscuits in front of him. He also had a leaflet, rather like those you find in expensive boxes of chocolates, with the different colours of biscuits and a description of what’s in them.
Mrs Williams leaned over and felt the stuff in the bowl. “This is disgusting, Steven! You can’t expect even a slave to eat this – as I feel it, it’s all greasy on the surface: it can’t be intended for humans.”
“Nonsense! It’s standard slave chow. No, it’s premium quality chow, actually – I paid extra so Reb cold have some variety.” As I said this I reached over and took a piece – a bright, sickly-yellow piece. It did feel sort of slippery in my fingers, but I bit in to it and started to chew it. It was not particularly salty – I suppose they want slaves to be healthy, so they keep the salt content low – but there was a strong kind of savoury flavour, rather like you get in cheap Chinese restaurants. It was cloying as I chewed, though, and the paste I was chewing it to was sticking to the roof of my mouth. Finally, I managed to swallow it. “See, it’s perfectly OK”, I told them.
Reb looked up from where he’d been reading the list. “That’s the yellow chicken one you had, sir. It says here ‘Pure chicken. Composed of finely minced chicken gizzards as the protein base, ground feathers and beak to add bulk and texture, recycled chicken fat from other culinary processes for energy, and then a list of about fifteen chemicals…..” He paused for effect, as I felt myself gagging and fought to control it. “Just as well you didn’t go for the dark meat, that’s the brown biscuits – ‘Pure beef. Lights, lungs, ears, udders, testicles and other non-premium parts of the animal ground to a smooth paste, enlivened with finely shredded beef hide for texture…. And a whole lot of those chemicals again. The green ones say…”
“Enough!” Mrs Williams said. “No one is going to eat those sorts of things in my kitchen! I don’t care what you say, Stephen, this slave will get the same food as you and your father – it’s as easy to provide for three as for two.”
“No! He’s a slave…”
“Steven, I will speak to your father about this as soon as he returns from the city. He usually allows me to decide all matters of household management. And as you know he’s not a man who likes to become involved in silly, trivial arguments.”
I knew what she was referring to, of course – the last time she’d gone to dad to discuss a domestic chore was when I’d refused to drop my dirty kit from where I’d been playing soccer into a different pile on the bathroom floor and had just left it lying around with my other dirty stuff. I still say that it would be easy enough for the slaves who did the cleaning and laundry to sort it, but she said they were unreliable and it made the rest of the laundry dirty. Dad was furious with me after she’d been to see him and called me stupid and inconsiderate to argue with such a treasure over something so utterly trivial. I was fourteen at the time, and when I continued to argue with him as I knew I was right, dad had actually spanked me, just as he had when I was a kid – although now of course it was fucking humiliating as no guy who’s sexually mature wants his father to put him across his knees, bare-assed. I didn’t think dad would do it again if Mrs Williams went to him with this chow nonsense, but I couldn’t be certain, and I didn’t want to have to fight dad if he did try, as now I’m fully mature and probably stronger than he is and didn’t want to hurt him.
“Perhaps this stuff isn’t all that good for you”, I remarked , looking directly at Reb. “I don’t like all that chemical stuff in food. So you can eat Mrs Williams’ food. Go and give that chow to the slaves doing the yard work – they always look half-starved and they’ll appreciate it.”
Reb got up, hefted the sack onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, and went out. Mrs Williams and I watched through the window as he strode across the lawns and handed it over to the slaves – there was what one might call a ‘feeding frenzy’ as they all dived in to grab huge handfuls of the stuff and cram it into their mouths. I think we were both shocked that they could be so desperate for food that even the tawse of their overseer couldn’t stop them. Reb came back then, tugging at the waistband of my boxers in some futile attempt to pull them up higher. “He’s a big man”, Mrs Williams commented. “You will need to get him proper clothes, Steve.”
I nodded in agreement and muttered “Tomorrow”.
“And where’s he going to sleep? None of the guest rooms is really prepared….”
“That’s not a problem. He’ll sleep in my room. That’s what he’ll be doing when I’m in the frat house, after all.”
“I’ll need to give you more towels… This is a nuisance, as the domestic slaves have left…”
“Please don’t make extra work for yourself, Mrs Williams. Reb will be using my towels after I’ve dried myself. We’re both guys, after all.”
At this moment Reb came in, and to stop further debate I told him to follow me out to the pool – I felt I needed to relax after all the stuff I’d done that day. And, to tell you the truth, I hoped it might take my mind off what I was going to say to dad – I was due to collect him from the station later, and wasn’t looking forward to telling him about my purchase.
Our pool isn’t Olympic sized, but it’s not far off, and of course it’s in great condition as dad pays for the pool service to send the slave in so frequently. It was sparkling in the afternoon sun, and looked really inviting. It’s not directly in view from the house as dad had it relocated after we’d moved in, as he preferred to see the sweep of the lawns from the windows, so it’s kind of private.
I went into the pool house and found my swimming shorts, then went to drop my chinos and remembered that I’d given my boxers to Reb. Still, that didn’t matter, and I was hopping around pulling my shorts on when I realised Reb had been standing at the door, staring at me. Look, as I’ve told you, I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. And at high school, or when my buddies come around here, we all change together. But somehow having a grown man, a big, virile man, rather like my dad, watching me made me shy and embarrassed – in fact in the last couple of years I hadn’t changed in front of dad, it occurred to me, and when we swam together at the weekends I let him use the pool house first. I tried to hide my embarrassment by talking, as I do. “It’s fucking annoying having to wear these baggy shorts to swim in. They won’t even let us wear Speedos at school now – they say it’s immodest and not suitable in front of the girls. They really cramp my style.”
Reb nodded. “It was OK in the marines. Regulation Speedo-type kit when we were in the pool training.”
“So you swim then?”
“You could say that! All marines do, of course, to fit them for battle conditions as you never know what you’ll find. But I was the unit champion…”
“So you fancy yourself as a real racer?”
Reb kind of shrugged. “No. But I used to win the inter-unit championships pretty regularly.”
“You’re the wrong shape – too big, not a swimmer’s build at all. And you’re too old now.”
He shrugged again. “Only one way to find out, sir. I take it you’re a competitive swimmer?”
“High School team captain…”
“So, forty, fifty, sixty lengths? Or more?”
“I usually race over four.”
“Oh, one of those flash-in-the-pan sprinters. No stamina. A real man doesn’t really get into his stride until he’s been going for half an hour. It’s a bit like sex in that respect – but perhaps you’ve never had a proper long session?”
I half believed he was winding me up. Was that a double meaning – was he referring to a long session of swimming, or sex? I’ve done some endurance swimming, and on vacations I’ve been in the pool for a long time. But what he was saying sounded like bravado, the more I thought about it. So I decided to test him “OK then, tough guy. Twenty lengths – I haven’t got time for more as I’ve got stuff to do before I go to meet dad at the station.”
“And the stakes, sir? Real men don’t race without something at stake.”
“If you lose, I’ll stripe your ass three more times with the cane. That should incent you enough.”
“And when I win, sir”
“I don’t need to discuss things with slaves. You’re not going to win, so it’s not relevant, as I told you in the car.”
Reb gave one of those shrugs again which I’ve now learned means that he knows he’s in the right, but that it’s not worth arguing about. He looked around the pool house, and then asked “Where do I find shorts? Are there some spare, for guests?”
“Yes, of course there are! Always freshly laundered. But not for you – you’re not a guest. You will swim naked.”
Reb poked his head out of the pool house and looked around nervously. I told him “There’s no one can see from the house. And even if they could, so what? It’s not as if you’re a free man any longer. This is one of the times I wished I was a slave, as when I’ve been in Europe and have been able to go to a nude beach it’s been so much better – I reckon you’re lucky to be able to swim without these shorts around you. Now, drop those boxers, and let’s get started.”
He looked really uncomfortable as he pushed my boxers down and stepped out of them, then we lined up side by side, and were off.
I outdistanced him comfortably for the first couple of laps, but by the end of six he’d cut my lead right down. I forced my pace higher, but by the end of ten he was right behind me. And, of course, after twenty he was in the lead – but only marginally, I reckon. We stood there in the shallow end, breathing hard as we recovered. I couldn’t help noticing his dick floating there in the water in front of us, and he saw me looking at it. “See, sir, it is a matter of stamina”, he said haltingly as his breathing recovered. “I might not have a swimmer’s body, and be too old, but as the old saying goes ‘age and experience will always defeat youth and enthusiasm’.”
“Nonsense. You were only a fraction ahead. If I hadn’t been encumbered by these shorts, it would have been different.”
Reb smiled, then suddenly did a perfect somersault flip down into the water – his white ass coming right into the air as he jack-knifed down. I wondered what the fuck he was doing, then suddenly my shorts were pulled down and I was pushed over so they could be wrenched off over my feet. I thrashed around and stood upright, and there was Reb, almost laughing now, holding my shorts.
“So, if these were stopping you from winning, and if you reckon you like swimming naked, shall we do it over again….. Sir?”
I stood facing him, acutely conscious of my own dick jutting out towards his, and that there was no real differentiator between us any longer – we were just two guys together in the pool. It was only as he turned and I caught sight of the vivid red of the brand that I remembered his real status. “I reckon you deserve a caning for that!”
I think he heard in my tone that I wasn’t really angry. “Just a bit of horseplay, sir! Us guys in the marines always did stuff like that. No harm done – we’re all made the same, after all.”
I looked down at his dick half floating there, and at mine. “Not quite, Reb! We’re not all the same – I’ve still got a ‘skin.”