WICKUS


This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over
the age of eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): March, 2011
An archive of my stories can be found at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

"The ideas and characters in this story are the writer's and
shouldn't be used without permission. Please respect the
integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, alterations or
add pictures."

WARNING: The following story is set in an fictional world with 
absolutely no relationship to the `real' world we inhabit. 
It was never my intention to suggest otherwise.

Nevertheless, its interracial themes and the suggestion that
black men hold authority over the white man could run counter to
some readers' deeply held, personal convictions.  If these themes
are likely to distress you then this story isn't for you and you
should read no further.

I first notice the young slave as Dad halts the car at the front
steps of the wide, wrap around veranda of our home.

He is one of two `house-boys' waiting at the foot of the steps to
welcome us and I don't recognise him as one of the regular house
slaves from my last visit home. As a rule, I find most white
slaves to be very similar and barely distinguishable from one
another except for the colour of their eyes or their hair.

But there is a certain `something' about this boy that attracts
me to him. I guess his height at just over six feet and he
possesses a swimmers body - slim and lithe with a well -defined
musculature that fortunately lacks the over- development of a
body-builder's.  His head is a shock of thick, golden curls that
frames his handsome features and his eyes are the same blue
colour of the ocean that laps the beaches at iKapa where I attend
university.

His body is smooth and devoid of hair and he sports an all over,
light tan without the jarring white midriff so common to many
white slaves.  But my father is a perfectionist and I know he
ensures all the house slaves spend time working naked in the
garden to maintain the uniformity of their body colour. Quickly,
I assess his age as somewhere in the late teens or the early
twenties and later I am to be proved correct; I will discover
that he is aged 19 years.

Because it is summer, both slaves are dressed in their summer
uniforms. Decency dictates that slaves should be clothed -
although in our household near nudity is the norm - and the two
wear brief, matching loincloths of a colourful floral pattern. It
has to be said their loincloths hide very little from my
wandering eyes and suggest much to my lustful imagination.

Around their necks are the stainless steel collars that mark them
as slaves and onto which are inscribed their names. From my
previous visits home, I know the other slave's name is Jacobus
and I wonder what name this new slave possesses; is it the name
given to him by his parents at birth or a new one my family has
bestowed upon.

I have a younger brother, Isivile and mischievously he likes to
bestow a nickname on our house slaves. These names can range
through the sublime to the ridiculous. I wonder if this slave has
such a name. Eventually, I'll learn that the slave has an
Afrikaner name, Wickus and that Isivile refers to him, somewhat
derogatively as `prickus'. I know that Isivile commonly refers to
Jacobus as `-jack-off'.

My mother and Isivile have been waiting in the shade of the
veranda for our arrival and now they hurry down the steps to
welcome me home. Jacobus walks to the driver's side of the car to
open the door for my father while Wickus opens the front
passenger door for me and stands respectfully with his head bowed
as I enter into the warm embrace of my mother's arms.  But even
as she clasps me into her bosom, I am aware of the slave's
presence. He has that faintly erotic masculine smell that always
overwhelms my senses and arouses me.

Even though he'd picked me up at eGoli airport and we'd talked at
length in the car, my father nevertheless welcomes me home with a
great bear hug and holds me close to him for several moments. My
father and I are close and I know how important my trip home is
to him and to my mother. In truth, I'd rather have joined with
some of my university friends whose holidays promise to be more
adventurous and exciting than mine, But I am a dutiful son and I
do love spending time with my parents and so here I am.

I plan on using this long visit to relax by our swimming-pool and
to catch up with old school chums returning home for their summer
vacations. I'm sure that once we have re-established contact then
there will be many parties and re-unions for me to attend. And as
always, with Christmas looming on the horizon, I know there will
be many family gatherings and so I shouldn't find myself at a
loose end.

And as I look at our new slave, I do see the potential for many
interesting diversions. Then, almost as if he is reading my
thoughts, my father commands the slave.

"Wickus, get over here now!"

Dad's tone is imperious - as always - and our slaves know he
isn't to be trifled with. Wickus hurries forward and kneels at my
father's feet and presses his forehead to the ground. He speaks
in a strongly, accented Afrikaner voice but his words are
distinct and respectful.

"Yes Master!"

I look down on the long sweep of the slave's back; from his
bowed, tousled head over the broad width of his shoulders to his
upturned ass. His back bears the red and purple stripes of the
crop and I judge them to be very recent. As a new addition to the
household, I know he'd still be under training and subject to my
father's stern rules. And even though his ass is partly concealed
by his loincloth I see that his buttocks are similarly striped.

"Stand up, boy!"

Wickus hastily scrambles to his feet and assumes the `standing at
display' position whereby he places his feet eighteen inches
apart with his hand clasped behind his back and resting on his
buttocks, As required he lowers his eyes to the gravelled 
driveway.

"Look up, boy!'

The slave raises his eyes but I see the uncertainty in them. He
has been ordered to look up but where does he focus his gaze. He
knows it is forbidden for a slave to look directly into the face
of a free man - unless he is specifically commanded to do so.
Wisely, he centres his gaze on some imaginary spot above my
father's head.

My father cuts an imposing figure. His stature is tall, military
erect and he possesses a commanding manner that demands respect.
Both Isivile and I know Dad loves us passionately - and we return
that love - but we can be intimidated by him. Each of us fears
the dread summons to appear before him in his study.

If we fear him then how much more intimidating must he appear to
the slave, Wickus.


My father has risen to great heights since the collapse of white
minority government and the establishment of Black Rule. He is
the CEO of a vast mining conglomerate and sits on the boards of
many other companies. His expertise and integrity are widely
recognised by our Parliament and the President has appointed him
to a number of advisory bodies charged with the orderly transfer
of our country's assets from the hands of the white minority into
those of the Black majority.

"Look at me boy! Bring your eyes down from the clouds, damn you
and look at me!"

Dad's tone is imperious with just a hint of anger and I feel
sympathy for the slave. How confusing it must be for any white
slave. They are forbidden to look a Black person directly in the
eye - a punishable offence - and quite rightly Wickus has focused
his gaze above my father's head in accordance with this rule. And
now he is being `bawled out' because he isn't looking at his
Master.

It seems to me that Wickus is damned if he does and damned if he
doesn't.

Wickus looks into my father's face and I can see the nervous
trembling of his body. Dad holds the slave's gaze and I can see
the red flush of confusion suffusing the slave's face. He doesn't
know what to do next. He has been commanded to look at his Master
and yet he is fearful of the consequences of doing so.
Eventually, under my father's piercing stare, the slave's courage
- and I'm not sure if courage is the correct word to use - fails
him and he looks away once again.

"Damn you boy! I never gave you permission to look away! Now look
at me!"

Obviously, Dad is playing a power game with the slave. I know
that he does this with all our slaves and he does this for two
reasons. First and foremost is his loathing of the white race. He
has never forgotten their treatment of the black race when they
held all the economic and political power and he has never
forgiven them for their condescending and patronising behaviour
towards him as a law/economics student at university and the
discrimination shown to him in the workforce. His tertiary
education counted as nothing when promotion was determined not by
ability but by the colour of a person's skin. If it was black,
then only the most menial of jobs were available to you and you
worked under the direction of under-educated, semi-literate
whites who met the criteria of the "Blanke Rassergroep".

The second reason is more pragmatic and has to do with the good
order and harmony of his home.  My father is a stern
disciplinarian who believes all slaves need strong direction and
firm discipline if they are to function in the manner he demands
of them.  We have a household of some twenty slaves who work
diligently in the house and substantial grounds surrounding it.
Dad rules our slaves with a rod of iron and he spares the slaves
neither the cane nor the whip.

Punishments in our household are both mandatory and frequent!
Therefore who can blame Wickus for being afraid?

"I'm sorry Master! Please forgive me?"

Wickus apology is heartfelt of that I am sure. But whether it is
so from genuine remorse of just plain fear is open to conjecture.
I suspect the latter.

"Boy! You have earned yourself five strokes of the cane for your
disobedience!"

I see the blood drain from the slave's face and the slight
trembling of the limbs tells me he is shocked by this punishment.
Wisely, he says nothing and he doesn't beg. Perhaps the longer
serving slaves have warned him that pleading is useless once the
Master has given his judgement and could worsen his situation.

"I'm sorry for the slave's bad behaviour, Thandiwe." My father
apologises for Wickus. "But you'll have to excuse him. He is new
to the household and is still learning."

"That's OK Dad! I understand."

"Wickus, this is my older son, Master Thandiwe! He is home from
university for the long summer vacation and while he is here you
are to serve him as his body-servant. Do you understand, boy?"

"Yes Master!' the slave's voice is tremulous and displays his
nervousness.

"You are to serve him faithfully and to obey all his commands
promptly and conscientiously. Failure to do so will result in a
visit to the basement."

Ah, yes, the basement! I'd temporarily forgotten about the
basement. To be truthful I'd not thought about it during my time
away at college. But now that I am home, I suppose it will assume
some importance. Inevitably, I will climb down the stairs into
the vast vault that serves as both a wine cellar and a punishment
area for our house-slaves.  In fact, after dinner tonight, Wickus
will be ordered down to the basement and told to remove his
loin-cloth and stand ready for his caning.

Dad is very much a stern disciplinarian and doesn't `spare the
rod' when it comes to our slaves. And he expects that Isivile and
I share his enthusiasm for punishing a recalcitrant slave. In all
probability, I will be given the task of caning Wickus.  I have
caned a slave's ass a number of times in the past and I expect
that Dad will require me to mete out punishments during my
current visit.

To date, I have only ever used the cane and the strap on a slave
and never the whip. However, Isivile and I were always present
when our father whipped a slave. We were there at his command and
we were witnesses to the brutality of a flogging. My father had
never allowed me to use the whip. He'd told me that I lacked
strength in my arms to wield a whip and my use of it would have
to wait until I reached physical maturity. Father very much sees
the whip as a `man's instrument' and he believes it takes a man's
strength for it to be truly effective on a slave. The whip is his
favourite instrument of punishment in our household and in
contrast he regards the whip and the strap as fit only for women
or boys.

"What are you waiting for? Do you want to add to your punishment?
Go and kneel before Master Thandiwe and pay the homage due to
him."

Wickus hurries forward and falls to his knees at my feet before
pressing his nose to the driveway. I look down upon him and I
like what I see.  Once more, my gaze slowly roams from his bowed
head and up over the broad sweep of his muscular back to his
upturned ass. The tension placed on his body by this unnatural
position accentuates his musculature and the stretch of his
loincloth hides nothing. The firm, rounded globes of his ass
cheeks are clearly outlined through the thin fabric and I can see
the red and blue stripes of some very canings peeping out from
the edges of his covering.

I look at the criss-cross pattern of stripes on his shoulders and
I suppress a chuckle for I know who and what had placed them
there. Very evidently, they are the marks of our Xhosa
housekeeper, Mandisa and her crop.

Mandisa and her husband, Uuka are indispensible to the running
and good order of our household. Mandisa is my mother's
housekeeper and Uuka is my father's groundskeeper and I can't
recall a time when they weren't an integral part of our family.

As children, Isivile and I spent more time with them that we did
with our very busy and involved parents. It could be said that
both Mandisa and Uuka were closer to us than our grandparents.
They loved us unconditionally and we returned their affection in
abundance. Indeed, Mandisa is standing on the veranda with a
broad smile on her round face and her arms spread ready to clasp
me to her ample bosom in me a `welcome home' hug.

Mandisa - her name means `sweet' although I doubt our slaves
would see her as such - runs the house and its retinue of slaves
with a firmness with which my father concurs. The crop she
carries is the sign of the authority that Dad has invested in her
and it is in constant use as an incentive for the slaves to apply
themselves diligently to their duties and to punish any
misdemeanours they foolishly commit.

Uuka has control of the outdoor slaves who toil ceaselessly to
maintain the six acres of verdant gardens surrounding our white
Cape homestead - and which once belonged to a prominent white
politician - in their colourful and pristine condition. As well
he is in charge of our swimming-pool and its ancillary spa and
sauna.  The garage and our fleet of motor vehicles also fall
within his jurisdiction.

Uuka has chosen the litupa whip rather than the cane as his means
of control over the slaves in his charge. Once known as the
sjambok and remorselessly used by the white minority authorities
to subjugate the black majority, it is now the favoured means of
control over our white slaves.

This infamous whip which was once used to disperse gatherings of
blacks and Cape Coloured now falls on the white shoulders and
backs of our former oppressors and Uuka doesn't hold back in its
application.

My father is a stickler for the new conventions. He sees the
white remnants as vastly inferior to the black race and so he
insists that all our slaves refer to any black person,
irrespective of age or social standing, as either Master or
Mistress. He argues quite forcibly that even the poorest and
humblest black man has that entitlement. And so it is mandatory
for our slaves to respectfully address Mandisa and Uuka as Master
Uuka and Mistress Mandisa despite the fact that they are my
parents' employees.

I hesitate to order the slave to his feet. It will do him no harm
to crouch before me as I discuss him with my father.

"Dad, the slave is new? I don't recall him from my last visit."

"Yes son. He's very new. I bought him at auction about two weeks
ago."

"And I suppose he was expensive?"

"No not at all! He only cost 20,000 Rand. He was a steal at that
price wouldn't you agree?"

I'm surprised that the slave only fetched that amount at public
auction. I would have placed a much higher value on him. Very
quickly I do the sums in my head and work out that the slave sold
for less than -2000 or approximately US$ 2,800.

"Why was he so cheap? I thought slaves were selling at a premium
price."

"And they were until a few months ago. Then you could expect to
pay more than 50,000 Rand for a slave of his quality."

"What's happened, Dad? Why are slaves selling so cheaply?"

"It's all a question of supply and demand. The courts are
sentencing more and more whites to slavery and that is now being
reflected in the prices they fetch.  Slave ownership is becoming
more affordable - even for those on a modest income."

"I didn't know that, Dad."

"Well, I can tell you that in a recent discussion I had with the
Minister for White Affairs in Tshwane, the Government plans
eventually for every black household to have at least one white
slave to serve its needs. It's an ambitious plan but given the
number of whites still roaming free it's not unachievable. I told
him it is in the public interest to get these unemployable, white
trouble-makers off the streets and into more constructive
endeavours.  And what can be more constructive than slavery. It
gives the whitey a purpose in life and keeps him out of
mischief."

"And I see by the slave's back that he is still undergoing
training."

"Yes he is, very much so, Thandiwe, very much so. Because he's so
new he has a lot to learn about service and respect." My father
laughs, "But then does a slave ever stop learning? I doubt that,
son."

I order the slave to his feet and tell him to stand in the
display position. He hastily scrambles to his feet and complies
with my order. I have to say I am impressed by his physique. He
truly is a handsome slave. He stirs my loins and I suffer the
embarrassment of a partial erection. Thankfully, the presence of
my mother and Mandisa dampens my ardour and keep things within
check.

I have questions for the slave.

"What's your name, Boy?"

"Wickus, Master. My name is Wickus, Master."

The slave's answer is both deferential and respectful. 
Obviously, my father is training the slave well.

"How old are you Wickus?

"Master, I'm nineteen, Master."

"Why were you enslaved, Wickus?"

"I was found guilty of loitering with intent in a Blacks' only
residential area Master."

I pick up on the slave's ambiguous usage of the words `found
guilty' rather than `guilty'. It's a subtle difference I know but
it casts doubt on the correctness of his sentence by the courts.
Is Wickus somehow hinting that he is innocent of the charge that
saw him enslaved?

If so, it's a useless protest; there is no legal appeal open to
him and he must accept his slavery. Fortunately for the young
slave, my father didn't pick up on his answer. Had he done so I
have no doubts that Wickus would have been severely whipped for
his pains? Still it raises some intriguing questions in my mind
and it is a line of questioning I'll pursue with him at some
time.

"That was foolish of you, boy!"

"Yes Master,"

I detect the emotion in Wickus' answer. I see the catching of his
breath almost as though he is stifling a sob.

"Where are you from, Wickus?"

"Master, I'm from Kapstaad. That is where I lived with my family,
Master."

My father was always a volatile man and I am used to his sudden
outbursts. But I am surprised at his bellow of rage and the
stinging slap he delivers to the slave's face. If I am surprised
by this how much more so is Wickus. Like me, he must wonder why
he'd angered his Master.

"Boy, you forget yourself. Kapstaad is no more.  Under Black Rule
it has been renamed iKapa. You are aware of that and the
continued use of the former white government's nomenclature is
evidence that you still retain some of your white pride. Well I
won't have it in my home. You have just earned yourself an extra
five strokes of the cane. And you are lucky it's only the cane
and not the whip."

Wickus blanches under the fury of my father's anger and vainly he
apologises.

"Master, I am sorry. Master it was a slip of the tongue."

"It was a slip of the tongue that has earned you extra
punishment. Now boy you unload Master Thandiwe's luggage from the
car and take it to his room and wait there for him."

"Yes Master!"

                                                     
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It's always good to return home and my bedroom is a repository of
many happy memories. As I look around it I see nothing has
changed in my absence. All is as I left it after my last visit.
Many of my favourite boyhood toys still adorn the tops of my
cupboards and the books from my boyhood and schooldays line the
shelves of the bookcase.

As I look at Wickus, I wonder did he have a room like this at his
home. What were the circumstances of his upbringing?  Is he from
a family of dispossessed whites who, merely to survive; now flood
our employment agencies willing to take any job no matter how
menial? Or is he from a `white trash' family. Perhaps so! He did
say he was enslaved for loitering in a Black Residential area.
Why was he there? Was he about to commit some petty theft or act
of vandalism? Whatever his reasons for being in a restricted area
he has paid a high price. He is now a slave for life. And I want
to know more about him.

This slave interests me and I don't really know why. As he
unpacks my bags, I have him sort out my clothing and store it
away. He moves with an easy grace that arouses me. As he hangs my
clothes in the wardrobe his back is to me and I see the outline
of his rounded ass through the soft fabric of his loin-cloth. I
want to see more of him.

"Wickus!"

"Yes Master Thandiwe?"

He turns and faces me. And his answer is the correct one.
Technically, only one man is entitled to be addressed simply as
"Master" and that is his owner and my father. Of course, this is
true also of my mother. Our slaves address her as "Mistress". My
brother, Isivile and I are addressed as" Master Thandiwe" and
"Master Isivile".  This identifies us and these are the protocols
that exist in my father's household and it does simplify things.
How confusing it would be to everyone if Dad, Isivile and I were
all referred to as "Master".

I look at the slave and my eyes roam down over the broad chest
and flat belly to that area covered by his loin-cloth. His
genitals are covered but not concealed and they present an erotic
invitation to explore. I see the outline of his cock straining
against the colourful fabric and the bunching of his balls
showing through. My lust is rising and I want to see Wickus in
his entirety.

"Shuck down, boy!"

The slave hesitates and this annoys me. A slave must respond
instantly to any order given to him and to delay is tantamount to
disobedience. This is intolerable and not to be accepted. Even
making allowance the fact that he is new to his slavery doesn't
excuse him.

Angrily, I stride to where he is standing and deliver a stinging
slap to the right cheek of his face.

"I gave you an order slave! DO IT! Or do you want me to add
another five strokes of the cane to your punishment?"

I see the tears well up in his eyes and the look of uncertain
fear in his eyes. How hard it must be to be a slave?

"Master Thandiwe, I am sorry, Master."

Wickus blurts out his heartfelt apology and immediately loosens
the ties of the loincloth on both hips and allows it to slide
down his legs into a crumpled heap at his heat.

The sharp intake of my breath betrays me. This slave is a true
delight to the eye. His balls are heavy in their sack and to my
great delight I see they are `low-hangers' - how I love a slave's
balls to hang low between his thighs. His circumcised cock is
thick and meaty and I see its swelling tumescence swiftly inching
its way into iron bar rigidity until all seven and a half inches
protrudes from his flat, ribbed belly.

Like me Wickus is breathing hard and I watch the sharp rise and
fall of the powerful chest muscles and the nervous fluttering of
his abdominals.  I marvel at the deep indent of his belly button
and the ruby red, coin sized nipples that adorn his pectorals.

His groin, like the rest of his body is hairless and I wonder if
it is permanently denuded or if he has to carefully maintain it
with a razor.

I instruct him to raise his arms over his head and my fingers
explore his armpits looking for evidence of razor stubble; I find
none. The skin of his armpits is warm, smooth and silky soft to
the touch. I am delighted with this and I ask him.

"Wickus! Is your body permanently free of hair or do you have to
use a depilatory crème or razor?"

"Master, all my body hair was permanently removed at the
processing centre I was consigned to from the courts."

I didn't know this! But why would I? I never had need to consider
what happens to a slave once he's been sentenced by the courts. I
suppose whatever happens to him at the processing centre concerns
very few buyers. They are more interested in the `finished'
product as he stands on the display podium or the auction-block.

I place my hands on the slave's shoulders and turn him around so
that his back is facing me. My hands sweep across the broad
shoulders and down the concave of his back to the flaring curves
of his cane striped buttocks. I have to admit that his stripes
enhance the experience for me and I am consumed with a desire to
add to them. I hope my father allows me to administer Wickus's
punishment down in the basement - all ten strokes.

I take a rounded cheek in each hand and squeeze them in a test
for their firmness. I do so gently for I don't want to bruise or
mark their exquisite beauty.

I sink to my knees until my face is just inches from the slave's
ass. I am enraptured by it and I trace a finger up and down the
ass-crack with featherlike softness. Wickus's body quivers with
his shivering response and I am delighted that I am having this
affect upon him.

Emboldened, I pry the ass cheeks apart and expose the pink,
puckering entrance to his body to my view. Its pulsating beauty
encourages me to gently blow on it and I am rewarded with a
convulsing of his body.

 I can tell by the knotted muscles of the slave's back that he is
under stress and I need to calm him down before my finger begins
its internal exploration. I tease the ass-hole with my finger tip
in an effort to relax him. I sense his gradual acceptance of my
stimulation of his body and when I deem he is ready, I thrust my
finger through the resisting sphincter muscles.  My examination
tells me that the slave is a virgin tight. But I need to know for
sure.

My cock is straining within the closed confines of my underpants
and I feel the first dampness of my pre-ejaculate. Damn it! I
want - no I need - to fuck this slave. And from my aching need
the sooner I do so then the better.

Dismissively, I smack his ass - twice - and order to face me.

"Tell me Wickus, have you ever been fucked?"

I hear the sharp intake of his breath and watch the red tide of
his embarrassment rise up his neck and into his handsome face. I
wonder why my question would embarrass him. He's only a slave and
slaves aren't entitled to feel such emotions, are they?

Still I imagine my re-action to being asked such an intimate
question. Naturally, I would be outraged and would respond
angrily. But I can do so simply because I'm a freeman and Wickus
can't because he is just a slave. It is then that I realise the
true powerlessness that a slave experiences.

"No, Master!"

"No what, boy!"

"No Master I have never been fucked."

"Not even by my brother, Master Isivile?"

"No Master. Master Isivile has shown no interest in me. He
prefers Jacobus."

Dearly, I would love to rob Wickus of his cherry - now - but a
glance at my watch tells me it will soon be time to gather with
the family in the drawing-room for pre-dinner drinks.

Fucking Wickus will have to wait! But Wickus is to be my
body-slave for the duration of my visit and there will be ample
opportunity for me to use him. But in the meantime, I can savour
his ass and think about the pleasure that awaits me.

I decide that Wickus will stay naked for the duration of my
visit.




















