A kinky story written by Pete Brown.
Chapter 5 of 30 –> here you find the other chapters of the story
Illustration by Theo Blaze
“So, are we going to race again, now that you’re not handicapped by those shorts?” Reb demanded. “…or are you now going to say that it would be unfair and you’d probably lose because of the drag through the water caused by that ‘skin of yours?”
I could tell he was mocking me as he knew he would certainly win because of his greater endurance, and I only had myself to blame by arrogantly believing that I could swim faster than him just because he was an older guy. But what was I to do now? I didn’t want to lose face by admitting he was best and not racing, or by racing and losing. So I tied bluster, instead. “How dare you! Give me my shorts back, you fucking slave!”, I snapped.
Reb took a couple of steps towards the pool edge, hauled himself out to sit there, held my shorts out towards me, and taunted “Come and get them, if you dare, …sir.” Again, the way he said ‘sir’ showed he was deliberately being insubordinate. Stupidly I lunged towards him tying to grab my shorts, and all Reb did was raise his arm so they were way up out of my reach as he sat above me. I jumped to try to grab them, and of course he simply moved his arm, and I was now so pissed off that I jumped again, and again. Then I misjudged it, and sort of fell into Reb.
Our naked bodies were together for a few instants, and then my belly slid over his naked dick as I slipped down into the water. I regained my balance as best I could, but when I stood upright I realised to my horror that I’d started to spring a boner. I tried to hide my embarrassment by shouting very angrily “Stop that, and give me my fucking shorts! I’ll cane you good and hard later….”
“Can’t take a bit of hazing?” Reb responded, smiling all over his face. “You’re like a lot of the young guys who came in as new recruits – can’t take a joke or a bit of manly fun. How’s it going to be at college, in that fancy frat, …sir?”
“Well we’ll soon know, as one of the reasons for having a slave is that it’s he who gets hazed! I don’t expect you’ll find it funny then, as I gather some of the stuff is really severe and humiliating now. And give me my shorts – I’ve got to shower and then go and collect my dad from the station.”
Reb deliberately stared at my dick so that he knew that I could see him doing it, and this made me start to blush. “Give me my fucking shorts” I now screamed at him, angry at my reactions.
Reb held them out to me and this time I could tell he was doing it properly, and I took them. But then what? It’s really hard to pull stuff like that on when you’re standing in the pool, so I had no choice but to go over to the edge and haul myself out – making my hard dick wave around, of course. And pulling shorts on over an erection isn’t easy and makes you look stupid, too. Reb seemed to think the whole thing was funny, though, and finally, as he stood up, idly scratched at his balls as if he as totally alone, he came and stood next to me and told me “Actually, sir, you’re not a bad swimmer – it’s just you go for speed, not endurance. I think I said before that it’s a problem with young guys – and not only with swimming, but with sex: always racing to get to the finish. I could give you a few tips if you like….”
What the fuck did he mean by that? Was he offering to teach me about sex, or something? I could hardly admit that I’d never done it, could I? So I decided to ignore the second meaning and said, calmly, now “I want to win proper races, not demonstrate I‘m some macho hero who can hold out….”
Re shrugged in that way I was beginning to see he had. “Well, the offer’s open….”
“You don’t ‘offer’. You’re a fucking slave. You do whatever I tell you, and if I want advice I’ll get it from my coach, not from a slave. Now, I need to shower.”
I stalked off towards the pool house, and Reb followed me. Inside I turned on the shower and then, seeing Reb looking at me, thought that I’d shower in my swimming shorts. But then I remembered that at school we used to call the guys who didn’t get naked in the showers wimps, and taunted them as we said they must have small dicks. So I pushed my shorts down and stood under the hot water.
It’s a kind of communal shower in the pool house – not a big one like at school, but room for two or three people. We never used it like that as there were never a lot of people swimming and it was easy for me to wait whilst dad showered, and dad used to joke that it never would be properly used until I brought a girl back and wanted to get my hands all over her – fat chance in today’s social climate! But now Reb stepped in and came and stood next to me, and asked me to hand him the soap – soap that a few moments ago had been around my pubes!
“Want me to do your back”, he asked casually. “We always helped our buddies out in the service, as otherwise the smell of the chlorine hangs around.”
Well I didn’t want his hands on me, but I also didn’t want to appear as if I was scared or anything, so I muttered “Thanks”, and turned around to let him do it. Well I don’t know what he and his buddies did, but this was more than just washing the hard-to-get-at bits in the middle of my back – he started at my shoulders, then rubbed all down my spine, and even brushed his hands lightly over my butt. I felt myself starting to bone up as I remembered how I had ‘inspected’ Reb’s body at Scabbard And Drass – my hands had been all over his back just like this, and I think my body was remembering how it felt when triggered by his actions.
“Your turn now”, Reb called above the noise of the water, and I realised he was expecting me to do the same for him. Well that shouldn’t have been a problem, except that I’d need to turn around – and he’d see my erection. I desperately tried to will it to go down, but that never works, does it? In fact I reckon the harder you try, the worse it gets. But I couldn’t stand there and do nothing, so I thought I’d brazen it out and pretend not to notice, and turned and took the soap from him. I just knew he saw it, though – well with a big dick like mine it’s hard to avoid, especially when you’re next to another guy in a small shower.
I started to wash his back and now I really was in trouble as this was so much like the inspection I’d done earlier. I couldn’t resist not just running my soapy hands over his back: t began to slide my hands down his sides, letting my fingers feel his rib bones and my thumbs press into his spine. And I did his butt, too – I feel sure the stripes across his white skin were slightly raised, and it had never occurred to me before that when you cane a guy you might not only see the effects, but feel them,.
“Hey”, Reb called out. “You were supposed to be helping me get the chlorine off, not starting that fucking inspection you did this morning all over again. Is that why you boned up…., sir?”
There it was again – that insolent way he used the ‘sir’. And he ad his buddies may have joked about boning up, but I was acutely embarrassed, and was now angry that he’d mentioned it.
“If I want to inspect you again, I will. Your body belongs to me, remember? In fact I didn’t finish properly this morning….” As I said this, I turned off the water so it went quiet except for the dripping of the shower head. “Face the wall. Put your hands flat on it. Move your feet back, and spread them.”
As Reb slowly obeyed, taking the weight of his body on his arms and causing the muscles in his back to flex, I realised I’d been hot-headed and overly hasty again. Here I was now, not able to hide my dick as I had this morning, but stark naked and boned up. But I couldn’t back down, could I? “Keep facing the wall!” I snapped as I saw him start to turn his head to see what was going on. “In fact there’s part of the inspection I didn’t do properly this morning, so now you mention it, I think I will.”
I slid my hands down the muscles of his back again, and this time I really felt the powerful muscles of his butt, grasping them with my hands and digging my fingers in as hard as I could so that I could feel the sheer power there. Then quite slowly and deliberately I started to move a finger down his crack, as I had done before – but this time it felt kind of ‘ordinary’ – simply wet from the shower, not that different kind of wetness you get from male sweat: it was a bit disappointing, really. When my finger touched his actual pucker Reb flinched slightly. “Did your buddies go up there”, I asked.
“No way! We were marines….”
I leaned close to him so I could say quietly “So fucking what? You hear all kinds of stories about what goes on in barracks. So didn’t you ever let one of your special buddies fuck you….? He shuffled uneasily, and I went on, determined to show him I was a man of the world,. I leaned even closer, really close, to his ear and whispered “Or perhaps it was the other way around, Reb? That dick of yours up a buddy? They said you were always chasing women, and I guess a male asshole isn’t that different from a bitch’s…. so did you never try it, Reb?”
He suddenly threw himself upright, and spun around. He was angry: “Listen, I’m not a fag! And neither were any of my buddies….” He stopped, as we both realised that as he’d moved so violently his body had brushed right against mine, and my erect dick had kind of ‘snagged’ on his tackle as he turned. I stood there, and felt my face start to glow bright red. And at the same time I knew my dick was now straining upwards, even harder than it had been before, almost painfully so – why the fuck has that momentary touch of his skin against my dick head caused that to happen? Reb deliberately stared at my dick and could clearly see my total embarrassment. He sneered “But what about you, sir? You look like the kind of guy whose dick knows what it’s about….”
I decided I wasn’t going to answer – of course I had never had sex with a guy; but I hadn’t done it with a girl, either. So should I lie about my experience, or admit to him that I was a virgin? If I lied I imagined he’d say some more stuff about fucking bitches, and I’d probably be found out. So I decided that the only way to get out of this was to simply stop it, so I stalked out of the shower, picked up one of the fluffy white towels, and started to towel off. Reb came over, and went to do the same.
“Wait until I’ve finished, then you get this towel”, I told him.
“There’s plenty here…”, he grunted.
“I said to wait! You’re my slave, and slaves don’t get fresh linen. A lot of men have stupid prejudices about using another guy’s towel – I can’t imagine why, as I’ve showered so my body is clean and it’s only mopping up the shower water!”
He scowled at me, and then deliberately stood watching me as I dried myself – I had to wipe all over my stiff dick (although it was subsiding a bit), but to make him uncomfortable in turn I spent a lot of time pulling the towel up and down my ass! Finally I tossed the damp towel at him and said “Get a move on”, as I pulled on my polo and chinos.
Reb went to put my boxers on again, but that was stupid. “They’re all sweaty after what you’ve been through, and your body’s clean now. So stay naked. We’ll go up to my room and I’ll find you some stuff until we go to the slave shop tomorrow.”
“Sir, what about Mrs Williams? If we’re going through the house…?”
“I reckon she’d like to see a hard slave body like yours. But then again, perhaps not. Wrap that towel around you.”
Reb did as I told him, but it was one of those really big towels – they call them bath sheets, I think – and I always reckon guys look stupid when they wrap themselves in one of those as the thing reaches almost down to the floor. So I picked up another, clean, towel, and tossed it at him. “Here, use this instead.”
We only have two kinds of towel in the pool house, it seems – the big sheets, and ordinary hand towels. So Reb tried to drape the thing I’d given him around him, but it really only partially concealed him – almost all his right thigh and was bare, and it was only just long enough to hang around his waist and reach down to the tip of his dick: it was really sexy, actually, to see such a big hunk of a man so scantily covered. He stood there, tugging forlornly at the thing, and went to say something to me – presumably to ask for the sheet instead – but I pre-empted him. “That will keep you halfway decent for Mrs Williams.”
“But it’s fucking humiliating, sir! I’ve got to clutch at it to hold it on, and I reckon…”
“If you think it’s humiliating, try the other option – stay naked! Now, come on….”, I snapped, secretly pleased that he was not comfortable with the way he was. I didn’t give him time to reply and turned and walked out, along the path and towards the big French doors that lead in to the formal drawing room. I deliberately didn’t look back to make sure he was following me as I’ve told you it’s part of an owner’s training of a new slave to get the slave to see that his owner expects automatic obedience.
When we got to the big heavy sliding doors I stood and waited. “I care about the planet”, I said, “So I don’t use the electric openers. I usually heave the door open myself, but that’s one of the kinds of things a slave does. So open the door for me.”
Reb came up and pulled on the handle, but, as I’ve said, they’re really heavy: triple-glazed, fifteen feet long, plate glass… Reb needed to get both hands on the handle and really heave. And as he did so, as I’d been hoping, the insecure little towel slipped off his hips and he stood there naked again – it would do him good to know that as a slave obeying my orders was more important than his own modesty.
I stepped into the drawing room and thought about ordering Reb to use the slave entrance through the kitchen, but decided it would be good for him to really appreciate just what a great house we had. So I motioned for him to come in, then enjoyed watching his muscles strain and flex as he pulled the heavy door closed behind him. He stood there fiddling with his towel again then, trying to make it more secure, and I smiled inwardly as I knew it was futile. I could see his toes wriggling in the deep pile of the drawing room carpet, and I’d swear that his nips were bigger as his skin reacted to the chilled air of the air-conditioning – dad keeps the drawing room at about sixty, too cold to sit in comfortably, so we light the fire when we’re in there – he wants to show our guests that he can easily afford the utility bills, I think. The though also struck me that for Reb it would be very strange – it’s one thing to be nearly naked with another guy around the pool, and in the showers, and quite another to be standing there in a luxurious room, starting to chill from the cold, with the other guy properly dressed.
I considered continuing to savour the moment by sitting there and reading a magazine or something whilst Reb shivered, but there were other things to do (and I made a mental note that it was an experience he would certainly have at some time in the near future). So I strode across the vast room and out into the hall. I was just about to start up the left hand side of the big double staircase (we always seemed to go up on the left stairs, and come down on the ones on the right wall, if we didn’t use the elevator), when Mrs Williams popped out of the kitchen.
“Your dad’s office called – apparently he had a big breakthrough in the case he’s running and the other side collapsed and gave in. So he’s decided to leave the office early, as he’s been there so very late recently – he’s catching the four thirty from Grand Central. The PA said that if you were busy he would order a cab to be waiting for Mr Masters, but I told him that you were around and that you’d want to do it yourself, as normal.”
“Thanks, Mrs Williams. You’re right, as usual. You know us so well. Of course I want to collect dad.” And I did want to, really want to – the journey to and from the station isn’t long, but quite often it’s the only real time that dad and I spend together. I used to get up really early, drop him off at the station, then come back for breakfast before going to High School, so you can tell how keen I was to be with dad: how many high school students willingly get up early? But not today! I’d been hoping that dad would arrive home at his regular late hour – he usually didn’t catch a train much before eight, and then he was tired out. So not only would I have had more time to think about what I was going to tell him about buying a slave, but he’s also be less inclined to shout and argue as he’d want dinner. It looked as if things were not going well for me.
I started to go up the stairs again when I noticed that Mrs Williams was staring at Reb. “He’s a handsome brute, isn’t he?” I said casually – she and I had sometimes stood in the kitchen window watching the contractor slaves mow the lawns and so on, and I’d learned that she had a keen eye for the attributes of slaves. “I reckon I got a good buy.”
As I said this, I went and stood by Reb, who was still clutching at the ends of his towel around his hips, seemingly terrified it would slip off again. “Do you want to take a proper look at him?” I reached out and grabbed at the edge of the towel where it was exposing his thigh, and pretended to give a little tug at it. I was gratified to see how Reb’s hand tightened his grip on the towel as he was so scared of exposing himself.
“Oh no, Steve. I think men look better when all their parts are not on view – it gives me something to think about.. But I agree with you – from what I can see of him he is pretty special. I like the way he’s got such a flat belly, and the ‘V’ of his torso forms such strong lines downwards to his tackle….”
“You wouldn’t have been appreciating that as much, Mrs Williams, if I hadn’t had him clipped and trimmed – all that area was almost like a forest and he couldn’t really wear anything very low-slung.”
I could see Reb flushing with embarrassment now as we talked about him like this, and I decided to add to his humiliation by continuing “Of course you can see that he used to wear shorts and stuff – look at the tan line, so high up. And his butt is as white as the towel. But I’m going to have him tanned evenly all over, so if I want him in a G-string or anything, there won’t be that unpleasant contrast….”
“You must do as you thing fit, Steve. Personally, I like to see a bit of contrast between the ‘public’ parts of a man and the ‘pubic’ parts, as you might say. It makes me think I’m getting something special, something that only I get to enjoy if I do get to see the entire man. Still, perhaps I’m being old fashioned!” She gave a little laugh as she said this, and went on “But I mustn’t stop here chattering – even though he’s very easy on the eye – as I’m in the middle of preparing dinner, and as your father will be early…. Any idea what time I should serve it? Perhaps you’d like the usual time, as you and your father will have a lot to talk about?”
“Oh, no…. About an hour after he gets home? There’s nothing special we need to discuss…
“As you said, Steve, I know you and your father well. I’d think there would be a lot to discuss when you tell him about buying Reb here! Hasn’t he always said that owning slaves is a distraction as they have to be looked after and monitored, that it’s a waste of capital that could be properly invested, that….”
“Enough! There’s no need for you to go through all the arguments that dad will use, Mrs Williams. It’s not going to be a problem as dad needs to understand that I’m a man now, a man who’s capable of making his own decisions..”
“Well let’s hope your father sees it that way, Steve – your eighteenth birthday is still a few weeks away….”
“Thanks, Mrs Williams…. Didn’t you say the dinner needed preparing….? I bounded up the stairs as I said this, to shut her up as I knew dad would take that line, too. Fuck me, this could be difficult – he might, as I’ve told you, even still consider me to be a ‘kid’ to the extent of spanking me – or at least trying to! I was so intent in running up to stop the conversation that I’d quite forgotten that I’d intended to make Reb go up in front of me – I was wondering what his ass and dick and balls would look like up under the bottom hem of the towel. I remembered that I’d seen a TV programme a week or so ago about ‘the sixties’ in ‘swinging London’ and how young women had stopped using the upper deck of the buses as their miniskirts were so short that they thought men would be looking up them on the stairs. This thought had hung around and I’d been looking forward to kind of ‘testing’ it on Reb, to see if it was true or just another of those old wives’ tales. Still, I could always do that another day – it’s one of the advantages of having control of a man like Reb.
I continued my training of Reb as I stopped and waited outside the doors of my bedroom so that he could open them for me. I usually only open one side but Reb threw both of them wide as if he was a bit pissed off at having to do it. Even though there was plenty of room for us both to enter, therefore, I deliberately brushed against him so that the towel fell off. He bent down to pick it up and I told him to leave it – Mrs Williams never came into my room, so there was no reason why he should cover himself.
He stood there for a few seconds taking it all in – well, I have got a pretty good room, I suppose. There are big windows looking down over the grounds, a huge bed, a couple of couches for me to relax on, my desk with it’s communications, a big 3-D TV, and all the other stuff you’d expect in the suite of a wealthy young man. The bathroom’s through a door to the right, and it’s got a proper walk-in shower and a bath, and plenty of space – that’s what money ultimately buys you in a place, I think – space. I was going to go straight over to the wardrobes and find Reb some stuff to wear, but to my annoyance he went over to one of the couches, threw himself down on it, picked up the TV remote and started fiddling with it.
The TV flashed on, and to my horror I saw that it was showing the porn film I’d downloaded the previous evening. Look, when I accessed the electronic programme guide it had looked like regular porn – a young, lean bloke with a big dick and a bitch with big tits soon got down to business: there might have been some element of wish fulfilment in it as the guy was probably only a couple of years older than me, and his body was not unlike mine; and the bitch was the sort I usually fancied, and she’d given the guy a really good sucking before he threw her down onto the bed and thrust into her. I’d been sitting there playing with my dick as I watched, but then the bedroom door in the movie had opened and another guy came in – an older, bigger guy. He’d pulled the young guy off the bitch, then stripped off his clothes and began to fuck her. The young guy, instead of standing there and watching, had kind of joined in – he and the older guy had played around a bit and they got both their dicks into the bitch, and as they stood close together, their arms intertwined to hold themselves steady, they’d started to kiss – kiss passionately, tongues and all! They soon pulled out of the bitch and had proceeded to almost ignore her as they rolled around on the bed together, and I’d just got to the point where the older guy, having had the younger one suck him off, was about to start fucking him, when I’d had to go to the station.
It was these scenes that Reb was now watching, and he looked up at me, as if he was sorry for me. “So, you like this stuff, do you? Is that why you bought me – because you’re a fag and you want a big older guy to dominate you? Am I supposed to fuck you, then?” He was stroking his dick as he said this, and it was rock hard. I could see the angry scars of the ‘skinning on the shaft. He got to his feet, and took a step towards me, holding his dick in his hand and continuing to stroke it.
“No. I’m not like that…. That film’s a mistake, it’s proper porn really….”
“Sure. Proper porn, proper porn where two guys are messing around with each other…
Proper porn, for fags!”
He was standing so close to me now that I couldn’t help seeing all the tiny details of his body – it’s surprising, isn’t it, how at times of stress your brain can focus down on to one trivial thing? – I was fascinated by the little ring of dots around the edge of his dark brown aureole. He saw me, and reached up wit his other hand and sort of outlined his tit between his thumb and forefinger. “So tits turn you on, do they….. Sir?”
“On bitches, yes!” I reached for the remote, intending to go back towards the front and show him the bitch, but I hit the wrong button and it went into fast play forwards – as we stood there, the screen flashed the frantic movements of the old guy’s butt as he pumped up and down on top of the young guy, then the next moment the positions were reversed, and the young guy had the older ones ankles around his neck as he thrust deep up his ass.
“Ah, turn and turn about, eh…. Sir? They both seem to be enjoying it, don’t they?”
“No! I’m not a fag.”
Reb smiled that big, lazy grin of his. “Well I’ll believe you for now, sir. Thousands wouldn’t, having seen what you watch on TV.” As I took a step backwards to get away from him he stared down at my crotch. I knew I was hopelessly erect, and that the front of my chinos were tenting out. “I suppose you need to piss then, sir? That’s a piss hard-on down there?” He smiled again.
Blushing scarlet now, and very confused, I went over towards the closets. “We need to find some clothes for you….”, and as I regained a little of my composure I snapped “And stop playing with your dick! The scar’s still forming, and you’re not supposed to do stuff like that for a couple of days, that guy Jacob said.”
“Easier said than done, sir” – there was that easy smile again, as if Reb was completely at ease with talking about stuff like this. Even with my best buddy Bobby we couldn’t do this.
I found him a pair of those grey ‘knitted’ exercise shorts from last season – the fashion then had been to have them low-slung as you were supposed to show the waist band of your expensive underwear out of the top – and threw them at him and told him too put them on. He stood there tugging at them, trying to get them to go higher, but with his body being a couple of inches bigger than mine, they were very low indeed and his ‘V’ down towards his pubes was really emphasised, although it was a pity about his tan line.
“Aren’t I meant to have underwear?”, he asked as he gave up the struggle to get the waistband to go higher, and when he saw me shaking my head he added “..or even a jock?”
There was one thing wrong with the shorts, though, and I remembered something Jacob had told me. So I ordered him to take them off – which he did, looking pleased as I think he thought that I’d changed my mind – and I took them into the bathroom and used my nail scissors to cut about eight inches off the legs. As free men’s shorts they’d come down to just above the knee, but now they were very short indeed and when I told Reb to put them back on again (and countered his objections with a “or stay naked, then”) they only reached down to just below his dick. They were perfectly respectable wen he was standing there, but I wondered what it would look like when he sat down.
I then gave him one of my athletics vests, but when it was stretched tight over his torso I though it kind of looked wrong as there was no ‘movement’, and, anyway, the dark yellow and dark green of the school’s colours were all wrong for a slave to be wearing indoors. So I ordered him to take it off, and got that exciting glimpse of his ribs and pits as he peeled the thing up over his head – in the locker room I always looked out for the other guys taking their Ts and stuff off like that, as when it goes over their heads you can take a good hard look at their torso without them seeing you do it. The only other thing that I could find was an ordinary plain white T which would contrast well with his tan, but before I gave it to him I used my scissors to slice off the whole of the right sleeve and some of the shoulder. When he pulled it on the asymmetric nature of the thing drew your eyes to his bare shoulder and upper arm, so that the livid red of his healing brand was emphasised.
He stood there looking at himself in the mirror, and was scowling slightly. “You look good”, I told him, “Perhaps I won’t go to the expense of slave clothes – we’ll sort out some more of my stuff and I’ll adjust it: the rough edges make you look kind of rugged, and sexy. Mind you, the sooner we get rid of that white skin, the better – it looks kind of stupid on your legs now you’re wearing proper ‘slave shorts’.”
I looked at my watch and went on “In fact I need to go off and collect dad now. Go out to the pool and strip off and start to tan… All over! And when the sun’s gone down, go in through the kitchen and ask Mrs Williams to show you the slave staircase to get you back up here. Then wait here for me until I call and tell you it’s dinner time. Oh… And when you are back here, you can watch that video, if you want…. Or at least the first part, and you’ll see what I mean.”
As I turned to go, he asked quietly “Don’t I get any trainers or anything?”
“You’ve got big feet, and I don’t think my old ones will fit. Anyway, I think bare feet on a slave look good – it kind of emphasises your status.”
When I got to the station there was the usual chaos as there was never enough parking space. When dad had bought me the car and I’d started to take him (he used a taxi service before) he was really annoyed about the fact that we ended up a long way from the entrance. He complained to the station staff, who basically ignored him – never a good thing to do with dad! He got his people working away, and found some sort of obscure city ordinance that said animals were not allowed in the station forecourt. When the station staff still ignored him, he bought a case against the city as he said he had been ‘affronted’ by the animals when he went to and from his train. They’d defended themselves – with public money, of course, which annoyed dad even more as he was paying very high city taxes – and his people (dad couldn’t waste his time appearing in person, obviously) countered their arguments, that there were no animals there, by finding several obscure precedents that clearly showed that slaves were classified as ‘animals’ and could not therefore be allowed to stand in the forecourt in their traps.
Things had slipped a little since then and some owners did now expect their ponies to be waiting outside the station doors, but these were mostly the very big, very expensive “four wheelers” pulled by a team of ponies, and not the simple one-slave two-wheeler sort. Dad had had the thing looked into, and had told me that the owners thought it was amusing, and simply paid the fines on those occasions when the police ticketed them. Still, it did mean that when we drove up, if there were no spaces and one of the ponies from the small traps recognised up, he’d pull out and leave the space for us. Tonight, though, most of the spaces were occupied by cars or the big four wheelers, and there was only one space with a two-wheeler in it – I drove parallel to it, and honked my horn, but the pony paid no attention.
The train was almost due and I like to be on the platform to greet dad, so I got out and went and commanded the slave to move. He must have been new as he didn’t know the rules, and at first he didn’t understand what I was saying – and then I realised he was probably not a native English speaker, so I told him again, in simple English, to fuck off and make way for a free man. I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him as he dragged his trap away, though. He was some sort of Scandinavian, I reckon, as he had that rich honey-coloured tan all over him, and very blond hair – well, all the hair that I could see: on his head his owner had grown it long so it flopped kind of agreeably over his forehead, and was clearly going to be a mane down the back of his neck in due course. But everywhere else he had been shaved – totally shaved. He was wearing the smallest pony pouch I’d ever seen and it was almost transparent: it started just on top of his dick, and his big dick and massive balls strained at it and were almost bulging out of the sides – I suppose they could get away with it as he had no pubes. To emphasise his colouring the thin silk of the pouch was held by a really fine golden chain; that must only have been prevented from falling off totally only by the fact that it could not get past the bulge of his dick – but I did wonder how it must feel to have such a thin chain cutting into your ass as it went down underneath to come up through his ass crack! What the fuck could a guy like that have done to be enslaved, I wondered. And how must he feel to be on show like that? Frankly, it would be less humiliating to be nude, I reckon, as the way he was ‘dressed’ was simply designed to draw attention to him. But the big problem was his back and his butt – they were criss-crossed with scars, and scars of various ages ranging from old ones to new ones which had hardly scabbed over as they were leeching blood. Clearly his owner whipped him, and whipped him with a proper whip not one of the light ones you use to ‘encourage’ a pony.
What a waste, I thought, to damage such a superb animal – dad would say that the owner must be off his head, to lower the capital value like that as his resale value must be almost nothing. Still, he was a fine animal in every other respect – I particularly admired the long thighs that are so desirable in a pony as they give him both speed and stamina, and the fact that he had been well trained, as far as I could see: even though I was shouting at him he stood there with his head bowed, his legs at the regulation foot apart, and his hands gripping the shafts (I do like to see ponies holding the shafts, and not being manacled to them because they cannot be trusted). But as I looked I saw that the pony was held there in an even more diabolical way – they’d had holes drilled through the palms of his hands, holes that were lined with ‘sleepers’ rather like you see with pierced ears, and these holes were slipped over bolts coming up from the shafts, and a nut screwed down so he could not move his hands at all! Even with manacles a pony can move his hands a little, but this guy had absolutely no freedom whatsoever – he’d have to stay locked to the shafts until someone freed the nuts.
I was starting to feel sorry for the pony standing totally helplessly there, as he must be hurting from the whip lashes, and with his hands held rigidly he couldn’t even brush away the flies which were clustering on the blood on back. “Please, sir….”, he muttered in a very strong accent “If I not here, my master whip me.”
Well, what was I to do? I didn’t want dad to have to walk to the car, and anyway the train was almost due as the bell on the crossing gate was clanking. I reasoned that the pony’s owner whipped him anyway, so told him again to fuck off out of my way. After all, I thought, he must have done something wrong to get enslaved in the first place, so I shouldn’t have too much sympathy for him – criminals need to know that the law will punish them.
I just got on to the platform in time and raced along to where the executive coach stops. The platform was not as busy as it often was when I was there as it was still relatively early, but there was the usual cluster of slaves at the far end where the slave wagon stopped, and some free people waiting by the first, second and third class areas – it’s one of the things that dad’s mean about, actually: if I want to go into the city (unless I’m with him) he won’t let me pay the hefty premium for the executive coach, and I have to go first class: dad says it’s inappropriate for a young guy to be in ‘executive’ as it devalues the experience for all the other riders like him who have earned the right to be there.
There were a couple of slaves waiting near me for their owners, and I thought one of them had a particularly neat-looking uniform: dark green tights emerging from mid-calf soft black leather boots, a thick black leather belt, and a sky blue top, all topped off with a jaunty little peaked cap to match the blue of his shirt. The owner was clearly very proud of his slave’s body as he’d given the guy extremely tight clothes – they looked as if they were from some sort of stretch fabric as they were moulded so close to his body. But then the slave turned towards me and something moved in his crotch area. I took another look and realised that it was his dick moving as the slave was entirely naked, and that these ‘clothes’ were in fact body paint! All of it – except the cap, that is! I wondered how Reb would feel if I decided to have him painted like that, but then decided that it was impracticable as for the effect to work as a stunning piece of trompe l’oeil the slave’s body had to be shaved totally smooth, and one of the reasons I liked looking at Reb was the pleasant thatch of hair on him.
I smiled inwardly to myself at having made the mistake about the slave, as there had been an error involving me some moths before. I’d been waiting on the platform for dad when an old guy – expensively dressed as he looked as if he belonged in the executive area – had come up and casually reached out and felt the bulge in the front of my chinos. I shouted out
for him to stop that, and he’d instantly reacted and slapped my face – hard – shouting at me to “Show some respect, boy”. I then realised that he’s used ‘boy’ in the sense of speaking to a slave, not like speaking to a young free guy who’d lost my cool. “You fucking pervert!”, I’d screamed at him. “Trying to feel a guy’s dick! And treating me like a slave….”
This totally unexpected commotion in the ‘executive area’ resulted in the station master scurrying over, and the guy started to demand that he “Eject that slave from where free men stood, after giving me a good spanking for my insolence”. Fortunately the station master recognised me as I was a ‘regular’ meeting dad, and told the guy he was wrong. I then demanded an apology, but the old guy was reluctant to give it, as he said that “I should expect that if, as a good looking well set-up young man, I wore tight clothes and stood in a place where you would only expect wealthy free men to stand” then I should take the consequences. “After all”, he’d added “Any man would want to own a slave like you.”
It was useless to argue that using the phrase “a slave like you” was still wrong, but the train was approaching and I did not want any more upset as dad had enough stress at the office. Still, it did make me think – how easy it could be for mistakes like this to be made, and after all it wasn’t all that unusual to see guys of my age as slaves – as so many of us were – because of the strict enforcement of so many of the laws that young guys are inclined to break.
The train slid in silently, and dad got out and came over and hugged me. The other passengers from the executive car handed their briefcases to the slaves who were meeting them, and I was proud to take dad’s. He put his arm around my shoulders as we walked along the platform, and dad as usual was saying “Steve, you don’t know how much it pleases me to have you come and meet me like this. The other guys in the executive car have to buy slaves to meet them, but I’ve got my son – and he’s not like a lot of fathers’ kids who laze around all day – you actually bother to come to the station. I’m a lucky man, Steve.”
I should have told him then, of course. There wouldn’t be a better time, probably, and on the station he almost certainly wouldn’t rave and shout, or even try to spank me! But dad was in such a good mood as he started to tell me of his latest corporate coup, how he had utterly destroyed their case with his incisive arguments and intelligence, and how he was looking forward to the law firm’s partners’ meeting the next week as he was planning to stage a coup to become managing partner. “The current managing partner has lost it”, he was telling me “He’s past directing the firm. He wanted to turn down the case as it was too risky, he said. I had to argue and argue to be allowed to take it, and it was pretty divisive amongst the partners, I can tell you. The current guy is always going on about risk, and I say that you need to take risks in order to progress. I got my way in the end, but I have to tell you, Steve, that if we’d lost he’d have forced me to resign. As it is, the fees from the client will add about ten percent to each partner’s profits this year, and next week it will be me who’s forcing him to go.”
Dad carried on like this all the way home, and so I never got the chance to tell him about Reb. As we drew up in our parking I was hoping and hoping that Mrs Williams wouldn’t come out and say something, and that Reb had stayed in my room, as I’d commanded. It would be pretty disastrous if Reb came down the stairs as we went in! My luck seemed to be holding, though, as dad bounded up the stairs to change as soon as we came in, and I went into the den and started to prepare him a martini – I was really careful to chill the glass, and the shaker, and get the gin from the freezer, and when dad did come in dressed casually I handed him the frosted drink. He took a big sip, then ruffled my hair affectionately (I was reminded of how I had done that to Reb at the slave dealer), and told me that I could always get a job as a bartender – except of course that all those jobs were done by slaves now!
“So, Steve, how was your day? Done anything exciting?” There it was. The question I was dreading. How could I not tell him now?