THE SLAVE REVOLT
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Nine
In the blacksmith's shop they collared me: not a slim, elegant steel one as Rob had fitted - they cut that away with the blacksmith's metal shears. No, this we a standard, heavy, cast iron "worker's" collar - one whose very weight makes you keep your head slightly bowed, and which is designed to shout your slave status to the world as well as to serve as a constant reminder to you of your role in life. It was riveted in place, and to go with my other hurts I also had a small, burned spot on my jaw where a shred of near-molten iron shot off as the blacksmith was hammering it home. I was to discover that there's another problem with collars of this type which had not been present in my special stainless steel one: they never succeed in getting he edges totally smooth, and so as the collar rests on your collar bone, the edge chafes and scrapes away at your skin: you get blistering and chafing, and then a running sore that takes ages to heal - and soon the constant abrasion means that you grow a ring of hard scar tissue around your neck. I reckon it's deliberate - it would be easy enough to make the collar smooth, I'd think, but they do it this way to serve as a further constant reminder to you that you are in fact collared.
As if having the heavy collar wasn't enough, thick metal cuffs were then similarly riveted around my wrists - again, they were not particularly smooth, and I could tell that I was going to be very sore from them before too long.
Once all this had been done, the guard told me to put my hands behind my neck, which I did, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the iron cuffs pulling at my arms as I did so. He fiddled around for a moment, then I realised he'd locked together the "D" rings on the cuffs to the one on my collar, so I was now held in that position. "OK, boy", he said "Now we can go off and find the drays. I'm still not sure about you, but now you're fastened like that I don't think you'll be any real problem to me: a slave cuffed as you are now is very stupid if hemakes trouble, as his whole body is so totally vulnerable."
With that, he led me off and we walked across from the house and general work areas and out on to the open areas of the demesne, in search of the drays and their wagon. As we moved through the fields I saw that the same methods of "urging" the slaves on as had been used before were still in force, but much more vigorously so: the naked slaves, men and women both, were secured to their coffle chains by their collars, but now, instead of an overseer using a tawse as a general "encouragement" in the case of slacking, the new breed of overseer did not hesitate to beat the slaves at every opportunity. And beat them hard, too: I'd been tawsed occasionally when I was working on the dray, and although it stung your shoulders at first, there was little permanent damage. The guards now though used a variety of tawses, canes and whips to drive the coffled slaves to ever greater efforts, and many of them had quite distinct weals and even some bleeding across their backs and butts. In the old days, too, they'd never used female slaves out in the fields except at harvest time, and only then in separate coffles from the males. Now though it seemed to make no difference at all about the sex of the slave, as the coffles were randomly mixed, and the females were expected to do all the same tasks as the males. I really felt sorry for them - I mean, having to work naked all day coffled together was bad enough as it was - think of how much worse it would be if you were coffled between two women!
We found the drays eventually toiling along with the wagon about two thirds full of building materials. My guard called to the "driver" - who was walking along beside my three nigga buddies - and old him that our owner had said that I was to be added to the dray team.
"A good job, too!", the driver replied. "With only three of them we've only ever managed to get them to drag the cart about two thirds full, and only then with a lot of beating. With a fourth, we'll go back to full loads: that's then in line wit the new directives about getting a whole lot more effort out of the smaller number of available slaves. This dray used to be pulled by six, but four, properly driven, can be made to do it."
My guard just shrugged, and the two men proceeded to undo my hand from my collar - something for which I was heartily glad as walking for any length of time like that really is pretty miserable. They put me into the shafts to make a "balanced" four, and then to my surprise my wrist cuffs were fastened securely to the shafts. We were off then, and my tortured, wounded body really did find it hard to take the strain - even with the cart only two thirds full. Once we'd dumped that load and had the dray filled to capacity, it was simply awful.
When I'd worked with the drays before it had almost been as a "favour" to my owner, to help out at harvest, and other peak times. The six drays had enjoyed their work and had laughed and joked, and had really liked having me help out. They were free, in the sense that when we got to a loading or unloading point they could put down the shafts and help. And as we went along, if you needed to piss or anything, you could drop out temporarily on an "easy" stretch and then take up the load when you'd done. We'd had a "driver" of course, but he was generally pretty good to us and only used his tawse - and then lightly, I suspect - to "help" us late in the afternoon to get the dray up hill (as you may know, the body keeps back a store of energy for emergencies, and however hard you want to, you can't normally use this voluntarily. The encouragement of the tawse was usually sufficient, though, to get that "last ten percent" out of us, to enable us to complete our tasks for the day).
Now, though, things were very different. The amount of effort all four of us had to put in was much, much greater, and there was no laughing and talking: any attempt to speak to each other was met with a barrage of blows from our driver. We were not "encouraged" by the tawse at the end of the day, but beaten and flogged almost continuously as we strove to pull the fucking dray, which was really overloaded for four, rather than six, guys. And when I needed to piss, there we no stopping, not even for a moment: we were never uncuffed during the day, and all of us had to piss as we trudged along (and, as I was to discover a day or two later, this applied if we'd mistimed our crapping: you just had to drop a turn as you stood there, too!). It made me feel exactly like an animal: they'd taken away all my freedom of action, the last scrap of free will I possessed.
I was hurting so much by the time we got back to the stables that night - my wounds from my owner's savage beating hurt like fury, and the terrible throbbing from my hand reminded me constantly of the new brand. To go with all of this I was utterly and totally exhausted from the sheer harshness of the dray task now. All four of us sank onto the straw in our stall, and the driver dragged the shackles across from the wall and secured our right ankles so there was no possibility of escape - well, that bit at least was usual: as I've explained - for drays, as part of the "tradition thing, we were always shackled at night. Except that these shackles were now of the same heavy iron of our collars and cuffs, and were attached to the wall by heavy chains, so that even a small movement involved dragging a whole lot of stuff behind you.
Still, it we good to be back with the guys again, and I dragged myself over to where they were sprawled together in some sort of companionable heap, as I remembered them doing. But instead of greeting me as a long-lost buddy, one of them snapped "Fuck off, Steve."
"Hey...."
"Fuck off! Stay away from us - you've done enough already!"
I crawled closer, hardly able to believe what I was hearing, and the three of them set on me! Look, you know I was in the marines and I was a trained fighter. But in my weak state, with every movement hurting like fuck anyway, there was no way I could resist the three of them, who were big strong guys themselves. They started to comprehensively beat me up, their massive fists pounding into my belly and chest, before they turned to hitting my face and aiming one or two blows to my balls. It was all pretty brutal, but mercifully it was over in two or three minutes, I suppose. I just lay there, blood pouring from me, curled into a foetal ball both in an effort to stop any more blows hitting my most sensitive parts, and also to give my battered self whatever comfort was available. I just couldn't understand it - I mean, these three guys had been my buddies. What the fuck was happening?
Or driver reappeared then, carrying a big bowl and muttering that it was now rations for four, he supposed, and put it down on the straw. He studiously ignored me, as if he didn't want to become involved, and left. The three drays fell on the food - hard, dry slave chow, I noticed, not the tasty stews and vegetables and fruit we used to get fed - and consumed every bit, leaving absolutely nothing for me. In spite of my pain I tried to ask them to keep some for me, and one of them shouted "Scum like you don't get no food - not from us!"
I was too tired, too exhausted - and, I suppose, too powerless - to do anything and just lay there, moaning feebly. I could hear the three of them muttering and talking (although instead of normal English they lapsed into the deep, slave patois that I found hard to understand). It seemed that they blamed me for everything: if I hadn't "persuaded" them to run from the rebels, their two companions would not have been shot, the third would not have been crucified, and they would not have been gelded! It was all my fault - if they'd joined the rebels, they might have escaped, have been free men....
"It wasn't like that....", I managed to mutter. "You'd all have been burned alive...... And if you had joined the rebels, you'd all have been crucified by now...."
They weren't going to be dissuaded from their view of events, though, and one of them got to is feet, came over, and kicked at me and told me that I was like all whiteys, always selling niggas down the river, and always telling lies to trick niggas. And that I'd better keep my filthy whitey mouth shut in future, or they'd beat me again as they didn't want to hear any more of my lies.
I couldn't believe it! But what could I do? I just lay there, and I suppose I ought to be grateful for the fact that I did eventually manage to sleep for an hour or so. The next morning was fucking awful, though - in addition to everything else, I could hardly see because of all the swelling from my beaten and bruised face. And when the driver came to give us our morning feed, the three niggas pushed me away without my share. Desperately hungry now, and almost unable to make my body work, I was nevertheless herded out into the yard with the threat of a prod, and manacled into the dray.
It still seems incredible to me that I got through that day - I suppose I have got a strong will as well as a strong body, and they teach you not to give up in the marines. And in some ways it got easier as the day progressed - whether my wounds were healing, or I was so used to the pain that I ceased to notice it! And when we were shackled in our stall that night the driver fed us as usual, but then tossed me a handful of chow (which I had to pick out from the straw) as he had perhaps seen what was going on.
If this was to be my life in future, then it was simply hell on earth, that just had to be endured. In the next weeks my battered body gradually recovered, although when I ran my hands over my back and my thighs, I could now feel the scars from the beatings; and I knew I was no longer the same handsome guy I'd always been, I suppose: catching sight of myself in a piece of polished metal I saw the drays' beating of me had broken my nose and it had re-set itself asymmetrically. It was so lonely, too: the drays refused to have anything at all to do with me, and even though we were forbidden to speak during the day, they made no attempt to do so at night, either, and totally excluded me from any contact with them. The driver soon gave up showing me any special consideration as far as feeding we concerned, and I had to start to fight the drays to get my share: they soon discovered that it was better to toss me some, rather than have me thrashing around at feeding time and upsetting it all so we all had to scrabble for it in the straw. I never got enough, though, and I was constantly, desperately hungry and I knew that my body was wasting away as it tried in vain to keep up with the sheer physical demands of the work. Indeed I was so hungry that on those rare occasions when we were allowed free use of our hands for cleaning out the dray between crops, I would scoop up any few remaining grains of corn or rice, or half-mouldy vegetables, or whatever was lurking in the corners, and cram them into my mouth.
I don't know, but I reckon that if I could have, I might have tried to kill myself. But constantly chained and manacled, there was no opportunity. I was so dreadfully unhappy though, and my body hurt almost constantly from the work and the whippings. And it was all so fucking unfair - I think that's what made it worse! I ought not to be dragging the dray - my owner ought to have been grateful to me. And even if I was doing this work, the nigga drays ought not to be treating me like this: I had saved their miserable lives, after all. I know men aren't supposed to cry, but some nights, curled into a ball there on the straw, cut off from everything I used to be, I sometimes found tears streaming down my face (although I never made a sound, as I wasn't going to give those bastards the drays any excuse to further humiliate me).
Still, at least I had my balls - although that was another source of anger for the drays, and problems for me: about once a week some nigga bitch or other from the estate would be dragged into the stables and I was required to "cover" her, as it had been decided that lighter-skinned niggas would be worth more in the future, and so a whitey should stud them. The niggas hated seeing me fuck the bitches, not only because they said that niggas ought to be kept pure and not "defiled" by white cum, but of course because I could do it, and it reminded them very forcible of their gelding! There was real trouble when a young sixteen year old nigga was brought in one day - the driver stood there and stripped off the simple shift that was all the bitches got to wear if they were house slaves. She at once tried to cover herself with her hands, evidently not at all used to the idea of being stripped in front of the driver, me, and the niggas.
"OK, Steve - get stuck in!", the river commanded me. "I haven't got all night...."
She began to cry and whimper as she saw me approach her (and I suppose I must have been a bit of a fearsome sight, as I towered over her, my body was black and blue with bruises, and there were several open wounds from that day's caning on me). I tried everything that I could to calm her down, putting my arm around her and trying to play with her small, apple-sized tits a bit in an effort to relax her. I did get a bit turned on, of course - well, this studding was about the only "human" contact I ever got - and as my dick erected she began to struggle and scream even more. The drays were all shouting and swearing and straining at their shackle chains in an effort to get to me, uselessly, of course. I slid my fingers into her slit, thinking that a bit of stimulation might help her out and get her to see that this could be fun, and everything got even worse.
"Fucking get on with it, boy!", the driver snapped. "I haven't got all night. And neither have you, judging by the amount of pre-cum you're leaking".
It was true, I suppose - I was excited. As I said, you can't imagine how good it is to feel contact with another human being when you've been denied it for so long. So as gently as I could I scooped her off her feet and lay her in the straw, then, comforting her as much as I could, I entered her. Look, I know I'm a big guy, with a big dick: but I can be gentle, very gentle, when I try. So there was no need for her to carry on screaming and crying as I began to slip into her - well, that's not quite true, as I met an unexpected resistance, and had to really push for a moment to break her virginity. But after that I really was gentle, and if she'd even half way co-operated, she might actually have enjoyed it.
Afterwards, when the driver had taken her out, still crying and sobbing, I stood there with her cunt juices on my bloodstained dick, and made the mistake of moving a bit towards the drays, saying "Hey, guys, look....."
They grabbed me! As a bit of a treat that night, the guard had thrown some of the big, misshapen carrots that we'd been carting around all day into our stall - the ones that would never sell, as they were not up to the specification that the food markets require: I had been wondering how I might persuade the drays to let me have one of them to gnaw on, but they had their own ideas.! After they'd stopped punching me (my nose was streaming with blood again and my guts were really aching), they threw me down onto my back, one of them knelt on my chest, pinioning my arms to the ground with his knees, and they grabbed my legs and pulled them up so he could hold them under his arms. His dick was hovering over my mouth, and I thought he was going to piss on me for a moment - as it was, the sight of the terrible scarred area under his dick where his balls had been was vile enough - but they had other ideas: the third dray took the biggest carrot there was and proceeded to ram it up my ass.
I screamed and begged him to stop, but one of them shouted "This is what you did to that poor young nigga, Steve! Now, how does it feel, to have something forced into you like that?"
"But I can't help it! They make me stud - you know that! I don't have any choice. If I hadn't fucked her, they'd have beaten me, and she'd have been fucked anyway as they'd have got some other stud to do it."
"She was a young nigga, Steve. A Virgin. And you defiled her.... And we're going to make you suffer...."
"Look, I told you - it's not my fault.... If I don't stud, they'll geld me, probably...."
"Like we've been gelded, you mean? Sounds good to me. In fact perhaps we'll rip your balls off: that will teach you...."
I was in agony as the rough, dirty carrot was systematically thrust in and out of my ass, and with no stretching or lubing, I was worried that some of my membranes might be ruptured - it certainly felt bad enough. There was no way I could get free of the three of them, and they carried on, seeming to enjoy my screams and shouts, and laughing with each other about what it would feel like if they were to bite off my balls - one of them knelt right over me and took my balls into his mouth, and I wasn't sure he wasn't serious about doing it! As it was, he crushed them nastily with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, causing me to cry out even more vigorously.
It was fortunate that all this noise attracted the driver back. He came in and began to beat at the drays with his cane and even prodded one of them - I got part of the shock from it, as the dray was on me at the time.
"You're animals, all of you!", he screamed. "It's bad enough you fuck with each other like this as beasts would, but it's forbidden to make all this noise - the master might hear, as we're near the house! I won't tolerate these animal debaucheries, and you all deserve a good whipping! And I'm particularly surprised at you, Steve - you've just had a good fuck, and there should be no need for you to indulge your vile sexual practices. Still, what can we expect, from animals like you? Still, no more of it, understand?"
I was going to tell him that he was wrong, that they were all but raping me, but what was the point? I was so used to being misunderstood and blamed for everything by now that I went into a corner, at the far limit of my shackle chain, where the drays could not reach me, and tried to sleep - or, rather, I tried to sleep after I'd teased the carrot out of my ass. And I have to confess that as usual, I was near starving: so I cleaned my crap off the carrot as best I could, and lay there munching at it and savouring the totally unexpected treat. This is how low my life had fallen.
Still, I had to survive, somehow, I suppose. Whilst there's life, there's hope as the old saying goes. And so the next morning I had to fight the drays for some part of the food as usual, and I knew I was going to endure another day of totally unrelenting toil, and punishment.
We were dragging the dray up one of the small hills (no hill is actually "small" when you're already at the limit of what you can do and it then appears in front of you!) And of course our driver was lashing and slashing at us to make sure we actually did manage it. Suddenly there was a shout of "Stop!", and we all stood there - although we had to start to dig our heels in, to prevent the heavy dray from slipping backwards.
There, on a huge stallion (a real one, as our owner had a number of saddle horses as well as pony slaves for his rickshaw), was a young guy. I looked at him, barely recognising him at first, and saw that it was Rob! I went to call out, and the driver's whip cut across my shoulders, causing me to howl in pain. Rob peered down at me from his horse and said "Is it really you, Steve... You've changed...."
"Yes! It fucking well is me! And I've..." I got no further ,as the whip came down on me again, and the driver called out "You speak only when spoken to! And then only to say yes or no, you fucking animal!"
My heart began to race as I thought that rescue had come at last. Now Rob had seen me, I would soon be unshackled, and I could almost feel the tingle of a warm shower on my skin, the sensuous touch of cotton sheets as I slid into a real bed.... But then my hopes were dashed as Rob turned to the driver and said casually "Carry on, driver", and rode off.
For the rest of the day I felt, if that's possible to conceive of, even worse than usual. To see freedom almost in my grasp, and then to have it dashed away like that. I was in despair by nightfall, and could not even be bothered to fight for my share of food - I just curled up in the corner of the stall, and wished the world would go away. I was in total despair, and I think I was nearer to killing myself then that I had ever been before, or since: somehow dashed hopes are much, much worse than having no hopes to begin with. Why had Rob turned his back on me, ignored me like that? Hadn't I saved his life, kept him alive all that time we were on the run from the rebels? Hadn't I looked after him as best I could, kept him warm at night, treated him like a brother, almost? So why did he ignore me like that? And why was I still here in the stall, and not with him in the house?
As we were being taken out to the dray to be manacled in the next morning, one of the guards came up to our driver and told him to leave me behind. I stood there in the yard, shivering slightly (it's chilly in the early mornings, before the sun gets properly up, when you're nude), watching the drays go off to work, and wondering what was going to happen to me. The guard did not say, but I was taken through to the end of the stables and allowed to spend as much time as I wanted under the shower - not all that long, actually, as of course the water was not heated for slaves. Still, it was good to get properly clean - usually we were just driven through it quickly, to get the worst of the mud and dirt off us, and we never really got clean. They clipped my cuffs to my collar so that I was more or less helpless, then told me to bend down over one of the hitching rails used for the real horses. I wondered why, but soon found out: the young slave lad who did stuff like changing the straw in the stalls came over, took a rag, which he proceeded to soap liberally, and started to clean my ass crack! He didn't stop at the crack, though: the rag was stretched over his finger and be began to poke it up my asshole, twisting and turning it so that the rag really "cleaned" me. I couldn't help moaning slightly - well, it is kind of sensual to have a soapy finger up your ass, isn't it? Then he rinsed the rag out in a bucket (it was pretty well covered in my crap), and repeated the process, and then did it again with clean water, rather than soapy.
"Just in case your owner wants to inspect you properly", the guard said, laughing. "It wouldn't do for the boss to get his finger covered in crap, would it? It's OK for young Sambo here, but not for the likes of the boss!"
I was led into the house, once so familiar, and up the back stairs, to be told to wait with my nose and toes pressed against the wall outside my owner's workroom, just as I had the last time. Could this be my freedom, I wondered? But after the way that Rob had ignored me yesterday, I began to doubt it. My hopes would rise, but then I beat them down, telling myself that that way lay total disappointment and despair. And perhaps it was just as well, as when I was finally allowed in (all my body aching from having to stand so unnaturally immobile, with my hands cuffed behind my neck, for so long), there was only my owner there and not a sign of Rob.
"You really are a stupid fucker, Steve!", he began. "I thought a spell as a dray would punish you for daring to join the rebellion. I was looking forward to having you back as a house slave, especially once I had enjoyed that ass of yours, but that is now impossible. I have this pile of reports here from the guards and the dray driver saying that you do not work properly with the other drays, and that you spend your time in fighting them, or when you're not fighting, engaging in obscene sexual practices!"
"Sir, I don't...."
"Silence! If I had any doubts before, you have just confirmed them. You're still the same old Steve, always arguing. How dare you deny you have been fighting! How dare you deny that you were being sodomised by the three drays! I have the reports here..... And the guards all say that it's always worse immediately after a studding - I thought I was being generous, in giving you an outlet for your sexual energy by allowing you to stud, but I can see I was wrong: it only drove you to new excesses of demonstrating your superiority over those poor unfortunate geldings."
"Sir, it wasn't like that, they...."
"Silence! I always thought of you as a man, Steve, a real man, one who was not ashamed to admit his own errors and wrong-doings. But now I see you're a snivelling, whining cheat, trying to blame others...."
"No, I....."
"Silence! And, worse than that, you're one whose insubordination and refusal to obey his owner has reached new heights. Well, Steve, far from teaching you a lesson in obedience and humility, I can see that your time with the drays has actually made you even more likely to disobey me. I can't therefore take the risk of letting you work back here properly. And it would be grossly improper of me to sell you on to some poor unsuspecting new owner who had not come to grips with your disgraceful wiles and sneaky ways. So there's only one thing for it, Steve: and it's entirely your own fault - your true nature has shown itself, and you've been proven to be incapable of acting as a loyal obedient slave."
He looked at the guard, who had been standing there with his prod at the ready in case I should cause trouble, and snapped "Take him out and cage him. The veterinarian is calling this afternoon, and I will tell him to geld this slave - that will be the only way of calming him and making him no longer a risk to anyone else."
"NO!", I screamed. "Please, sir, not that! It's not fair, sir..... I didn't....."
"Your very words betray you, Steve. No slave who was truly obedient and respectful of his proper place would dare to speak to his owner like that, to argue with him.... "
"No, it's not like that! I....."
My owner nodded, and the next moment I was writhing on the floor as the tip of the slave prod stabbed into my bare belly. And if you've seen a slave who's been prodded at even half power, you'll know I was in no fit state to say anything else.
The guard summoned another, and with me still suffering from the effect of the prod, they half carried, half dragged me out of the house and back to the stables. I was forced into a small cage - one of those where I had to kneel on hands and knees and crawl backwards to get in, and the door was shut and locked in front of me. I couldn't move at all, as my face we pressed against the bars at the front, my back was touching the top, and my feet and butt were against the bars at the rear. One of the two guards pushed his hands through the bars at the side and cupped my balls as they swung loose between my thighs.
"Nice!", he told his companion. "My old lady would love a guy with balls like this - although mine are pretty big, they don't swing low like his.... Fuck me, can you imagine dangling these over the mouth of some bitch and telling her to suck them in...."
"Perhaps you could have a transplant!", his friend laughed. "This one's not going to need them after this afternoon - he's being 'seen to' by the vet."
"Fuck me, the boss must have come into money! With slave prices the way they are, a whitey like this who could stud must be worth a fortune. He's losing thousands of dollars by having him gelded...."
"I suppose he can afford it. They say the stock market's recovered after the revolt - it fell right away. Perhaps he bought at the bottom, and now he's sitting on a fortune. Or suppose...."
"Oh shut up, will you? It doesn't matter much does it?"
"Well not to me and you. That slave looks pretty sick at the thought of no longer being a man, though!"
He was right! I felt physically sick, and terrified. This really did look like the end of the line for my life as a man - and whilst you may think that being made to stud nigga bitches is pretty degrading, I can tell you it's a whole lot better than being a gelding! I could think of no way I was going to get out of this. I'd been totally misunderstood by my owner, abandoned by Rob, and there was clearly no escape from this cage. I knelt there in utter despair, and even the pain from my cramped limbs couldn't distract me from contemplating the awful future that awaited me.
End Of Part Nine