A new story written by Pete Brown (Part 11 of 12 –> click here to read the other published chapters.)
I couldn’t see much as we sped through the Arkansas countryside – we had left the Interstate quite quickly, and were driving along normal county roads. The pickup stopped for gas at a small rural gas station and general store, and whilst the driver was in pissing, buying a sandwich, and paying, some of the other customers had looked into the back of the truck and had seen Mitch and me cramped together, naked in our cage.
Quite a crowd – at least for rural Arkansas – had gathered when he eventually came out, and they were pointing at us and discussing the sight in front of them – our heavily muscled bodies, the tattoos that were visible on our curled-over backs, and our cocks and balls that were hanging down between out raised thighs. Mitch was beyond caring – it was as if he couldn’t here the comments from the folk around us, but I was appalled at what was being said about us. I tried to remonstrate the first couple of times, but it only made the jeering, sniggering, and comments worse, so in the end I too just sat there, hunched and silent.
These rural folk were all small farmers – “peasants” I guess they would have been in another time and another country – eking out a living on small plots of land. They were not members of the slave-owning classes of rich Arkansarians, and it was almost as if they had never seen a slave before. I suppose there was no possibility of them ever getting enough cash together to be able to rent even a relatively cheap worker, even though it would have made a huge difference to them to be able to have another pair of hands helping out on their places.
I could tell they were all unsophisticated, by the type of comments they were making. They thought it was “disgusting” to have men nude. Some of them had heard of the Programme, but they were completely misinformed – they thought we were all rapists and murderers to be on it, and one of the old “grandpas” amongst them poked at my cock with his walking stick and said it ought to be cut off – that would stop any further messing around with little girls!
One of the real farm boys slipped the top of his bib and brace overalls undone so he could pull up his T-shirt to show his neighbours a “USMC” tattoo above his left tit. He had dirty, straggly, unkempt hair, and his T was a dirty grey-white, as if it had not been washed for weeks. “I was in the service”, he whined, “until my daddy made me come home to help on the farm. I was a marine, and would still be there if daddy would have let me. Look at this boy in the cage here – he’s got a USMC tat on him”, he continued, moving his scrawny chest towards Mitch’s bulging biceps to show the crowd the comparison. “It’s disgusting – they ought to skin his arm! Letting a piece of filth like this defile the service, by displaying that badge for all to see.”
I was seething inside at the injustice of it. This dirty creature who had no pride in his appearance, with his ratty body and poor spirit (would a real marine give up the life he loved because his daddy told him to?) was complaining about Mitch – Mitch who had a magnificent body, and who had been a virile, proud marine whose only fault was that he was so strong-willed that his officers couldn’t control him and so had had him so unjustly enslaved! He was more of a man that a thousand like this Arkansas boy, and yet it was Mitch who was caged and enslaved, and the ill-educated, unsophisticated, dirty Arkansas farmer who was free.
It was bad enough hearing the men talk about us so disparagingly – at least in “normal” slave life, and the Auction Hall, the buyers, trainers and guards all had a proper appreciation of slavery and what it was to be a slave – but the women were worse. They kept stealing glances at our tackle, hanging down for them to see, and then started to talk amongst themselves comparing us unfavourably with their husbands. Now I know I’m more than averagely hung, and Mitch was too, so I just knew that these women had to be lying about their husbands – there just wasn’t enough good cock in the crowd there to compare to us. They were bragging to impress their friends, and to try to demean us. I thought back to my former life when I had fucked women, and wondered what any of these Arkansas ‘ladies’ would have done if we had got free and then showed them what a proper man, with a big cock, can really do? But it was fantasy – even if we were free, I wouldn’t have wanted to even see them naked, let alone fuck them.
They were all of those depressing types that characterise the rural poor underclass: either big, fat, wobbly blobs from too much junk food with their tits hanging down to their waists, or scrawny hard-faced harridans with cigarettes dangling unappealingly from the corners of their mouths whose bodies weren’t thick enough to take a cock like mine! They should be so lucky as to even imagine that a virile guy like me, slave or not, would even consider fucking them.
And I guessed their husbands probably felt the same – there would probably be cobwebs up their cunts, I thought, as it was so long since a man’s cock was up there.
“These slaves are taking our jobs”, another of the boys whined. “They get all the good work, they’re well fed – look at the bodies on these two – whilst we have to scratch out a living here. Why don’t we teach them a lesson – coming in here and spoiling everything for us proper folk”
If only he knew! He wouldn’t fancy most of the jobs I had had, I felt certain. But it was getting to be a bit scary – the crowd was getting angry, and some hands had gripped the side of the pickup and were starting to shake it angrily.
The chief of the whiners leaned over the side of the pickup, sucked his cheeks for a moment, then spat a big piece of mucus and spit at us, so it landed on our shoulders and started to trickle down our arms. “That’s what I think of you pieces of scum”, he ranted. “Get out of here, and leave us in peace. I don’t want you raping my missus and kids. I don’t want you taking my work and leaving us with no money. Go back to where you came from, slave boy!”
There were cries of “Yeah”, and “You tell them, Seth” from the crown, and the next instant our naked bodies were assaulted with more gobs of foul spit as all the crown spat on us.
Unlike most of the masters who had wanted to kiss me and who took care of their teeth and mouths so their breath was fresh and their spit clean-tasting , these Arkansas “peasants” had vile mouth odour that was reflected in their spit. As it landed all over us, and trickled into all the crevices and crannies of our bodies as they were crushed and folded together, and started to dry from our animal warmth, the smell was disgusting – it was as if someone had doused us with five-day old garbage. I wanted to spew up, and had to really work to control my gagging reflex – I knew that had I done so, I couldn’t have avoided drenching both of our cocks in my vomit, and it would probably have gone over the rest of Mitch’s body as well. We were both suffering enough without having that to contend with that in addition. Although did Mitch care? Did he even notice? All the time we were being subjected to this verbal abuse, and even when the gobs of spit were landing on us, he simply sat there, head bowed, in misery.
The rocking of the pickup got worse, and I was worried that the crowd would turn it over, haul us from the cage, and tear us to pieces. But fortunately the driver came out of the gas station, and shouted at them to stop. “Hey, don’t do that – it’ll cost me my job!”, he roared at them.
Strangely, that seemed to have an effect, and they backed away from the truck. “I have to sign out for this truck every morning, and for every cargo I carry. If there’s any loss or damage at all, they dock my wages, even when it’s completely not my fault. Please leave it and the cargo alone – do you want my wife and kids to starve this week?”
The crowd stopped on hearing this, but they were still angry. “Dirty slaves, coming in here and taking work from honest folk!”, someone shouted.
“Look, lady, I agree with you”, the pickup driver said. “I’m worried about my job, too. They’re talking about chaining one of the naked slaves into the cab and getting him to do the driving in future, to save my wages. And having another slave on a long chain in the back, to unload. The only reason they haven’t done it before is that the slaves were too expensive and only fancy folk could afford them – but we’re getting a lot more slaves through the system now, and prices are going down all the time.”
“You mean folk like us can afford a slave?”, someone shouted.
“Maybe! Why don’t you go to the next auction and see what’s on offer. You still have to go in person at the moment, although they’re talking about publishing the prices in the local paper, just as they do the heifer and hog prices to help you keep an eye on the market. But watch out – the big hunky guys like these two, slaves you can really work, are still expensive. The low priced ones are former office workers who haven’t got the muscles for farm work, or college boys who aren’t yet fully developed. You’ll always need to go and handle the stock, in my view, to make sure you get one with a body that’s right for hard farm work.”
“If they do replace my job with slaves, I think I’m going to take my pay-off money and buy a slave myself. My missus is always complaining that I don’t pay her enough attention, or spend enough time with her as I like to go to the bar with my buddies. But I reckon that if I got a pretty young college boy for her, she’d soon shut up and be glad to see me out of the house!”
The crowd were amused by the driver’s remarks, as I think they thought he was joking (was he?). Their mood had changed, and they started to disperse – although I heard a lot of muttering about “going down there to take a look at the bodies on offer”. I hadn’t realised that the poor folk may have felt threatened by slaves, and that we were resented to such an extent. But perhaps the lowering of the prices, making them available to more of the population, would change that. Still, looking at the motley collection of people in the crowd, the phrase “poor white trash” seemed to have been invented to describe them. I doubted they worked hard enough to be able to get the money together for a slave, however low the prices went – they looked a lazy bunch. I don’t think any of the men would have lasted long on the road gang, although they would have provided fine sport for the whip masters.
I stopped suddenly and analysed my thoughts – it was incredible – I was naked in a cramped cage, being taken I knew not where, and was only worth five dollars (and only then as a pair with Mitch). I’d just escaped having my balls taken so my sac could be turned into a leather
G-string, and my ass still remembered the forced fucking I had had in the Auction Rooms. Yet I felt superior to these Arkansas folk. Yes, I’d always had a good body, and my slavery experiences had turned what was previously very much above average flesh into something superb; and I now knew how to give and receive pleasure with other men in ways that I never imagined before, and knew that those Arkansas boys probably never dreamed of. But I was still a slave. Was I really superior to the poor white trash who had been clustered around the pickup, or was I just trying desperately to compensate for the humiliation of slavery? Was a tough, handsome, virile slave ever superior to a weak, ugly poor Arkansas farm boy?
The driver got in and the pickup pulled away, and we bowled over more miles through the countryside. Then he turned in through a set of imposing gates, and drove along a long private road. The scenery had changed, and on this side of the gates all was manicured neatness – a white picket fence lined the road, and the fields on either side were well tended. There wer e tractors at work in some of them, and I could see that they were being driven by naked men, who I therefore assumed were slaves. Funny – I had always imagined that if a farmer employed “field slaves”, he would have them do the work manually and would enjoy seeing them chained together in a work gang, slowly making their way across the field doing some task like digging, or hoeing, in unison.
But this farm looked like “big business” – the fields were huge, and I suppose it would take so many slaves to do the job manually that it was more efficient to use the benefits of 2lst century mechanisation, but replace the normal drivers by slaves. But, I mused on, if the farmer liked having slaves around, how would he get his pleasure from them if they were always in tractor cabs, on combine harvesters, and so on? Surely part of the pleasure of slave ownership was in having them humiliated by being made to work naked, in gangs with others – the slave’s basic humiliation caused by the slavery itself was then heightened as he compared himself to his fellows as they toiled side by side – a comparison he couldn’t help making, over and over, as all were naked and there was no way that clothes could be used to conceal one man’s inadequacies from his fellows.
We arrived in a big yard between sets of what were obviously farm buildings, and the driver got out and went on through a door marked “Office”. He came out with one of the two black leather clad masters who had bought me at the auction, who peered at us in our cage and said to the guard “No, they’re not going through the normal slave processing centre and into the slave pens here. Take them on down to the hunting lodge, and I’ll catch up with you there.
But call around at the forge and pick up the blacksmith on the way – remind him that I discussed with him what I wanted doing, and tell him to be sure to take everything he needs with him.”
So we drove off again, and stopped at one of the buildings, where a man came out wearing the traditional heavy blacksmith’s leather apron that covered him from his throat to his feet to protect him from the forge’s heat and the flying sparks, and loaded a big plastic box in beside us. “You’re to come with me to the hunting lodge”, the driver commanded. The blacksmith went to get into the cab with the driver, who was incensed:
“Slaves don’t ride up front with me!”, he screamed. “Get in the back with the other slaves.”
As he came around the back of the pickup to climb in, I realised that the blacksmith was indeed a slave – we had only seen him from the front, where the leather apron had concealed his nakedness. But from the rear all his body was exposed, and only the thin straps holding the apron up to his neck, and in place around his waist, were visible. He was massively built, and had huge shoulders – his Programme tattoo seemed small on the huge back. His ass was thick and beefy, and his thighs were solid slabs of muscle. Somehow, being half covered, with half his body totally naked, made the guy seem more demeaned. It’s one thing to decide to keep your slaves naked as you don’t want to spend any money in buying, cleaning and maintaining even skimpy clothes for them. But once you have partially dressed a slave, why not allow him some modicum of modesty by allowing his tackle and his ass to be fully covered?
The blacksmith looked around the back of the pickup, and as it started off realised he needed to sit down to avoid losing his balance. So he casually sat on top of our cage, and I could twist my head upwards to see his ass hole peeking down at us from between his massive ass cheeks, and the underside of his cock and balls flopping over the edge of the top of the cage.
The fucker! I was furious. This slave was actually worse than a master. A master had the right to do whatever he wanted to his slaves, but this blacksmith had casually sat his naked ass down on top of us as if we were simply not there. He should have treated his fellow slaves with respect, and at least asked us if he could sit on our cage and expose himself to us. Why did he feel he had the right to be so fucking superior?
I was thinking all this, but evidently Mitch was not quite so catatonic as I thought he had been, and was also pissed off by the blacksmith’s action. He was much more of a man of action than I am, and he moved his hand from where it had been resting on my knee and stabbed upwards through the bars with his index finger stretched out. The blacksmith let out a howl of rage and pain as Mitch’s strong finger smashed into his exposed ass pucker, and fell off the cage.
Mitch and I both laughed, and I reached out and grasped his shoulders to indicate “well done!”. The blacksmith was raging on, and as he lay on the floor of the pickup leaned his face towards us in the cage and said “You boys can laugh now, but wait until you see what’s in store for you in a few minutes! I have a special job to do on you two, and I shall do it extra specially well!”
We arrived at a set of buildings that were on the edge of some woodland. It was a stable block, but there were no horses in evidence. From behind the stables, where I could just see another building, I heard the baying of a pack of hounds.
The blacksmith got down and unloaded his box, then we all waited, until both leather-clad masters came up: they each rode stripped-down trail bikes, and there was a harsh roar from the un-silenced exhausts as they slewed to a stop with a shriek of types in the yard, blowing up a cloud of dust.
The first master – the older looking one – came over to the cage and said “We can do this one of two ways. Either you boys agree to co-operate, or I’ll simply stun you both. Which is it to be?”
Somehow I would have preferred to be stunned – whatever was planned for us, it was less demeaning to have it done to you without being able to do anything about it, rather than to agree to give in to it, passively. But what about Mitch – could I make him endure the pain of another stunning?
But we’d hesitated too long. Without even thinking of giving us another chance, the master unclipped his cattle prod from his belt and jabbed it through the bars, first into Mitch, and then into me.
When I came to, I was lying on the hard concrete of the stable yard. I could see the driver cleaning out the back of the pickup (I assumed our bladders had let go when we were shocked into unconsciousness, if not our bowels). Mitch was lying next to me, and the blacksmith was standing by a portable anvil and forge. I wondered what was about to happen, and started to try to get to my feet. All my muscles ached, I had to raise myself to my knees first – it was hard, but I struggled. Then as I tried to stand, I found I couldn’t – something was holding me back.
Looking down, I saw that around my waist was a stainless steel chain. From the encircling belt it made, the chain went for about a metre and then formed a belt around Mitch – we were effectively joined at the waist, quite close together.
Mitch came around, too, and with mutual help and support we managed to stand – it’s not easy when you have no power and little control over your muscles as they recover, and you have to co-ordinate every movement with another guy in a similar position. As we stood there, looking down at our chain and tugging at it experimentally, the master came over.
“Yes, you’re joined. And you’ll see that the chain is welded in place. We used to simply padlock the chain to make the belts, but then the slaves kept thinking that we might undo the padlocks one day. Welding them in place makes it so much more permanent, and helps you to understand that for the rest of your time – I was going to say the rest of your time here, but it’s probably the same thing – you two are going to be like brothers. No, closer even than brothers, as you can never move more than a couple of feet away from each other. When one lies down, the other has to; when one stands up or sits down, the other has to. When one wants to go off and crap, he has to take the other with him. “
“I hope you two slaves like each other, as for your remaining time you are going to be intimately close.”
“You’re here at the hunting lodge of your owner, the farmer, his name does not matter to you. He likes to provide his friends and neighbours with sport, so every so often he organises a hunt. It’s a big social occasion, and most of those who matter in the county come, but it’s also exercise for his pride and joy – his pack of hounds. The hounds will hunt you across country, and the master and his friends follow on horseback – just like foxes are hunted in England, and, sadly for you, often with the same result: the hounds tear the fox apart.”
“We usually hunt single prey, but with two big strong men like you, there’s too much of a risk that you will escape, or take so long to be caught that the master has to stay hunting, and the lunch party is spoiled. So we have found that when we have very fit slaves, it’s best to chain two of them together: you’re each then hindered by the other sufficiently to slow you down and make you that little bit more clumsy, so you’re still good sport, but can get caught.”
“But we do like it to be fair – so until the hunt, in three weeks time, we allow you to train as much as you like. In the cell in the stables, there’s a treadmill, and I advise you both to use it long and hard every day, to get those legs and lungs really used to running. We’ll feed you well, and groom you thoroughly for the day, as the master likes his guests to see that the prey is in peak condition.”
“Now, any questions?”
What was the point of asking anything? What would be, would be. We might be going to be hunted, with a fair prospect of being torn to shreds by the hound pack, but at least we were going together, as men, with our balls! But I was concerned about Mitch, and said
“Master, can you get some help for my friend, please? He suffered terribly in the pain palace, and although there’s nothing physically wrong with him, he has lost all interest in life, all enthusiasm, all his ‘go’. He’s semi-catatonic, and if something isn’t done to snap him out of it, I don’t think he’ll be ‘good sport’, as you say”
“No, that’s up to you. We don’t waste money on treating imagined complaints on slaves here. You’re joined, and what he does, you do, and vice versa. If you’re to stand any chance in the hunt I would advise you to work with your buddy to get him to perform properly.”
Then, continuing, he said “So if there are no more questions, there’s just two more little things we need to do. Over to the blacksmith!”
Mitch and I walked across, getting the measure of how to do this together. The blacksmith picked up an enormous pair of bolt cutters, held them up first to Mitch’s nose and then to mine, and neatly cut through our nose rings. The master gestured to us to indicate approval, and Mitch and I reached up and threaded the opened ring out from our septums. It felt strange not having the ring in there – I had become completely used to it after these months, even though I had hated it when it had first been pierced through my flesh.
“Good”, the master said. “ I’ve never liked nose rings in a slave – not only does it spoil the look, but if I want a very deep rimming from a slave, I find it gets in the way as his nose can’t get up my ass crack far enough. Now for the second little change – although I don’t think you’ll like this so much!”
“Ok, you first”, he said pointing to Mitch, and motioned him towards the anvil where the blacksmith was standing. The blacksmith reached down and put the “U” formed by his thumb and first finger around the root of Mitch’s cock and under his balls, then pulled upwards and outwards – quite gently, so Mitch didn’t appear to be hurt. But he tried to inch forward as the blacksmith’s pressure increased, stretching Mitch’s cock and balls away from his body.
The master came over and looked down “About the usual one inch, I think”, he said to the blacksmith.
“With respect, master”, the blacksmith responded (remember, he too was a slave), “I think this once could be stretched to an inch and a half, or even an inch and three quarters”.
He was grinning evilly at us as he said this, and I guessed that this is where his “revenge” for Mitch’s attach on his ass hole was going to happen.
“As you like”, said the master, obviously not caring very much, “You’re the expert in this.”
The blacksmith rummaged in his box and came out with a shiny stainless steel hoop, open at both ends like the shape of his thumb and fingers. He reached down and pulled Mitch’s cock and balls really far forward as hard as he could, then slipped the ring around where his hand was holding them away from Mitch’s body. He bent over and coated the open ends of the hoop with a slimy substance from a small tube, then took out another set of what looked like giant bolt cutters, but with curved ends. He deftly put these around the open ring, then with a mighty squeeze on the handles that caused even his enormous biceps to strain, squeezed the two ends of the ring together. Licking his fingers, he again reached down and smoothed over where the slimy substance – which I now could see must have been some sort of adhesive – had squeezed out when the ring was closed up.
Mitch was then standing there with his cock and balls obscenely jutting out in front of him. I say “obscenely”, because whilst it’s just acceptable to have a slave’s cock and balls on display totally naked (especially if they are a really good set, like Mitch’s), having them forced out at right angles to the body, and then kept there by a shiny steel ring, is really demeaning to the slave. It shows that his master is drawing attention to his sexual apparatus specially, as if to say “look how I can bend this man’s body to my pleasure”.
Then it was my turn, and again the blacksmith fitted me with a band around my cock and balls that was bigger than the master had approved. I too now felt the shame as my cock stuck out, lying on top of my balls which had been squeezed into the end of my sac and which no longer hung comfortably down, protected between my thighs.
The master looked at us. “Ok, boys, don’t worry. You will get used to it! In fact, although it feels strange now, it’s a kindness really during the hunt. Having your balls cinched out from between your thighs like this will mean that you can run harder and faster. A lot of guys grow up exercising always wearing briefs or jock straps under their running shorts or gym shorts – nothing wrong with that I suppose, until you have to exercise naked. Then you find that your balls really need support, and after an hour or so of hard exercise in the nude, your balls are aching intolerably as they’re not used to supporting themselves whilst they’re being jogged up and down. It really would be better if all schools insisted their pupils did sport totally naked, as the kids’ balls would be much more self-supporting later in life – after all, the Greeks did it, so why shouldn’t we? But it’s too late to change the whole of America now, and giving you this cinch ring is the next best thing.”
“And, of course, it does make you look good! No one can help but look at your magnificent tackle now. It was difficult to avoid noticing it before, but now it is inescapable.”
“Let me give you a word of advice, though. Even when walking ,you’ll feel your body’s balance has subtly changed. And you really should practice running, therefore. Some of the slaves we have cinched don’t bother with the treadmill, and then get captured almost as soon as they have set off.”
“Do you understand?”
Mitch and I looked at each other, looked down at each other’s cocks jutting out at right angles in front of us, and said “Yes, master.”
“Good. Please take my advice about the treadmill, though – I really do hate to see slaves torn to pieces, especially handsome brutes like you two”. Then, in a quieter voice, he continued “You are lovers, aren’t you?”
Mitch and I looked at each other, and remembering how we had kissed and jerked each other off, said hesitantly, as I think we neither of us wanted to admit to having a male “lover”, “Yes.”
“I’m glad”, said the master. “It’s awful when I have to have two slaves joined as you are who have had no experience of each other’s bodies before. Try to look on this positively – you will spend the next three weeks in your lover’s company, and will always sleep with him at night.
Not even I and master ken can always achieve that, and we’re free men!” As he was saying this, he was glancing across to where the other master had remained waiting, straddling his bike.
“You know”, he continued, “In other circumstances ken and I would have loved to entertain you two in bed. We often have a threesome to spice up our sack time, as we’ve been together for l0 years and like a bit of variety from time to time. But having a four way, with studs like you, would be something else! But that would have had to have been a long time ago – we don’t fuck slaves as a mater of principle – it’s enough for us to have to work at jobs where we have to control you poor men. I only wish we could have met you two before you did whatever stupid thing it was that landed you on the Programme.”
I laughed inwardly. If he and his leather-clad boyfriend had approached me before, when I was married, I would have laughed in his face. And I guess Mitch and his marine buddies would have beaten the shit out of them if they had met in the street and there was even the suggestion that the hunky marines would consider playing at gay sex. How circumstances change us all – looking at his body, and ken’s, I could see that they weren’t at all bad. Obviously they were not in such perfect condition as Mitch and me, as they simply did not get the exercise. But they had muscles that were well toned from the gym, I liked their hairy chests, and the packages outlined by the subtle leather of their skin-tight trousers promised a lot of excitement.
He was about to say something else, when ken called across to him “Hey, Wayne. Get a fucking move on! Get those slaves bedded down for the night, so we can get on home.”
Shrugging, Master Wayne gestured to us to walk off towards the stable block. Mitch put his arm around my shoulder, and we found that this was the easiest way to walk chained together in such closeness. Our cocks bobbed up an down in front of us in time to our steps, the shiny steel band around their root glinting in the afternoon sun.
There were no horses in the stable, but about 20 empty stalls. Master Wayne seemed quite chatty, and didn’t mind talking to slaves, and he told us that the horses usually arrived three or four days before a hunt, so they could be properly bedded down. “But you’ll soon get used to sleeping through their stamping and whinnying all night”, he said, “But sadly for you, it will only be for three or four nights.”
The end two stalls had been knocked together and made into a cage, by the addition of bars between the top of the partitions and the ceiling, and a barred front with a lockable gate.
Master Wayne unlocked the gate, and motioned us in.
“You’ll find everything you need in here, gentlemen” he said sarcastically. “Smooth straw to lie on, a hole in the corner to piss or shit into if you have to before morning, a spigot on the rea r wall that will give you clean water if you suck at it and press the base upwards with your tongue, and that bucket contains slave mash – eat as much as you like: we don’t skimp on the slaves’ diet here, as we want you to be in peak condition”.
And with that, he shut and locked the cage door, and walked out of the stables.
Mitch and I looked at each other, then sat down in the straw. Actually, it sounds grim, but compared with some of the conditions we had been kept in as slaves, this was actually quite luxurious!
It was almost as if Mitch no longer cared about what was happening to him. I tried to get his understanding of what the hunt entailed, and he just didn’t seem to want to know. There was a half-distant look in his eyes, as if he was far away, somewhere else. He “came back” a bit though when he suddenly put his arms around me, pressed his face t o mine, and started to kiss me passionately. With the cinch rings on, it took almost nothing to make us both hugely erect, and our cocks were stabbing at each other as we embraced, until with a yelp we sprang apart until our joining chain jerked us to a halt – our cock heads had both stabbed at the other’s balls, which were now lying taughtly stretched underneath the cock – we would have to be a lot more careful when our cocks and balls were cinched like this.
Even if we had not been chained together, we would probably have spent the night in each other’s arms, and we soon mastered the art of turning together so that we could lie on either side, or on top of each other, or however we wanted. But fucking was a bit difficult, as it was hard to manoeuvre your body far enough away from your partner’s to get a proper insertion, and then your thrusting was inhibited by the restricted chain length between you.
But I think this was the first time Mitch had been fucked by a friend, sympathetically and gently, and certainly the first time that he had voluntarily thrust his cock into another man’s ass: as he lay there after filling me with his cum, panting from the effort of pistoning in and out of me for so long (as he had done everything he could to prolong the ecstasy we both felt), he s aid “You know, Steve, those guys in the pain palace had it all wrong. They should have tried kissing the guys to get them to start fucking them, rather than beating the shit out of them and having them tied down so they could just be used as human dildos”.
In the morning, as dawn came up, we had another bout of fucking, and were lying in each other’s arms, kissing and caressing each other, when Master Wayne and Master ken came in. We both sat up, rubbing the sleep out of our eyes with our knuckles, and running a hand over our close-cropped hair to remove any bits of straw.
“Well”, said Wayne, “A good night was had by all – I won’t say a good night’s sleep, as it looks as if you two didn’t sleep much!”
He opened the gate, and continued “Come into the yard for your morning grooming”, and walked off, so we followed. I think we both realised that escape was just as impossible as usual in fact, it was more difficult from here, as we were chained together.
Out in the yard Master Wayne pointed to two adjacent holes, and said “Crap first!”. We had both long since lost most of our inhibitions about public nakedness and even public sex. But somehow defecation was still mostly a “private” matter.
“Hurry up”, said Wayne. “Guys crapping together isn’t something new, you know. The Romans always did – both masters and slaves. All the shitters in the great public baths were multi-holers – it’s only in comparatively recent historic times that we have started to close the bathroom door!”.
So Mitch and I crouched down, side by side, grasping our arms around our knees so that our asses were as open as possible, and strained to drop our turds. Even when I had finished, I had to remain crouching, of course, as I couldn’t stand up until Mitch had finished and he could stand, too.
Then Master ken got out a hose, and a big piece of rough soap. Throwing the soap towards us, he turned the hose on and we were drenched in the icy cold water. “Come on, guys, soap each other down well, so I can rinse you off. Make sure your asses are nice and clean. And we don’t follow that silly practice of not being allowed to touch your own cock here – you can either wash yourself, or your buddy.”
At one time I would have given almost anything for the luxury of being able to wash myself in a shower, instead of having another slave’s hands all over my body. But now, with Mitch, it was different. Even though we had heard we could wash ourselves, we soaped each other, luxuriating in the sensation of our hands flowing over the other’s hard muscles, and enjoying the feeling of sliding our soapy fingers down the other’s ass crack. I particularly liked it when Mitch bent down as far as he could, to lift each of my feet in turn and ever so gently soap between each of my toes. This was almost a new erogenous zone for me, and I eagerly reciprocated, enjoying the hair on top of each of Mitch’s long, slender toes.
A quick “swoosh” of the icy cold water from Master ken brought us back to reality, and then as we stood there waiting for the sun to dry us, Master ken produced razors and told us to shave each other.
Shaving your buddy is a particularly nice thing to do – most men shave semi-automatically each morning, and overlook the pleasure there can be in going over all the contours of your partner’s face in very fine detail, holding his nose up to get those few hairs hiding under it on his top lip, holding his ear lobe out of the way so you can make a clean stroke from there down to his neck, and all the other little intimacies you can enjoy whilst thoroughly exploring his face and neck. And, of course, our jutting cocks kept hitting each other as we moved around doing the shaving.
It was actually quite difficult to shave Mitch’s balls – not only were they now stretched and extended under his cock, but it was difficult to move far enough away so that I could bend down to access them properly, and I know he found the same difficulty with mine. The same was true for his ass: even though he reached back and held his cheeks apart, I had enormous difficulty in shaving the stubble that was growing around his ass hole.
Mater Wane then led us off into one of the other buildings, that was kitted out as an exercise room, the sort you find in most major hotels.
“I’m locking you two in here for the day”, he told us, “You can do what you like. But my advice to you is to use the running machines and the treadmill – there’s two of each, side by side, so it should be easily possible. You need to train yourselves to run for at least three hours, non stop, over rough terrain, if you’re to have any hope of being able to survive the hunt.”
I’m very fit, but it was difficult to stand there on the machines doing mindless exercise. And my fitness was primarily linked with the ability to do hard manual labour: I don’t have an ideal body shape for running, being too heavy and muscular, and the need to run continuously for a very long period would tax my leg muscles and lungs severely. Mitch seemed to be able to do the training much better, and I supposed it was because so much of a marine’s training is dull, repetitive sheer hard work like that. So as he did it, so did I – I had no choice, because of the chain joining us – if he continued to run stolidly onwards on his treadmill, I had to on mine!
Our days passed like this, and gradually the stables filled up with the horses of the huntsmen, and the slaves who looked after them. Most of these grooms were devoted to their horses, and had been ordered not to speak to us on pain of losing their positions, so even though we both stood with our arms sticking through the bars of our cage begging for someone to come along and talk to us, no one would.
The day of the hunt dawned fine and clear, and after grooming, Master Wayne came out with two pairs of shorts, and two T-shirts which he commanded us to put on.
“There’s hope for you boys”, he told us. “The Hunt master doesn’t want to take the full pack of hounds out today as some of the bitches are about to have puppies. If the whole pack goes out, those left behind pine. So he’s only going to use just two or three of the hounds to follow your scent, and there should be no danger of your being torn to pieces if the pack fall on you before the huntsmen get there.”
Even though our future looked a whole lot brighter, again it was this constant disregard for the slave that really pissed me off – we weren’t going to be at risk of our lives because some of the hounds were pregnant, not because it wasn’t right to hunt human beings to the death! The master thought more of his hounds than he did of us slaves.
Master Wayne led us out of the stable yard and around the front, where about 20 horsemen and women were assembled on their mounts. Serving slaves were handing around trays of the traditional drink before hunting – sherry. I was surprised to see that they were not naked – but instead had been dressed to complement the huntsmen.
The huntsmen wore proper traditional hunting clothes – “hunting pink” (red) coats for the men over white jodhpurs, and black hunting coats for the women over fawn jodhpurs. All wore proper correct hard black riding hats, and carried short black lashes for their horses in their white gloved hands.
The slaves had been fitted with T-shirts also in “hunting pink”. These were collar less, with a deep “V” neck that stretched to reveal their navels. At the front, the shirt was just long enough to cover the slave’s cock if he stood still, but as he moved around, and especially as he reached up to offer a tray of glasses to a rider high on his horse, his cock was revealed. At the rear, the shirt was cut very high so that it just sat above the top of the slave’s ass crack.
Somehow this constant revealing of the slaves’ cocks, the emphasis placed on their asses by having the shirt stop so abruptly, and the contrast between the formally dressed, immaculate riders and the skimpy slave costumes, all combined to make the scene erotic in a way that total nudity would not have. Was this why Mitch and I were in T-shirts and shorts, I wondered.
As we entered the circle of huntsmen, dignified applause broke out from them. Master Wayne went up to the Hunt master and said “Master, the prey is ready for preparation.”
“Thank you, Wayne. Begin in your own time.”
Wayne came back over to us and said “Ok. Running on the spot. Fast. Begin when I say.”, and then, under his breath, “Just do it, as fast as you can. I have not had to whip you whilst you’ve been here, and I don’t want to have to do so now.”
Mitch and I looked briefly at each other, could see that Wayne was right, and simply started running “on the spot”.
After a few minutes in the hot, moist morning air, we were both sweating profusely and our T-shirts and shorts were becoming sweat soaked. We ran on and on, watched with a sort of disinterest by the riders, until, at long last, Master Wayne called out “Halt.”
He came over to us, ran his finger around the waist band of our shorts to see that it was really soaked in sweat, and then down the crack of my ass where the fabric had stuck to my sweaty body. Obviously satisfied, he said “Ok, slaves, lose those shorts!”
Mitch and I again glanced at each other, but there was nothing else we could do – we simply shucked them down over our hips, and stood there with our cocks and balls jutting out from their cinch rings. Again, there was polite applause, and we both blushed deeply. It’s completely different to be naked in front of dressed masters all the time than it is to have to undress in front of a crown of dressed people. Somehow we hadn’t lost our embarrassment at stripping in front of others, in spite of everything that had happened to us. And being applauded, as our cinched cocks were revealed, only made matters worse.
And I did feel ridiculous – not only was my cock rigidly I front of me, but wearing the T-shirt made me look even more stupid, I thought. Like the ones worn by the other slaves, it was much too short- but in our case it cut off at the level of the navel all around, so our huge cinched cock packages jutted out below the thin white cotton like some parody of a cheap striptease show.
“Now push-ups. 40. Begin!”, Wayne commanded, so Mitch and I dropped to the concrete of the yard and started the classic exercise. But with your cock sticking out hard in front of you, it’s very difficult to do properly. Instead of your whole body being a straight line, Mitch a nd I had to bend at the waist and stick our asses up, to avoid our cock heads making painful contact with the concrete on each thrust. We must have looked ridiculous, with our asses bobbing up and down in that way.
At the end of the exercise, Wayne told us to strip off the Ts (which were now sweat sodden), too, and we were again properly naked, perspiring in the sun.
“Ready to begin when you are, Wayne”, the Hunt master called out.
One of the huntsmen, a young guy about 23, I would guess, and an arrogant looking bastard, shouted across towards us “Wayne, why don’t you give us a show? Get the prey to jerk each other off. I’m sure the ladies would like to see the spectacle. Arrange it as a contest, so that the slave whose cum shoots last gets whipped, or so that the slick closest to them when they’ve both finished earns its donor a whipping, or something. I guess they could both be whipped if you got the rules right!”.
But master Wayne would not do this, and said “Sir, that’s not a good idea. We want the prey fresh for the chase, and I don’t want them to expend their energy in cumming. And if I whip them, it may impair their ability to run.”
Wayne then came over to us and said “Here’s what happens. You run off, and exactly 30 minutes later your sweat-soaked clothes are given to the hounds. They, and the hunt, then set off in pursuit of you. Normally the incentive to run is that of avoiding being savaged by the pack, but today, as there’s no pack, the Hunt master has devised a different target for you”.
“As you know, you were bought cheaply as unruly slaves, and a judge has already sanctioned your castration under the terms of the Programme. You only have your balls still because the master chooses to let you keep them, not because it would be unlawful to take them.”
“As of this moment, your balls are forfeit, and we will take them from both of you. But for every hour that you evade capture, one ball can be kept. So after four hours, you will remain whole. If we capture you after two hours, you can decide between you whether one is to remain a whole man, or whether we should take one ball from each of you. After one hour, one of you will of course be a complete eunuch, although again you can choose which one.
And after three hours, one will remain whole, and one lose one ball – at your choice.” “Is that clear?”
We nodded agreement, but looked at each other in anguish. If we didn’t survive four hours, which seemed likely, how could either of us condemn the other to becoming a eunuch, or even to losing one of his most precious attributes as a man? I resolved that, whatever Mitch said, if we survived at least two hours he would be the one who would remain a complete man – it was so vitally important to him. But I sensed that he was having the same thoughts about me.
Oh, these masters were clever – never mind that the thought of losing your balls was terrible enough, the twist of having to choose which one of you sacrificed himself made it diabolically cruel. Even in extreme situations like on the battle field, or in prisoner of war camps, comrades weren’t forced to make decisions like this.
But this speculation had to stop, as Wayne continued “However to make it fairer, and to turn it into a real game of skill for the huntsmen, we have smashed the control boxes for your locator and pain transponders – we can’t call up the satellite to tell it to beam down pain to you to make you come home, or locate you by means other than the dogs. It will take at least five days for new boxes, tuned to your filed response patterns, to arrive from the manufacturer. So good luck – if you do manage to evade the hunters, you have a fair chance of escaping completely.”
Then, turning towards the huntsmen, he shouted “Permission to release the prey, Hunt master?”
And then to us, “Right! Go! The clock’s ticking!”.
We ran and ran, and I’m glad that Wayne gave us the advice to train for those weeks. Not only is it difficult to run chained to another guy, especially across rough terrain, but our cinched cocks did initially make it more difficult. But after what I judged to be an hour, when we could hear the baying of the hounds but they were nowhere in sight, I knew the effort had been worth while. At least there was now one ball between the two of us!
What was particularly heartening was the change that had come over Mitch. He was back to his old self. I think it was being out in “the field”, being hunted by “the enemy”, with a platoon (me!) to worry about, that did it. He used all the skills and field craft he knew to lay a false trail, and to keep me going even when I was desperate to stop for a moment to catch my breath.
The only thing that caused us a particular problem – apart from the unrelenting physical effort of keeping ahead of the hunters – was when Mitch wanted us to belly crawl under a set of low undergrowth. If we did this, he said, then there would be no visible trace of us leaving the trail. But it proved impossible – those marines you see crawling along, arms and legs splayed out at the sides as they move, are all wearing tight jocks I should think. It’s actually impossible to crawl over a rocky surface when you’re naked, without doing serious damage to your cock and balls. And when these have been made to point horizontally out from your body, because you’ve been fitted with a cinch ring, you can’t even to that: there was no way that Mitch and I could crawl with our cock heads pointing directly down to the rock! Mitch was not one to give up, though, so he did a sort of modified version, with his ass held up in the air so his cock was raised from the ground. But apart from the fact that I laughed at the ludicrous sight (even in the most dire circumstances you’ve got to laugh sometimes) it didn’t actually work – his ass just wouldn’t fit under the low-growing shrubs that way. So, reluctantly, I thought, he abandoned that method of fooling our pursuers.
He made us run along the bed of an icily cold river, and as the water splashed up at our genitals even our cinched cocks seemed to shrink from the shock. Then out, inland for about four hundred yards, before retracing our trail into the river. We did this four times, then retraced out steps to the third place we had left, followed our own trail again, and went along it to where an old oak was close to the path. Telling me to bend over, Mitch stood on my back to catch hold of a low-hanging branch. With almost Herculean strength, he pulled himself astride it, dragging me with him by the chain that joined us – and remember, I’m no l40 lb college boy – I’m a big, beefy 220 lb hunk!
We sat next to each other on the giant branch, breathing hard, then Steve made us climb higher into the tree so we were completely hidden from the ground.
“Well, if that doesn’t fool them, we’re done for”, he said. They’ll sweep the bank, find we left the river, and follow our trail. Then when it peters out, the huntsman will think he’s got clever prey and will go back to the river, and start to sweep the bank again. After they have done this four times, they will sweep again but find no firth trail – although it should take them a long time! So knowing we’re clever prey, the huntsman will deduce that on the fourth pass, we left the trail and went up a tree.
So searching every tree on that fourth trail will take even longer – and with any luck it won’t occur to him that I did a double bluff, and came back to hide in a tree on the third trail.
“So all this will take hours”, I said. “At least three more, I hope, so our balls will be safe.”
“Yes. They could take hours sweeping the river banks alone. But let’s not just think about our balls, Steve – why don’t we try for the big one? You heard Wayne say that our control boxes will take days to replace – when the hunters finally call it off, why don’t we try to make it across the state line?”
“You’re right. Sooner or later, we’ll die as slaves. If we’re to have a life together, we have to get out”, I agreed. “But if we’re escaped slaves, won’t the surrounding states just send us back?”
“Who knows? But at least there’ll be a chance of life that way. And whilst there’s a chance, we need to take it.”
We sat high in the branches, arms around each other, not daring to make any more noise in case the hunters should be close. On the still air, we occasionally heard the baying of the hounds, and then a crashing sound through the undergrowth underneath us, as the huntsmen and dogs went past. After a few minutes, they came back, and I heard one say “Another false trail. Those prey really are clever! Still, most of the sport has been lost from it now – what are we going to do for after dinner entertainment, now the four hours are up and we can’t see one or other of them castrated?”
Mitch tightened his grip on me in glee – obviously he was enjoying this challenge, even though he was the prey.
The party went away, but I had a problem. I desperately wanted to piss, so I pointed my cock down and was about to let fly when Mitch leaned over and gripped it tight. He hissed into my ear “No, you fool! If the dogs come back and get your piss scent, we’ll be done for.”
But I really was in absolute dire need. I whispered to Mitch that I just couldn’t hold it, as my bladder was about to burst. In an amazing gesture of comradely sacrifice, and one that I couldn’t imagine Mitch making unless he was in “command” mode, with the absolute safety of his “troops” his only concern, he leaned over, took the tip of my cock in his mouth, and signalled that I should start to piss!
We all know how difficult it is to stop pissing in mid stream, especially when you are relieving yourself after a period of desperate need. But I did manage to stop when I had let go the absolute minimum amount that I needed to make the pain in my bladder bearable. Poor Mitch sucked the last drop from under my foreskin, and sat up. I looked at him, and he just shrugged, as much as to say “A man does what he has to do”. I was overwhelmed with love and respect for him, and turned to him and kissed him, tasting the dregs of my own sour, salt piss still in his mouth.
But I had obviously upset Mitch, because he shook his head angrily away from mine. It was all right to kiss when we were lovers in bed, but out here, “on the battle field”, a marine does not kiss his buddies however special they are to him.
As night began to fall, we knew we had won at least this first stage of the battle – we had survived the day, and now “all” we had to do was to make our escape from the state.
We were about to climb down from the tree, when we heard someone coming, and a lone huntsman appeared underneath us. He was consulting a small map, and it seemed he was retracing the steps of the hunt. We heard him say to his horse “I know they’re around here somewhere – if I take them in alone, I’ll demand their balls as trophies irrespective of what their silly ‘rules’ say”.
Signalling to me silently, Mitch launched himself off the high branch and of course I had no option but to follow. We fell on top of the huntsman, knocking him off his horse, and stunned him as our two heavy bodies crashed into his on the ground.
When he came to, he found himself looking at his pair of naked prey. Instinctively he felt for the gun that had been on his belt, but found himself looking at it in Mitch’s experienced grasp.
It was the arrogant young guy who had wanted us jerked off and whipped at the start of the hunt, and he was – with good cause – now obviously very worried at finding himself in our power.
“Now, slaves…” he started to say.
But Mitch simply cut across shim and said “Get naked!” “What do you mean….?”
“There are three of us here. Who’s the odd one out with regard to clothes, boy? Get naked – I don’t want to have to tell you again, as you’re in enough trouble already.”
He looked as if he were a “jock”, so I’m sure he had been naked in front of other guys lots of times in team changing rooms and the like. But as he started to take his clothes off, he began to blush – environment does matter, and in a changing room, with lots of other guys taking their clothes off before a game, it’s easy and natural. Out here in the wild woods, miles from anywhere, and watched by two massive slaves with big tattoos and cocks sticking out, this was different!
Mitch was calling him “boy” even though he was probably at least 23, in order to establish that the huntsman was Mitch’s inferior in spite of Mitch being a naked slave, and the huntsman was a free man.
The huntsman had hesitated a little, but then he took of his hard hat, his “pink” hunting jacket, and then bent to unlace and take off his riding boots and socks. He stood there in his shirt and jodhpurs.
“Does ‘naked’ mean something else to you, boy?”, Mitch asked sarcastically. He reached out for the riding crop from the horse’s saddle, and in one fluid movement slashed at the jodhpurred ass of the huntsman, who cried out in shock and pain.
“That’s only one stroke”, said Mitch. “A normal whipping for disobeying a master’s order is six, or even twelve. Do I make myself clear now? Get naked!”.
The huntsman dropped his jodhpurs, to reveal bikini style briefs, and unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor. He started to take off his T-shirt, but Mitch called out “No. Drop those briefs first.”
Now scarlet with embarrassment, the huntsman put his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, and pushed them down over his slim hips. He needed to do that little wriggle that we all use to get them down as far as his crotch, then they fell the length of his long, muscular legs.
His cock was surprisingly nice – medium length and thick-ish, with a well pronounced head and flange. His balls were carried high, but it was difficult to see too much detail as of course his pubic hair had not been neatly shaven or trimmed as a slave’s would have been.
“Ok. Now the T”, Mitch said to the boy, and to me “Watch as he pulls it over his head – as his arms come up, his stomach stretches, and it pulls his cock up with it, then it flops back. In the barracks I always liked my guys to take off their T-shirts last, so I could see that little up and down motion – it shows all the muscles are in good working order.”
The huntsman had obviously heard this, too, and when he was naked in front of us, almost defiantly reached down and shook his cock and balls to loosen them, as you do when you release them from tight briefs, or jeans that are a size too small for you.
“I believe you wanted a jerk off contest”, Mitch then intoned. Wasn’t it the last to cum got a whipping, or the one who shot his load the least distance?”
The hunter was plainly terrified by now. “I didn’t mean any harm….”
“Silence!”, snapped Mitch. “Slaves only speak when spoken to, and only then to answer a master’s question. I’m not interested in what you meant, or in what you now think, just as you were formerly never interested in the thoughts, views, or opinions of slaves.”
“So here are the rules, boy. You’re up against me, one on one. Last to cum gets whipped. Shoot a shorter distance than me and you get whipped. Master Steve’s judgement in the case of any dispute is final.”
“Silence. Get ready…. Start…. NOW”
And with that Mitch reached down, and casually began to jerk his cock as I had seen him do so many times before. He was of course completely used to jerking off with other guys around, both from his life in the barracks, and during our time on the road gang. But I’m sure the young huntsman had never even had an erection in front of other guys before, let alone jerked off – it’s funny how something as completely natural and healthy as erections and jerking off causes such acute embarrassment: quite a lot of American men have only ever seen pictures of other guys doing either, and have never seen it “in the flesh”, or done those things themselves in front of others.
But the huntsman did try – he reached down, and tried to coax his cock hard. Mitch stopped jerking himself, and said “Boy, I don’t want to win unfairly. I suppose you’re one of those guys who has never jerked off standing up before – you’ve never had to do it as a forfeit in front of your buddies in a marine barracks, or when a potential buyer wants to examine your cum in an Auction House. No, I bet the only time you ever jerk off is lying in your big bed in your own room at home, with the door firmly shut so that mom and dad don’t know what you’re doing – as if they’re fooled… every guy does it, after all, as everyone knows. You do still l ive at home., don’t you, boy?”
There was no reply.
“Answer me!”, Mitch thundered.
“Yes, sir… I live with mom and dad because it’s a big house, and it’s easier to have the servants and slaves look after me than to move into my own apartment until I get married….”.
“Shut up! So when you’re not jerking off in bed, I bet you do it sitting in a big easy armchair, with a porno mag resting on the arm, or with one of those sexy videos on your very own TV…. Right?”.
“Well then, boy, to make it completely fair, I will let you lie or sit down to jerk yourself off, whilst I remain standing – I enjoy doing it any way, any time. I like to do it standing up, as I can thrust my hips backwards and forwards in opposition to my hands, and it’s more lifelike – I can almost think I’m thrusting at some nice ass or other bent in front of me.”
“Ok – on my mark… One, two, three…. GO”.
The huntsman hurriedly sat down with his back against the tree, closed his eyes – presumably to blot out the real scene and to try to conjure up some private fantasy – and started to beat his meat mercilessly. Mitch simply stood next to me, one arm around my shoulders, and languidly, almost, stroked his cock into an even more massive erection. He swayed backwards and forwards a couple of times, then shot an enormous load straight out in front.
We stood there, looking at the huntsman – he was erect now, and stroking away furiously. He started to make little moaning noises, and then his hands and upper thighs were covered in cum.
He stopped moving, opened his eyes, and looked down and saw the cum all over himself.
“You are a messy boy, aren’t you?”, Mitch went on, piling up the humiliation on the huntsman. “Do you usually use toilet tissue, or do you have a special little cum rag in your bedside drawer? If they’re not in a shooting contest, real men catch it in their other hands, and drink it down”.
“However, it really doesn’t matter what you did before. It’s what you did now that matters. You’ve lost both parts of the contest, I’m afraid: you shot last; and whilst you’ve made a good load of cum there, it didn’t go very far. I guess you’re unlucky – you’re not a ‘shooter’, but a ‘dribbler’. If a guy is sucking you off, it doesn’t matter either way. But in a contest like this, shooters win hands down… Or should I say hands out!”.
“So how many strokes of the whip did you intend the loser to have this morning”, Mitch continued.
“I didn’t really think….”
“Well, think now, and be quick. And be careful with your answer – if it’s unrealistic, I might have to punish you for lying.”
“Well most whippings are six strokes.”
“So you thought six in total, or six for the loser of each part of the contest?”. “Six for each part, I suppose”.
“On the ass alone, or the whole body?”. “The whole body”.
“Right!”, Mitch now went into a sort of command mode. “Stand against that tree, with your face into it. Wrap your arms around the tree – I would advise you to really try to hold it tight, as if it was your lover, so you don’t move when the punishment starts.”
The hunter stood up, looking scared out of his life, and suddenly leapt into action and ran off. Calmly, Mitch took aim and shot him as he ran away from us. There was a scream, and I could see the naked white body fall.
“Had to do that”, Mitch said to me, “As we couldn’t hope to catch an athletic man like that, especially with this chain holding us together.”
I was appalled. Giving the hunter some of his own medicine was one thing, but shooting him in cold blood was another. But I should have known that Mitch had a kind heart underneath his mean exterior, and was a crack shot after his time in the marines – when we got to the hunter, he was holding a large leaf to his right arm. Mitch gently peeled it away, looked at the blood and said “You’ll live. It’s only a scratch. I deliberately only ‘winged’ you as a warning. But that’s the first, last and only warning – any further escape attempts, and you’re dead.
The hunter looked at Mitch, wondering if he was bullshitting, then seeing the look in Mitch’s eyes, said, sullenly, “Yes”.
Mitch raised his foot and stomped down hard on the instep of the hunter, who collapsed onto the ground, screaming with pain. Mitch stood over him, looked down and said ”Hurts, doesn’t it? A slave’s foot gets a layer of hard skin from working naked. And I’m a big, strong, heavy male. So when I stomp down on you, you hurt. Now what do you think that was about?”
The hunter went to say something, thought better of it, and just shook his head.
“It’s all about attitude, boy. Your last reply was grudging, and ill-tempered. And when you address me or master Steve, you call us ‘sir’. I don’t want you to call us ‘master’, as that’s a means of making a slave feel demeaned. You will use ‘sir, so that we know you have a proper respect for us. And you will, of course, always answer quickly, respectfully, and cheerfully.”
“So, do you understand that any further attempt to escape will result in my killing you? I don’t have to shoot you, you know – in the marines I was taught over 20 ways to kill a man quickly and quietly, just using my bare hands.”
“Good. Then get back to that tree – we have some unfinished business.”
The hunter returned along the trail, arms by his side, shoulders slouching, the very picture of misery.
“Mitch…”, I whispered.
“No, Steve. I know what you were going to ask. But I am going to give him a whipping – but it will be a light one, and I won’t break the skin. He needs to understand exactly what he’s had meted out to slaves over the years.”
The hunter addressed the tree, and embraced it with his arms. Mitch went over to him and pushed a small piece of wood broken from a branch in front of his mouth.
“Put this between your teeth, and bite down on it”, Mitch said. “It will help you get through the ordeal like a man, without starting to squeal and holler like a stuck pig as soon as the lash hits you. I’m going to give you twelve strokes in all, and they will be evenly distributed – down your back, on your ass, and across your thighs. I can tell you from personal experience that the ones across the thighs are the worst. I will do them randomly, so you won’t know where the next blow will land – that’s actually better for you, as if you have just had one lash on the back and you think the next one’s going there too as the lashes are working their way down your body, you will tend to tense your back in anticipation. And it hurts more when you’re tense – believe me!”.
“Now, are you ready?”
The hunter tensed all over, and through his clenched teeth around the piece of wood, we heard a muffled “Yes…. Sir”.
Mitch snapped a thin sapling from the undergrowth, and took the first few, whip-like feet of it. He swished it through the air a couple of times to get the feel of it (and I think to make the huntsman aware of what was about to happen). Then he raised his arm, and brought the first stroke down on the hunter’s ass. The man’s whole body spasmd outwards, and there was a muffled shriek from him. But I knew that Mitch was being merciful – with the power in his arms, each blow from that whip-like sapling could easily have left permanent scarring on the man’s body, and as it was, there was just a red, angry mark rising.
Mitch continued relentlessly, pausing just long enough between each stroke to let the man relax slightly. After l2 strokes, he gently helped the hunter to remove his arms from around the tree, and turn around. Mitch took the wood out of the man’s mouth, and reached up and wiped the tears off his cheeks where they were running freely down. Mitch then took a step closer, and being infinitely careful not to put his hands on any of the red whip marks, pressed the man close to him so that he could sob into Mitch’s hairy chest.
I had never seen anyone who had just wielded a whip show such compassion for his victim before – it was a beautiful sight, and I wanted to join them. So I enfolded both men with my own arms, again being careful not to cause the hunter any more pain.
It was getting dark, and Mitch said that it was not sensible to try to move through the heavy woods at night – it was too easy to lose your bearings, and go around in circles without the sun to help keep a straight line. So we should try to sleep, but we ought to move off from where we were in case the hunters should come back at first light.
So Mitch untied the horse and slapped it on its rump to send it running home, in the hope that they would think that the hunter had simply been thrown. Then he bundled up the hunter’s clothes, lifted a heavy dead tree trunk, and slid them underneath. The hunter looked panic stricken as he did this, as I think he assumed that he would be getting his clothes back. Without them, his whole life must have seemed to have entered a new and more dangerous and difficult phase.
We only went a few hundred yards, until we found a grassy hollow. Mitch and I stood there and pissed before the night, and Mitch told the hunter to come and join us. The poor man was still embarrassed by his nudity, let alone by having to stand there and piss with two other men – especially when we had heavy, thick jetting streams of piss, and he had only just a tiny tinkling dribble. I could imagine how he felt – most public rest rooms now have those “modesty panels” between the stalls, as American men seem to be ashamed to have other men look over and see them doing something perfectly natural with their cocks. So I was not used to public communal pissing, and the first time I had had to do it when I had just joined the Programme was dreadful. But even then, the environment was “controlled” to some extent, in that there were guards around, and we were indoors. Here the hunter was totally alone with two naked, brutish-looking slaves, doing something that he had never done publicly before.
“So how are we going to keep you from running off during the night?” Mitch asked the hunter rhetorically. “I think I know – it’s called the vanilla sandwich!”.
He spoke to me, and we both lay down, Mitch behind me and the chain lying loose on the forest floor between us. “In here, boy!”, Mitch commanded, indicating the space between us to the man who was standing there wondering what was going to happen. I could see that he was thinking of running off again – with the darkness, and us lying down, he must have had a fair chance of getting away, but Mitch still had the gun in his hand.
I could see the inner turmoil resolve itself, and the hunter gingerly knelt down, then lay between us, being oh so careful not to let his body touch either of ours.
The next instant his whole body slammed into mine, as Mitch had thrust his body into the hunter’s. We lay there, closely packed together, two large dark sun-tanned bodies on the outside, and the hunter’s slighter, whiter body in the middle.
Then I heard the hunter gasp, and Mitch say to him “Don’t worry, I’m not going up your ass – yet. That’s a pleasure I’m saving for tomorrow! I’m just putting my cock between your ass cheeks so that if you try to get up, you’ll certainly wake me!”
Then Mitch called to me and said “Steve, reach between your legs and put the boy’s cock between your ass – that way, one or other of us will be sure to wake if he moves!”.
I did as he had suggested, and was surprised to find the hunter had an erection. So I moved around a bit, and it was soon lying pushed upwards towards his belly, but firmly lodged between my muscular arse cheeks. I called back to Mitch and told him the hunter was erect, knowing that the very discussion of it would cause him embarrassment, and Mitch said “So, boy, you like slave ass do you? I bet your daddy has bought you a lot of slave ass to practice on, hasn’t he?”
“NO…. Sir!”, the hunter protested. “I’ve never had a slave sexually, up the ass or anywhere else. I’ve never been with another guy at all. I’ve never felt another guy’s body this close to me before, even. I’m straight – I only go with my girlfriends.”
“Hey, Steve”, Mitch called, “We’ve got ourselves a virgin here. Do you remember when you arrived on the Programme – you were a virgin, weren’t you? How did you lose it? Are you going to give the boy here the benefit of your advice, experience, and expertise tomorrow?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, quietly “So, boy, sleep sweetly. Tomorrow’s your big day. You’re not only going to enter a whole new world of exciting experiences, but you’re going to do it with two big studs who themselves have been through the same things quite recently. You’re fortunate, though, as I think Steve and I will be gentler with you than some of the masters were with us – we remember how painful and humiliating it was to be force fucked, and whilst that’s exactly what’s going to happen to you, we’ll temper our force with patience and understanding.”
I think I heard the hunter whimper slightly, and I could feel his cock stir in my ass crack.
The following morning we all awoke as the sun came up, all stiff from lying in one position all night, and all, of course, with raging morning erections.
We all stood up, and rubbed ourselves, trying to get a bit warm. The hunter’s cock soon subsided, but with our cinch rings, Mitch’s and mine took longer to go down. “See, boy”, said Mitch, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about or ashamed of in having an erection in front of other guys – we all have them, several times a day, after all! Now why don’t you show Steve and I how far you’ve come to self liberation by jerking that cock of yours off?”
The hunter obviously thought he was doing all right, until Mitch said this to him, and he started to blush. But he could see Mitch was serious, so he sat on a log, and started to jerk himself, using quick, short strokes in the hoe that it would all be over quickly. Mitch w atched him closely, then just as the hunter started to dribble his cum, stepped close and caught most of it in the palm of his hand.
The boy looked up at Mitch, then watched in amazement as Mitch raised his palm to his lips, and licked up a little of the hunter’s creamy white cum. Mitch then offered his palm to me, and I in turn slurped up a little – it was nothing special, just ordinary run-of-the mill man milk. “Your turn now”, said Mitch, raising his palm to the hunter’s mouth. But the boy refused to lick it up, and even wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell.
“Come on, boy, surely you’ve drunk your own man juice before. Every one tries it at least once, so don’t pretend this is your first time!”, Mitch said.
But the hunter shook his head, and was obviously refusing to even consider licking at Mitch’s palm.
I thought Mitch would hit him, or devise some other punishment, but instead he smiled to himself, raised his hand, and drank the remainder of the considerable volume of the hunter’s semen still in his palm. Then he leaned over, put his hand behind the hunter’s head and used it to force the hunter’s face towards his own, and pressed his lips over the hunter’s. The hunter was obviously not responding, so Steve’s hand moved down, and his strong fingers pressed in on either side of the hunter’s mouth, forcing his jaws open so that Mitch’s tongue could slip in. He kissed the boy long and hard, for at least a minute.
“There”, he said as he finally disengaged. “Your first real kiss with a proper man, and your first sharing of man milk. I always think it’s good to kiss a guy when you’ve just sucked the jism out of his cock, and maybe we’ll practice that later – but you’ve made a good start.”
The hunter just sat there, shoulders bowed, looking miserable.
We walked – or should I say marched at a fast, “route march” pace – all morning through the thick forests. We stopped only for occasional drinks from streams we crossed, and of course there was nothing to eat. It was tough going for Mitch and me, but the huntsman looked completely done in – I think it was only the sheer force of Mitch’s presence that kept him going, as if he even started to flag, Mitch moved closer to him and that was sufficient to drive him on. But his breathing was constantly laboured, and after about three hours we just had to halt when his legs finally collapsed from under him.
He lay there on the ground, and I could see part of the problem – his feet were cut and bruised from walking over he forest floor. Our feet were Ok, as weeks of working outdoors nude had toughened the soles of our feet to the extent that I had about a quarter of an inch of tough, horny, dry skin covering them completely.
The huntsman lay there for a bit, and Mitch let him. Then he sat up, and said “Jesus Christ! I’m so hungry! Can’t we at least stop and eat some of those berries?”
Mitch leapt at him and slapped his face- hard. “Don’t you dare speak without permission. I’ve told you that already. And I’ve also told you that slaves like you don’t have opinions and don’t make suggestions – you’ll get fed as and when your master thinks it appropriate, and not before.”
“However, that does remind me that there’s another facet of your training we need to attend to, so perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone!”
He stood in front of the huntsman, jacked his cock a couple of times so it was at its biggest and hardest, and poked it towards the huntsman’s lips. “Here, boy, take my cock and worship it properly, then suck me dry. You were complaining about no food…. Well, there’s a good mouthful of pure man protein in there just waiting for you to suck it out.”
The huntsman looked terrified, and started to say “But I don’t suck cock, I….”
Mitch shut him up with a curt “You do now!” and pressed the tip of his cock at the huntsman’s mouth. I think the huntsman was terrified at what Mitch might do next, so he opened his lips, and took about an inch of Mitch’s cock in – just enough to get the head past the lips.
Mitch leaned forward, put a hand behind the huntsman’s head, and proceeded to face-fuck him, vigorously. The huntsman clearly was uncomfortable with this, and didn’t like it at all, but there was no way he could stop the overwhelming power of Mitch as he pumped away until he finally finished, just jerking his ass a little, when his cum pumped out into the huntsman’s mouth.
He withdrew his cock, and the huntsman went to spit. But Mitch snapped “No, boy! You take a master’s cum as a precious gift. It’s not to be wasted on the ground. Swallow it down, like a man. And anyway, you need some sustenance, as I said!”.
Then Mitch said it was my turn. I didn’t really want to forcibly face fuck the huntsman, as I knew that non-consensual sex of any kind was utterly demeaning – after all, hadn’t I had enough experiences of my own? But on the other hand it was so good to see Mitch so alive, so in control, so the old Mitch, that I didn’t want to risk any setback to his recovery. And, anyway, sucking a guy’s cock is fun – everyone likes a cock in their mouths once they’ve tried it a couple of times, whereas not everyone likes a cock up the ass. If I face fucked the huntsman, I’d be doing him a favour really – when he got back to “normal” society – if he ever got back to “normal” society – he’d be able to appreciate his buddies in a wholly new way and could introduce them to the delights of properly intimate contact between good male friends.
So I jacked myself a couple of times – hardly necessary, really, when the cinch ring kept me semi-erect most of the time anyway – and pushed my cock at the huntsman. I didn’t need to force his head onto me, as he took it in without protest, and started to move his head and suck vigorously. Perhaps he was learning, after all, that a man’s cock is good to have in the mouth.
He wasn’t a particularly expert cock sucker – well, if I was only the second, I suppose that’s understandable – and he couldn’t take the whole of my cock down as he hadn’t mastered suppressing the gag reflex when my cock head touched the back of his throat. And he didn’t know the importance of having the teeth graze the flange around the head, to maximise the pleasure for me – in fact, he kept his teeth entirely out of the way. My foreskin confused him, too, and I had to show him how he could help it roll back by the ministrations of his tongue.
But with all these limitations he still managed to excite me sufficiently to be able to cum, and I gave him a big load of my semen directly in his mouth. Mitch’s lesson had sunk home, as he swallowed it immediately, although I thought I detected a faint “gag” as it went down. All in all, not bad for a second try!
Then it was off again, although the huntsman was starting to limp. After about half an hour, Mitch stopped, and we both knelt down to look at the huntsman’s feet – they were in an even worse state now, and I didn’t think he could go much further. Mitch said to me “Steve, this boy’s done in, and his feet aren’t going to take him much further. I think we’ve punished him enough, and given him some insight into what it means to be a slave – when he goes home, he’ll probably think twice before ordering cruel and dehumanising treatments to the slaves his family owns. So I’m happy to let him go.”
The huntsman visibly cheered up, and almost started to smile. I’m sure he thought that we were going to kill him, or something, but I had always known that Mitch only wanted to bring home to him in a very tangible way what slavery really meant. The lessons he had learned with us would last far longer than any theoretical material he might read in books about “the degradation of slavery!”. And if we had made him appreciate the delights of being naked with other men and feeling their bodies close to his, and of understanding how to enjoy your buddies’ cocks, then we would have done him a favour!
However Mitch continued “The only think that worries me is that this boy would be all alone out here in the woods if we just left him. He can’t walk properly, he’s cold and hungry, and he had no idea where he is. He could well die of exposure before anyone found him – if, indeed, they’re even looking – they may have given up, thinking he was killed in a fall from his horse.”
“I don’t think we can leave the boy here.”
It amused me that Mitch referred o the huntsman as a “boy” – he wasn’t using it in the sense of “slave”, but genuinely as a word to describe someone much younger than you. But at 23 the huntsman was a mature male, with a life of his own. He was only three years younger than me.
As well as demeaning him a little, I guess what led us to think of him as a “boy” was that he hadn’t done any “men” things yet – he had a soft body, he still had girl friends and hadn’t fathered kids, he had just left college and did some wimpy job in a fancy office, and he still lived at home in the family mansion. And, of course, he hadn’t explored the joys of sex with men.
I thought back to myself at 23 – I was working away at a gruelling manual job, I had a lean, tough body, I was trying to afford the rent on a small apartment of our own, and I had kids (although admittedly I hadn’t yet fucked any of my buddies, either)! The huntsman hadn’t seen anything of a real man’s life at all, so I guess he was still a “boy” to us, even though back in the “real” world he had the power to own slaves and order their punishment.
“So if we can’t leave him here, and if he can’t walk, what shall we do with him?” I asked, and then continued after winking at Steve so he knew I was joking “Perhaps the best thing to do would be to put him out of his misery, quickly and painlessly. You said you knew over 20 ways to kill a man using your bare hands – why don’t you select he least painful one, as I don’t want him to suffer, and show me how it’s done?”
The poor huntsman went from almost smiling to being terrified, and all the blood drained out of his face as he went deathly white. I though he was going to cry, or fall down and beg for mercy, but amazingly instead he said “You’re right. I deserve to die. You two guys have shown me what slavery is really all about – it would be Ok to own men just to get them to do hard manual jobs that no one else wants to do, but we have taken it too far and it has become humiliation for its own sake. I ordered slaves to be thrashed in front of me and my friends for fun. I spent evenings in the pain palace and my friends and I had bets on which of us could ‘break’ the slaves we hired first. That’s all wrong – the slaves should just be used for work, and kept humanely in barracks. I hadn’t realised what sheer agony punishment could be until you whipped me last night, and even then I know it must have been a mild whipping as this morning I don’t have any scars – and I used to order much worse than that, just so I could enjoy seeing the slaves scream and plead for it to stop.“
Mitch was so affected by this that he again hugged the huntsman close, and told him that of course I had been joking. He, Mitch, might have killed the huntsman in anger, but he wouldn’t do it in cold blood – although he was a slave, he wasn’t an animal!
Mitch then moved away from me so that the chain between us was stretched taught, then told the huntsman to come and sit on it, and put one arm around each of us. It hurt quite a lot, as the weight of the huntsman caused the links of the chain to press into my flesh, but if Mitch could bear it, so could I. We continued our journey through the forest, with the huntsman held between us on his impromptu chair.
That night we again lay in the “vanilla sandwich”, but this time it wasn’t to stop the huntsman from escaping, but to try to keep him warm. Mitch and I were both used to being naked outdoors, but even we were starting to feel cold at night as the Autumn drew near. But the poor huntsman had no experience of total nudity at all times, and was shivering even by the late afternoon as the sun went below the trees. So keeping him between us was the kindest thing to do, and Mitch also put his arm over the huntsman to try to help more.
Both Mitch and I had deep painful bruises and contusions where the chain had bitten into us, and the huntsman looked at them in amazement. He had been complaining about how the chain was tough on his ass, but when he saw what we suffered on his behalf, he promptly shut up.
The following morning we were all ravenously hungry. Mitch suggested giving the huntsman “breakfast” again, but the guy said “Sir, please don’t waste your cum on me. You need every scrap of energy for yourself, and if you give me that precious gift, your balls will go in to overdrive to make more. I’ll gladly lick and suck your cock as a mark of respect, but I beg you, please save yourself for whatever the day has to bring.”
It was good to see the boy starting to think of others, and to understand something of the symbolism of a master’s cock in a slave’s life.
We carried him all morning, and at lunchtime both Mitch and I were exhausted. He was rested, and his feet had healed a bit, and whilst Mitch and I just lay in a forest glade he went off and about half an hour later came back with heaps of blackberries that he carried in large leaves. “It’s the best I can do”, he said, “And fruit is supposed to be good for you. At home we always give the slaves fruit as well as slave mash…”
He tailed off when he realised what he was saying, and Mitch and I both laughed. We crammed the blackberries into our mouths as we had a very deep hunger, and they did make some difference – the boy was trying his best to form part of our team and act for the good of us all.
The third night, as we prepared to lie down, the huntsman looked at Steve and said “Sir, there’s one more thing. You’ve taught me about respecting another man’s cock by having it in my mouth, and the pleasure we both can get when I suck off a buddy. But I’ve never taken a cock up the ass, and I need to understand how I can be completely dominated: please, Sir, take me!”
Mitch looked at him for a time, and said “No! You can’t ask me to fuck you, so you can understand how I can dominate you. You want me to be kind and gentle, and tease my cock up into you slowly and sensuously. That’s the way that true friends do it, men who are real fuck buddies, men who appreciate the sensations and pleasures that only another man can give you.”
“You do need to be taught about how one man can dominate another, though, so I am going to stick my cock up you. But it’s going to be harsh and brutal. This will not be a pleasant, sensual experience for you – it will be rape, just a slave being raped by masters, and just as Steve and I have been.”
Without another word, he seized the huntsman and threw him onto his back on the forest floor. Dragging me with him, he knelt down so he was between the huntsman’s legs. He told me – and, again, I didn’t hesitate as I was more concerned about Mitch than I was about a temporary unpleasantness for the huntsman (who would recover, as thousands of men do, from being raped) – to kneel on the huntsman’s shoulders, facing Mitch.
Mitch then picked up the huntsman’s feet, pushed them towards me, and told me to hold them down by his head. The huntsman’s ass came up in front of Mitch as his legs went down, exposing his ass hole to Mitch kneeling there.
“Ok, boy. This is the only bit of sympathy I’m going to show you. Instead of dry fucking you, giving you extreme pain, I will at least lube you.” Mitch said, as he reached down and started to jerk off the huntsman.
As soon as the boy had cum, Mitch worked at his ass hole with the semen, then moved his cock head up to the boy, and pressed home.
Mitch was not at all gentle! In spite of the lube, the huntsman shrieked and cried as Mitch’s huge cock thrust into him. Every time Mitch slammed his pubic bone into the boy’s ass at the end of a stroke, there was a cry of pain. But Mitch went on and on, with harsh, long, powerful thrusts just as if he was a wild animal in the grip of total passion.
He did stop at one point and called out “Boy, have you heard about rimming?”
“You mean when a guy stick’s his tongue up another guy’s ass?” The huntsman mumbled, through his tears.
“Good. Well whilst I finish fucking you, Steve is going to move back a bit so his ass is above your face, and I want that tongue of yours up there”
“No…” The huntsman stated to say, but couldn’t complete the sentence as Mitch again thrust powerfully and deeply into him.
Again, I did as Mitch told me, and moved back until I was over the huntsman’s head. I didn’t think he would actually start rimming me – after all, until you’ve experienced the delicious smell and taste of another man’s ass, it does seem a pretty disgusting thing to do. So I sat down, gently, on to him so that his nose was forced into my ass crack. I felt the feeble flutter of his tongue experimentally touching my asshole, and then, to my astonishment, that wonderful sensation as a warm, moist tongue tries to penetrate the sphincter.
Looking at Mitch kneeling in front of me and about to start fucking again, I could only smile with the sheer pleasure the huntsman was giving me,
Once Mitch had cum, we changed places so that I could fuck the huntsman, too. “Remember”, Mitch said to me, “It’s for his own good. So none of your gentle, caring playful thrusts – hard, strong and fast is what we’re after!”
I don’t usually like going up an ass when it’s already slicked with another man’s cum, as I like the greater sensation you get as almost dry sphincter muscles grip your cock. But Mitch’s cum had already lubricated the hole enough for me not to have to waste time in doing anything else, so I simply went in and fucked him as quickly and as painlessly as I could. kneeling in front of me, Mitch was squatting on the huntsman’s face, and I could see from the little half smiles of pleasure on his face that rimming was something the huntsman had taken to instantly!
Afterwards, the huntsman was crying – I know we must both have hurt him a lot. It takes practice and experience and patience by both guys if a fuck is going to be pleasurable for both of them, especially when very big cocks like Mitch’s and mine are involved. This time, there was not even an attempt to pleasure the slave- it was just raw fucking, to show him another facet of pain and degradation.
On the fourth morning, we set out again, and after only about an hour came to a road!
What were we going to do? Three totally naked men, now dirty and with five day’s stubble. Would anyone stop and help us, especially when they saw that Mitch and I were chained together! Indeed, would we want them to help? Were we still in Arkansas? Would we simply be turned in to the authorities, and returned to the Programme?
We sat and discussed our options. Mitch decided that the best thing to do would be to walk along following the road, but remaining in concealment, until we came to a stopping place.
We’d wait for a car or truck to stop, then hijack it and drive for as many miles as necessary until we could make sure we were across the state border.
So we walked for another couple of miles to a secluded rest area, and waited. But there wasn’t much traffic on the road anyway, and none of it seemed to need a break. It was the middle of the afternoon before anything stopped, and then it was a police cruiser, with two cops in it.
They were both typical Highway Patrol – quite big guys, in tight pants and with their shirts stretched by well-toned muscles. Their sunglasses made them look menacing, as usual. The best thing about it was that the cruiser had Tennessee plates on it – we were safe: we were over the border!
We emerged from the bushes, went over to the cruiser, and Mitch said “Officers, please help us. We have escaped from a routine of extreme brutality, and we would like to be taken to a place of safety in your state to recover, and from where we can tell the world our story.”
The two cops got out, one drew is gun, and said to the other “Well I guess it’s our lucky day, Chet. These are the escaped slaves from that Programme in Arkansas.”
Then looking at us he continued “But you are out of luck – the people who run the Programme just over the border know us cops well. Slaves don’t often escape, but when they do they want them returned. So there’s a bounty on your head – five thousand dollars each! My partner and I have just got ourselves a nice little sum each, when we drive you back. We can radio ahead, and a transport from the Programme can meet us at the border. It just shows that every cloud has a silver lining – your day’s ruined, but it’s magic for us!”
I don’t think either of the cops expected what happened then – they thought of us just as “slaves”, slaves who were dirty, and obviously on the point of exhaustion. They simply hadn’t reckoned with the fact that Mitch was a trained fighter, a trained fighter with hidden reserves of inner strength.
He leapt at them, dragging me after him, knocking the drawn gun flying, and crashing his body into theirs so that they fell against the cruiser. Before they could recover, he had smashed his forearm under the chin of one cop, knocking him out, and kicked at the crotch of the other so that the man doubled up in agony.
Working fast, he grabbed the cuffs from their belts, flipped each cop over on to his stomach, and cuffed their wrists behind their backs. Then he searched them thoroughly, taking away guns, knives, personal radios, keys and any other items that might be useful to us.
When the cops recovered, they started to try to talk their way out of the situation they realised they were in. “Look, mother fuckers, you can’t get away with this. Being escaped slaves means you’re in enough trouble already. You don’t want assault on cops added to it – that’s a mandatory l0 years in this state! Just let us go, and me and my partner will forget all about this little incident. We’ll drive you quietly to the border, and hand you back to where you belong .”
Mitch and I discussed what to do. We were indeed in a bad way – if we did what they suggested, the best that could happen was that we were back on the Programme. But could we trust them – would they not simply arrest us, then we’d get our l0 years in that state, and then be returned to the Programme. Equally, we couldn’t just walk away – we were too exhausted; and there was no possibility of getting into yet another state.
Finally, we prioritised: we needed transport, as we couldn’t walk much further. The only transport was the cruiser, so we would use that. We couldn’t go far, as every cop in two states would now be looking for us. So we would drive a limited way in the cruiser, but to where?
Then I remembered Carl’s cabin, and how I thought he had a genuine love for me. So we decided to drive the cruiser to a phone booth, call Carl, and see if he would come and meet us somewhere.
We thought that two naked guys driving the cruiser would be very conspicuous, so we knelt over the cops and unbuttoned their shirts. Mitch pulled the first cop to a sitting position, then reached down, undid the flies on the guy’s trousers, and put his hand in and grabbed the man’s balls. “My partner is now going to uncuff you so that he can get your shirt off. Don’t make any move at all whilst that’s going on, if you value your balls.”
I could tell he had given the cop’s balls a a little squeeze at that moment, as the man grimaced. But he was a mean bastard, and shouted “You fucking cocksucker! Leave my dick and balls alone! Going back to that Programme is too good for you – when I get free, I’ll hunt you down and castrate you for grabbing me like this.”
He had courage, I’ll say that for him, because he then spat straight in Mitch’s face, and a big gob of the cop’s spit ran down his cheeks and across his chin. I don’t know how Mitch kept his temper – the cop was lucky, I thought, not to have his balls torn off. But Mitch motioned me to go ahead, and so I unlocked the cuffs, slipped the cop’s shirt off, and cuffed him again.
Mitch did punish the cop, though. He took a knife and held it in front of the cop’s eyes. The man obviously was scared and thought Mitch was going to disfigure his face, or blind him, or something. So sacred, in fact, that he pissed himself, and a wet stain appeared on his uniform trousers. But Mitch simply used the knife to cut away the cop’s T-shirt, leaving his big, furry chest exposed.
Mitch looked down at the wet trousers, and said “I think I’d better help you out of those wet clothes”, then proceeded to take off the cops boots and socks, open his belt, and pull his trousers off. The cop struggled and swore whilst Mitch was doing this, but he was of course helpless to do anything about it.
When he was lying in his boxers, Mitch said “These too, I think”, and pulled them off to reveal the cop’s nice 6” dick and well-rounded balls.
Then it was the next cop’s turn, and Mitch grabbed his balls whilst I uncuffed him and removed his shirt. He didn’t shout or struggle – he looked a bit younger than the first cop, and I think he had seen what had happened to his colleague and knew that resistance was futile.
Mitch then searched the cruiser, looking for anything else of use to us. Under the driver’s seat he found a box of photographs – and riffling through them he saw they were all of young-ish men spread-eagled across the bonnet of the cruiser, with most of their clothes removed. Our two cops were doing various humiliating things to the two men, like pushing their night-sticks up the men’s asses, and having the men jerk off whilst being photographed.
“I see”, said Mitch. “Not only were you going to take us back to the Programme illegally, but you make a practice of inflicting unusual punishments on young motorists!”
“I really think you two need to learn a bit about humiliation and respect.”
Looking at the second cop, he said “Officer, do you notice anything strange about yourself? Do you see any difference between you and the other four men here? What can it be? Ah, yes – all the rest of us have our bodies nicely exposed, so we can be completely open and honest with each other, whereas you are hiding yoyrs away under all those clothes! Don’t you think you ought to join us other real men, so we can all see each other and properly compare our manhood? Yes, I think so….”
And he bent over the other cop, and stripped him completely, too. The guy had nothing to be ashamed of as far as his tackle was concerned – not as big and thick as his mate, or Mitch and I, but perfectly adequate.
“Now”, said Mitch. “There’s been a lot of talk about ‘cocksuckers’ here. I’m pretty pissed off at you two because you were going to turn me in. But worse than that, you didn’t treat us with respect. Any man – whether prisoner or slave – deserves respect from the police! And I think that those young men that you have been humiliating deserve some retribution, too.”
“So I think that you two officers should show us that calling us ‘cocksuckers’ wasn’t meant disrespectfully at all. You should show us that ‘cocksucker’ is a perfectly normal word, a word that just describes what men can do to each other.”
“So I want you two cops to ‘69’ each other, and suck each others’ cocks. You do know what ‘69’ is, don’t you?
The older cop started shouting I’ll get you for this. What we do to those young guys is as nothing compared to what I’ll do to you when I’m free again and you’re back as a slave. I’ll go to Arkansas and buy you and…”
He got no further, a Mitch casually kicked him in the balls and the cop doubled over, shrieking.
Turning to the second cop, Mitch said “Go and help your comrade. He has some pain in his balls, and I think they need massaging, gently, with a nice moist tongue.”
The younger cop was going to say something, but Mitch moved his foot back as if to kick him, and the cop thought better of it. He crawled across the ground to his partner.
I don’t really want to describe the humiliation of these two cops. The young one had visibly hesitated before trying to ease his partner’s pain by gently licking at his tortured balls – I can understand why, as neither of the cops shaved their balls, and taking a big, hairy sac in your mouth can be unpleasant, especially if stray hairs lodge in your teeth. I really don’t understand why all men don’t shave their balls – it makes them feel so much nicer, even to their owner!
Then as they lay there sucking away at each other, I’m sure they hadn’t done it before. I don’t think they even had ever had any of the young men they has stopped at night suck them – they just wanted to photograph those men jacking themselves, or whatever, as some sort of perverse pleasure. I don’t know if Mitch’s punishment was just, or fair – or even if it taught them anything. But two big cops, stripped naked, did lie there in that rest area and sucked and sucked and sucked until they had each had a mouth full of each other’s semen.
It was time to go then, and Mitch raised the trunk, and threw out all the stuff like emergency lanterns and crowd control barriers that cops carry. Together we picked up the older cop, and threw him in the trunk, followed by the younger one. As they lay there naked, Mitch said “You’ll see I’ve put you boys head to toe, so you can amuse yourselves by practising your cock sucking again!”, and slammed down the trunk lid.
“We couldn’t leave them there”, said Mitch, and we’ll let them go as soon as we can.
Mitch and I put the cops’ shirts on, although it wasn’t wholly convincing as we were so much bigger than they and the fabric looked as if it was about to split. The young huntsman agreed to lie naked on the floor at the back – we’d offered him some of the cops’ clothes, but he had said “No, whilst you guys are naked, I will be too. We’re all in this together.”. How amazing it is that guys can bond together like this, in such a short time.
We drove on until we came to a gas station, parked the cruiser across the front of it, then I went in and placed a collect call to the cabin. It was early evening by now, and Carl was home. After I had explained our plight to him, he agreed to come and pick us up. We simply abandoned the cruiser there at the gas station, knowing that the cries of the cops inside the trunk would soon get hem rescued.
Two hours later, Carl, Mitch, the young huntsmen and I were all sitting in the cabin. One of Carl’s huge sheers he used for taking down old fencing had removed the chain binding Mitch and me – we were, in one sense at least, free! Best of all, the obscene cinch ring had also succumbed to Carl’s shears, and my cock and balls were again hanging properly, as nature intended.
We were full of a big dinner Carl had made to help stop our ravenous hunger, and Carl had taken off his shorts so that all four of us were companionably naked in front of the warm log fire.
Carl had slipped his arm around my shoulder, and Mitch had done the same from the other side. As Carl reached down to give my cock a friendly squeeze, he found Mitch’s hand already there. Of all the problems we still had to face, I thought that working out how I could be fair to both Carl and Mitch was going to be the hardest! But for that night, at least, I knew what was needed – I stood up, and went and sat next to the young huntsman and hugged his naked body to mine: after all the boy had been through, he needed a real man to show him what loving sex was all about that night, and I intended to show him how two men could pleasure each other for hours.