A SECOND ROUND OF TRAINING
The night was cold in the desert, and unlike the only previous time I had not been in the stables over night, this time there was no sweat shirt to cover at least the top half of my nude body, and I was tethered so tight to the bungalow that I could only stand relatively immobile, and could not crouch down to minimise the body area exposed to the air. My wrists were shackled to the shafts of my rickshaw, and I could not even rub my body to try to generate a bit of warmth.
The only way I could stop the terrible waves of shivering that kept passing through me was to “run on the spot”, keeping my legs active to generate a bit of body heat. It was impossible to sleep.
As dawn broke, I was wretched. Cold, tired, and hungry – I did hard manual labour all day, and had not been fed the previous night as usual. And I was filthy – I had not been showered the previous evening, and my skin was covered in a layer of dried sweat and semen from the previous afternoon’s activities. And during the night I had had to crap where I stood, because the previous careful program regulating my feeding and use of the piss and shit hole had been disrupted. There was of course no way of cleaning myself up, and because I had not been able to crouch, as I did at the crap hole, I knew my ass was disgustingly dirty. It had been three days since I was last shaved, and my face was itching with the growth of my beard.
The Overseer came out of his bungalow very early, and without saying anything, unhitched me and gave me the command for “off”. I set my weary legs in motion, and we headed towards the stables. This was good news – he had obviously relented, and I was going to be showered and fed.
But when we arrived at the stables the stable-lad slaves who came out were not allowed to take me in. The farm cart, with Hans, Mike and the other six slaves chained to it, came out, and the Overseer started to bark rapid commands in Arabic to all the lads and to them.
I was unshackled from my rickshaw, and led by my cock over to the cart. It’s back was dropped down and I was pushed back onto the floor of it, to lie on my back with my ass over the edge. One of the cart slaves jumped up into it, and then sat down on my chest, facing my face, so that his cock was in my face and his balls hung below my chin, touching my throat. His massive buttocks ground into my pecs, and I was unable to move or get up. He shuffled his knees down onto my forearms, so my arms were immobile. He had been freshly showered, and I could smell the faint antiseptic smell from the special washing solution that was used for us slaves overlaying the musky scent of his genitals, as they hung near my nose.
My legs were lifted off the ground, and bent backwards over my body towards my head, and the farm slave lifted up his arms and tucked my legs under them, one on each side of his body. I was now curled like an egg, with my genitals and dirty ass totally exposed and vulnerable, hanging over the back of the cart. I was deeply ashamed, as I knew the other cart slaves, including Hans and Mike, would be looking at my anus soiled by the crap I had had to do earlier. It was impossible to control my reflexes, and I could feel a hot, deep flush spreading from my chest and up over my neck and face.
A hand curled around my exposed cock, and started to wank me. This was not the normal hand of one of the stable lads, but one of the large, work-worn heavily calloused hands of a cart slave. He was brisk and rough, allowing his hand to cruelly catch the head of my cock on the up stroke, and slamming it into my pubic bone as he wrenched the loose skin of my cock downwards. Fortunately I soon became hard, and felt myself start to climax. Suddenly, the slave squeezed my balls – hard – and pushed my cock down onto my stomach. These actions triggered my stream of cum, which spurted so hard that it hit the ass of the slave sitting on my chest, and trickled down to lie in the little hollow between my pecs.
There was a lot of what would have been the sound of laughter had the slaves been able to make that sound properly, and they obviously thought I looked funny, lying there under one of their mates whilst another one wanked me.
I felt someone scrape my cum off my chest, and the next minute a long rough finger was probing my anus, using my own juices to slick the entry. Without any finesse, the finger forced its way in, and slid in and out once or twice to make sure I was thoroughly greased.
And then, or course, the horror of the previous day started all over again, as I felt the unmistakable sensation of a hot cock head probing my anus.
The slave raped me, taking less time than Mike the previous day, and I lay there shuddering and sobbing. I realised that even though I had not thought it at the time, Mike must have been as careful as he dared with me yesterday, because this second rape was very painful and my anus and rectum felt as if they had been hit with a hammer. The slave on top of me knew what was going on, because he had been turning around to see his mate fucking me, and had become aroused. His engorged cock stuck out over my face, and drips of pre-cum fell down on to me.
At last, I thought, it’s over. But no – another cock presented itself to my anus, and forced its way in.
Seven of the cart slaves used me before it was the turn of the guy on my chest. He was in a frenzy by now, and my face was covered in the slime of his pre-cum. He got up off me as one of his fellows neatly vaulted into place, and now I had not the antiseptic scent of the washing liquid and a musky male odour, but the stench of my own rectum on the new slave’s still-wet cock. Because he was so aroused, number eight’s time up my hole was mercifully short, and I was at last allowed to get up.
I stood there in front of the cart slaves, my face covered in pre-cum, my chest sticky from my own cum and the sweat from a slave’s ass, and with the results of their rape trickling down the insides of my thighs as my anus clenched and unclenched as it tried to gain some small measure of comfort and relief from the battering it had taken. I felt tears start to course down my cheeks again. I could see Hans and Mike amongst their fellows and knew that theirs were two of the cocks that had so cruelly violated me. But I did not blame them – I knew that they had no choice, as the Overseer had ordered it.
Now at last I was going to be cleaned and fed, I thought, and I desperately needed to collapse into a stall as I had been on my feet for many hours.
But the Overseer ordered one of the stable lads to lead me back to the rickshaw and manacle me between the shafts. He gave me the order to start, then, without even waiting to clear the stable yard, to race at maximum speed out into the estate.
With no hint of slowing down or the usual gentle way he commanded me to stop, my head was suddenly wrenched backwards as he hauled hard on both reins. I stopped as best I could, as we drew level with a field gang of 30 digging one of the fields.
The Overseer got down, unmanacled my wrists, slipped the bridle from over my head and said “Breakfast time! You must be hungry, as you were not fed last night and missed this morning’s allocation of food in the stables, too.”
I was indeed ravenous, but there was no sign of any slave meal. The Overseer went to the solitary guard standing at the control box attached to the wire running through all the field slaves’ collars, and after some discussion, the guard shouted to all the slaves to stop digging and stand still.
Then he came to me, marched me over to stand in front of the first field slave in the line, and said “This is your breakfast. Down on your knees, and suck him off. Then when you have done him, do the next one. You’re going to take the cum from all 30 of these slaves down your throat – if there’s any spilled, I won’t whip you, that would be too easy. But I will order the slave whose cum you wasted to be flogged tonight. If you care at all about these slaves, you’ll be very careful. From now on you’ll be getting only one feeding of slave meal a day, and the rest of your protein requirements are going to come from your fellow slaves’ cocks.”
I sank to my knees, not daring to disobey the Overseer. I had never taken another man’s cock into my mouth before – yes, a group of us at High School had had a ‘circle jerk’ after a football game, and I had got used to having my own cock masturbated every night in the stables. But apart from the rape yesterday and today, I had had no other experience of another man.
I looked at the cock in front of me, and it was flaccid, about 7 cm long, cut, and dirty! I remembered that the field slaves were only washed about once per week to save water, and I could see little grains of dirt in the tiny folds of skin along its shaft. I reached out to touch the cock, but the Overseer shouted “No. Get your hands behind your head. You’ve got a mouth, and that’s all you need. And get started – you’ve got 30 to do, and I don’t want my morning wasted whilst you eat a leisurely breakfast. ‘Fast food’, as you Americans say, is what we’re after!”
I moved my face closer to the slave’s crotch, and his raw, musky smell assailed me. I opened my mouth, and turning my head sideways, managed to get the end of the cock into my mouth. My tongue was restrained, of course, so I could not use it to tease the cock. I had to rely on my lips to start arousing him, and fortunately the cock responded rapidly. With it hard and solid, it was much easier to move my mouth up and down the shaft, and after only a few strokes I felt the slave’s pre-cum on the back of my throat, shortly followed by the hot spurt of his semen. I almost choked, because I had no prior experience of sucking cock, and could not predict the power with which the salty fluid hit the soft area at the top of my throat.
The next slave was a big black, and had a big cock to match. And the next was a shorter, swarthy guy whose prick characteristically jutted out almost at right angles to his body, even when it wasn’t erect.
I worked my down the line of slaves, and saw every variety of size and shape of cock imaginable. Only one of the slaves was not circumcised, and his cock tasted foul – without water, he had been unable to clean himself properly, and the rim of stale smeg behind his cock head when his foreskin peeled back flaked off into my mouth. I went to spit to clean my mouth, but remembered the Overseer’s threat just in time – I did not want my fellow slave to be punished because of my carelessness, and so did manage to swallow his load, in spite of retching as I did with the taste.
At the end of the line the Overseer simply took hold of my cock and let me back past the slaves. He put my bridle back in, shackled me into the rickshaw, and off we went.
The day got worse and worse, if that can be imagined. Without proper food and rest, my job would have been difficult because my energy use was so high that I needed proper sustenance. But unlike ‘normal’ days, when the journeys passed in a mixture of walking, jogging, and light running, every journey to day was done at high speed, and the lash fell constantly on my shoulders, back, and buttocks if I dared slacken the pace.
We got back to the Stables at last, and, in spite of myself, I fell to the ground as soon as the Overseer had alighted. My legs were trembling and my chest was heaving. The Overseer barked orders, and a stable slave appeared carrying a ration of slave meal in his cupped hands, and another with a water feeder. The Overseer nudged me in the ribs with his trainer, indicating that I should stand, and I tried as hard as I could to get to my feet.
I stood there, swaying slightly, and the stable slave came over, stood in front of me, and held his cupped hands up just below my head. The Overseer took off my bridle, and I was allowed to bend forward and nuzzle the food up out of the slave’s hands. I was of course used to eating out of my own hands as the ponies in the stables did not have any plates or cutlery, but eating from someone else’s is somehow very degrading. Then the water feeder was offered, and I stood there greedily sucking the water from its nipple.
I thought that then, at least, I would be taken indoors, but to my amazement the Overseer put my bridle back in and I was made to run to his bungalow, where he again tethered me outside the door on a tight rein. “Another cold one tonight, I think”, he said.
After a couple of hours, I was desperate. I could not move to keep warm without moving my legs, and I had been on my feet for over 24 hours without break. And I had run at least 20 kilometres that day – my legs simply were like sacks of lead, and I could hardly find the energy to move them. I did not see how I was going to survive the night. And, if I did, how could I run the following day?
But it must have been just before midnight, and the Overseer opened his door and came out. He ran his hands over my body, painfully pushing his strong thumbs in between my ribs as his hands moved down my stomach. He cupped my balls in his hands, and then moved on to rub his hands up and down each thigh in turn. He squeezed my ass cheeks in turn, hard, again trying to dig his thumb into the solid muscle I had there.
“Mmm”, he said to himself, “Cold. Too cold, probably.” He cupped my balls again, and cracked the two of them as he clenched his fingers together. I writhed in agony. “Yes, definitely cold”. He reached up and undid the reins holding me close to his door post, and let out a couple of metres, then he turned, casually mounted the steps to his door, and went inside.
At least now I could sink to the ground, and I lay there, shivering uncontrollably, as I curled my body into a tight foetal position to try to get warm.
We were off again at dawn, and there was some little strength left in my legs as they had had some rest during the night. It was straight to the fields again, where I was again allowed to “breakfast” off another gang of field slaves.
This was to be the new pattern of my life – I never saw the inside of the stables, and spent all 24 hours in the open. Only one meal a day of slave meal, and one of cum. Most days my ass was also given to whatever group of slaves the Overseer saw when he had a few spare minutes – sometimes it was the eight cart slaves, and sometimes a random group of slaves in the quarries. I got to particularly hate the Sheikh’s four polished matched carriage blacks, as their cocks were so long that it felt as if my diaphragm was being hit as they thrust into me. I was cleaned only about once a week, and only then in the open, from a hose pipe. The bad treatment and irregular food upset my stomach dreadfully, and I frequently had bouts of diarrhoea – but it made no difference – the Overseer kept me running, even when my own shit trickled down my legs.
The Overseer never used English in my presence, and used only a minimum set of orders in Arabic – after the first explanation of what I was expected to do with a field gang, he simply pointed at them when we stopped in a field and used the single Arabic word for “Suck”.
My wretched existence continued for some weeks. until one evening, in the stable yard, the Overseer ordered me to be cleaned because I stank, and had them bring out hand clippers and trim my pubic hair, and a razor to shave me. He unshackled me from the rickshaw, and led me by my cock into the forge.
The massive naked blacksmith was there, and the Overseer rapped out a series of commands. The blacksmith led me over to his anvil, and gestured for me to lie on it, face down. I started to tremble, because the last time I had lain there it was for the blacksmith to brand me, and my memory was still able to dredge up the terrible pain as the white-hot branding iron seared into my flesh. I could also not forget the smell of my own flesh cooking under the hot iron.
But there was nothing I could do, and I lay on the cold iron, with the pointed end of the anvil sticking out from between my legs. I waited for the blacksmith to bring the webbing straps out to secure me before he could begin branding again, but instead there was just the sudden feeling of his cock at my anus. The Overseer had obviously decided that this was another slave who could be given the use of my ass. The blacksmith was massive, and had no pretence of gentleness. No effort as made to lubricate me, and it was extremely painful to have the friction of his massive cock on my still delicate anal passage. At least during my other rape sessions there was usually a preliminary wank of me, so that my hole could be slicked.
However the blacksmith was soon finished, and I was allowed to stand up. I could see the blacksmith was pleased with his performance, and I guessed that, like most slaves on the estate, he was never allowed sex except for being masturbated, and so it was a special occasion for him.
The Overseer said something else, and the blacksmith got out callipers and measured my legs just above the ankles, and my arms just above the wrist. I was made to crouch down whilst these measurements were being taken, so that the muscles in my shins were flexed. Finally, he used the callipers to measure my neck, and my head was forced back, making the strong muscles there stand out, whilst this was being done.
The Overseer ordered me to “Display”, and I stood there, whilst he went off and the blacksmith started work at his forge.
When the Overseer came back, the blacksmith had finished whatever it was he was working on. The Overseer ordered me to stand on the anvil, and to crouch down, and then I saw what the blacksmith had been making – a rigid bar of stainless steel, with two stainless ankle cuffs at each end, and two other cuffs in the middle. The ankle cuffs were attached to my legs as I crouched there at a convenient height, and I still could not understand what the other pair of cuffs was for on the bar.
But the overseer then told me, using English as he now rarely did, to take my hands from behind my head and put them down between my legs. I now understood, and the cuffs were snapped tight around my wrists.
I was immobile, with my feet about 80 cm apart, and the tips of my fingers just touching the floor in-between my feet. My back was almost horizontal, and with my head at rest, I was looking at the floor.
The second of the blacksmith’s pieces of work was then produced – a stainless steel collar, which seemed a loose fit when it first went around my neck. But then a second piece of steel fitted into a little ratchet mechanism on the front of it, and racked upwards until it met my jaw. The blacksmith put his huge forearm around my forehead, and wrenched my head backwards as far it would go, and the steel piece racked up to hold it there, My head was then at about 45 degrees to my body, and I was looking upwards. I could understand now why the collar had been loose at first, because now, with my neck muscles straining, it was a close fit and my Adam’s apple caught on it as I tried to swallow.
The Overseer seemed pleased to see me like this, and walked around inspecting me from all angles. He looked at my cock and balls hanging down from between my thighs and almost scraping the top of the anvil, and nodded to himself, pleased with what had been achieved.
The Blacksmith then reached under my arms to grasp me around the waist, clutching my ass close to his chest as his massive arms locked around me, and he carried me out of the forge, following the Overseer who was striding across the yard.
I was carried into the veterinarian’s office, and stood to rest on his examination table. The Overseer and veterinarian were chatting away about their latest racquet ball game whilst the veterinarian was fiddling around with something on a side table, totally ignoring my rigid, naked body behind them, looking now like some bizarre piece of pornographic sculpture designed to appeal to the most depraved tastes. Then the veterinarian came over to me and said “open wide”. I hesitated for a moment, and he bought a hand up underneath by sac, slapping my exposed balls sharply. I would have been screaming had my tongue not been held, but of course my mouth opened automatically. The veterinarian pushed something between my upper and lower teeth on the left hand side of my mouth, and when I tried to then clamp it shut, I found I could only half do so.
The same thing was repeated to get something between the teeth on my right hand side, and then the veterinarian went over to his work table and came back with a screwdriver. He poked it into my half-open mouth, guiding himself with a small dental mirror. As he turned the screwdriver, my jaws were forced apart. I realised that he had put some sort of screw jacks between my teeth, and he continued to turn until my jaws were stretched painfully apart.
The Overseer came over to inspect the work, and felt around inside my mouth with his finger. I found this strangely erotic – in spite of all the hundreds of cocks that had now been in there, there was something tender about the way in which the Overseer felt between my teeth and the flesh of my cheeks and lips, to ensure that nothing was caught, or was pinching, on the clamps.
“Are you sure?”, the vet asked.
“Yes, absolutely” said the Overseer. “We are going to have to control his pissing, and a catheter is the best way of doing it.”
The veterinarian went away, and came back from a store room a couple of minutes later with a shiny stainless steel catheter, about the diameter of a pencil and about 25 cm long. He looked at me, crouching there, and said “I can’t get to work properly on his cock whilst he’s like that. Getting these catheters in is a tricky business, especially when it’s the first time, and when we need to use a good thick one like this.”
The Overseer called out to the blacksmith, who came over and neatly flipped me over on to my back. My cock, balls and ass were now fully exposed, and the veterinarian came over to me. He stood there, rubbing oil on the end of the catheter, and said “I won’t pretend this is not going to hurt. I’ve got to push this all along your cock, and up into your bladder. Your piss hole and urethra are not used to having things pushed up them, and although they’re flexible and can indeed take the diameter of this rod, they don’t like it! Whatever you do, lie still – don’t squirm about. It’s a tricky thing to do, and if your body moves, I may poke the catheter through your urethra, which would do you no good at all”.
I can’t describe the agony as he fed the catheter, centimetre by centimetre, up my cock. He finished when there was still about a centimetre protruding, and then went away and came back with a small circular device with a valve wheel on it. He bent down, and fiddled for a few minutes, and I could feel him manipulating my foreskin. Finally, he stood up and said to the Overseer “There, he’s done. Neat, aren’t they, these new Japanese catheter valves? See, it’s a combined fitting. You fix the valve assembly to the end of the catheter, then the circular loop goes around the cock head – you can’t quite see it, because I pushed back this one’s foreskin to fit it, and now it’s rolled back, it’s covered. But the ring prevents the catheter being forced out by the pressure of piss, and it holds the catheter in place in the cock without any ugly straps or ties around the waist or anything.”
“Do you want me to plug his butt whilst he’s in this convenient position?”
“No”, said the Overseer. “But give him a good enema to empty his bowel. He’s not going to be eating anything, so providing he starts empty, he won’t need to crap for a number of days”.
I lay there wondering what in earth was in store for me as the customary four changes of water were pumped up my ass.
Finally, the degrading procedure was finished, and the Overseer got the blacksmith to pick me up and carry me out. We headed across the courtyard, out through the arch, and on into the Club.
We went along several corridors, and I could smell that familiar “man” smell of good sweat got from healthy exercise, overlaid with the chlorine smell of a swimming pool. I could hear the “thwack” of racquet balls, and the squeal of rubber soles on the court. It was just like being back in the sports complex at college, except that I was shackled into a totally helpless position, and was being carried along tucked under the arm of a giant blacksmith.
Finally, we went through a door and entered what was a typical locker room – there were rows of metal lockers, slatted wooden benches running down the middle, and an arch at the far end opening into a large tiled shower area. I knew this must be a place frequented by masters, because there were clothes hanging from pegs, sports bags lying around with kit hanging out of them, and a couple of guys sitting around talking, with towels around their waists. No slave on the Sheikh’s property would ever use a towel, let alone wrap it around his waist!
The Overseer greeted the two guys, then told the blacksmith to set me down by the entrance to the showers. I was facing out into the locker room, with my mouth open and my head forced cruelly backwards from my nearly horizontal upper body. My stomach and thighs were starting to complain from being held cramped in such a position for a long time – I was of course quite used to crouching and squatting for long periods, but having my body pulled right down, and then having my head held back, was very tough indeed.
The overseer went to a locker, opened it, and got out what I knew must be his micro bikini. He shucked off his trainers, and dropped his cut-offs. He scratched his balls nonchalantly, and then stepped into the bikini and did that peculiar struggling motion that everyone does as they pull tight Speedos on – you pull them a little way up one leg, then a little way up the other, then as you get to your crotch, you need to wriggle your hips to get them higher. Most guys turn their asses towards their fellows whilst they’re doing this, but the Overseer kept his front towards me, watching me, and I could see his cock swing from side to side.
When they were finally on, he reached down into the front pouch and adjusted the position of his cock. I saw now what he had been talking about the previous day, because his cock and balls were clearly visible through the thin elastic fabric. “No time for the plastic bag today”, he said. “I’ll just have to put up with the fabric slipping up my ass”.
He went to go out, towards the swimming pool, but as he got to the door, turned back and came over to me. “I almost forgot”, he said. “I really must piss before I go into the pool. It’s not fair on the other guys if I do it in there”.
“It’s so inconvenient, though, as the urinals are in the next room. Or, rather, should I say, were in the next room. I’m going on a trip to the city, to look over some fresh slaves, and for the next four days whilst I’m away I’m giving the fellows a little time saver – you’re their urinal.”
So saying he pushed down the front of his bikini, pointed his prick at my open mouth, and let a stream of piss shoot out into me. I couldn’t of course do anything to stop this. I was completely physically immobile, and my jaws were locked open. But I decided not to swallow, and let the piss start to fill my mouth. The Overseer saw this, and, with the usual difficulty, stopped his stream in mid flow.
“Naughty”, he said. “You know how it pains a guy to have to do that. And you know what I want you to do, so why are you defying me? Swallow!”.
I did nothing, and he went back to his locker and returned with a swimmer’s nose clip, which he fitted over the end of my nose. With my nose blocked, I had no option but to swallow the mouth full of piss if I wanted to breathe, and, seeing this, the Overseer let fly again until he was finished. He stood there in front of me, shaking the last few drops of piss out of his cock so that they fell into my hair.
“Now”, he said, “See how you can be of service to the masters even whilst I’m away. They won’t have to walk to the urinal before pissing, and won’t have to stand there in the showers doing it, either – when it mixes with hot water, it can stink a bit and some guys don’t like it. You’re at just the right height, and your mouth is at just the right angle with your head held back like that.”
“I’ll be gone four days, and you will be here all that time. I can guarantee you’ll be very uncomfortable. I’ve seen you trying to ease your thighs and back a bit even in the last two hours, but by the end of four days you will have gone beyond normal pain and will simply not be able to think of anything else other than trying to release your muscles- but, of course, you can’t”.
“It would be completely unacceptable for you to make a mess in the locker room, so following your enema, you won’t be fed – not that you could eat anything, anyway. But if you do get the urge to crap, don’t – the last time we did this, some of the masters were so enraged by the slave’s action that they stuffed his turd back down his throat. It’s really not good to eat crap, and he got a serious infection, and died. Incidentally, don’t worry about the piss – although it may taste foul, it’s almost completely sterile”.
“The catheter will prevent you from pissing on the floor. Twice a day a slave will come in, place a tray under your cock, and release your piss with the little control valve. You ought to be able to survive for twelve hours between being emptied, as this locker room is not used all that much. But I think you’d better hope that a lot of masters don’t decide to have a few beers brought in to the sauna here after a game, as then they’ll piss gallons, and you’ll be in serious trouble before your next emptying. But we’ve never lost a slave yet with a burst bladder, but I think some wish theirs had, to put them out of their misery!”.
So saying, he tucked his cock back into his bikini, and went out for his swim.
When he came back, the Overseer stripped and went into the showers behind me, then came back out, towelling himself off quite unselfconsciously. As I stood there, I realised that he was himself a handsome man – previously it had not occurred to me that his hairy body could be as exciting as those of the ‘comfort’ slaves and the ponies I was used to seeing, who were mostly shaved smooth.
I had only ever seen him in cut-offs up until now, but in preparation for his trip he pulled on a polo shirt, then stood there with the tail of it just touching his cock and covering his ass whilst he had a brief conversation with one of the guards who had just come in to change. He was not in any way embarrassed by his nudity, or the slightly erotic sight of his cock and sac poking out from under his shirt.
Next he took a pair of small bikini-style briefs, wriggled them up over his legs, and settled his cock and balls comfortably in them by pushing his hand down inside. Finally, a smart pair of linen trousers, socks, and loafers completed the ensemble. I was astounded by the change that these clothes had made to him – he had looked like a rough type, with his deeply tanned skin, and wiry hair covering most of his body. But the clothes transformed him into a handsome man-about-town, and that very same dark tan, and the “five o’clock shadow” on his cheeks and firm jaw now made him look like those stunning types you sometimes catch a glimpse of in the street, usually in the company of a young starlet or pop singer.
He cast me a glance, and without saying anything, left.
I was already in severe pain in my legs from having been clamped immobile for several hours, but it got worse and worse. I tried everything I could to give my thighs, calves, butt and stomach muscles some relief, but the manacles joining my wrists and ankles were such a snug fit following the blacksmith’s careful measurement that absolutely no movement was possible. And my neck and shoulders, too, were screaming for relief as my head was forced back at such an unnatural angle.
I tried everything I could to lessen the agony. I tried concentrating on getting through the next hour, then rapidly shortened that to trying to get through the next five minutes. But I could see a clock at the far end of the locker room, and then saw to my horror that only two minutes had passed.
It’s normally only my emotions that get the better of me and cause tears to break out, but now I felt tears flowing caused by the sheer physical agony I was in. There were only a few masters using the facilities that night, and I was not used as a urinal again. At about midnight, a house slave came in and turned out the lights, and I was left there to my thoughts and my pain.
As dawn broke, a house slave came in and turned on the lights and started to tidy the locker room, presumably in preparation for the masters who were going to work out before going to their shift. When he had finished sweeping the floor and clearing away items of kit left there the previous night, he came over to me and slipped a plastic container, about the size of a USA ice cream carton, under my cock. He reached down and unscrewed the valve at the end of the catheter, and I could hear – and smell, as the scent of my own urine came up to me – my bladder emptying. He reached down and turned off the valve, removed the carton, and took a piece of paper towel to dry the end of the catheter and polish up a few drops of urine that had fallen out.
After a night of agony, I now knew that I could endure – the pain had reached a crescendo, and then in that way that it does, my body and brain had done the only thing they could do to keep me sane – they had dampened down my perception of that pain.
I remained locked there, and gradually the locker room started to be used by a number of guards and other masters before their morning shift. They chatted to each other in the way that guys in locker rooms do about their work that day, the state of the workout equipment, and even the attributes of one or two slaves who were obviously well-known lays. But it was as if the sight of a nude man, locked in the most outrageously servile position, immobile in the corner, was completely normal to them – they never mentioned me or made any reference to me at all, except that one or two of them sometimes commented that the Overseer was good to provide additional facilities for them.
As the guards and other masters came back from the gym or pool, they needed to shower before the start of their shift. It was just like a normal locker room at any big-city gym back home – some guys in their workout clothes, some naked going to and from the showers, some towelling-off, and some partially dressed, almost ready for work. The only difference was that, unlike in the USA, before they went into the shower, they stopped and pissed into my open mouth.
I could taste the differences between men, and after a time began to dread the guy s who would have dark, heavily-coloured urine. It was relatively easy to swallow the piss of the men who had been chugging beers the night before, as there was a lot of it, but there was a very ‘light’ taste. But the urine of one or two guys smelt and tasted positively vile. I remembered hearing that there are some guys who are particularly sensitive to a chemical that appears naturally in asparagus – one tiny piece of asparagus, even on a cocktail canapé, is enough to cause those guys piss to stink of rotting vegetation. I was one of those guys, and always knew when I had eaten asparagus, even when it was disguised in a dish on the menu – in a fancy restaurant, if I went to piss in the middle of the meal, I could always tell if asparagus had been an ingredient in the food I had just eaten as there would be a characteristic stench rising from the urinal as I pissed. From my new perspective, I thought that some of the guys had been eating asparagus the night before!
After the morning rush, I was basically alone for most of the morning, and could just crouch there with only the occasional spasm of pain from my body. But just before lunch time, a new horror started to arise – all the piss I had drunk earlier in the day was working it s way through me, and now needed its natural relief. As the initial mild sensation that normally tells you ‘”start to look out for a men’s room” started, I wasn’t worried. But when it got to “you need to find a men’s room now”, I started to become concerned. And, of course, by the time I got to “you must fin a men’s room NOW”, I was terrified. No piss could leak past the catheter, and I had no idea how long it would be before I would next be drained. In spite of all my other pains, I started to sweat with tension.
But then the lunchtime rush began, and my position was made worse. New users flooded the locker room, and almost all of them chose to use me before entering the showers. My brain was receiving constant, urgent, desperate messages from my bladder, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Had I been able to, I would have been sobbing in agony.
I discovered during the afternoon that my brain’s ability to “turn off” the acute muscle pain in my body did not extend to the more primitive, basic signals from my bladder. I thought I would die, so bad was the pain.
Just before the evening rush, the house slave came in and started to tidy and clean the locker room again. I crouched there in my corner, willing him to come over and give me some relief, but he continued on his normal round of sweeping and tidying. I began to wonder if he would come and collect my piss, and was in sheer abject terror that he might just leave me there. I was obsessed. Nothing else mattered. I simply had to get relief to my bladder somehow.
But I was in luck – after finishing his normal tasks, the plastic container was placed under my cock and the piss was allowed to flow out of me. I filled the container, and, to my horror, the slave closed the valve to prevent any more piss flowing. Would he come back and let me do more? Although the pain had subsided little, my bladder was still screaming for relief. But I guess he sensed my problems, because he replaced it with another container, and I was allowed to drain away until no more flowed.
But losing the bladder pain only restarted to he pain from my body. Was there to be no letup to this torture?
I have never known such acute misery and agony as I experienced in those four days. But late in the evening on the fourth day the Overseer came into the locker room, having returned from his trip. He glanced at me, then proceed to strip out of his “city” clothes. Totally naked, he went out to swim – I guess he simply couldn’t be bothered with the bikini, now that he was back from the city, amongst his co-workers and friends.
After the Pool, he pissed into my mouth, and went into the showers. When he came out, he did not get dressed, but stretched out full length on his stomach on the locker room benches, facing towards me. He cradled his chin on the backs of his hands crossed in front of him, and just lay there, looking. A ‘comfort’ slave, a smoothly-shaved ‘jock’ type, came in, and without a word proceeded to give the Overseer a long, slow, deep massage. The Overseer’s shoulders, back, thighs and then his butt were kneaded and rubbed by the slave, as the Overseer lay there without taking his gaze from me. Without shutting my eyes, there was no way I could avoid the Overseer’s stares, and I just had to stay there, wondering what he was thinking.
Then the Overseer turned over, and the ‘comfort’ slave proceeded to give the Overseer’s front the same type e of deep massage his back had had. And, of course, inevitably, the Overseer told the slave to suck him off at the end of the session.
The Overseer then got up, and, still looking at me, went to his locker, took out the familiar cut-offs, pulled them on, and left.
Another night of agony, but morning did break eventually.
The Overseer was the first ‘”customer” that morning, and slowly and deliberately pissed into me. I knew from the taste that he must have got straight out of bed and come to the gym before pissing, because the stream was long and rich. The Overseer shook his cock dry into my hair again, then opened the door and called out something.
The blacksmith came in, and simply picked me up in his arms and carried me out. We left the central complex, and went across the yard into the veterinarians.
The Overseer was already there, chatting to the veterinarian just as an owner would who was about to bring a favoured pet in. I was plonked down on to the examining table, and the veterinarian fiddled with my cock, and started to withdraw the catheter. I hadn’t been emptied that morning, and as it cleared the end of my cock, I wan unable to control my own reactions – a long, heavy stream of piss flooded out of my cock, and I was completely unable to stop it. The veterinarian was horrified and said to the Overseer “Can’t you exercise even the most basic control over the slaves? Look at this mess – it will take the slaves hours to get the place properly clean.”
The Overseer took out a small key, and unlocked the collar holding my neck up. As I went to bend it to get relief, a new agonising pain shot through me. Muscles spasm when first constricted, but the spasms you an get on release can be even worse.
Then the Overseer unshackled me, but even when my arms were free, I was totally unable to straighten myself. “Good god”, cried the veterinarian “What have you done? if this valuable pony is permanently damaged, the Sheikh will be really angry with you!”
The Overseer commanded again, and the blacksmith, who had been standing there watching, picked me up again, still rigid, and carried me into the next room where he lowered me gently into a bath of warm water which was maintained there for hydrotherapy of ponies with mild strains.
After a few minutes floating in the water, I was able to gradually stretch my limbs again, and was in exquisite agony as the muscles tried to regain their normal sense of being.
About half an hour later, I was able to stand, just, and climb out of the warm bath. The veterinarian listened to my heart with his stethoscope, and told the Overseer that I sounded fine, and that he should just be careful for the next few days to avoid the possibility of me getting muscle damage – ham string injuries and the like, that athletes get who return to fierce exercise without adequate acclimatisation.
The Overseer commanded me to “display”, grabbed my cock, and angrily strode from the veterinarian’s office, with me stumbling behind. I had heard the veterinarian’s warning, and was amazed to be immediately manacled into my rickshaw. And with his usual flick of the reins on my butt, the Overseer commanded me to run.
I could only just stumble, and running was simply beyond the capabilities of my abused muscles. The next 20 minutes was a whole new experience as far as pain was concerned, as cramped muscles demanded blood, and then, when they got it, shrieked at my brain to stop the exercise. But my master drove me on.
We were making some progress along one of the estate roads when the farm cart passed us in the other direction. My master jerked me to a halt, and called to the cart, that then backed up to stop parallel with us.
With horror, I saw the cart-horse slaves uncoupling themselves, and the back of the cart being opened.
I had assumed that my time as a urinal in the central complex would mark the end of my punishment of daily rapes, as the Overseer had “forgiven” me when I was released from the locker room. But it was not to be – Hans, Mike and the other six muscled slaves again held me down and fucked me in turn
I was of course wrong – the Overseer was not “punishing” me at all, and the fact that I thought that showed that I was still not a proper slave. He was trying to teach me that my body was there to serve in whatever way he chose, and that I should have no thoughts of any kind on the matter.
But I had been living in hope, and the release from the locker room was I thought a new beginning. But now I saw this was not to be.
Was I to be subject to an endless round of cold, semi-starvation, and brutal sexual torture?
I think that this was the beginning of my total breakdown, of what is I believe technically termed “fugue”. Later that day the Overseer said something to me , and I did not understand him. I saw a slow smile start to spread across his face, and he said something else, that I still did not understand. Then he came to the shafts and unmanacled me, and I distinctly heard him say “wank”. Absolutely without thinking, my hand reached down and started to rub my cock into climax.
A feeling of unreality spread over me throughout the rest of the day. At times, things my master said made no sense at all – it was if he was speaking in an alien language. And at other times, I heard clear, definitive orders, that I of course obeyed. Later I learned that the “alien language” was English, and my brain was retreating
from a reality that it found too unpleasant by simply no longer acknowledging that I understood it at all. And the commands were of course that small, basic set of Arabic ones that had been drilled into me since I became a slave.
It seemed as if I was no longer there. There was a body, that had been me, and it went through the motions of running and so on, as if on autopilot. “I” was a small disinterested observer, sitting somewhere in the corner of my brain, watching the antics of my body but uninvolved in what it was doing.
As an experienced slave controller, I later knew that the Overseer had seen this change in me, and knew that I was now properly a pony. I had lost all traces of my former persona as free American. I no longer wanted to hold back in any way from obeying the Overseer’s orders, and I could be completely trusted to obey absolutely every command given. I was at last a proper pony slave.