Kink Fiction

Chapter 2

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I was only there for about an hour, when there was some chit-chat over the radio that the guards had, and “my” guy came over to me again.  “You want a piss, boy, or…?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Let me give you some advice, son.  First, you’re a slave now, and all men – free men, that is – are called ‘sir’.  You’d better start to learn that now, as otherwise you’ll certainly be punished.  And the second piece of advice is never turn down an opportunity to take a piss – especially when it’s in a  relatively nice place, like the facilities here. Slaves get treated pretty badly, sometimes…”

“Thank you, sir.   Can I change my mind, and have that piss?”  I felt myself blushing slightly as I said this, as you don’t really talk to older guys about things like that, do you?  I mean, when there’s a group of us together we joke about it, but it’s not the sort of thing you talk about to men older than your father.  And I hadn’t anyway ever had to ask if I could take a piss since I was a little kid.

“See, its’ not so hard, is it, boy?  Sure you can, follow me….”

He unlocked the gate of my cell and led me into the men’s room.  I’d thought that I might try to escape, but at once saw this was impossible:  not only was the window high up, and barred, but he just stood there, waiting for me!  I fumbled at my Jeans for a bit and got my dick out and stood as close to the urinal as I could, but I could feel his presence hovering behind me.  Look, I’m not normally piss shy, and I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to dicks, but somehow having this old guy so close to me, watching me, and waiting for me to perform, completely turned me off – I just couldn’t do it.

“Hurry up, son”, he intoned.

“I’ve changed my mind…. Sir”, I managed to get out.

“Son, you’re a slave  And I said you can piss.  Now, piss!”  His tone had changed completely from the almost avuncular guidance he’d given me before, to one of annoyance.

I pressed myself forward one more time ,and really tried.  I clenched my butt, and did that kind of “squeeze” thing you can do, and was rewarded by a tiny trickle.  But, as so often happens, once it had started, I couldn’t stop and it got stronger and stronger, and soon I was pissing away as normal. It was a real relief.

As I wasn’t cut as a kid I had to stand there for a few moments squeezing my dick and massaging the last few drops of piss out of it – that’s about the only problem with still having your ‘skin, isn’t it? – you really do have to be careful that there’s no piss or anything trapped inside, or it soon gets to smell really foul.  To my horror I found the guard leaning over and watching me as I did this, and I pushed at him, and almost shouted “Hey…. Quit looking at me…”

No one had ever hit me before, so I was completely unprepared as his hand struck the side of my head, and I went staggering across the room, my dick flying free as I did so.  I hit the opposite wall, and the shock of it all made me lose my balance and I sank down to the floor.  My ears were ringing from the force of the blow, and the guard came over and stood in front of me, looking down at me as I sprawled there in front of him.  “That’s another lesson, boy… Don’t ever dare to strike at a free man.  You’re lucky I don’t send you off for a public whipping, or even to have you castrated – some owners think that a slave who dares to physically attack a free man has too much testosterone flowing in him, and there’s a simple way to fix that!”

“But sir, you were looking at my dick…”

“So?  You’re a slave now, remember.  And an owner, or someone like me, acting as your owner, has a right to look at his property.  A slave has no need to feel modest in front of his owner, as his owner is just that:  he owns him, remember?   I have a much right to look at your dick as I do have to look at the front of my car, or the screen of my TV.  And the sooner  you forget all this rubbish about ‘privacy’ and ‘modesty’ and understand that these are things that only free men can experience, the easier your life will be.  You probably don’t realise it, but it’s most likely that an owner will buy you because you have a nice body:  I mean, who wouldn’t want to look at a well-setup sixteen year old like you?  And the thought of having your young flesh available to him whenever he wants it….”

“That’s disgusting…”

“Boy, remember your manners!  And how can anything be ‘disgusting’ when a man is just using something he owns?  You’d better learn – and learn fast – that things have changed for you now.”

He stood there watching as I struggled to my feet and tucked my dick back into my jeans, and then led me out, his hand again resting almost proprietarily on my shoulder as he did so.  We went back through the holding area, and out through the door that dad had been forced through.  Outside there was a small bus, one of those that seats around twenty, and the guard led me to the entrance.  I had to stand there, then, as he and the driver went through an elaborate filling in of forms, as I was formally “handed over” from one to the other, with both of them almost totally ignoring me – I began to realise that they were treating me just as if I was a package, rather than a person;  a package that needed to be signed for as it went through the delivery process, and which had no say in how it was dealt with.

When finally I was ordered to mount the steps, inside I saw there was a big difference from the buses I normally rode – down the centre was a partition stretching from floor to ceiling, made of wire mesh. I had to squeeze down one side of it to find a seat, and it was there for a purpose:  my side of the screen was guys, and on the other side, there were girls. One other difference, too – with the sole exception of me, all the others (and the bus was almost full) were black.

I was sitting next to a guy about my own age, and I told him I was called Steve, and he told me he was Clyde.  “What’s a white boy doing on a nigga bus like this, then,  going off to slave camp?” he asked.

I told him about dad, and how fucking unfair it all was, and asked him what he was there for.  “Oh, I just deliberately broke a few store windows when the cops were watching, and that was enough”.  He grinned broadly as he said this, and added “Man, when those big fuckers shatter, they really do make a noise and a mess.”

“But why….  Especially if the cops were watching you?”

“You white boys don’t get it, do you?  It’s better to get enslaved now, and get properly trained at the Centre.  That’s what they all say.  My four older brothers and two older sisters all went off to it, and now it’s my turn.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, Steve, I’m a nigga, as you can see.  And I haven’t got good grades at school.  So other than a labouring job – and there aren’t many of those now, for free guys – there’s no work for me.  So I’ll have to go on welfare, or do crime.  If I get caught when I’m older, I’ll be enslaved anyway.  And after four years on welfare, they cut it off, and as a ‘destitute’ they enslave you anyway.  Don’t you know, Steve, that it’s much worse to be enslaved when you’re a grown man?  They can do much worse things to you. So all the guys at my school know we’ve got no hope, and as it’s going to happen to us sooner or later, we might as well make it easier on ourselves by doing it sooner.”

“…all your brothers are slaves now?”  It sounded too incredible to be true.

“Sure are.  And most of the guys  I was at school with… And as soon as she’s given birth, my girl friend will be, too…. They say she’s a whore as I knocked her up before marrying her – but  I couldn’t marry her, could I, as I’m too young!”

“You’ve fathered a kid…. How old…?”


“Why didn’t you use a condom?  That’s what we’re always told!”

“That’s OK for you white boys, but us niggas like to feel the flesh against our dicks!  Do you fuck?”

“Well, yes…”, I said hesitantly.  I didn’t think my one or two times of going the whole way really counted, after what Clyde was telling me.

“..and you never tried it raw?”


“Man, you don’t know what you missed!  Fucking in a condom is like trying to take a shower in a plastic raincoat!”

“I’ll remember that, Clyde, and next time I get the chance…”.  I tried to make a joke of it.

“Oh you’ll get the chance, all right!  You’re a white boy, and they’ll surely want you to stud some of the nigga slave girls – there aren’t that many whiteys, you know.  And if you’re studding them, there’s no way you’ll ever even see a condom again – they’ll want your juices shooting up hard and deep inside them.”

“What?  What the fuck’s studding?”

“Oh come on, where have you been, Steve?  Everyone knows that whiteys fetch a premium over niggas, and the paler the nigga, the higher the price!  So if an owner buys you and me, he’s going to breed from you, isn’t he, not from me?  That way the piccaninnies will fetch a higher price.  I reckon you’ll be spending some time every day between the legs of a whole lot of nigga girls, and women.  Everyone knows we’re at our most fertile now, and so it makes a whole lot of sense to stud from us at this age – or from you, at least. I reckon I’ll be just jerking off from now on, or fucking the ass of other niggas in my coffle.”

“Oh, come on…”

“Oh grow up, Steve!  When you’re chained into the coffle by your collar, and working away stark naked all day and every day in the fields, what else do you think there is to do at night?”

“You’re going to work in the fields….?”

“Hell, you are stupid, even for a whitey!  Who knows what I’m going to do.  It depends on what my owner buys me for.  But most niggas end up as field hands – how else do you think the rich whiteys get all those ‘hand grown’ fruit and vegetables? “

I shook my head.  It honestly hadn’t occurred to me before.  I suppose I’d seen it all at the markets – not that we could afford it – but it had become very fashionable to have ‘natural’ produce, and the prices were high, and the demand seemed to be there.  I’d never thought through whose hands all that ‘cherished by hand’ stuff passed through.  But Clyde was still going on “You see, Steve, they know we can work out all day in the sun, as nigga skin doesn’t burn so much and it’s tougher and more leathery for when it rains.”

“Oh, come on, you’re joking!  And surely they can give you stuff for when it’s raining…”

“Haven’t you ever driven through the South recently and looked into the fields?  It’s always coffled niggas, and they’re always worked naked.  For one thing, you can’t get a T-shirt on when you’re coffled by the neck.  But they also say it’s cheaper – even the tiniest scrap of cloth costs something, after all, and then it would get dirty, and have to be laundered, and that costs, too:  a nigga’s hide can just be hosed down every night.”

One of the girls on the other side of the mesh separating us called out “That’s right, Clyde.  You tell the whitey what it’s going to be like for him, too.”

Clyde grinned broadly. “Hell, Louella, I reckon you might get a chance to tell him yourself – whoever buys you will want to breed you straight away, and Steve here might be on stud duty!  He looks a nice enough guy – hey, Steve, why don’t you show her your dick?”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Are you ashamed of it?  Whiteys usually  compare pretty unfavourably to us niggas….”

“Look, I don’t go getting my dick out in public….”

“You mean you haven’t previously, Steve!  Even if you don’t get coffled and worked naked, most owners will be buying you as you’re a pretty good looking piece of man flesh.  And if your dick’s even only just OK, they’ll want to see you studding away – you won’t just be walking around naked, you’ll be fucking in front of them.”

I was going to carry on arguing:  I thought he must be joking, as they wouldn’t make guys fuck against their wills, but the bus slowed at this point, and turned in through a pair of tall gates which close behind it, and we stopped on some sort of almost empty parking lot surrounded by low buildings.  The driver got out, locking the door behind him, went into one of the buildings and came out a few minutes later with a couple of what I assumed were guards as they wore what was recognisably a uniform:  a short sleeved khaki-coloured shirts neatly pressed and tucked into smart shorts that finished just on the knee and were in a darker shade of khaki.  The polished leather belts around their waists were hung with a variety of things – I recognised one of the things the old guard had called a slave prod, handcuffs, a radio, and something that made my dick jerk as I recognised it for what it was – a short whip.  I began to realise that being a slave might be tough, really tough.

They stood there and counted the girls out of the bus, and again there was a lot of cross-checking and signing of paperwork, and marched into the building with them.  Us guys just sat there staring out wondering what was going to happen, and then the guards came out again and it was our turn.

They made us stand in a ragged line as they counted us and signed for us, and then told us to march in step into the building.  Immediately inside the doors was a big tiled area, and after the outer doors were shut and locked, one of the guards called out “Right, strip.  Everything.  You’ve got to be showered and deloused, as we don’t know where you niggas have come from!”

Well, I kind of expected that at some point we’d be given a shower, communally.  I mean, you always see it in prison films and stuff, don’t you?  And I suppose it was a bit like being after gym class at school, as we all stood there and began to pull off our clothes. What was different, though was that there was nowhere to put anything – no benches, or clothes hooks – so we had to kind of hop around to take off our sneakers and socks, and then just drop our clothes on the floor.

I was glad I’d worn my most fashionable boxers that day – dad had laughed when I’d spent a little bit of cash I’d managed to save on “designer underwear” – he just wore cheap stuff from Sears himself.  But at school, the other guys would have mocked me if I’d turned up in that kind of thing, and I just had to spend the money.   Two of the guys though had no underwear at all, and as they pushed down their jeans and chinos, they were bare, and there was general hooting and laughter.  I couldn’t help but notice that some of the guys had tattoos, and some had thick, chunky-looking jewellery around their necks.

The guard saw us standing there, and snapped “When  I said strip, I meant it!  All your underwear, any jewellery you’re wearing, watches…. And for those of you with cock rings, those too!”

We laughed a bit at this, and it kind of helped to relieve the tension as I pushed my boxers down and stood there with the rest of them.  The guard then snapped orders at the two guys nearest to him, and they came along collecting all our stuff up off the floor – they made no attempt to keep it separate, to keep my watch and sneakers and stuff safe:  everything was just bundled up together, and when some of the guys started to complain about losing their jewellery and stuff, the guard looked very cross and told us to remember we were slaves, and that from now on our owners would decide what we were going to wear. Somehow, seeing my own clothes just bundled away like that was another step towards becoming  slave, as I realised I had no control over my life at all.

One of the guys was still protesting, though, saying that he wasn’t going to give up his ring as it was a present from his girl, and went to bend down to scrabble in the pile of stuff in front of him to retrieve it – I did wonder why he had ever taken it off in the first place, but perhaps he thought he’d get it back.  The guard nearest him got something off his belt – it was about two feet long, black, four inches wide, and flexible.  Then the next moment there was a tremendous “slap” noise, the guy fell forward and sprawled on the floor howling, and the guard stood there, looking down at him.  “See”, he called out generally “You slaves need to learn to obey. We use the paddle a lot here to help you understand the meaning of proper discipline:  it doesn’t break the skin as the whip tends to, so it keeps you in better condition for sale.  But as you’ve all just seen demonstrated, it hurts.  So obey, if you don’t want to feel it on your butt, too.”

It really had never occurred to me that they might actually use physical punishment on us.  Other than that one incident when dad had spanked me, it just wasn’t done in our house.  And I’d never been one to watch the slave programmes on TV much.  But as I thought about it, I realised that that was almost all you could do to a slave who disobeyed:  you couldn’t fine him, as he had no money;  and you couldn’t lock him up, as he had already lost his freedom.  So physical punishment was probably the only thing left – other than starving him or something, and that wouldn’t  be very good if you wanted to work him hard. Periodically of course there’d be some outcry in the papers when there was a case of a slave dying after a severe whipping – you needed a court order to have a slave killed, or permanently mutilated –  but this just never related to me personally, not in the way that the threat of physical force being used against me now was.

Once all our stuff was cleared away, water drenched down from the ceiling, and it must have had some disinfectants or stuff in it, as it smelled foul, but then it cleared,  became soapy, cleared again, and then turned off.  We all stood there with our bodies soaking wet, and I thought there might be something in what Clyde said about niggas’ skins being different, as the water seemed to slide off them much quicker than it did form me.  But they were mostly a lot smoother than me, as I’ve got quite hairy arms and legs, and a nice thatch, even at my age, on my chest and belly:  I guess I really do take after dad.

What happened next was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me in my whole life.  I mean, it’s bad enough being forced to strip, and having guards watch you as you piss, and shower.  But then they marched us through in to the next room, in a line, and in there, all lined up already, were the girls from the bus, all as stark naked as we were.  I just couldn’t help it – my eyes almost came out on stalks as they scanned down over the tits and cunts, and I felt myself starting to bone up.  I flushed with the shame and embarrassment of it, and you know how it is, once you start thinking about an erection, it gets worse!  I wasn’t alone, though, as I saw most of the guys were in the same state.

Fucking Clyde tried to make a joke of it.  He shouted out “Hey, Louella – take a look at whitey now!  His dick’s bigger than most of us nigga boys’!”  My embarrassment was doubled as everyone – all the guys, and all the girls – turned to look at me, and I vainly tried to cover myself with my hands.  But you can’t, can you?  When you’re really hard, and it’s jutting up almost parallel with your belly, there’s just no way you can cover it even with both hands.

The guards told us to quieten down, and the one in charge walked up an down between the two lines, and told us that this was a valuable lesson for us – we were slaves now, and there was no reason for slaves not to be naked in front of each other as we were no more than animals.  “You slaves have got to learn that there’s nothing wrong with displaying your bodies – you don’t see cats and dogs wearing clothes, and there’s no reason for an owner to clothe a slave, either”, he told us.  “You slaves don’t have to worry about modesty, or being embarrassed by nudity:  your slaves, and it’s only men who can feel like that about their bodies.”

Well, that’s maybe what he thought, but I can tell you that standing there all boned up in front of  a lot of girls, and surrounded by nigga boys all mostly boned up too, was just the most embarrassing thing for me. But fortunately the guards started to distribute simple one-piece tunics to the girls that came down to mid thigh and covered them up decently, and then we were given shorts – I was never so grateful for anything in my life!  Mind you, these were the standard sort of slave work shorts in that loose grey cotton fabric, a bit like workout shorts, although they were cut much, much higher on the thigh as slave shorts are.  And it didn’t help all that much until my bone went down a bit, as like all slave shorts the fly was just overlapped and there were no buttons or zipper – I was constantly worried that I might bone up again, and it would jut right out through the gap.

There wasn’t going to be any sex that night, though, as we were led off separately, girls one way, us the other, and put into cells for the night, four to a cell.  I got a bottom bunk, and we all just lay there trying to get to sleep, wondering what was going to happen the next day.

To be continued …

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