A story written by Pete Brown (Part 6 of 16). (Here you can find all the parts of this story. | Illustration by Theo Blaze)


Every day was the same, and every night I fell into an exhausted sleep. I completely lost track of time as there was no way of even recording the passing of the days. Not for me was the old tried and trusted method of scratching a mark on the prison cell wall – I was in a different stall in the stables every night, and my wrists were anyway clamped. The only way I knew one day was different from the next was that every third day – and sometimes I thought it might be every fourth day – in addition to the normal showering and milking session in the evening, I was also shaved; the stubble was scraped from my chin, and then my chest and balls were given a quick “once over” too, to keep them smooth. Occasionally clippers were also taken to my head, so that my hair was kept at a short fuzz, and these were also the times when my arm pits and pubic hair were clipped back to their now familiar short, wiry patch.

The exercise regime never let up – every day the machines were set a notch higher, or the session was longer. And I was soon a rich, dark tan all over from standing tethered under the sun in the yard. I could see that my body, which had always been quite lithe and muscular from my workouts and games playing, had changed too – everywhere was now rock hard, the skin was taught all over my body and there wasn’t any trace of a layer of excess fat anywhere, and my leg and ass muscles in particular had grown to be even sleeker and firmer than before.

I had got used to being able to crap only once per day, and I guess the regime of feeding me at the same time each day with the same food had something to do with that. And I found that I was becoming uninhibited about pissing when I needed to – left for hours tied in the middle of the stable yard, all I could do if I needed to relieve myself was just to let go. And at night, lying on the peat in my stall with my hands immobile, my only option was to just pee and ignore the damp and smell for the rest of the night.

After being “milked” the first few times, I had also got used to having another guy jerk me off. I had never had another guy touch my cock before, and I had never had any interest in even looking at the cocks and balls of other guys in the locker room. The first time I was “milked” it was terrible as I was so powerless to prevent it – but it was completely asexual, really: the stable-boy slaves in the shower had no interest in using me for sex. To them I was just another animal that they were processing through the showers that night, and the sooner they were done with me, the sooner they could do the next one, and the sooner their work would be finished. At first I hadn’t been used to coming when I was standing up in the shower – on those occasions when I had decided to masturbate myself in the shower at home, I had usually sat down in the corner of it.

And of course I usually jerked off lying in bed, watching a movie on TV, or with a magazine. So it was strange at first to have a man’s insistent hands bringing me to climax whilst I stood upright, but it soon became routine, and the only difference, I realised, was that the backs of my thighs went especially taught as the semen spurted out of me.

Probably the hardest thing to bear was the complete lack of the sense that I was anyway a person. I was never spoken to, except to receive orders from a short set of Arabic commands that I soon learned.

There was no music or laughter. There was nothing to read. And, of course, I could not speak – even had I understood enough Arabic to be able to do so, my tongue restraint meant that I was restricted to inarticulate noises from deep in my throat.

It was obvious that, to the stables staff, I was just an animal – one of many in their charge. I was probably an expensive animal, because they took good care of me – during the nightly shower and milking session, I was inspected carefully all over for any sign of wounds to my flesh, or any indication that I might be getting sick. And I was well fed, and had enough to drink, even though the food I was given never varied from day to day – always the same slave meal, metered out into my hands from the dispensing machine once my number had been keyed in.

I think I really almost lost my mind – for almost 24 hours a day all I had were my own thoughts, and the constant pain from my aching muscles. My life back in the USA became like a dream, it was so far removed from my present reality. Was the rest of my life going to be like this, with no variation in routine from day to day?


I really don’t know how long this first phase of my life in the Sheikh’s stables lasted. It was probably a couple of months.

One morning I wasn’t fed – this was the first change from the routine I was experiencing, and I broke out into a sweat. Such a small thing, and yet I had been so conditioned to having every day the same, that any change made me acutely nervous.

I was instead led out from the stables by one of the guards with a stun-gun, across the yard, and into the “veterinarian’s office” (which, had it not been for slaves ,would have course been an extremely well equipped doctor’s practice). The same veterinarian as before was waiting for me in his green scrubs, but unlike the first time he had dealt with me, he did not speak (I later learned that this was part of my conditioning – English was no longer used in my presence). He went through the normal series of tests you would do at a regular check up – blood and urine samples, listening to my chest through a stethoscope, taking my blood pressure, and so on. And then the examination went further – ECG, and chest X-ray. And finally he expertly “milked” me to get a semen sample into a small glass tube.

He said something in Arabic to the guard, and I was taken down a narrow corridor and locked into a cage-like cell just off the office. I saw that there were two or three other cages, and each was occupied. The one next to me had a slave in it with his leg in plaster, and the next one had a slave with his head bandaged. I realised I was in the “animal hospital” attached to the veterinarian’s practice. Of course we could not speak to each other as we were all fitted with tongue restraints, so the only thing to do was just to sit on the floor in the corner of the cage, waiting to see what would happen next.

Time went by, and the normal life of the veterinarian’s practice went on around me. The slave with the leg plaster was taken out at some point, and returned later with new plasters. And a couple of other slaves were brought and locked into other cages along the corridor. I wondered how long I was going to be kept there, but there was way of knowing, and no way of asking.

After what must have been a couple of hours, the guard came along, unlocked my cell, and took me back into the veterinarian’s office. He was reading through pages of computer-generated test results, then he looked me up and down, and said – and this was amazing, because it was in English – “You’re ready now to take up your proper life in the stables. After all the hard exercise, all your body parameters are fine and you’re in better health now than you have ever been before”. With that, he gestured and I was led out of the office by the guard.


Instead of returning to the exercise room or a stall in the stables, I was taken around the front of the building. Standing there was a rickshaw – a hi-tech one! Unlike the iron and wickerwork ones you see in South-east Asia, this was a sleek machine made of aluminium and stainless steel. It had large wheels, and a small, leather-covered seat mounted in-between them.

The guard led me over to the rickshaw, gestured for me to stand between the shafts, and then cuffed my wrists to two wrist restraints that were part of the shaft. I was then left standing there, wondering what was to happen next.

After some minutes, the Overseer who I has seen in my first week at the farm came out, still clad only in a brief pair of shorts, and carrying what seemed to be a number of leather straps. He walked across the hot sand towards me, and stood and looked at me standing there naked, cuffed to the rickshaw. It was obviously a pleasing sight, because he nodded and smiled to himself, and came right up next to me. He ran his hands over my chest, obviously feeling for any stubble, and then over my hips and down my long thighs – he was inspecting me in the same way that a new owner would inspect any thoroughbred horse on its first outing.

He barked the Arabic word I now knew meant “open your mouth” from the feeding sessions, and I complied. Immediately he thrust a stainless steel rod, about the diameter of a pencil and 25 cm long, between my jaws, and snapped a couple of elastic fastenings onto it where it protruded on each side of my mouth. One fastening went around the back of my head, and the other down under my lower jaw. He fiddled with the rod for a moment, and I realised it was then seated down into the space at the back of my teeth, where the two molars had been extracted on my first visit to the veterinarian. The elastic straps then held it there, immobile, and with my tongue restraint already holding my tongue down, there was nothing I could do to get it out. It was so far back in my mouth, and the elastic straps were so strong, that the corners of my mouth were stretched to accommodate it, and it was very painful. I couldn’t close my mouth at all, and I stood there with my mouth half open, waiting to see what would happen next.

The Overseer attached two leather reins to the ends of rod, led them around behind me, and leapt up onto the seat of the rickshaw. He snapped a new word at me, which I took to mean “go”, and I started to walk forward. I felt a tug on the left of my mouth, and, when I continued walking, there was a sharp jerk on that side that was so strong it caused my head to wrench to the left – it was clear that the reins attached to the bar in my mouth were to be used to steer me, and so I went left. Then a tug at the right, and I moved to the right, and so on. We spent about an hour, with me walking around in a seemingly crazy ransom series of right and left turns, as I learned to respond to pressure on the reins to control the direction I was going in.

In spite of my fitness, an hour walking in the hot sun pulling the overseer in the little cart was very hard work, and I had broken out in a sweat quite early on. It was trickling down my smooth chest, then collecting and running down from my belly to the top of my cock. And because I could not close my mouth, and the corners of it were pulled backwards and downwards by the elastic straps around the rod, my saliva was trickling out to make two stalactite-like streams of drool down from my jaw.

The Over seer got out, stepped back to look at me again, and called a slave over. He had a water bottle with a teat on the end of it, and offered it into my mouth so that I could suck greedily on it to replace all the moisture I had lost. I quickly emptied the litre bottle, making loud slurping noises in my desperation to suck the water through the teat, whilst my mouth was obstructed by the tongue restraint and the rod – or bridle, as I realised it was.

The Overseer leapt up to his seat again, and pulled on both reigns so that they slapped gently against my naked backside – having seen horses pulling carts when I had a holiday on a horse farm once, I realised that this was the gesture jockeys used when they meant “start off, straight ahead”, so I walked off. I had walked for a minute or so, when the Overseer called a new word in Arabic, and, when I did nothing – because I did not know what to do – there was a swishing noise, and a sharp, stinging pain from my ass cheeks. I realised I had been whipped, and the word must mean “trot” or something, so I broke into a light jog. A couple more minutes, and another new word – again followed by the swish and the stinging pain, and I leapt forward, into a run. I ran on and on, responding to the pull to the left or right of my bridle, to carry the rickshaw along a series of the farm roads. Then both ends of the bridle were pulled simultaneously, and I slowed down to a jog, and, finally, came to a complete halt after further pressure.

We were beside a field, and the Overseer got down from my cart to talk to the guard supervising the slaves working in it. There must have been about 30 of them, all naked of course. They were digging the field, and each had a conventional shovel. The 30 progressed in a line across the field, a shovel’s length at a time. Each slave had a length of chunky stainless steel chain permanently welded into a collar around his neck. I was told later that this was another of the Sheikh’s “merciful” innovations – a solid metal collar chafes and can cause sores on the neck and upper shoulders, whereas the greater flexibility of a collar made of chain helps to avoid this (so the slaves can work longer, and harder). There was a stainless wire passing through one of the loops on each collar to the next, so that the slaves could not move away from their line and, whilst they could to some extent vary the distance between them and their fellows, there was no way that any one of them could move too far out of the line. It seemed a simple solution, and one guard could easily supervise all 30 or so. I looked at them again, and realised they had some similarities to me, and some differences: each of them was branded with the Sheikh’s mark, as was I, but they all had a variety of hair. Some of them were cropped almost smooth, like me, but some had hair down almost to their shoulders. And their chests, stomachs, and pubes sprouted the whole variety of hair covering you see in any locker room, from almost none, to a thick, curly mat of dense black. They were a mixture of “whites” and “blacks”, and there didn’t seem to be any Asians or Indians. I learned later that the Sheikh thought that only blacks and whites could work at the pace he needed for long periods, and therefore tended not to buy other racial groups in the slave market.

After he had talked for some minutes, the Overseer mounted on to the seat again, slapped the reins on my naked backside, and we were off again. I ran on for a mile or so, and the road started to go uphill – this was a real strain! It’s one thing to race on a running-machine that’s slightly uphill, and quite another to run up a steep gradient when you have already run for a few miles, and you’re towing a cart behind you carrying a heavy guy. Even the weeks of training had not prepared me for this, and the breath was rasping in and out of my open mouth as my lungs strained with the agony of keeping running. I tried to slow down, but each time my speed dropped even slightly, the Overseer flicked his whip and my ass stung to spur me on.

At the top of the hill there was a stopping place, and I looked down into a pit that was obviously a quarry. Below, on the quarry floor, there were about 50 naked slaves toiling away. I could see that they were doing it all manually – there seemed to be none of the mechanical equipment you would normally expect in a quarry, such as jack hammers and drag lines. In a rare moment of using English, the Overseer, seeing me looking , said “See how the Sheikh cares for the environment. There are none of the diesel-belching machines so common in the USA here. Just good, honest sweaty labour! This is the way to run a quarry – 50 men get the chance to really work and exercise their muscles in the way nature intended. We have none of the nervous breakdowns, asthma, and heart disease usual in the USA from people running quarries from behind a desk or the cab of a machine. The workers are all out in the open air and sunshine, and it’s completely natural!” I think he was being sarcastic, as even from the top of the slope I could see that the “workers” were being encouraged to continue in their toil by the guards who each carried the usual stun-gun, and a whip.

Coming up the track towards us from the bottom of the quarry was a cart loaded with the stone that had been dug. It was a full-sized farm cart, about 4 metres long, and it was obviously a huge effort to drag it up the hill. The motive power was eight slaves, and as it got closer, I could see that it was the gang of “cart horses” who had occupied the stall opposite me in the stables one night. I now saw why they had chosen shorter, extremely muscular slaves for this duty, as their chests were heaving with the exertion and the muscles in their calves and thighs were taught with the effort needed to pull the heavy cart up the incline. Of course Hans and Mike were part of this crew, and I looked to see if I could identify them.

I pulled my rickshaw by grasping the shafts in my hands, and my wrists were locked to the shafts to prevent me from moving out from between the shafts. But I now saw why Hans and Mike had had a sort of “waistcoat” of heavy chain welded across their shoulders and across their chests on that first day. The ring in the back of the chains now carried a hook, attached to a short chain coming from the single thick shaft from the front of the cart. Each of the eight slaves, four to each side of the shaft, could move relatively independently at the end of his short chain so he could struggle to get the best footing on the loose shale of the path. And his arms were free to “pump” as he pulled, to get the best leverage as he struggled against the load.

I had to look really hard to see which of the eight slaves was Hans, and which Mike. Their skin was burned to a uniformly dark brown like all the slaves, and I remembered that they had been chosen because their body-type was so much like that of the others. The uniform very short hair, and the absence of body hair except for the brief strip across the top of their cocks, all contributed to making the crew look like clones, and it was hard to pick them out. I think Hans was second from the front on the left side of the shaft, and Mike at the back on the left, but I couldn’t be sure. A groom was urging all eight on to ever greater efforts as they neared the top of the hill, by walking up and down and flicking his whip casually onto an ass, and then onto a straining back.

When they got parallel to us, at the top, the Overseer started to talk to the groom, and the sweating, straining cart-horse slaves were allowed a brief rest. I searched the faces of the men with my eyes, looking for a flash or recognition from Mike and Hans, but there was none – I felt certain I recognised them, but all eight of the slaves just stood there, with sweat dripping off them, and with their heads flagging with complete exhaustion. A couple of them were taking the opportunity of the break to piss, and even though they had some freedom of movement and could have turned away, and their hands were free to guide the stream of piss, they didn’t bother. As I had had to earlier in the day, they just stood there, letting it run to the ground immediately in front of them and making no effort to shake the last drops from their cocks when they had finished. I realised that they truly were slaves, in their minds as well as in their bodies – pissing meant no more to them than the need to get rid of body water, and there was no shame or shred of human dignity involved any longer at all.

When the groom and Overseer had finished, the cart started off down hill, the way we had come, and the Overseer hauled on my reins to get me, too, to turn around and head back. His cries for me to go faster, and the sting of his whip on my ass and now on my naked back, too, encouraged me into a fast run, and I soon overtook the cart. I saw now some of the reasons why the slaves were attached by short chains – they had turned around, and were preventing the cart from running away down hill by bracing themselves into the hill and walking slowly backwards.

I ran on and on, thighs aching, lungs near to bursting, until the farm complex was at last in sight. Instead of going to the stables, the Overseer guided me to another building and dismounted from the cart. He pulled a short length of chain away from the wall by the door, and wrapped the free end of it twice around my neck before clipping the loose end to the chain with a spring clip. I realised I was “tethered” to the building, and although there was no lock on the chain, the spring clip completely prevented me from moving beyond the short reach of the chain, as without my hands free, there was absolutely no way that I could undo it. I simply had to stand there, and wait.

I estimate it was about two hours before the Overseer came out, and by this time the sun had gone down and it was pitch black. It goes cold in the desert at night, and I had started to shiver from having to stand there relatively motionless, completely naked. He untethered me, and with the usual “start off” command, I was allowed to walk for a few hundred yards back to the stables.

When I got there, stable-lad slaves came out and uncoupled my wrists from the shafts, and led me inside. Unlike all the other nights when there had been a lot of pony slaves being processed through the showers, I was alone except for the lads, and they were obviously peeved at having been kept waiting. They were not as gentle as usual is soaping and cleaning me all over, and when I was “milked” the slave’s hands were very rough and pulled my cock up and down without any care. But I did get fed, and was led off to a stall.

For the first time in a long time I was again in a stall opposite the large one used by the cart-horse slaves, and I could see all eight of them huddled together in the straw. Unlike the first time I had seen them, Mike and Hans were no longer sitting forlornly at the side of the stall watching the others at their sexual play. As earlier that afternoon, it was now impossible to tell Hans and Mike apart from the other long-time slaves, and they were completely integrated into the squirming mass of bodies getting their sexual relief before falling into the exhausted sleep that all the pony slaves experienced.


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