PASSING
A story by Pete Brown (petebrownuk@yahoo.com)
Part Four Managing two slaves. A meeting with a slave trader.
As I was walking to the tube that evening I was thinking about Greg and Jason and how I was going to differentiate them. Fortunately there's a slave accessories shop in one of the malls at Canary Wharf so I diverted slightly and went in and made a purchase before continuing home.
Back in the apartment there was an air of simmering resentment between the two of them, and I suspected there had been rows, perhaps even blows, during the day. Jason was dressed like Greg in Greg's shorts and a T and the white material did, I have to say, set off his rich tan and bleached blond arm and leg hair really rather agreeably. But I am used to finding my way through the kind of "office politics" that obsesses so many men, especially those who are masculine and virile like Jason and Greg and of whom there are many in my office, and I know it's best to act sooner or later.
I tossed the package at Jason and told him to open it and dress. He tore at it eagerly, half-smirking at Greg as if to show him that he was now in my favour. He stripped off the T and pulled on what I'd bought - in English we'd refer to it as a singlet, a T without arms, with the armholes lying low under the pits, and cut relatively low at the front so the upper chest is exposed. And I'd deliberately chosen one that was very loose and not tight fitting. He stood there then, flexing his arm muscles in pride and smirking at Greg again.
"Finish, then", I snapped. He looked at me in surprise, but before he could say anything I continued "That's your uniform around the house. Now get out of those shorts and return them to Greg."
He was about to say something, to complain I suppose, but saw Greg's whole body tense rather menacingly. He eased the shorts down, slowly, tugging at the hem of the singlet to make it go down as far as it would. But I was pleased to see that my estimate in the store had been correct and that however hard he tried it was so short that it finished just a little above the end of his cock. He looked at me as if he wanted to ask me not to make him wear it. Then stuttered "Please, sir, don't make me wear this...."
"You've no need of shorts, Jason, if that's what you mean. And I suppose I could let you go around the place totally naked, but I rather like my slaves to wear something, and that makes you look rather good - I like the way the white contrasts with your tan. So that is what you will wear from now on."
I could see Greg wanted to say something and half nodded to give him permission. "Without shorts he might dirty the furniture, sir. These young guys are too quick sometimes and don't wipe themselves properly..."
"Quite right! Thank you, Greg. Jason, you will in future not sit on the furniture, or on the silk rug. When you are not standing you will sit only on the bare wood of the floor."
He went to say something but once again saw Greg's body tense, ready to strike, and sullenly he hung his head. I felt rather sorry for him I suppose, but I was pleased that I had certainly established a proper "pecking order" between my slaves by this differentiation. And actually he did look really sensual as when he moved more of his cock was fleetingly exposed, and at the back the thing had a tendency to ride up to bunch on top of his buttocks, so adding emphasis to them.
I didn't share my dinner with either of them later, but did allow Greg to sit at the table with me as usual but made Jason squat on the floor. And I felt rather pleased with myself at how well things were going. Before bed I told Greg to search out the lockable collar and chain that I had been persuaded to buy by the dealer when I'd bought him, but which I do not use, and which had never disposed of.
Next morning, Saturday, it had turned cold and there was the usual London grey sky making it seem far worse. I told Greg that the T and shorts were not sufficient as were going out and it might anyway rain, and he quickly stripped and pulled on "slave jeans" as they are called (very cheap, rather coarse, without any of the fancy stitching and so on you find on "proper" jeans - only slaves now appear in jeans like this), and a fleece top. In spite of his protests I then had Jason collared and chained to the slave tethering point in the floor, with which all expensive apartments are now fitted. It has the advantage that the slave can get to the lavatory and can drink from a tap, but cannot reach the telephone or any of the controls for the entertainment system. I told Jason it would be good for him to wait patiently for me to return without anything at all to do other than to think about his life now. All I then had to do was to tell Greg to kneel so I could clip a transport token onto his collar, and we were off.
It was quite interesting I suppose to continue past Canary Wharf on the tube to Stratford, as Canary Wharf is the furthest East I normally go . But once there it was grossly oppressively overcrowded in the passageway to the Central Line (as I have since learned it is every Saturday morning since the huge shopping centre opened just before the Olympics). Greg did his best to make it easy for me in the throngs but it's difficult for him as a slave - he's big enough and strong enough to shoulder a way through, but he has to remember that any one of those free men and women could make a complaint against him as he's a slave (and I noticed that he'd pulled the zipper on his fleece up really high, to try to hide his collar).
On the Central it was OK as I suppose most people were travelling in to Stratford at that time, rather than out. But when we climbed the steps up to the road at Lepton Station I was not at all impressed. In the early part of the century the continuing rise in London property prices would have pushed "gentrification" out this far easily, and the rows of Victorian and Edwardian workers' houses would have been improved, modified, enhanced and extended, and the whole area ultimately would have become a middle-class place with the shopping street lined with clothes boutiques, fancy delicatessens, organic greengrocers, coffee shops, and so on. It had evidently suffered badly in the "great crash" though, when so many people could no longer afford the enormous mortgages to buy in places like this. Many of them would have been enslaved for debt, and those that did survive would have found it possible to move back into more fashionable parts of the capital.
So now it had a distinctly "seedy" air, and had become one of those areas known for slave dealing. There was a Scabbard & Drass "outlet" (not the proper luxury showrooms) opposite the station where I suppose there might once have been a small shopping mall, and the rest of the high street appeared to be given over to slave outfitters, sellers of restraint devices, "fancy dress" purveyors for slaves (really rather coarse and in bad taste), bulk slave chow suppliers offering rock-bottom prices for slightly out-of-date material, a couple of places offering punishment services, and no less than three sex shops with their windows blacked out but with signs offering the use of slaves by the half-hour, hour or half day in every possible combination of single and multiple males and females: really quite disgraceful, but even at that time in the morning there were men (and the occasional woman!) going in. I couldn't imagine how it must feel to use a slave sexually in such places, but perhaps some people finds it adds to the excitement. Or perhaps it's all they can afford.
My communicator was telling me that our destination was an eight minute walk away from the High Street and so we set off, Greg now respectfully a step behind me but ever watchful. "I wouldn`t be surprised if there were some nasty folk around places like this, sir...", and perhaps he was right: as we passed one of the sex places a "barker" outside made it difficult for me to pass as he tried to persuade me to enter.
"You and your mate, just pay for one and you can both come in as it's morning" he was saying as he blocked my path. I really was rather shocked - not about being offered the services of the sex shop, but because the man clearly thought that I, smartly dressed in my leather overcoat, my hair stylishly cut, would have sex with a brutish-looking guy like Greg in his cheap fleece and jeans! But then I suppose some men do go for "rough types", and older men, too, so perhaps it was understandable. And he was only doing his job.
When we finally turned the last corner and saw our destination it was obvious that it had once been a small builder's yard or something, and that had been rather inelegantly converted into what looked like two or three buildings. There was a big sign outside, in those kind of supposedly "fun" characters in all different bright colours saying "Dave's Slaves" which didn't add much to the general style of the place. But as we'd come this far and as I did have something that needed doing, we went in.
The "waiting room" was a tiny space with a couple of old chairs in it and a small counter behind which was clearly a slave - she was black, very black, probably only about twenty years old, wearing very, very low cut brief slave shorts. She was in very good condition, she must work out I thought, as her bare breasts were held high and showed no signs of sagging at all. Greg made some sort of appreciative sound.
"I'm here to see Mr Challenor. My PA made an appointment..."
"He don't do appointments." Her speech was uneducated. "Sit down and I'll try and get him". With that she turned and went out of a door behind the desk, literally waggling her ass at us as she did so! Greg made that sound again - I'm not a good judge of females, probably because I'm not interested in them, but evidently Greg, who is interested, found her more than satisfactory.
We waited for some minutes as I sat and leafed my way through months-old copies of "The Slave Owner", and Greg of course stood. I amused myself by looking out beyond the magazine to see if those cheap jeans were concealing an erection. I'd decided they probably did, when the door behind the counter burst open and a big man came through.
"Dave Challenor", he said, holding out his (rather dirty) hand. "You must be the gent who had Sammy call me yesterday. So what can I do for you then?"
I shook his hand - he pressed mine hard - and I felt myself almost instantly liking him. He was about the same age as me, I guessed, and in pretty good shape, as am I, too. He had an unruly mass of dark blond hair which his shirt, open too far down his chest, revealed was also on his body. His jeans, tucked in to stout working boots and rather grubby, seemed to show an impressive bulge. This was the kind of rough type that the man outside the sex shop earlier obviously thought Greg was, and in spite of what I said earlier about rough types, there was a distinctive "magnetic" appeal to him. Until I saw that in his other hand he was holding a whip - not one of those small ones that in the early days I'd bought to threaten Greg with, but a proper long bullwhip, neatly coiled so he could hold it.... And it was dripping with blood and what could be, and probably were my brain told me, bits of flesh.
"Well it's a somewhat complicated matter - Did my PA say anything? Could we go to your office to discuss...."
"Who, little Sammy? He wouldn't say. But said it must be important for you to spend time on it. He respects you, that lad does. All the family's glad he pulled himself up and got a good job, so we owe you big time and if I can help, I will. But look, I'm in the middle of something, and really ought to finish it. You can wait, or perhaps you'd be interested in my operation? Follow me around and have a look at what we do here, as it might throw some light on how I can help."
I felt rather amused at the idea of Sam, so "in control" at the office was "little Sammy" around here. But I thought it would be interesting to see some of the operation here, and said sure, I'd like to see.
"You'll have to leave your slave here - he might be upset. You can have him fuck the girl if you like, she needs breeding, and a big buck like him could sire a really good-looking `breed with her, I reckon."
The girl didn't seem to care, but looked over at Greg rather slyly. He looked horrified.
"Oh no, Greg won't be upset. He was in the marines, and I think he saw a lot out in the wars... And he's totally obedient."
"It's different here, for slaves. When they see what we do for some of the slaves here they do find it very upsetting. And let me give you a little tip, based on long experience. There's no such thing as a `totally obedient' slave. Only a slave where the threshold between obedience and punishment is in balance. Take it too far out and it doesn't matter what threats the future might hold, a slave will disobey because the present is so bad."
"I assure you Greg's not like that. He's sensible, obedient..."
"Well we'll see. But don't say I didn't warn you." He looked at Greg and said "Unclothe".
"There's no need for that..."
"Yes there is, sir. For two reasons. Firstly, all slaves out the back' are naked. So it's easy for the guards to be able to distinguish free men, like you and me, from them. And secondly, if he does go rogue', or even if he's a `bit uppity' as we say in the trade, then there's a lot of bare skin for the goads to strike. Anyway, as I said, you can leave him here and he can fuck the girl if he wants - and if you agree, of course - or he can strip and accompany you."
Even at times like this I can't resist a deal. "If he does stay, what's the fee, the stud fee?"
Dave laughed. "You're a clever one. Sammy said that. No fee, you just get the satisfaction of knowing that your slave is still a man, a real man that is, capable of getting the girl pregnant."
This was funny. I was enjoying it. And thinking about how Greg was always going on about how he never had "proper" sex now, I looked at him and said "It's up to you, Greg. Strip off and come with us, or stay here and have a bit of fun - I can see from the way your shorts are tenting you find the girl desirable."
Greg actually glared at me. He's at the point now where he finds it easier for me to make all the decisions for him. And he was going to be uncomfortable with whatever he did, having to decide for himself.
"I'll stay here, sir. But I won't touch the girl, thank you."
Dave barked "You fucking slave! You'll do whatever your owner says. If he wants you to fuck her, you will. And if he doesn't, you won't. You don't get to choose - you're a slave."
Thinking about it I realised I didn't want Greg's cock in the female, so I said "No fucking. But next time you complain about not having the sight or even scent of a woman, I'll remind you of today. It's been offered, and you turn it down, but in the end I decide, decide I don't ant you to fuck her.... now. In fact, I'm not even certain that I shouldn't insist - it's not good for slaves to make choices." I was smiling inwardly as I said this, and saw Greg's face start to look all anxious. "But we're in a hurry, so on this occasion, suit yourself."
So saying, Dave opened the door behind the desk and went through, expecting me to follow.
We went into a dark, narrow passageway that after a couple of paces opened into what must be one of the other buildings on the narrow site. There was a pathway between lines of cages on either side - really small cages, only just large enough for a slave to lie down in them, and very uncomfortable: just bars, and a bare concrete floor. Most of them contained a naked slave, and I could see that Dave must be one of those total non-discriminatory people as there was a random mixture of races, and the sexes were all mixed up too (although, as you'd expect, there were far more males than females). There was an intoxicating scent in the air - bodies, I suppose, all those pheromones, mixed in with piss, and a bit of shit. It was like being at a zoo seeing the animals in their cages.
"This is my stock", Dave told me. "Not top class, as you can see. Mostly too old, or too weak, or downright ugly. But I buy em cheap, exercise em a bit to put on a bit of firm flesh, and sell `em on to the trade."
"What's your margin?"
He looked surprised. "About 10% I suppose. No one's ever asked me that before."
"Gross or nett?"
He looked uneasy so I added "10% between buying and selling prices, or 10% after you've taken into account all the expense of running this place - cost of capital employed, business rates, power and heat, guards...."
"Oh, I try to get 10% more than I paid."
"Well I suspect you're barely profitable, then. All those costs mount up. Especially the cost of capital and so on. I assume you do make a profit?"
He looked as if he was going to tell me to mind my own business, but instead said "You're a shrewd one, aren't you! Most people I show around are more interested in the slaves than in the numbers in the books."
"Perhaps that's why I'm a very successful business man, then." We both laughed, but he looked a bit more worried when I added "But at those margins you probably aren't profitable at all. So I suspect there's a few deals made on the side, where the sales don't hit the books at all? That must be a challenge since they introduced VAT on slaves, and the VAT people have always been much hotter on looking at the business than the Corporation Tax people are! If you don't know it already, let me tell you to be careful, very careful. Very careful indeed - it would be a pity if you ended up in a cage like that yourself in some other dealer's stock rooms, after the tax authorities pounced!"
He wasn't smiling at all now, so I tried to lighten the mood a bit by adding "But if you do, try to get a message to me - I'll make a decent offer for you..."
We didn't continue then as we came out into a small enclosed courtyard where there was a slave hanging by his wrists from a whipping frame. His back was already shredded, and there was a pool of blood on the floor underneath.
"I just need to finish this one - you arrived when I was almost done."
"Finish it? It looks finished..."
He bent close to me and said calmly and quietly. "No, it's one of my special services. If you have a violent slave and get the courts to order a proper bull whipping, and you send it to a public whipmaster, it will come back to you damaged and it will take time for it to recover and there's no guarantee of success. So you've got all the expense of having it not work, needing drugs, all that sort of stuff, and you end up with something that isn't worth much anyway. But if you send it here - I have a licence to carry out bull whippings - you will get it back, but so badly damaged that it will die in a day or two. A huge saving of money. And exactly what owners want - they need an example to show all their other slaves what happens if they too are violent. It's a skill I've got - it mustn't die here or my licence is at risk, so I have to gauge just how far I can go. And I'm pretty good at it."
As he said this, Dave handed his jacket to a waiting slave, uncurled the fearsome whip he's been carrying, cracked it in the air, and then set into the slave. It was disgusting. Horrifying. I've never been exposed to these more physical aspects of slave ownership and management, and seeing this poor creature being literally flayed alive in front of me was terrible. He was so far gone he had ceased screaming and there was only a continuous keening sound coming from him, as his writhing and struggling gradually died away too. Still, the courts do not lightly order a bull whipping, and so I suppose the slave only had itself to blame. And in our society it is necessary to keep the slaves under ultimate control I suppose.
When he'd finished a slave bought Dave a basin of water and he rinsed his hands delicately, and we both watched as two big niggas cut the slave down and dragged it away. Dave's shirt was drenched in sweat, and I found myself very attracted to this example of sheer masculine brutality.
We went on, through an area where slaves were exercising - or perhaps it would be better to say "being exercised", as the guards standing around allowed for no letup in what they were doing, and Dave told me it was his "intensive" course to put the stock, and owners' slaves, into better physical condition.
And then the sex room, where... No, I must continue with the narrative. Suffice it to say there was every imaginable kind of act being "taught" to the slaves, both singly and in pairs, and threesomes, and quartets, some all one sex, some mixed.
After about half an hour Dave seemed to have finished his inspection, turned to me and said "Come to the office then and tell me about your problem", and strode off with me following.
The office was rather better than the reception area. I wondered if Dave deliberately kept the reception area rather mean and scruffy to give clients the impression it was a "cheap" place where the prices would be low. In the office though there was a very businesslike desk with a terminal on it, and proper "office" chairs, very much like he ones we had at Canary Wharf. To one side of the room there was a counter top with a small sink and an expresso machine, tended to by a slave.
"So, coffee, or something stronger? Whiskey....?"
"No, coffee's good. Black, no sugar, please."
I watched in fascination as he slave made it. Like the slave at reception he was clearly rather exceptional, and therefore, I guessed, very expensive. It looked as if Dave did not bother to stint himself with the quality of the slaves around him personally. This particular one was a lad - he must have been only just above the age limit for enslavement. Slight, some would say skinny, and some would say starved-looking as his ribs were all visible. He wore only the very tiniest pair of pale blue sating shorts, and I do mean tiniest: I have Greg keep his pubes clipped and trimmed so he can wear the low-slung slave shorts I like to see on a man, but this slave's were of a different order altogether. He must have been totally shaved (as, I now saw, the rest of him appeared to be), as the top of the shorts was literally right at the top of his cock! He wasn't stunningly well hung, but his cock, outlined through the satin, seemed to be properly in proportion to the rest of him.
He came over and gave me my coffee, then went and knelt by the side of Dave, who almost affectionately ruffled his hair. "Good, Timmy. You're learning. But when you offered my guest his coffee you didn't kneel as you've been told to, to make sure there's nothing else he wants. So you know what that means, don't you?"
The young slave nodded, stood up, and pushed down his shorts. As he turned I could see his bum was bright red, in contrast to the rest of his milky-white skin. He almost fell across Dave's lap, and Dave held him there with his big hand pushed into the lad's neck as he slapped his bum hard - and for a powerful man like Dave, I could imagine "hard" was very hard. The lad squealed and then sobbed, but made no plea for mercy. And his wriggling, to try to avoid the blows, didn't seem to be all that serious - indeed, it looked rather erotic.
After six slaps Dave stopped and pushed the lad off his lap, and he sprawled on the floor. Now I could see his cock clearly, and it was, as I has suspected, "just right". And perhaps the spanking had not been as hard a I thought, as he was erect. He stood there looking somehow vulnerable and defenceless, and wiped a tear away fro his eyes.
"He's a nice lad is Timmy", Dave told me. "He's lucky I found him tucked away in a corner at Scabbard & Drass. Something must have gone wrong with their system as had he appeared on the auction platform some old pervert would certainly have snapped him up for a high price - some of those old men do dreadful things with young slaves! I paid the pre-auction asking price straight away. - ludicrously low, it was And now I'm teaching him how to work properly as a house slave."
"He certainly does look good, if you like young lads like that. But he's so young - what did he do?"
"Oh, the usual! Hormones raging, so he had sex, lots of it, with the girls in his school. Then one of them got pregnant - silly boy - the parents complained, she said she'd been forced, of course, so he was held in juvenile detention until his birthday, and then sent off to S & D to be sold. " He paused, and went on "It's wrong, if you ask me. They shouldn't enslave you until you're eighteen. But anyway Timmy here has fallen on his feet, so to speak, to be bought by me - I don't fancy sex with youngsters. I'll make a good profit when I do sell him, of course, but until then I've got to feed and clothe him...."
"....well that doesn't look as if it costs much!"
Dave laughed "So you're a joker, too! And then there are the medical bills, the annual slave tax... I don't supposed it's a problem for a man like you, but for those of us struggling to make ends meet...."
"Enough! I reckon you've got a good thing going here. All those slaves to use - it's not my style, but that young girl at reception looked pretty remarkable. A lot of cash-under-the-table transactions, I'd imagine. A good home in a relatively central area, paid for out of the business profits.... You probably end up with more than me!"
He laughed again. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. I do have a big financial crisis looming. But what about you? Sammy didn't know anything, or said he didn't..."
End of Part Four