A kinky story written by Pete Brown.
Chapter 1 of 30 –> here you find the other chapters of the story
Illustration by Theo Blaze
We didn’t have slaves in our house. I don’t want you to think we were poor, or some sort of lefty-do-gooders – no, dad’s view was that when he got off the train at Scarsdale, very late most evenings as his meetings at the office always seemed to go on and on as he directed his people to sort out crises, he didn’t want to have to become involved in disciplining slaves. “I have enough to do at the office, Steve”, he always told me. “And when I get home I want a calm and order. It’s well known that you have to really watch slaves, as if you ever let up they’ll take advantage of you. And then before you know where you are you’re having to discipline them, and whilst I’ve got nothing against the cane and the whip – indeed, I sometimes wish I could use them on some of my direct reports at the office – I don’t want all that hassle in the evening and at weekends.”
It cost dad a lot of money not to have slaves. Our two acres of grounds and six bedrooms didn’t look after themselves, and at the weekends dad wanted to golf, or sail his yacht, not do stuff like cutting the grass, cleaning the pool and washing the windows. So he employed contractors to do all of that – they used slaves of course, as you’d expect – but dad pointed out that he had contracts with agreed service levels with the providers, and knowing dad was a hot-shot corporate lawyer they made certain that they performed properly. After mom died dad also didn’t want to supervise the cleaning services inside the house himself, and he also thought that I needed proper home cooked meals, so he employed a full-time housekeeper, Mrs Williams. She didn’t actually live in, but came in early to make me breakfast (dad had usually left for the office before then), went home in the middle of the day, and reappeared to make and serve dinner. As I said at the start, you can tell we were not poor as all these services, and Mrs Williams’ wages and social security, cost a packet – although dad was able to charge some of it as business expenses as he pointed out that he did work at home most evenings, and some weekends, when there were major problems at the office, so the cost of maintaining the house was a ‘legitimate’ expense.
Dad thought it was good for me to attend Scarsdale High School rather than go away and board at one of those fancy prep schools. “You need to learn how to get on with people, Steve”, he told me. “I don’t want you mixing only with people of our own class, as it’s really important that executives, as you will be one day, still have a ‘common touch’ so you can appreciate some of the difficulties of your subordinates.” Mind you, I don’t think he researched the thing all that thoroughly as when I looked around my class all my fellow students were much like me – their parents were all managers and professionals, and mostly went into the city, as dad did. Still, one consequence of all of this was I never had apersonal slave, either at home, or at school (in any case the only slaves allowed at Scarsdale High were those owned by the education board, who looked after the grounds and pitches, cleaned the place, and manned the cafeteria. Pupils with personal slaves had to leave them at the gates).
My life would have been a whole lot easier with a personal slave I reckoned, judging by the experiences of some of my friends. My best buddy, Bobby, had one (who he called ‘Rastus’ – Bobby’s family came from New Orleans, and he said they always called the slaves around the house by ‘traditional’ names), and so Bobby never had to do stuff like clean the mud off his soccer boots. And as we got older, Bobby told me of other things that Rastus did for him, but when I wanted to try them out, Bobby refused. “Sure we’re buddies, Steve, but some things a guy has are kind of personal. Rastus’s mouth is reserved for my dick – I wouldn’t want you to use my tooth brush, and it’s the same with Rastus’s mouth.” Still, as dad had said ‘no’, there wasn’t much I could do about it, as even if I had saved up my allowance and got the money together dad would not have allowed me to keep a slave in the house.
Guys growing up in earlier times before slavery was reintroduced had a much easier time of it, I reckon. Sure, they might have to do some chores around the house and clean their own cars and stuff like that, but at least there would have been enough girls in their high school class ready to put out for them. Now of course it was considered that any guy who needed sex could get it from a slave, so ‘nice’ girls absolutely did not do anything at all to help a guy out, and most dates now were strictly chaperoned as a girl’s reputation was hugely important. So I had to make do with the normal porno stuff, and even with 3D on the screen in my room, that just isn’t the same as the real thing. But by the time I was almost eighteen and getting ready for college I guess I was used to it, and my fingers were so far my first – and only – sex partner.
I was worried about college, though. Dad had made sure I was going to be invited to pledge in his old frat (a very sizeable donation to their rebuilding fund had seen to that), and I was certain that all the other guys there would have personal slaves. Not only have them, but be used to having them around. Dad had said that I could hire one of the “slaves at livery” during term time as there were lots of guys like me at college and several businesses in the town made a good living from hiring out slaves to us, taking them back and employing them elsewhere during vacations. “It’s the best solution, Steve”, he told me. “If you find you don’t like a particular slave, he’s only with you for one semester and you can pick another easily enough. And it saves all the expense of shipping the slave to and from college – goodness knows your own train fare is high enough!” As usual what dad said made sound economic sense, but I felt certain that I’d somehow be ‘found out’ by my frat brothers as being someone not used to being around slaves: I’d almost certainly make a lot of little mistakes when dealing with them around me all the time – nothing critical, but a mess of stuff that would all add up and show my inexperience.
I tried to get experience by paying more attention to the slave gangs who came in to look after the house and grounds, but I knew it wasn’t the same. The group of four niggas who came to cut the grass, weed the borders, sweep the leaves and clear the snow weren’t the same as a slave like Rastus who was a ‘young gentleman’s valet’ and did not share their brutish looks and whip-scarred torsos; the cleaners and laundry people in the house were females; and the only slave who was anything at all like my ideal of a personal servant was the guy who came to clean the pool. But he wasn’t really a good model for me, as he was only around about half the year, then only on alternate days, and he worked to a very strict schedule as he had a ‘round’ of pools to do in our area and was clearly terrified of falling behind schedule. I tried to talk to him as he worked but he had very little time, and when I told him to stay around and have some iced tea with me he looked really scared. “Please, master, no. I don’t want to offend you… Please don’t report me to the company for disobedience. But if I’m late to the next place, they’ll complain….”
It was good to watch his naked body as he worked, though. As I was growing up I’d noticed that we only had the same pool slave for about two successive years, and then a new one came along. They were all of the same ‘type’, though: about twenty years old, I suppose, with lean bodies well tanned all over, pleasant honest faces, and engaging smiles which they kept in place as they worked. It was a pleasure to see them drop their shorts before starting work and watch their dicks wave about as they toiled. I’d asked dad about why they were always changing and he’d sort of shrugged. “I don’t know for certain, Steve, but I reckon those slaves are chosen to be ‘easy on the eye’ as you don’t want ugly slaves working where you might be sitting and enjoying the sunshine, and I guess it works – one of the company’s clients likes what they see and arranges to buy the slave at the end of the season. It’s easy enough for the company to buy a new slave and train him during the winter – it’s not all that challenging a job, after all. They’ll have plenty of time to get him properly tanned, circumcised, tied-off and depilated during the winter before the next season. In fact, I guess part of their business plan is to make money not only from the pool cleaning contracts but from selling their slaves – if the potential purchaser has got as far as offering to buy a pool slave having seen him around all season he – or she – is probably not price sensitive, may even be a little infatuated by the sight of the young man, and can therefore be charged a premium price, turning a nice profit for the company. So that’s why they have good-looking ones, to encourage that part of the trade.”
“What’s all that stuff they do to them, dad” I’d asked, as I suppose I was only about twelve years old and wasn’t as sophisticated as I am now. “Tanning is obvious”, dad replied. “The slaves work naked as it’s kind of traditional, and, anyway, it’s better for them: if they wore Speedos, they’d be wet all day, and at least if they work naked they dry off between clients. They’re circumcised – that’s cutting off the loose skin on your dick, Steve – as most slaves are, and it’s almost a mark of a slave: if you’re naked with other guys it makes it easy to tell who’s a slave and who’s a free man. Tying-off is properly known as a vasectomy – look it up – but basically means that they’re not shooting live sperm, so there’s absolutely no risk of them making a woman pregnant: some women get so turned on by seeing a naked male around that they lose self control, even though he is a slave and not a proper man, and this way there are no consequences. They also say it makes the slave’s balls about five percent bigger, and I suppose that’s no bad thing as it adds to their look. And depilation – well that’s just removing all their body hair: haven’t you seen that their bodies are totally smooth? After all, you wouldn’t want there to be any risk of the slave’s pubic hair getting stuck in the pool filters or anything like that, would you?”
The next day when the pool slave came I remember staring at him as he worked – I’d been jerking off by then and so now I looked at the slave in more detail, seeing how his dick head was exposed all the time – covered except when I was hard – and noticing how his muscles were shown to good advantage as they were swathed in body hair like dad was, and I could see mine were going to be. I did wonder how he jerked off, though, without a foreskin, but I was too shy to ask.
Anyway, here I was with only a couple of months to go before college, and in spite of a lot of discussions with dad he absolutely would not budge in his opposition to any idea of buying me a personal slave. He simply wouldn’t see how difficult it would be for me not to be like all the other men in the frat, and even when I pointed this out he overruled me, pointing out that he had been in much the same position and it had not affected his popularity. He wouldn’t be swayed by my argument that in those days slavery was a much newer thing and fewer guys had personal slaves, so having to use a hired livery slave would not have been so unusual.
Things might have gone on like this until I received a letter one morning after dad had left for the office – yes, a real letter, not a facsimile of one over the net! Mrs Williams brought it in as I was eating my breakfast, and she looked almost as excited as I was as this was such an usual occurrence. I tore it open eagerly, and inside was a letter on that very heavy, stiff paper that only expensive firms of lawyers and accountants use, and folded inside that was some sort of cheque – yes, an actual paper one! It seems that my aunt Heloise, one of my mother’s sisters, who I had never met, had died and had left me the residue of her estate, and the cheque was the payment. It was, shall we say, an interesting sum – not enough to make a real difference as it certainly would not cover years at college, but a lot more than I would need to buy a new phone, or some clothes, or whatever. As I looked at it, it seemed almost as if some strange force was at work – here I was, fretting about not having a personal slave to go to college with, and now I had enough money to go and buy myself one. Not a very expensive one, to be sure, not one of those “model” ones you see in the magazines with perfect bodies and who have been trained in all sorts of special skills, but certainly enough to buy a slave that I would have no need to be ashamed of at college. You might wonder how I knew this, but in an effort to persuade dad to buy one for me I’d done a whole lot of research on the sites of all the dealers and was pretty well up on proper market prices (dad did at least approve of this, as he said you should never go into an argument without having done thorough and comprehensive research, and this was part of the reason why he was such a very successful lawyer).
After breakfast therefore I headed downtown and went into the bank to pay in my cheque – even though dad wouldn’t buy me a slave he didn’t stint me in other ways and on my sixteenth birthday he’d given me a car – not a big one, but a brand new little electric two-seater. I couldn’t do more than about 40 miles an hour, but for going to school and to the houses of my friends it was ideal. I’d tried to bargain with him for an older second-hand “proper” car instead, but he’d refused: “Firstly you’d go too fast and might injure or kill yourself, secondly in a big car there’d be too much temptation for you to get some girl or other pregnant on the back seat, and thirdly, do you think I’m made of money? It’s not the purchase price – although that’s bad enough – but I resent paying those enormous taxes and surcharges for non-electric cars.” When that argument failed I’d also suggested that he gave me a pony slave and light trap, as some of my buddies had – this was much cheaper than an electric car. Dad had simply said “No”, citing the lack of stable space, the potentially enormous vet’s bills, and the fact that ponies were known to be problems during school hours when they congregated at the gates waiting for their owners, and this had led to fines and penalties. “It’s not the money, Steve, but the principle”, he added. “I’m a lawyer, and I cannot be associated with law breaking of any kind.”
Even though it was a paper cheque, the bank keyed all the details in and told me almost immediately that my account was now in credit with the full amount. So I was ‘ready to go’, as they say, and I walked a couple of blocks to the town’s most prestigious slave dealer, a branch of the renowned Scabbard & Drass. I felt I would probably have to pay premium prices there, but, on the other hand, all their advertisements always boasted of their reputation for quality and they did offer a full ‘your money back if not completely satisfied’ guarantee. You need to take a lot of those kinds of claims with a pinch of salt, of course, but with dad being such a hot-shot lawyer I doubted that they’d want to argue if there was a problem, as ‘completely satisfied’ is something that he’d really be able to base a case around.
I’d only ever been into a slave dealers before when one of my buddies was going with his parents when they were looking into the possibility of buying him a slave to take to college, so I wasn’t entirely sure of the protocol – did you need to make an appointment for viewing, for example? But I needn’t have worried, as the moment I stepped through the doors as a slave opened them for me as I approached, a salesman came up, smiling and with his hand stretched out in greeting. When we’d been to buy my car the salesman there had almost ignored me in favour of addressing all his remarks to dad, and it had really pissed me off as it was going to be my car and I was the one who was going to make the decision, indeed so much so that we left the showroom and went to another. This salesman must have been well trained, though, as without any degree of condesension or anything he treated me as a serious prospect from the first moment. He asked me if I would like coffee “or something stronger” whilst we discussed my requirements, and led me to a small semi-private seating area where a pair of slaves – one male, one female, were waiting to attend to our needs. I ordered coffee, then decided to take charge of the conversation so that it was clear that I was the customer, and it was my needs that mattered.
“I’m looking for a slave”, I said, perhaps rather obviously. “I’m off to college in a couple of months and I need a servant, a slave who understands the finer points of keeping my clothes in good order, who can do simple research to help me with my assignments, and who can put together simple meals if I have a few buddies around to my room.”
“Of course, sir. Not at all an unusual requirement for gentlemen around here. Are you looking for a male, or a female?”
Well, that caught me off guard! I guess I’d been assuming that a slave would naturally be a male, but of course there was no reason for that. Admittedly I didn’t know if the frat house allowed females, but, actually, as I thought about it I reckoned I’d prefer a male if we were going to be living in relatively close proximity to each other, as guys get along together better, I think.
I told the salesman and then asked “And you will be eighteen, sir? And may I ask how tall you are?”
“Yes, eighteen. And six one. Why do you ask?”
“Ah, so you’re looking for a sixteen year old, no more that five foot ten, and slim build…?”
“Hey, wait a moment, not so fast….”
He smiled at me. “Oh, sorry, sir. I’m running ahead of you. I do apologise. It’s just that most owners, especially first-time owners, as I venture you are, sir, prefer a slave who is younger than them, and smaller. It gives you more of a psychological advantage over the slave, and, of course, if you do need to administer physical punishment it helps to have the slave smaller than you. And of course you can’t have a slave younger than sixteen as that’s the earliest you can be enslaved – and that can cause problems, I caution you, as there’s not a lot of time to do proper training between enslavement and time of first sale for the sixteen year olds.”
I nodded. It seemed to make sense. “Thank you for that advice. But I’m not particularly concerned about the physical thing – I can take care of myself, as I wrestle and box, and inI any case my frat brothers will be on hand if there’s a real problem. The only physical requirement is that he should be reasonably athletic and fit – I might want to use him as a training companion. And, actually, someone my own age wouldn’t be all that much of a problem – I can handle it….”
“Indeed, sir. I must also point out that a slave fitting the kind of specification you’re looking for will not be inexpensive…. Men in that age range, with athletic bodies, properly trained in the needs of looking after a gentleman, always fetch premium prices.”
“I’ve done some research, and that’s not necessarily a problem.”
He smiled. “Well there’s only one other question before I can organise for a selection for viewing, sir. What colour did you have in mind?”
Another question I hadn’t thought through. I’d assumed I’d have a white guy, like myself. It’s not that I’m prejudiced or anything, but it just seemed sort of more natural. The salesman saw me hesitate and said smoothly “Niggas are of course the least expensive, followed by the ‘spics and the yellas. Whiteys always fetch premium prices….”
“I’m sorry – ‘spics’?”
“Sorry, sir. It’s just the shorthand. In the literature they’re Hispanics – Mexican and so on. But none of this is absolute – some ‘spics can be paler than a lot of whiteys, especially if their owners decide they should be deeply tanned. And of course there are occasionally whiggas in the market – but the prices for them are very high….”
“White niggas, sir. All the characteristics of a typical nigga – big strong muscular body, typical nigga facial features, and extremely prominent well hung dick and balls…. But so pale they could pass for a whitey if it wasn’t for the facial features. A very exotic choice, of course, and they’re much sought after – but sadly, even if you wanted one, I can’t show you one today, sir, as we do not have one in stock.”
“I was rather planning on having a whitey…. But now you mention it, I suppose a ‘spic might do…..”
“Of course, sir. And what about body hair?”
“Yes, sir. A hairy slave can of course always be shaved if his owner’s preference is for smooth skin. But a naturally smooth slave can’t ever exhibit a manly thatch….” Fuck me, this was turning out to be a whole lot more complicated than I’d thought. I clearly hadn’t done the right type of research when I’d been looking at all that stuff to argue with dad – I’d been focussed on the prices, and not what I really wanted physically in the slave. “I don’t much care about the hair, one way or the other.”
“Very wise, sir. I can offer you more choice, but we always ask as so many owners either want to feel real manly hair against their bodies, or, conversely, can’t abide the thought of having anything but smooth skin pressed against them in bed…”
“Well that isn’t going to be a problem for me! The slave will sleep on a cot in my room.”
“Ah, sir, so many owners think that at the point of purchase, but once they have the slave home and he is always available…. It’s especially so with the younger type of slave you are looking for, sir.”
I glared at him. “I’m not a fag!”
“Indeed not, sir. But we’re discussing a slave here, and most owners generally consider that using a slave for sex is perfectly acceptable if their wives or sweethearts are not available. I expect that in your frat house with most college men being ‘studs’ they will almost certainly be indulging themselves..”
I nodded, and seeing what he took for my agreement the salesman continued “It can be quite important, of course, sir, in establishing control over the slave. Once you’ve had him collared or branded, and his SIN tattooed in the location you prefer, these young slaves should be pretty much certain that their life has changed irrevocably and that they are now your owned property. But most owners like to go one stage further and fuck the slave so that there’s absolutely no doubt who’s on top, who’s in charge.”
I think he saw a look of faint incredulity on my face as he added “And then, sir, in a frat house…. Won’t their be all those initiation ceremonies, and weekly entertainments, and so on? Most owners will send their slaves as proxies in that type of activity. Unless, of course you are planning to take part yourself….”
“I’ve told you I’m not a fag!”
“No-one is suggesting that frat men are, sir. But we all know that some of the things that go on to help with bonding can be a little, shall we say, homoerotic?”
I suppose he was right, but I was getting bored, and a little embarrassed by the turn the conversation was taking. “Look, enough of the talk. Can I actually see some of the stock, and then perhaps it will be easy to choose.”
“Certainly, sir. So let me recap: A whitey or paler ‘spic, probably not more than eighteen years old, size not particularly relevant, body hair unimportant, but must be fit and athletic?”
“That sounds like it!”
“Right, sir, if you’ll accompany me to one of the viewing rooms I’ll arrange for a selection of our stock to be brought in.” As he said this he got up and indicated that I should follow him out of the reception area. I was a bit disappointed, actually, as I’d rather supposed that I’d be taken on a tour of the warehouse and would be able to view the slaves in their cages: there’s something about a guy locked in a cage that I find rather sexy (I don’t know why, as I’m not a fag, but I guess I must have read some prison story or something when I was a kid, and it left a lasting impression on me).
The viewing room was a bit of a strange place – at once both comfortable and yet vaguely oppressive. There were comfortable seats for me and the salesman with a selection of soft drinks and snacks easily within reach. The lighting was not over bright, but was somehow cheerful and relaxing (I remembered reading that it was the practice to add pink to the lights so that naked skin looked better), the carpet was thick and luxurious, the air was fresh with an appealing ‘tang’ (I also remembered reading that they mix in some of the air from the slave pens so that there’s an undertone of male sweat, too faint to be detected consciously but sufficient for the receptors in the brain to notice and be stimulated (and I wondered if they also dosed it with male pheromones). It was comfortably warm – actually a little over-warm, probably to induce the slaves to sweat a little. There were a number of features which did speak to the purpose of the room, though – a low platform in front of our seats, presumably so that the slaves would be ‘on show’ (affecting both their perception of themselves, and us of them), a steel bar stretched across the ceiling from which a number of chains with cuffs on the end hung down, and to one side a set of stocks (or what I assumed to be stocks from what I’d seen on the ‘net) with holes for the neck and wrists, at such a height that anyone confined in them would be bent double.
The salesman and I made inconsequential conversation about college and so on until there was a sharp rap on the door, which opened to reveal one of the guards, who proceeded to usher in a collection of slaves. I say ‘guard’, but he wasn’t in a traditional kind of uniform or anything, I could have perhaps mistaken him for one of the slaves except for the fact that he wore tight jeans and a smart white crisply-pressed T-shirt whereas they were simply in shorts, and that from his belt hung a short whip, a cane, and an instrument which I assumed would be a slave prod as it had a small green light glowing on it presumably to indicate that it was ‘ready’.
They’d selected eight slaves and they all trooped to line up on the low platform, and then stood there with their hands neatly clasped behind their backs, and their heads bowed. “All our slaves are docile and obedient, sir”, the salesman told me. “There’s no danger, and even if one of them was to break his conditioning Jacob here would protect you as he is fully trained in techniques of unarmed combat, and has the necessary instruments to hand.” The guard nodded and smiled at me reassuringly.
“Feel free to approach and examine any of the slaves, sir. If there’s any one you want to see more of, tell him to strip – or would you prefer to see them all totally nude now?”
There was no need, actually – frankly I found the only man in the room who looked vaguely suitable for my purposes was Jacob, whose toned body and mature look was what I had in my mind’s eye as a suitable slave. The eight lined up in front of me were all unsuitable in one way or another – two of them looked like kids even though I knew they must be sixteen or would not be there, three of the older-looking ones were scrawny and underdeveloped, and the others all had peculiar looks: a squint, a big scar across the cheek, one with almost no jaw.
“These are not suitable. I don’t want a kid, and part of the specification was reasonably good looking. Only three of them are in any way suitable, and they’re all too thin and weedy….”
“Proper feeding, and some weeks of hard exercise would soon put on muscle, sir….”
“No! I want a slave ready for immediate use. I don’t want to be messing around with exercises and all that stuff….”
“We could do that for you, sir, so that the slave was ready for collection on your way to college….”
“…leaving me no time to get him kitted out, and used to my routines and requirements. No, these are useless – haven’t you got any others?”
“Sadly no, sir. Even with our large turnover Scabbard And Drass can have shortages. Every young man wants a slave much as you have described, sir, and in this pre-college period we simply do not have sufficient supply to satisfy demand – most young gentlemen stop by with their fathers the moment they have been accepted for college to make a selection and arrange for any necessary additional training or modifications….”
I blushed slightly, as it sounded a bit like this salesman guy was making some criticism about me being there by myself. “My father’s far too busy directing his people to waste time over something like this. And I had assumed that a reputable dealer would always have stock – if this shortage occurs every year, who on earth don’t you stockpile suitable slaves in advance?”
It was the salesman’s turn to appear a little discomfited now. “Well, the holding cost of the inventory, the….”
“Enough! I don’t want to hear excuses, especially ones relating to finance: it’s only a matter of adjusting the price. Now, what else have you got?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid, sir. Unless you want a nigga – there are some exceptionally fine-bodied ones who came in only a couple of days ago: they were labourers on a construction site that is near to completion, and their owner decided to sell them and buy more when his next contract needs them. They’re used to working hard, are ‘whip smart’ as we say, so they understand that any failure to give their all will result in painful punishment….”
“Not at all suitable! I’ve told you I want a whitey, and I need a willing slave, not some creature that’s cowed into submission.”
“Well the only things we could offer then, sir, would be a much older property. And our experience is that younger owners sir, with respect, can find them somewhat of a management challenge. We like delighted clients, sir, and we know from experience that slaves much older than their owners can lead to satisfaction issues….”
“Well not in my case – I relish challenges.”
“I’ll arrange for a selection to be brought in, sir…”
“No. I don’t want to waste time, and I’d prefer to take a look for myself – I’ll take a tour of the warehouse…”
“It’s most unusual, sir. I can easily select for you….”
“If you do not want me to take a look around, I’ll bid you goodbye as there are other dealers in the area…”
To his credit the salesman managed to keep a fixed smile in spite of his obvious irritation. “Of course, sir”, he said smoothly. Then “Jacob, take this stock back to the pens.”
The guard smiled at me again and I thought it was such a pity that he wasn’t on sale, although perhaps I’d find something equivalent in the warehouse, I thought.
Once outside the viewing rooms area and into the warehouse itself everything changed: the lush carpets gave way to a polished cement floor, the warm soothing lighting to harsh floodlights simply beamed down from the ceiling, and the invigorating air now seemed oppressive and there was a distinct smell of sweat, piss and disinfectant in the air. The slaves were housed in individual cages separated by wide corridors – each cage was about seven foot by seven foot I supposed, made entirely of steel bars stretching from floor to ceiling. They were simply furnished with a lavatory bowl in one corner and a sleeping pad running down one side – well, at least in some of the cages: in others the slave had rolled up the pad to make more space to sit in his cage. The salesman shouted “On your feet” as we progressed down the row, and the slaves got to their feet as we approached.
Scabbard And Drass evidently used the same uniform for all their stock, as both the males and females wore the shorts that the slaves who had been paraded in front of me had worn – the sexes were mixed up, and in wanting to look for a suitable male I had to skip over the females, and there were some pretty unpleasant sights, I can tell you! I know the ideal is a cute young slave girl with ‘pert’ breasts, and, in deed, there was the occasional one of these. But the majority of the females had breasts that were far from ‘pert’, and I really didn’t like the sight of all that flesh hanging down. Actually the men were not all that great, either: no real ‘studs’, just a collection of middle-aged guys who were looking faintly embarrassed at standing there almost naked.
“Most of these slaves are guilty of ‘white-collar’ crimes”, the salesman explained. “Cheating on their expenses, failing to pay taxes, stuff like that. They’re physically harmless….”
“And do not have the kind of toned bodies I want”, I added.
“Quite so, sir. Those are mostly to be found on the niggas – I told you about the construction crew, and we have more like that – and the ‘spics. They are in the adjacent warehouse….”
I was about to tell him to take me there to take a look as I was beginning to see that I might have to compromise on skin colour, when I heard a lot of shouting and swearing.
“So, this way, sir….”, the salesman said, a little too hastily, I thought.
“What’s that noise?”
“Nothing, sir, just an obstreperous slave who we have had problems with….”
I like a bit of a spirit in a man, so I said “Let me take a look…”
“Oh no, sir, he would be most unsuitable. He’s untrainable, and anyway, basically, he’s sold. He’s going to be shipped out to the mines, or, rather, he will be, later today, once he’s been gelded and stubbed. We’ve only just got the Court’s permission to do it, but now it’s come through our veterinarian will do it this afternoon and he’ll be shipped tonight.”
“I know what gelding is – and I guess that will quieten a slave down a bit – but what’s stubbing?”
“Oh… Well, it’s a kindness, really, to slaves who are going to work in the mines. Most of the seams nearer the working face are very narrow, so the slaves have to crawl along on their bellies to work. And being naked, they can damage their dicks and balls as they do so…. It’s painful, and clearly they can get bad infections starting. So stubbing – cutting off their dicks so there’s only a tiny stub left – removes the problem and the slave is able to work without worrying about damaging himself. We have to get a Court to agree to such extreme modifications to a slave, of course…”
“I thought an owner could do what he likes with his slaves…”
“Oh no, sir! We are after all a liberal society not given to gratuitous cruelty. Simple things like circumcision, branding, fitting rings, trimming the ears, removing the tongue, pulling teeth to fit a pony bit, cutting the vocal chords…. Any owner can order that of course. But anything more serious – amputation, blinding, docking… Requires a Court order. The SPO normally doesn’t object if the slave is being prepared for the mines, as he knows it’s in the slave’s best interests…”
“Slave Protection Official – an officer of the Court who puts the slave’s case.”
“You mean like a defence lawyer – he fights for his client…”
“Not quite. The SPO’s job is to help the Court ensure the law is obeyed. So the Court won’t order a docking, for example, until its satisfied it’s in the best interests of the slave. And the SPO can of course give that once he sees the slave is to become a miner. Most geldings are nodded through, too, as the SPO knows that a slave working around women might be tempted, and that wouldn’t be in his long-term best interests.”
“I see. And you say this is going to happen when the slave goes to Court?”
“No, sir. Of course not! What would be the point of the slave appearing in the Court? A slave is not a man, so he cannot appear before the Court any more than a dog could. No, we send the request over, the SPO approves it, the Court sanctions it, the paperwork comes back here, and then the veterinarian can get to work.”
“I’d like to see this slave – I guess he’s a low price, as these miners won’t be worth much?”
“Price is not everything, sir. It’s value for money that clients of Scabbard And Drass are looking for, and which we provide. This slave may have a low price but he will be extremely poor value for money as he will not be able to carry out all the work that a young gentleman like you needs, sir. As you can hear, he’s violent. And, in any case, he’s so much older than you – a most unsuitable situation….”
“I want to see him.”
The salesman gave a little shrug. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t invest my time in showing you low-priced unsuitable stock….”
“That’s all right. Get the guard to take me. If I’ve got any questions, I’ll come back to reception.”
I saw the guard smiling, and as the salesman stalked off he muttered to me “Arrogant bastard! We do all the work, and he gets all the commission on the sales.”
“He gets commission?”
“Sure. Look, sir, let me give you a bit of advice. There’s a minimum selling price for every slave here. He gets a few bucks if he sells you a slave for that. But above that, he gets twenty five percent of every dollar above that minimum. So he’s motivated to quote you outrageous prices, then he cuts you a deal which sounds good to you but is still way above the minimum….”
“I can see you’re a useful man to know, Jacob! But before we go on, tell me more about this slave making all that racket – is this stubbing really true, or was the salesman just saying that?”
“Sure it’s true. Think about it – if you were crawling along on your belly all day, never able to stand or even crouch, which is the way it is in the mines, I hear, you’d always be worrying about your dick and balls. And this boy’s papers have come back from the Court, so later on, he’ll no longer be a man…”
“Does he know that – is that why he’s making all this noise?”
“No. We think it’s kinder not to tell them until the vet has cut their dick off. He’s complaining as he says he’s been falsely enslaved. He’s a nice guy really, the kind of guy you’d want to have a few beers with in a bar – when he came in a week ago he told me all about it.”
“So what’s the story?”
“He was in the marines – in for about twelve years. Fought all over the world and of course when he was home on leave all he wanted to do was get laid…. Made the mistake of picking up and comprehensively fucking his CO’s daughter, and daddy didn’t want her marrying a grunt marine….”
“So? You said ‘falsely enslaved’….”
“Ah well, sir, everything I’ve said so far is fact. The rest is his story – he says that the CO was worried that if he threw the guy out of the marines, or even sentenced him to a year in the stockade for ‘inappropriate behaviour’, the daughter would simply wait for him as she knew he was an expert cocksman…. So the CO arranged for some explosives to go missing, and for the blame to fall on this guy…. And of course that’s an enslaveable offence as they want all the guys to be careful about stuff like that because of the risk of it getting to terrorists.”
“Do you believe him?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? He was hauled before a Court Martial, they found him guilty and enslaved him, and now here he is.”
“What about appeals and stuff… If he had a good lawyer, like my dad…”
“Sir, he was sentenced and enslaved. He left the Court Martial as a slave. There’s no appeal – a slave has no rights, does he? So how can a slave appeal?”
“Well I’d still like to take a look – I don’t think I’ve seen a guy who calls himself an ‘expert cocksman’ before!”
Jacob grinned at me. “So you want him strung up so you can do a detailed examination of the relevant parts, do you?”
I smiled back. “You’d make a good salesman, Jacob. You seem to know what the customer wants. But no, just take me and show me him in the cage…”
“Sorry, sir. I can’t do that. He’s in the special “security section” and only guards are allowed in.” He looked a bit embarrassed and went on “It’s called that, but actually it’s for all the slaves we don’t want the customers to see – the old ones, the very fat ones, those with missing limbs, or recovering from stubbing… This guy’s a bit of an exception, as he really does need the extra security. But I can take him back to the viewing room for you – it’s likely to be messy getting him there – we’ll have to prod him until he’s almost senseless, then cuff him and drag him to the viewing room….. Then prod him again to get him up on display…. I’m sorry, sir, but Scabbard’s don’t allow clients to see us using the prods… So apart from the fact that seeing all the other slaves in the “security section” would be a real turn-off for you, that’s another reason why I can’t do it. So if you’ll go back to reception and have a coffee or a soda or something, then go back to the viewing room in, say, fifteen minutes…?”
I didn’t want to, as I thought it would be good to see how a strong controlling slave handler like Jakob actually dealt with a slave, but I didn’t seem to have a choice, so I retraced my steps and went back to the reception area. I was surprised to see my buddy Bobby sitting there leaving through the back copies of “Modern Slavery”, and he seemed equally surprised to see me.
“What gives, Steve?”
“…same to you, Bobby.”
“I’m here to look for a replacement for Rastus. Mom and dad were so pleased with my grades that they said I could have a whitey to take to college. So Rastus is out the back being valued, then when I find out what he’s worth I’m going to pick me a nice whitey… But what about you, Steve? I always thought your old man was dead against slavery.”
“No, he’s not. He’s just not convinced that owning slaves, rather than renting them for specific tasks, makes financial sense. And although he’s a lawyer he always said the law is mostly about business, and he’s always pouring over spreadsheets and stuff and working on finance, so I guess he knows what he’s talking about.”
“So you’re here to rent? I didn’t think good old S & D did that.”
“No.” I felt uncomfortable having to ‘confess’, even to a buddy. “It’s just that I’ve got some money of my own, and I want to take a slave of my own to college, just like you. So I’m here to buy a whitey too.”
“Won’t your dad be cross?”
“Probably. No, definitely. But I’m eighteen soon, and it’s time he knew I was going to make my own decisions.”
“Fuck me, Steve, if I did anything like that, my dad would take a slave cane to my ass!”
“Yes, but he owns a construction company, and I guess that makes him a bit ‘physical’. Dad’s a lawyer, and he doesn’t do stuff like that…”
“…you hope! Defying him and spending a lot on a slave – a real heap of money, if you’re getting a whitey – it’s enough to make any father really mad.”
I felt uncomfortable about this whole conversation as there was some element of truth, possibly, in what Bobby was saying. I hadn’t really defied dad in anything since I was about fourteen, but then he had actually taken one of Mrs Williams’s wooden spoons and spanked my bare ass with it. I remember it to this day – not just the pain, but the humiliation as I felt my pubes scraping across dad’s bare legs as he beat me. I was saved from continuing this conversation though as at that moment the PA muttered, discretely “Mr Steve Masters….Your property is waiting in viewing room 16, at your convenience.”