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I expect that most of you have been to slave auctions, so I don’t have to say much about what happened to me after that. I hated having my whole life summed up in those few sentences, and it was utterly demeaning to be labelled for sale, just as if I was something in a fancy store. But otherwise, I suppose it was OK – they made each of us stand on a low podium, about a foot high, and once I was in place, there was a manacle on a short chain coming out from the top of the podium that was snapped shut around my left ankle. I wondered why they were worried about the possibility of us escaping – we were all naked, after all, and with my hands fastened to the collar around my neck, I wouldn’t have got far even if I had tried to make a run for it! But perhaps they were trying to make a point, trying to make it look as if we were animals who potentially might escape, to make it more interesting for the potential buyers.
We were all mixed up: there was a big nigga next to me, liberally covered with whip scars, on the other side was a good-looking nigga aged about twenty five, who judging from the way his skin was totally smooth as he had no hair at all, must have been used for some specialised purpose, and opposite was a nigga woman who was probably in her thirties, as her tits were sagging a bit in spite of them being thrust forward as she, too, had her hands cuffed behind her neck . Thinking about it, I suppose I was surprised that I could be standing there stark naked opposite a woman like that and not getting an erection – I usually only had to see pictures of naked women in dad’s porn magazines to spring a real boner. With nothing else to do my thoughts ran on and I wondered whether this was because she was a nigga, or was it the atmosphere of the slave hall with so much naked flesh on display, or was it that I was getting used to the ideas that I was a slave, and that slaves had to be accustomed to going naked if that’s what their owners wanted?
Whatever the reason, my dick stayed down, thank God, and a couple of minutes later the same guy who had labelled me came by and put a small notice on a stand, next to me. By moving and bending where I stood on my little podium, I could just see that it said “Not yet 18. Look as much as you like, but touching forbidden.” The guy saw me reading it, and commented “Stupid new laws the State imposed last year – you’re a slave for fuck’s sake, and once you’re bought, your new owner can handle your body as much as he likes – so why shouldn’t he be able to do so when he’s deciding if he wants to buy your or not? As if it makes any difference whether you’re younger or older than eighteen! They’ll be saying that an owner can’t fuck his young slaves next – those busybodies from the American Society For The Protection Of Slaves ought to leave honest folk to get on with their lives, and quit interfering!”
Still, as the day progressed, I for one was glad of that rule. The buyers – and they were a pretty motley crew, by and large, wandered around with their catalogues in their hands looking at the stock – I suppose I should say “the stock like me” that was standing there naked in front of them. I think a lot of them were small, independent dealers, rather than private buyers, as they had that slightly flamboyant, slightly seedy air that men who do jobs like running used car lots, and small-town slave dealerships, have. Their suits had checked patterns that were just too loud, the heels on their cowboy-style boots were just that bit too high, they had an excess of rings on their podgy fingers, and you could see through the open necks of their loud shirts a load of thick gold necklaces and gold medallions on them. Although they were presumably in competition with each other, they mostly seemed to know the others, and the hands that were one minute cupping the balls of one of the niggas next to me, or jiggling the tits of the women, were the next being shaken vigorously, along with much backslapping and mock bonhomie. The odd private individuals wandering around looked faintly embarrassed by the whole thing, or perhaps slightly intimidated. They came pretty close to me to get a close-up look at my skin texture, and several of them bent down so they could scrutinise my dick and balls, but the “do not touch” rule was obeyed totally. The slaves around me were not so lucky, though, and as I watched in fascination, the nigga woman opposite me had her tits played with and her cunt fingered just as if she was in one of those porno movies of dad’s.
The men didn’t escape either, though, and it seemed that anyone taking a serious interest in buying a male slave needed to grasp his balls and “weigh” them in the palm of the hand, separating the balls out and examining them carefully. As most of the niggas were young, I suppose that wasn’t altogether a bad idea as it enabled the prospective buyers to make sure the nigga didn’t have testicular cancer, which I understand is quite common in young guys. And now I understood why my balls had been shaved – they presumably did all the males, to make this examination easier. Mind you, some of the potential buyers seemed to really know what they were doing – you could tell that they had a “system”, starting at the nigga’s shoulders and running their hands down his back, over his butt and down his flanks to gauge the power and strength, then doing the same down his front, pausing to tweak his nipples to judge his reaction, and focussing on whether his belly was muscular or flabby. I couldn’t imagine how it must feel to have to stand there whilst a man did that to you, examining you just as if you were a horse or something that he wanted to buy. Occasionally, too, and especially for the unscarred young nigga next to me, one of these potential buyers would order him to bend over and spread his butt wide, and then, using a rubber glove which they all seemed to have as one of their “tools of the trade”, they’d stand there and force their finger up his ass hole! Look, I’m no prude, but I can’t believe you need to do that to a guy, even if he is a nigga, before you decide whether to buy him or not.
It was distressing too to see some of the groups of college guys coming through – they had no serious intention of buying, I’m sure, but nevertheless they did a lot of handling, of the male niggas as well as the females. They laughed and joked amongst themselves, and seemed to take a delight in really twisting the nipples of both the males and females, watching for their reaction. And they seemed to get a great deal of amusement from making the males go erect, and in doing what amounted almost to a detailed gynaecological examination of the females. They had several horrible tricks, too, like fingering the women’s cunts, and then drawing their fingers seductively under the noses of the males! I just couldn’t help but see how the scarred male to the side of me became totally hard and leaked drops of pre-cum when they did this to him, and I thought of how dad would have had to come through this place, and probably would have suffered these same indignities.
They made a loudspeaker announcement half an hour before viewing was to finish, and then at fifteen minutes, to give the potential buyers one last chance to take a look at all of us as we stood there. I think I’d attracted a lot of attention, although it was hard to be sure as they weren’t allowed to touch me, but I’d seen lots of people making marks in their catalogues as they came past me. I thought that after being stood there like that in full public view for three hours I’d have lost any sense of embarrassment. But when it was my turn to go up onto the auction stage, once I was at the bottom of the short flight of steps up to where I would be sold, I almost panicked as I thought that about two hundred people would be staring at me! To make it worse, I was half boned as when they took us off our podiums and lined us up, I’d got sandwiched between two women. They made us stand so close that my dick actually touched the butt of the woman in front of me – she was one of those niggas with a very pronounced backside. But to make things worse, the one behind me could only have been about twenty, and her firm tits had brushed across my back as we both stood there. Well, I mean, wouldn’t you have been in my state if you were standing there feeling the warmth radiating from those bodies which were so close to you?
The auctioneer called for me to mount the steps twice as I hadn’t heard him as I was so worried about my bone, and the guard who was marshalling us slapped my bare butt to get me moving. I stumbled onto the stage, almost blinded by the lights and terribly conscious of all the eyes watching my semi-stiff dick bob up and down in front of me. The auctioneer, a guy in his fifties I would think, in a smart suit, put his hand on my shoulder to steady me, and perhaps to give me confidence. “Ladies and gentlemen…. Probably the most unique property in our sale today…. A young pure-bred white buck, just sixteen years old. This is not a very pale mustee, ladies and gentlemen, but a pure white: we had his sire through here just a few weeks ago, and I can assure you that if grows to be like him, this boy will be a superb investment. He’s not known to be vicious or deceitful, ladies and gentlemen: as he was only recently enslaved as a result of his father’s enslavement that brought about his, as a minor. He’s had basic training, but, ladies and gentlemen, he’s believed to be a virgin! So the lucky purchaser will have plenty of opportunity for training this boy exactly as he chooses. I think we can all see that he’ll make a superb stud…” As he said this, the auctioneer used a short cane to lift up my dick, and there was a murmur of comment from the audience. He kept me standing there for a few moments, then his firm hands turned me around so my back was to the audience. “And look at this, ladies and gentlemen”, he went on, “The classic wide shoulders, slim-hipped male torso. What a delight is waiting someone, and, remember, it’s believed he’s still virgin… So those delightful muscles in his butt are keeping a treasure almost beyond price for you…”
“Is he fertile?” A voice shouted out from the audience.
“You have all the test results in the sale particulars”, the auctioneer replied. “You will see that he has an excellent sperm count, as you’d expect in a healthy sixteen year old, although he has not yet been bred to the best of our knowledge, so we cannot positively attest that he is capable of impregnating a female and siring piccaninnies. However all through training our surveillance videos show that he regularly produced quite superlative amounts of cum, as he pleasured himself….”
I know I must have been almost scarlet with embarrassment as I listened to all of this. Not only were they talking about me as if I was only something to be used for sex, but now I realised that all those nights when I’d thought I’d just jerked off quietly, they’d been watching! Still, my agony wasn’t going to endure much longer, as the auctioneer asked for an opening bid, and as I stood there, I heard my price mount in steps of ten thousand dollars until he finally banged down his gavel, peered into the audience, and said “Sold…. Your name, sir?”
That was the first time I was to hear my new owner’s voice, as in a strong, firm tone, a man who was clearly used to being in charge and to being listened to, said “Hawthorne, Robert Hawthorne”. And that was it – the auctioneer was calling for the next slave to mount the steps, and he patted me on the butt and pushed me off towards the steps at the opposite side of the stage.
There was a holding area just off stage, where we were kept whilst our new owners paid for us and completed the paperwork to transfer ownership to them, and I stood there along with the naked niggas as we all waited patiently. Some of the slave dealers I’d seen were in there, moving amongst the naked bodies and kind of “collecting” their purchases into particular areas of the floor, and soon I was more or less alone. And then, right in front of me, was a tall, very distinguished man in the kind of impeccably cut very expensive casual clothes that contrive to be artlessly informal whilst at the same time telling you that the wearer is exceedingly wealthy and has exquisite taste. We didn’t see many like him down in our State, and there was something about him, and his accent from when I’d heard him call out his name, that made me thing he was a rich Northern business man. My first thoughts were that he was perhaps fifty or so, but when I’d blinked and got a closer look at the artful way his carefully cut hair was concealing many strands of grey, and the little rows of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, I revised my estimate to think he was about sixty. He was accompanied by another man, of an altogether different type – a real local, I could tell at once: deeply tanned all over his face and the massive arms that almost bulged out of his short sleeved casual shirt, cropped dark blond hair, and a body that suggested that it spend a lot of time pounding the iron in a gym: his jeans were low slung and skin tight, and the narrow legs on them revealed thick thighs and calves as they went down to pointed “cowboy” boots.
The older man said in a not unfriendly tone “I’m Robert Hawthorne, your new owner. And this is Mr Stryker, who is my estate manager, chief overseer, and who is responsible for the management and discipline of my slaves. And you are Steven Masters….?”
“Yes, sir….” At once the Stryker roared “You’d better learn respect, boy ,and learn it soon! When your owner speaks to you, you address him as ‘master’!”
Nothing had quite prepared me for this I’d heard the lessons at the slave school that you were supposed to call your owner “master”, and at an intellectual level I’d accepted them. But standing naked, in front of the man who now actually owned me, who’d bought me at an auction, it really came home to me that this was something totally new.
Yes, master…”, I said falteringly.
“Undo that collar, Stryker”, my owner said. “The poor boy looks as if he’s really uncomfortable and he must have been like that for hours.”
The big man came behind me and fumbled with the fastenings, and then at last I was able to lower my arms – which were stiff and painful – and I stood there massaging my wrists and arm muscles. My owner reached out and took my right forearm in a kind of commanding way that left me powerless to prevent him, and turned it over so he could see the underside of my wrist. “Yes… 24601…. I just like to make sure that all the paperwork is in order… Old habits of a lifetime die hard”, he said smiling faintly. “Come on, Stryker, find some shorts for the boy, and let’s be on our way.”
The big man scowled at me as if it was my fault that he was being given orders, and from the back pocket of his jeans pulled out a pair of very thin slave shorts, which he dropped on the floor in front of me. Both men then stood and watched as I hopped around from one leg to another pulling them on – not that there was all that much to pull on, as in addition to the high-cut legs, these had a very low waistline, and I began to feel glad that my pubes had been trimmed!
My owner strode off, clearly used to the idea that slaves and employees would follow him, and Mr Stryker put one massive arm on my shoulder and guided me toward the door. As we strode along, he said “Although you’re white, you’ll get treated just like all the other niggas – you’re only a slave, after all, so don’t get ideas above your station. Just because Mr Hawthorne has paid way, way over the odds to get a piece of white meat, you won’t find me giving you any slack, and if you don’t behave, you’ll be beaten just as if you were a nigga. Do you understand?”
His grip tightened on my shoulder, and his fingers dug painfully into my muscles. “You call me ‘boss’, boy. I’m the estate manager an chief overseer, remember!”
“Sorry, boss. Yes, boss”, I at once said, remembering what they’d taught us at slave school about how important it was not to antagonise overseers and others with the power to punish us.
Outside, in the parking lot, I watched as Mr Hawthorne slid himself effortlessly into a gleaming red Porsche. Stryker led me over to a brand new Jeep, and at first it seemed that he was thinking about putting me into one of the slave transit cages that was in the back. But he relaxed his grip for a instant, muttered at me “You’re not collared yet, boy, but don’t try to make a run for it! I’ll track you down and castrate you if you do. I’ve decided to let you ride up front with me.”
“Thanks, boss”, I said, trying to sound grateful. And I suppose I was – I didn’t want to be crushed into one of those transit cages, like an animal, and I’d enjoy seeing something of the scenery.
He was a fast, impatient driver and we soon sped out of through the suburbs until he abruptly pulled off the highway and into one of those medium sized malls you see everywhere these days. At one end of the strip was a store called “Dave’s Slaves”, with the strap line “Everything for the modern slave owner” underneath, and Mr Stryker parked outside, then curtly ordered me to follow him into the store. The owner rushed forward as it seemed that Mr Stryker was an important customer, and Mr Stryker pointed at me and said “One of the control collars, tuned exactly like the one I had a few months ago – this one isn’t going to be coffled, so we need to control his movements.”
The store owner came up to me, and without even asking, ran a tape measure around my throat. “Keep it a bit loose”, Mr Stryker told him. “The slave will put on some muscle there as we really get him to work, and he’s probably still growing a bit anyway as he’s only sixteen and not yet fully mature. I don’t want to have to keep bringing him back as he’s choking.”
The store owner nodded, and went out the back. I just stood there, but Mr Stryker roamed the store, looking at the various stuff in the display cabinets – paddles, whips, cuffs, muzzles, blindfolds, hoods, blinkers, and all the other stuff that you might use to control a slave. He picked up one or two items and held them up as if considering their suitability for me, and I shuddered inwardly at he though of having to wear blinkers all the time, for example. Fortunately the store owner reappeared with a small box, which he unpacked in front of Mr Stryker. Inside was a slim metal collar, in what looked like stainless steel, pre-formed to be a ring but open at one point. The store owner and Mister Stryker both needed to pull it open so that the gap was big enough for my neck to squeeze through, and then they briefly debated whether it was the right size, or not. Ultimately, though, Mr Stryker agreed to take it and the store owner applied some sort of glue to the open ends, then both men forced the end together and I heard a kind of “snick” noise as something snapped closed and was held by the glue.
“Right, slave”, Mr Stryker told me “This is the latest technology. We can track you at all times, so we always know where you are. And if you go outside about a quarter of a mile from the main house, an alarm sounds anyway. It’s toughened steel, so you can’t easily get it off.”
I rubbed my finger along the collar, feeling its metal coldness against my neck, and testing it: it was a loose, but not so loose, fit, so that I could hardly get my finger between it and my skin all the way around. It was quite heavy, and that and the tightness made me aware all the time that now I was collared – one more step, like being tattooed with my SIN, towards having all the outward marks of a slave.
“It’s programmed to reset and turn on once it first crosses your perimeter… That worked OK with the last one, didn’t it?” the store owner asked.
“Yes, fine”, Stryker replied. “Add it to the account.”, and without saying anything else he turned and walked out of the store, snapping his fingers at me to follow him.
I sat here in the Jeep as Mr Stryker rejoined the highway, and I couldn’t help fingering my collar almost constantly, as if testing it. Mr Stryker saw me doing this and gave a faintly unpleasant smile. “Just count yourself lucky, boy, that your owner is going to use you as a ‘fancy’, and is not going to have you coffled with a load of the work niggas in the fields. Then you’d know what a collar was really like – we use iron ones on them, heavy iron ones, as it’s not worth the expense of a custom job like yours!”
“Please, boss, what’s a ‘fancy’?”
“Where did you grow up, boy? Don’t you know anything? A ‘fancy’ is a slave who has to work, of course, but also fulfils the function of being easy on the eye. Your owner keeps a number of servants in the house and working in the immediate grounds, and they’re all ‘fancies’ – all good looking, fit, strong, nice bodies… And none of those very pronounced nigga features like big flaring nostrils or wide lips – after all, if you’re going to have a nigga serving your food in the dining room, or bringing you the newspaper, or helping you with your bathing, he may as well be easy on the eye. And of course some of Mr Hawthorne’s guests, when they’re staying for the weekend, like to service a slave, and so we tend to pick ‘fancies’ with pleasing backsides… But you’re a bit special: there just aren’t that many whitey slaves – well, not pure whitey, as you are. You can get ‘breeds of course, and some Latinos, but pure American whitey, like you, now that’s rare. I expect Mr Hawthorne will get a lot of pleasure form displaying you to his neighbours, to demonstrate just how wealthy he is: you were very expensive, you know.”
“Please, boss, what does Mr Hawthorne do?”
“He’s a big banker up in New York city. Well, he’s actually Chairman Of The Board of some big bank or other. You’re going to live on his country estate down here, as one of the fancies…”
“But boss, if he’s a New York banker, how can he live here?”
“He doesn’t. He flies down most weekends, late Friday, and goes back early Monday morning. The estate’s his hobby, and we barely make a profit on the crops the niggas grow in the fields – in fact, I think he only keeps all the acreage going so that he can enjoy seeing the nigga coffles working away – he enjoys a drive around on Saturday mornings, inspecting the crops and watching the niggas at work.”
As he was speaking, Mr Stryker drove up to a huge set of iron gates that said “Manderleigh” over the entrance. He didn’t need to honk the horn or anything as there was a nigga already rushing to open them – he was, I saw as we drove past, collared with a heavy iron collar and form this a chain led to the gate posts, so he had no option but to stay close to them all the time. As we swept past he stood with head bowed, and I turned to see him then closing the gates again as we drove away up a long drive, bordered with closely-cut grass and white picket fences.
We drove on for a long time, and I said “This is a big place then, boss”
“Yes. Two thousand acres under cultivation.” Mr Stryker replied, but as he got to the end of the sentence, his hand lashed out and he gave me a resounding slap on the side of my face. I slammed into the door, and sat there, stunned, rubbing the throbbing hurt on my cheek.
“Let that be a lesson, boy. I thought you’d been to slave school! Well, remember what they said about slaves not asking questions? Slaves just wait patiently and listen attentively for their masters to give them instructions. They don’t argue, they don’t question, they obey. I won’t have uppity slaves here, especially not ‘fancies’ who come into contact with decent folk. The reputation of Manderleigh, and as me as overseer, rests on the good behaviour of you slaves, and so let this be a lesson to you: you break the rules, you get punished. Understand?”
“Yes, boss”, I managed to mutter, even though I thought my lip was swelling badly.
We drove on in silence, until we came around a corner and I saw it – the place that was to be my new home. It was one of those big white “southern plantation” houses that you see in all the movies: really huge, three stories high, with tall white pillars along the front, and wide verandas running around at the first and second floor levels. It was surrounded by swathes of achingly green lawns set with flowering shrubs, and everything seemed to be immaculately neat and tidy. Mr Stryker swung the Jeep to a halt in front of the broad steps leading up to the enormous double front door, and at once a nigga ran out to open the Jeep door for him. Stryker said “take this new ‘fancy’ around to the slave quarters, and get him cleaned up and dress him properly, then have him wait outside the dining room as the master will want to see him after dinner.”
“Yes, boss”, the slave rapped smartly, then loped off, gesturing for me to follow. It was quite hard to run following him as the gravel hurt my bare feet, but once we were around the side of the house the gravel gave way to a cement path, and that was easier. The slave stopped running, too, and reached out a hand to me. “I’m Amos, one of the house slaves”, he told me. “You need to obey Mr Stryker absolutely if you don’t want to get beaten. But what he don’t see, he don’t know!”
He gave me a broad grin, and I shook his hand “Steve”, I said. “And I don’t know what I’m going to do. Mr Stryker said I was a ‘fancy’….”
“You sure are that! But come on…. It’s getting late, and if Mr Hawthorne asks for you and you’re not ready, Stryker will have us all caned.”
We went in through a rear door and down a flight of steps into the basement – well, half basement, I suppose, as there were windows in light wells, but no view. “This is the house slave quarters”, Amos told me “We have our dorm, showers and stuff down here. And the kitchens and laundry. Come on….”
He opened a door and there was a big communal shower room with several shower heads, and a row of had basins against one wall. “Strip off and shower”, he told me, and now, used to doing this when told, I just pushed down the shorts and went and stood under one of the showers and turned it on. Amos stood there looking at me, and gave a low whistle. “My, you do look good”, he told me. “You must have cost a small fortune! And you really are a whitey – look at that ass, pure white!”
I grinned at him. “Yes, when I was free, it was actually against the law to expose your ass to the sun. I guess it’s different now I’m a slave?”
“You’re dammed right, boy. All the niggas on the estate work start naked all the time. Mr Stryker says it saves the cost of clothing, and laundry, and it’s easier to keep them clean as a nigga’s hide can scrub clean easy enough under a shower but even shorts need a proper laundry. But us in the house and around the gardens here we’re allowed slave shorts…. Most of the time.”
I turned the water off, and stood there planing the water off my skin. Amos tossed me a towel, and I dried myself – it felt odd to have to dry around my collar, and Amos saw me fingering it. “Fresh on? Never been collared before, boy?” he asked.
“Yes – on the way here. And no, of course not – I was only made a slave a few weeks ago. And you?”
“Me and my brother have been slaves for a long time – Mister Hawthorne bought us five years ago. Now, come on, let’s make sure you’re smooth…”
Without any hesitation, and before I could stop him, Amos reached down and felt my balls. “Hey, cut that out…”, I shouted.
He grinned at me. “You have got a lot to learn, Steve! Me and Andy are the bath slaves, amongst other things, and every time you go to see Mister Hawthorne, it’s our job to make sure you’ll be pleasing to him, so we have to keep your hair neatly trimmed, your finger nails cut, your balls shaved…. But this time, you’ll do!”
“They shaved me for the auction…”, I explained.
“Yes…. They would. Still… Here….” He tossed me a pair of standard slave shorts, and I pulled them on. They were in the usual thin white cotton, with the standard fly down the front without buttons or zip, but on the left leg, embroidered in big black script, was a stylish “M”. Amos saw me looking at it, and said “You’ll get used to that, Steve. That’s M for Manderleigh, the name of this place. Most everything around here is marked with that. Now, come on…”
We went up the slave staircase to the first floor, then along a corridor with solid oak floor, gleaming with wax. Amos gestured for me to stop at a big pair of double doors, and he assumed the “rest” position at one side of them, gesturing for me to do the same at the other side. I went to say something, but he put his finger to this lips in that universal gesture of silence, and I understood why: through the doors I could hear the sound of male voices, and so I assumed that if we spoke they could hear us, too, and I remembered what Mr Stryker had said about slaves remaining silent unless spoken to.
We stood there for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than one hour. Although there were voices inside, I couldn’t make out what was being discussed, and the predominant noise around us was the slow ticking of a big grandfather clock in the hall below.
Suddenly, the door opened, Mr Stryker stood there, and snapped “Come in, Steve.”
The room was huge, with big windows overlooking the lawns and drive, and a large oblong mahogany antique table stretching away into the distance. Mister Hawthorne sat at one end, and there were empty wine glasses and a big bowl of fruit in front of him. Mister Stryker put his hand on my shoulder and guided me along the room, and we halted in front of my owner, as that is how I thought I now had to think of him.
Mr Hawthorne sat there, looking at me, an amused smile playing on his lips, then called out “Joe!”.
A figure emerged form the shadows, also in slave shorts, and it was dad! I couldn’t help it – I stepped forward and threw my arms around him, as he did to me. “Dad, dad….” I was almost crying, almost laughing, s I never thought I’d see him again. He hugged me to him, and I heard him say “Steve…” before he let go of me and screamed: Mr Stryker was standing there holding a cane, a cane which he’d just slashed down on dad’s shoulders!
“Joe, I warned you”, Mister Stryker snapped. “We all know he’s your son, but you’re both slaves, and in this house, slaves are disciplined and remain quiet unless spoken to. Now, both of you, ‘slave rest’.”
Dad pulled himself upright, then bowed his head, spread his feet, and put his hands behind his back. Mr Stryker looked threateningly at me, and I did the same, even though every fibre of me wanted to hug dad again. And I did think it was odd that dad was so ready to behave so subserviently, even if he was supposed to be a slave: he was never like that normally as he was a big, rowdy kind of guy who liked to be in charge.
“Quite remarkable, Stryker”, I heard Mister Hawthorne say. “I was pleased to get Joe, as white slaves are so rare, but when you called me to ask permission to bid on the son, well, I could hardly believe you when you said how alike they were…. The son will be taller, as you’d expect. And he’s not so well developed yet, but that will come… The father is an excellent specimen of manhood, and with the son as well being so pleasing to the eye….”
“Thank you, sir”, Mister Stryker replied. I know the son cost a lot, but when we can show that the father’s excellent physical characteristics ‘breed true’ by showing them the son, I’m sure we’ll be able to charge bigger stud fees. But would you like to examine them properly…. What really caught my eye about the son was the similarity elsewhere…”
“Quite so”, Mister Hawthorne said, almost chuckling, and Mister Stryker, hearing this, snapped at dad and me “OK, shrug those shorts off, so your owner can make a proper comparison.”
To be continued …
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