THE MAKING OF A PONY SLAVE - PART 1

By Pete Brown (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

THE CALL CENTRE

I was really bored in my first job after college. Somehow all the
fun had gone out of life. At college I had been on the football team
and in to wrestling, and there were always lots of other guys to go
to the gym with. Now here I was stuck in a cubicle all day in the
Call Centre, answering endless stupid calls from people who should
have read the instructions with their computers first.

In spite of it being very sedentary, it was very stressful. In the
evenings I really didn't want to do anything other than slump in
front of the TV with a take-out and a beer. Although I had joined
the local gym, it was a real effort to drag myself there. And the
sight of all those middle-aged guys with big bellies straining at the
weights was a real turnoff - although I'm not gay, I'd really rather
share the gym with guys with bodies they care about, guys like me,
with muscles in the right places, and not an ounce of fat. Gradually
I found that instead of going every day to work out, it slipped to
every two days, and then only to once or twice a week. It got harder
and harder to make the effort to go, especially as my muscles ached
because I only worked on them infrequently now.

My sex life wasn't going anywhere either. I'd had lots of girls at
college. Being on the football team, I was used to having an easy
time getting dates. But in the Call Centre all the ladies were
mostly going steady already, and it was just too much effort to go
through the endless chat-up to get a date.

Imagine my surprise when after I had been there only three months I
was told that the statistics showed that I had handled more calls
than average, and my customer satisfaction rating was very high. I
had been selected to go to the company's annual convention as a
reward, which was being held in Las Vegas.


LAS VEGAS

As the plane touched down I felt better and better, and more lively
than I had for months. With all those delegates from across the
country in town, I even thought there was a good chance I would get
laid tonight, and for the first time in a long time I felt my cock
straining against my jeans in anticipation. The hot dry air hit me
as I left the terminal, and as I took the taxi into town I looked
around in excitement at the crowds thronging the sidewalks on the
Strip.

The company had done us proud, and I was soon checked in to the
luxurious convention hotel. In my room I quickly stripped off all my
clothes, which were crumpled and sticky after the journey, and turned
on the shower to freshen up. As I soaped my muscled body, my cock
sprung to attention again and I thought about jerking off there and
then. But instead I towelled off and turned on the in-room movie
channel - I didn't even have to pay for the porno flicks, as the
company was picking up the tab for everything, so I found one with
two ladies pleasuring each other, and jerked off whilst watching
that. It was a real sensation to be lying on my back nude in the
middle of the day with the desert sun streaming in through the
windows, watching two lovely ladies whilst I jerked off. The smooth
satin of the bed cover against my back was just a bit cooler than the
air in the room, and as I climaxed I felt it sliding over the hair on
the back of my legs and that special little tuft of wiry hair that a
lot of guys have at the top of their ass crack.

It was a long time since I had had such a good jerk-off, and the cum
spurted all up my stomach and chest. That was a real pain, as of
course it stuck in the hairs on my chest - although I'm not very
hairy, I've got enough there to catch the cum! So before I could go
down to dinner, I had to shower again. I thought about leaving off
my boxers and just pulling on my pants, but then thought this might
be a bit un-cool if I did succeed in pulling a lady, so I put on a
crisp pair of white boxers, then my pants, and then a new dress
shirt. I'd never liked wearing a T-shirt under a dress shirt, but my
dress shirt was thick enough so that my chest hair did not show.

I was amongst the last to arrive at the inaugural reception before
the opening dinner because of my second shower, so I didn't get a
chance to chat to any of the other delegates, and I found myself
taking up the spare space on a table of eight with seven guys I had
not met before from other offices across the country. Not a single
lady at our table, and as the others were all talking about their
amazing sales campaigns, there wasn't much else for me to do all
evening but eat and drink - and I did the last to excess. It's
relatively easy to drink too much at these dinners, as the waiters
keep filling your half-empty glass and you can't keep track of how
much you have had. It was only when we stood up at the end and the
room swayed slightly that I knew I had had way too many.

The other guys were going off to a casino, and asked me to join
them. I didn't want to, but one of them made a remark that made me
think he thought I was chicken. I should have smacked him in the
mouth, but the others all laughed and joshed me a bit, and so I went
with them. I only had a couple of hundred dollars to spend, but for
a time all seemed to be going well - the dice were rolling my way,
and I was to my amazement soon five thousand dollars ahead. And, of
course, the drinks kept coming.

I desperately needed to pee, and the room really was spinning now, so
I decided to quit. I really should have cashed in my chips there and
then, but as I came out of the mens' room a guy came up and said that
as my luck was obviously hot that night I ought to go to one of the
private gaming rooms for high rollers and continue with my winning
streak. It really did seem a good idea at the time - with a few more
thousand dollars to stake me, I could quit the Call Centre and travel
the world for a year before deciding what I really wanted to do with
my life.

After the noise and lights of the main casino floor, the private
gaming room was discreet and calm. I'd always played poker with the
other guys on the team at college when we were away on trips, and I
was pretty good. So when I was offered a seat at the poker table with
five middle-eastern looking guys, I didn't hesitate. I was full of
bravado from the drink and the excitement of winning, and I just knew
I could take them on and win.

But either my luck deserted me, or these guys were really good, as my
five thousand dollars were soon gone. One of them said to the
others "shall we stake him to continue? ", then, turning to me "Come
on - you can't lose all night. Keep playing, and we'll take your
IOU". I didn't want to, as I knew I had no money in the bank to make
good any losses, but he then said "Of course, if you want to quit,
we'll quite understand. You big American boys are all like that -
lots of show at first, but no follow-through". This really pissed me
off, and I leapt at him, but two of the others stopped me before I
could hit him. A couple of buttons popped off my shirt as they held
me back, and I could feel the sweat streaming down my back and my
chest in spite of the air conditioning - of course, it must have
been the drink, as I had continued to drink down the complimentary
cocktails as they had come around whilst we had been playing.

I felt I had no choice but to sit down at the table again, to show
him what I could really do. It was of course a disaster, and as I
got drunker and drunker, I lost more and more. But I always thought
that with one really good hand I could at least cover my losses.

THE NEXT MORNING

I woke up in a strange bed with a splitting headache. I slowly
looked around me, and saw that I had somehow got back into my room,
or so I thought. I cautiously got out of bed, found I was still
fully dressed, and went in to the bathroom and puked. I then
stripped off my clothes, and had a long hot shower.

When I went back in to the bedroom I went to look for fresh clothes,
because although I felt like death with the hangover, I knew I had to
go to the convention meetings. But all the cupboards and drawers
were empty - none of my things were there. And when I went back into
the bathroom, I saw that there was a toothbrush and razor, but these
weren't mine - they were new, in their wrappers.

I started to panic, but thought that I really should try to go to
the convention, so I brushed my teeth and shaved, then pulled on last
night's clothes again. I went to the door to leave, but it was
locked - this seemed strange, as usually you can't lock yourself in
to a hotel bedroom. I went to the phone, and called the desk to send
someone up with the pass key to open the door.

Only a couple of minutes went by and there was a discreet tapping at
the door. I called "come in", and to my surprise, instead of a hotel
porter, four Arab guys came into the room. "Good, you're already
dressed", said one. And another, having looked into the bathroom,
said "yes, and he has showered. So let's go".

"Hey, wait a minute. Go where?", I said.

There was a stinging blow to the left side of my face that felled me
to the floor. "Shut the fuck up", number one said, "and only speak
when you're spoken to. You're coming with us, and that's all you
need to know". I was pulled to my feet, and bundled out of the room,
down the corridor, and into the elevator that went straight down into
the parking garage. There all five of us got in to the back of a
large stretch limo - the four of them sat on the seats, but I was
made to lie on the floor between their feet. I made a feeble effort
to get up, but I was in dreadful shape with the hangover and the
effects of the initial blow, and another one soon convinced me to lie
quiet and still.

The limo stopped and the door opened, and a blast of furnace-like hot
air hit me. It had driven straight up to the steps of an executive
jet standing on the hot tarmac at the airport, and I was encouraged
up them into the plane by the four Arabs. Once inside, I was pushed
down into one of the seats and instead of a seat belt, my wrists were
strapped to the seat arms by cuffs which came out from where the food
trays are usually stowed. Almost without delay, the plane took off.

THE LANDING

I dozed several times on the flight, and really had no idea how long
it was. A steward gave me drinks from a straw from time to time, and
it really did help to quell the raging thirst I had from the previous
night's drinking. As we flew on, it got dark, and I slept again, to
wake up with the dawn.

We landed, and the four guys clustered around whilst the manacles
were undone, and I was roughly pushed out of the door and down the
plane steps. There was no limo there, just a white delivery truck,
and the back doors were opened and I was motioned in. I was about to
protest, when I saw one of the Arab guys raise his hand to hit me
again, so I went through the doors into the back of the truck. It
was fitted out along one side with a set of mesh cages, smaller than
cells, more the size of phone booths. One was opened, and I was
pushed inside and the door locked shut. I heard one of the Arabs ask
the driver if that was all, and he said "no, there's a couple of
other deliveries I've got to pick up from the airport later this
morning before I go back to the market".

The van then drove off, and I held on to the walls of my cage as it
swayed around corners. Eventually we stopped and waited for quite a
long time. It was pitch black in there, and I really had no idea how
long it was, until suddenly the back doors were opened again and
another guy was pushed in, and into the cage next to me. Another one
followed, so there were then three of us. The doors were still
open, and I could see the driver fussing around completing paperwork
on a clipboard, and handing it over to the airport people. He then
came to the doors and said "Now listen here. We are going to drive
for about two hours. There will be no stops. Don't pee in my truck,
or when we get there you'll clean it out with your tongues - all of
you, that is, even if only one of you pisses. And before you ask,
I'm not telling you where you're going. You'll know soon enough!".

We drove off, and we started to talk. None of us knew where we were,
although we guessed we were in some Arab country. I had come
straight from my Vegas hotel, but the two other guys had come from
South Africa. They had both been captured and kept in a cell for a
couple of days, before their flight that day.

ARRIVING AT THE DEPOT

After what seemed like a couple of hours the truck stopped and the
doors opened. We all blinked as the daylight flooded in, and then a
guard in uniform came and unlocked our cage doors and grunted at us
to get our. We jumped down from the back of the truck, and two other
guards, toting submachine guns, gestured at us to cross the yard we
were in - it was sandy underfoot, and surrounded by high walls. We
went through a door, which was slammed shut behind us and I heard the
sound of a lock turning.

We went along a narrow corridor that had bare plastered walls and a
stone floor, and into a room that was empty other than for a desk,
with a man in a suit sitting behind it. One of the South Africans
started to shout, but was silenced as he was felled by a blow from
one of the guards.

They gut in the suit said "Now listen to me carefully. I'm only
going to say this once, and it's important to you. You are now in
our country, and none of the rules you were used to in your country
apply here. Thirty years ago we decided to reinstate the laws that
allow our people to own slaves - it solved several problems for us.
Firstly it helped ease our chronic labour shortage - after we found
oil, none of our people wanted to work; we tried importing foreign
workers, but they wanted higher and higher wages. By allowing
slavery, we fixed the wages problem. And secondly, we got rid of all
our criminals and prostitutes - the penalty for any crime here is
slavery. We're now the most law-abiding society in the whole world."

"You three are here in the state slave market, and after we have
carried out the necessary tests and certification, you'll be put up
for sale. We can't risk selling diseased or damaged goods,
especially as a lot of our slaves are used for sex, so we'll
comprehensively test you and we have to wait for the results to come
back before you can go to the auction."

I started to yell that I wasn't from his country, and that I was an
American. He stood up and shouted in rage "Shut the fuck up! That's
the last warning you'll get - any disrespectful or wilful slave here
gets whipped. The first lesson you learn is that you don't speak
unless your master asks you a question! In your case, the fact that
you're an American is of no importance - you owe four of our
countrymen $100,000 that you lost in gambling, and as there's no
possibility of you paying them off otherwise, they had you brought
here to be put up for sale to pay off the debt. You two South
Africans did something to seriously annoy your government - I see you
were both in the South African Marine Corps, but you objected when
you were posted to a squad that was otherwise composed entirely of
blacks. You obviously didn't know that your government has decided to
fix the prejudice problem once and for all, by sending us anyone who
has been overtly racial."

"Now all three of you, get naked, so we can start processing you".

We stood and looked at each other and did nothing, but at a gesture
from the guy behind the desk the guards clubbed us to the floor with
blows from the butts of their guns. When we struggled back to our
feet, he said "Let me tell you just once more. You obey all orders
given to you by a master. If you don't you will be whipped. If you
still don't, we'll do to you what farmers have done to all unruly
animals over the centuries - we'll cut off your balls. Eunuchs
don't fetch as much money in the auction as proper stallions, but
there are still lots of people in the country who like a nice white
ass to fuck. So I'll just say once more, strip."

The three of us looked at each other and realised that against the
guards with their guns we were powerless, so we started to take off
our clothes. I took off my shirt, bent down and shucked off my shoes
and socks, then dropped my pants and stood there in my boxers. The
two South Africans ended up standing there in bikini briefs. The guy
behind the desk made a move to make a gesture to the guards again,
but before he could do anything the two South Africans had exchanged
glances with each other, and started to push down their bikinis. I
realised it was hopeless, too, and put my fingers under the waistband
of my boxers, and slid them down over my hips to land at my feet.

The guy behind the desk said "Good. It's good to get three guys in
good shape, as it makes selling you easier. I can understand that
you two South Africans are well muscled from the army training. But
it's unusual to see an American in his twenties with proper pecs and
a good six-pack. I think we'll be in for a bumper day next Tuesday
when you come under the hammer. Now, go through that door over there
so we can process you through the system."

With that, he stood up, and gestured to a door behind him and we
started to walk out. Now I've been naked in front of guys many, many
times in the showers and locker room, but this was totally different
and I felt very embarrassed - not because there's any problem with my
body (which in spite of my recent lack of exercise was still in
pretty good shape from the many previous years of regular workouts),
or with my dick which is a good, long, rounded sausage, or my balls
which I know are larger than most and hang down below my dick. But
somehow having just the three of us totally nude, with the guards and
the guy in the suit looking at us as if we were some sort of
merchandise, was really weird. I felt my dick starting to harden,
and prayed I wasn't going to get a hard on; and of course the more I
thought about it, the more it stated to stiffen. The two South
Africans seemed to be in the same boat, and we all started to blush
as we realised that each of us was sporting an erection.

We went through the door, that opened in to a cage built across one
corner of what appeared to be a doctor's surgery. The door shut
behind us, and then a door in the opposite wall opened and a man in a
white medical coat came in, with two more guards who, as well as
having guns on their belts, had what looked like a pistol in their
hands with a metre-long cane coming out of the muzzle.

"Right, who's first?" said the doctor, and one of the guards came
over and opened our cage, and waited for one of us to step out. One
of the two South Africans went first, the older of the two. He was
about 5'10" tall, and was very well muscled. As he walked across the
room towards the doctor, he looked a very good specimen of the
outdoor life in South Africa - he had wide shoulders that tapered to
a 30" waist, and had not an ounce of fat anywhere in sight. His hair
was brown, but bleached blondish on his head and arms from exposure
to the sun. He was a dark tan all over, except for the dazzling
white strip across his buttocks where he has obviously worn small
Speedos for swimming. He stood in front of the doctor, and the only
way that you could tell he was nervous was by the way that his butt
muscles were slowly clenching and unclenching.

The doctor took up a clipboard and said "Name and age". The South
African said "Hans Kroenecher, 27".

The doctor said "Well, Hans, let's get one thing straight. You're
just Hans for now, until your new master decides what you're going to
be called. I'm going to need samples of your urine, semen, and
blood. Pee in to this", and, so saying, he gave the guy a plastic
bottle. Hans looked around, and the doctor said "Go on, pee in there
now. If you can't or won't, I can soon slip a catheter up your penis
and draw off a sample that way".

We could see Hans straining, but soon we could hear the sound of his
urine running into the container. When he had finished, the doctor
gave him a smaller plastic container and said "Now, the semen".

Hans started to protest, but at a gesture from he doctor one of the
guards touched the rod coming out from his "gun" into Hans's back,
and instantly Hans screamed and fell to the floor. "Look, said the
doctor, you've been warned about obeying all the orders from a
master. I ought to have you whipped. But whilst you're here in the
auction complex, we don't like to get your flesh damaged as it lowers
the price, or we have to keep you for a few weeks until the weals go
away. So we've found that these modified cattle prods are the best
way of making sure you do what you're told. If there's any more
delay in obeying me, they'll jab you again - and next time, the
charge will be turned right up! We always know there's one in a
group who'll disobey us the first time, so I like to be merciful and
only give you half a charge the first time! But be warned! Now, as
I said, let me have a semen sample."

Hans just lay there on the floor, looking defiantly at the doctor.
All of us winced when the guard touched him again and his body jerked
with the electric charge, and his cry was agonising. But he still
made no effort to get up, or to do anything about starting to jerk
off.

The guards advanced on him again, but the doctor said "No. It will
be more instructive for him, and show him his true status, if we milk
him. Put him on the table". And with that, the guards picked him up
off the floor, and carried him over to a leather examination couch
and strapped him to it with a number of webbing tapes.

The doctor walked over to Hans and took a blood sample from his
arm. "And now for the semen", he said, and started to masturbate
Hans. The strapped down South African was cursing and swearing, but
he could not move, and under the quick hands of the doctor his dick
was soon rigid. A few more shakes of his penis, and his jism shot
out and onto his stomach. The doctor took a spatula, and deftly
scooped up most of it up into the small container. After that, the
guards released the straps, and Hans was brought back into the cage
where the other two of us were waiting.

"Okay, you!" said the doctor, pointing at me. And the guards came
over and gestured for me to get out of the cage. "Name and age?"

"Steve, 23" I said.

"Good, said the doctor, a quick learner. Now let's look at what we
have here. Quite a lot of potential for muscle development, and a
natural blonde! OK you know the form, first a urine sample", and he
handed me a plastic bottle.

I was in fact bursting for a pee by this time, and I had no
difficulty in filling it.

"Now the semen sample", the doctor said, handing me a small plastic
cylinder. I blushed deeply, because I had never jerked off in front
of anyone before. But once I started to stroke my cock, it was
surprisingly easy to come and after only about 10 strokes I had
spurted my load into the cylinder. The doctor then approached me
with his syringe, and took a blood sample from my arm.

The other South African, Mike, went quietly as I had and gave his
samples, and the doctor and guards then left the room leaving all
three of us in the corner cage.

"Look, man ", said Mike to Hans, "it's no good fighting here. They
hold all the good cards. You'll only get hurt for nothing, and you
won't be able to fight your way out when the time is right. You know
me - I'm as brave as anyone when there's a chance of winning, but
it's just plain stupid to go at armed guys with stun guns when you're
bare-assed naked and there are three of them and only one of you".

Hans wasn't very pleased by this, and went and sat in the corner with
his back against the wall, saying nothing to Mike or me.
I guess it was about two hours later when the door opened and the
doctor came back in.
"Your urine, blood and semen samples show that you're all in good
health, with no contagious diseases, or HIV or anything. So now we
can get on with the next stage of testing".

So saying, the guards opened the cage, pulled out Hans, and guided
him out of the room - one of the guards had the tip of his stun gun
resting in the crack at the top of Hans's ass, and I think that kept
him docile.

He was back after about 20 minutes, and then it was my turn to be led
out. In the next room, there was an X-ray machine, and I was given a
chest X-ray, and then an ECG. The wires were attached to my pecs,
and I ran on a treadmill for 10 minutes whilst the machine spewed out
its chart.

I was then taken back to the cage in the first room, and Mike was led
out. He, too, came back about 20 minutes later and we were once
again all three alone in the corner cage, buck naked.

Another hour or so passed, and the doctor came in again. "Well,
gentlemen, the good news and the bad news. The good news is that you
are all in excellent condition - indeed, in the sale particulars I
will grade you as A1. The bad news is that therefore you can now go
ahead an be prepared for sale!".

PREPARATIONS

Each of us was then taken out of the cage in turn and told to bend
over the leather examination couch where Hans had been strapped
earlier. The doctor gave each of us three massive injections in the
left ass cheek. "You'll be sore for a few hours there ", he
said, "but we give all our slaves the best possible protection we can
initially against all the common infectious diseases. Hopefully your
new masters will keep your shots up to date - but some don't, so we
do the best we can. It's silly really - they spend thousands of
dollars on buying you, thousands more on training you, and then they
won't spend a hundred or so each year to make sure you don't fall
ill."

I think it was only then that it began to sink in what was happening
to me - this casual talk of buying and training, and then the idea
that I would be there long enough to require boosters for my shots.

After that, we went through showers, and it was really good to wash
away the sweat that was clogging my skin. It must have been 24 hours
now since I had last showered in Las Vegas, and it seemed a lifetime,
let alone half a world, away.

There were wash basins against the wall, and watched by the guards
we were allowed to shave. Again, doing something so normal in such
unusual circumstances seemed very strange, and I looked down at my
cock pressed against the edge of the basin as I leaned forward to see
in the mirror and use the razor - I always enjoyed the sensation at
home of the cold tiles against my prick, and I felt tears almost well
into my eyes as I wondered when I would next be back in a proper US
bathroom.

There were however two more indignities to come. I was taken to a
chair which was on a platform about 1 metre high, and told to sit
down. The legs of the chair had two footrests attached to them, at
about the height of the seat, and I was told to put my feet on them.
As soon as I had, two straps were put around my ankles holding my
legs there. Then, suddenly, the back of the chair tilted backwards
and I found myself half-lying, with my cock and balls exposed, and at
about waist height.

A boy of about 16, naked, came in with a shaving brush, shaving
cream, and a razor, and proceeded to lather up and spread lather over
my balls. He deftly stripped them of hair with the razor, and
towelled them dry. He cupped my ball sac in his hands, and fondled
it to make sure there were no stray hairs left, and nodded to the
guards, who then released me from the chair. Next, I was taken to a
sawhorse and told to lie across it, and pull my ass cheeks apart. I
then felt the boy use his shaving brush to lay lather generously down
my ass crack and around my anus, swiftly following this by removing
the hairs from this area.

After a few minutes, Hans and Mike and I were all standing together
again, and somehow we seemed more naked - without the covering of
hair, our balls seemed more prominent. A guard came up and
said "Which is Mike", and then used a magic marker to write the
number 376 across Mike's right ass, and then on his left pec. The
guard then said that the blond one is 377 - and he did the same to me
with his marker - and the other one must be 378, and he marked Hans.
We tried to scrub the numbers off with our fingers, but they
presumably used "indelible" markers because the numbers would not
budge.

All three of us were then led along a series of corridors and
passages, until we were told to go up a short flight of stairs. All
the while we were walking along we passed men and women carrying
files and papers, and we could see into open office doors. But no
one seemed to find it strange that there should be three naked guys
walking along the corridors of this large building!

As we went up the short flight of stairs, a trap door at its top
opened and we came out up through the floor of a large circular cage,
about 5 metres in diameter. There were about 20 other guys in
there, and, like us, they were all naked, and each one had a number
on his ass and chest.

THE INSPECTION

The guys seemed to be of all nationalities, and not many of them
spoke English. I think a lot of them were middle European, because
they seemed to have Slavic language. There weren't any blacks or
Orientals though, just whites, and everyone was probably less than 30
years old.

One guy came over and said "Hi, I'm John. Let me tell you what's
going on, to save a lot of worry. This is the general inspection
cage for European male slaves for next Tuesday's sale. I've been
here a couple of weeks, after my employer here sold me to the slavers
because I refused to complete my contract and wanted to go home to
England early. It's only when I had finally repudiated our agreement
that I realised it was a criminal offence to break a contract here,
and criminals, of course, become slaves!."

"There's another cage like this for black guys and Orientals, and
another for women. I've been told we're all segregated like this
because it saves the buyers time - if they only buy white man meat,
they only have to come in here and inspect us and don't have to look
at all the other races and the women".

I said "Look, this has to be some kind of ghastly nightmare. They
can't sell me, I'm an American. They can't lock people up as if
they're cattle, and then sell them, for Christ sake! As soon as the
American ambassador hears about this, I'll be out of here".

John took my arm and said "Well, don't get your hopes up. Slavery is
legal in this country, and has been for over 30 years now. Your
government acquiesces, because of the oil. They know that if they
offend the Sheikh, he'll cut off supplies and the world economy will
go into a nose dive. So providing it's all done discreetly, and only
citizens of the country are allowed to buy slaves and they have to be
kept in the country and not exported, no one does anything. In fact,
I've been at diplomatic receptions in the Sheikh's palace, where your
American ambassador has been quite happy to have been served a drink
by a naked slave. So don't think anyone is going to do anything
about you - we'll all be up there on the auction block on Tuesday,
and nobody is going to do anything about it!".

Hans and Mike were listening to John's explanation, too, and were
about to ask him a question when a door opened in the room outside
the cage and a group of Arabs, two in western dress but the rest in
traditional robes, came in and started to walk around outside the
cage looking in at us all. They were talking amongst themselves in
Arabic, and were taking notes in a notebook.

After about the third circuit they stopped near the group of us, and
one of the ones in a suit said in heavily accented English "You two
with the white bikini marks, turn around. His excellency wants to
see your cocks." We realised they must mean Hans and Mike, but they
refused to move, and continued to face into the centre of the cage.
Hans looked over his shoulder and said "Fuck you!". The Arabs spoke
amongst themselves for a few moments, and then the suit said "Be
careful, my friend! His excellency likes your spirit, and has
decided to buy you anyway if he can get you at a good price. Then
you'll see how your insolent behaviour is treated when we have you in
our slave quarters."

Hans just laughed, but John seemed very worried. "You've just upset
the biggest business man in the city", he said, "and everyone knows
he's not someone to be trifled with. He keeps a lot of slaves, and
there are many stories circulating about the way he has them
mutilated. I wish you hadn't done that - no good will come of it.
If you get a reputation as a troublesome slave, they'll cut your
balls off in no time at all to quieten you down."

The Arabs made another circuit, and then left. Throughout the day
other groups of men, and women, came in and walked around the cage,
looking at us all through the bars and chattering away happily. The
four of us stuck together as we all spoke English, and finally a
group of guards came into the room and handed food through the bars -
there was a little parcel for each of us - a pitta bread stuffed
with some kind of meat - and a jug of water.

The only sanitation arrangements in the cage were a hole in the
floor, and I noticed guys throughout the day pissing in to it, or
crouching over it to crap. As the guards were collecting the empty
water pitchers, John said that the lights would be going out soon, so
if we wanted to piss or crap we should do so then, as it was very
difficult to find the hole in the dark.

A few minutes later, the lights did go out and we were in pitch
blackness. I called out to Hans, Mike and John, and John told us
there was nothing to do except stretch out on the bare floor and try
to sleep. Hans and Mike said they were used to sleeping in the bush
whilst on patrol, and they had a way of doing it and suggested we all
try it - you lay on your back, with your head on a colleague's
stomach as a pillow. Another guy used your stomach as his pillow,
and so on. With four of us we could just do it in a square.

So we tried it, and I eventually dozed off to sleep with my head
resting on Hans's firm six-pack, and with John's head on mine.

It really was difficult to sleep, but I guess I did doze for most of
the night. When the lights went on, we all sat up and looked
around. Everywhere there were guys rubbing their eyes with the sharp
light, and being quite un-self conscious of their morning erections.
It made me realise that without clothes, and with absolutely no cover
in an empty room, you have to have quite a different attitude to your
dick - even though I'd been in lots of locker rooms and communal
showers, I'd never seen a lot of other guys sporting hard-ons before,
as of course you always have a towel, or a locker door to hind behind
if you do feel one coming on!

We all cycled through using the latrine hole, and the guards brought
in breakfast - fruit, and water again. After we had eaten that, John
told us that that was it for the day - for the rest of the time, we
just had to sit or stand around in the cage, being inspected from
time to time by prospective buyers. He had been there for eight
days, but there was now only one more to go before sale day.

Mid way through the afternoon, two tall Arabs came in and walked
around on their inspection. They looked at all the men in quite a
lot of detail, and were taking copious notes in a small spiral
notebook. Shortly after they had left, the trap door in the floor
opened and a guard poked his head through and said "365, 376, 377,
378, 402 - get down here". That included of course Hans, Mike and
me, and two other guys. One was quite like me to look at, with quite
long legs like I have. And the other was more stocky and muscular,
quite like Hans and Mike.

All five of us went down the stairs and along more corridors - again,
not one of the people we passed seemed to find it at all strange that
there should be naked men being herded along by the guards - and were
pushed into a room containing five tables. Each table was about a
metre square, and we were told to kneel on them. As soon as I was
kneeling down, there were a couple of clicks and I realised that my
ankles were held at the corners of the table by cuffs that snapped in
to small holes in the table. The guards then put a collar around
each guy's neck, and this had wrist straps at the back where my
wrists were soon secured. Finally, a small round ball was stuffed
into my mouth and secured around the back of my head with an elastic
strap, so I couldn't speak.

The guards then went out, leaving the five of us, each kneeling on
his own little table, and with his wrists cuffed behind his neck, and
gagged. It was not very comfortable on the table - my feet jutted
over the end, but the lack of flesh on the front of my legs in
contact with the hard table soon made my bones ache. We all seemed
to be in the same discomfort, but there wasn't anything we could do
about it - our hands were held tight, and we couldn't move about
because of the ankle cuffs and the narrowness of the table.

After what seemed like an age, the door opened again and the two
Arabs we had last seen walking around the cage came in. " Ha" , the
first said, "Good. They've got it right. 365, 376, 377, 378 and
402. They usually manage to fuck it up somehow, but today we have
all the prospective purchases here."

The two Arabs walked up and down in front of the five of us, and then
started a detailed inspection. Because we were kneeling on the
tables, our cocks were at about their chest height, and as they moved
down the row of us they hefted our ball sacs in their hands and
weighed them up and down. "It's interesting, isn't it ", said one to
the other. "This one " - meaning me - "has his balls handing down,
and his cock hangs down in front of them. Whereas this one "
(turning to 365, on my left) "has much tighter balls, and they force
his cock to stand out even when it's not erect. Both of their balls
feel about the same size, but the hanging down ones look a lot
bigger".

They then came back in front of me, and looked again at my penis. "I
don't know about foreskins ", said the first Arab, "This one looks
really good on the guy. I like the way it is just long enough so his
piss slit is visible all the time. Those very long ones that hang
down way beyond the end of the cock really do need trimming off, but
this one really complements his prick."

"Well ", said the second Arab, "what would he look like without
it? ", and he started to push my foreskin back to reveal my cock
head. I never had another guy touch my cock in this way before, and
I tried to protest. But the gag of course meant that all my words
came out simply as muffled groans. And I couldn't move much, because
of being cuffed to the table.

"I don't know which to choose ", said the first Arab. "This 377 with
the low-hanging balls and the foreskin, although we can always have
that trimmed off, or 365 with the jutting out cock. I suppose that's
better for running, as we have had problems with slaves with those
very low balls after they have run a few miles without support."

"Yes, but then you know how I cured my current runner - after I had
that ball ring put around his sack, I've had no more problems with
complaints about aching balls even when he has been made to run 10
miles. I guess we could always do that with this one, too. Or
whilst we are having him circumcised, we could get the doctor to cut
some of his sack out and stitch it up higher", commented number two.

I wasn't used to being handled like this, or discussed in this way,
and I had gone from anger when they first started to examine my balls
to despair, when I realised that there was nothing I could do. And
what made it even worse was that, for them, this was a perfectly
normal conversation and they could contemplate having me circumcised
and my balls stitched up as if it was no more than discussing the
hairstyle I should have.

"No ", said number one, "I want a natural runner this time. I'm
tired of all those rings and harnesses, and my new one is going to
run completely free except for the essential bits of harness. So on
that basis I think I'll choose 265."

"Well OK" his colleague replied "but before you finally make up your
mind, let's have a look at them when they're erect. You know how
these young guys' pricks tend to pop up at the most unlikely times,
and as they're going to be around our guests a lot of the time, we'd
better get one that really looks good. If we're going to spend a lot
on a new runner and a lot on training him, it may as well be for a
real thoroughbred stallion that's good to look at".

One of the Arabs opened the door and called out "Slave!". And a few
moments later the 16-year old who had previously shaved me came in,
still naked. "Erect 265 and 377 ", said the first Arab. "I don't
want cum spurting everywhere. Just get them hard and upright".

He came over to us, and with a few deft strokes of his hand we were
both soon hard. The Arabs then spent a few moments hefting each of
our sets of balls in their hands again, until finally the first one
said "No, I think 377 is better. With his cock up, look at how his
balls hang. And with his foreskin pulled right back, he has a very
pleasing cock head. I think I will leave him uncut for the time
being, then in a year or two I can always give him a makeover and
have him cut - people will think I've bought a new slave!"

The second one said "I guess you're right. But before you finally
decide, let's look at his ass. Those butt muscles have got to do a
lot of work when he has been trained, and we need so see how they
might shape up." And then, turning to the 16-year old slave, he
said "Unscrew the table".

The boy came around to the side of me and turned a small handle set
into the side of the table. There was obviously a screw mechanism
underneath, because the table top separated into two halves, and as
one of my legs was strapped to each, as they got further and further
apart I started to feel a considerable straining in my upper groin
area. Eventually my legs were wide apart, and there was a steady
trickle of sweat running down my back and chest from the strain I was
under. The two Arabs were behind the table now, and talking about
the definition in my ass and calf muscles as they watched as the
strain began to tell.

But worse was yet to come. The first Arab came around the front and
started to pull my body down and forwards by gripping my collar. As
my body went down, my ass tried to go up to compensate, but could
only go so far because my legs were strapped down. When my body was
almost horizontal, he told the boy slave to hold the collar there and
he went back to continue the discussion with his friend.

"Look at that", he said, "I like to see a well-defined backbone",
and I felt his hand run all along my spine. "And if you ask me, he's
a virgin. Look at that anus - it doesn't seem to be at all slack,
and there's none of the bruising you get around it when there have
been a lot of cocks up there. Not that it matters much as I don't
allow my slaves to fuck each other. But if any of my guests take a
special fancy to any of my stock, I like them to have a good night
with a really tight anus to go at."

By now I couldn't believe what I was hearing. They were discussing
my body just as if I wasn't there. I really meant no more to them
than a horse they were thinking of buying, or a dog. I wasn't a man
at all as far as they were concerned, but another category of animal -
a slave!

"OK ", said the first, "let him up." And the slave boy let go of my
collar so I could ease some of the tension in my legs. He then
screwed the handle the other way, and finally I was again kneeling
with my body upright and legs together. After all the tension and
strain my whole body was covered in sweat, and mixed in there were
tears running down my cheeks - I can't really tell you whether they
were of rage, or sorrow. Rage at being treated as less than an
animal, or sorrow that there was absolutely nothing that I could do
about it.

The two Arabs then started to discuss whether to buy 376 (Hans), 378
(Mike), or the other slave, 402. "The problem is ", said the
first, "that they're all basically the same - well muscled, about
5'10" or 5'11", a good strong build, and in their early twenties.
They've even all got abut the same equipment down there - nothing
much to choose between them aesthetically. These two " ( pointing at
Hans and Mike) "were soldiers, and it might be amusing to have them
completely powerless in harness. But of course if they ever do break
lose, they will probably remember how to fight and kill. I'm not
sure we're not better off with this one " (pointing at 402), "who got
his muscles in the gym."

They carried on discussing it for some time, but decided in the end
that they would decide on the basis of their erections again, so the
16-year old slave was told to get them stiff. As I knelt there
looking at the three guys nude, all with their cocks jutting up to
the ceiling, I felt my own rising up too. One of other Arabs noticed
it, and said to the other "I told you these boys get erections all
the time. This one hasn't been touched, but he's as hard as the
others!"

Finally, the young slave was told to bring the three of them to
climax, which he did very deftly. "Let the jism fly", said the first
Arab, "And we'll have the two whose goes furthest".
Although they were all three in a high state of arousal, and all
obviously sexually mature and active, only Hans and Mike produced a
huge spurt of cum that leapt across the room from them. 402 barely
had a dribble running down his cock, and it looked just as if he had
only pre-cum!

The Arabs were very curious about this, and went to examine him more
closely. They squeezed his balls, crushing them quite hard - all the
rest of us watching winced inwardly in sympathy with the pain he must
be feeling, but he wasn't writhing around on his table. "Ah ", said
the second one "I see what's the problem. He's been castrated, and
his balls replaced with stainless steel prosthetic ones so he still
looks OK. So there's no cum to come! I guess he was a wild one in
his youth, and they calmed him down by cutting his balls out and then
giving him hormone replacement injections to keep his body tone in
good shape and to keep his hair growing. That's the problem with
these farm-bred slaves - you can't rely on them like the wild ones
bought in from outside - the owners are always looking for ways to
cut down on the amount of fighting in the slave barracks, and then
they overdo it and ruin a really magnificent animal like this one
permanently. There's no point in buying stock we can't breed from if
he is really good after training. So I guess we'll go for these two,
376 and 378".

And with that, they left. Shortly afterwards, guards came in again
and released us from the tables, took out our gags, took off the
collars, and led us back up into the circular cage to join the other
guys. But 402 didn't come with us.

"What was all that about farm-bred slaves?" I asked. And John told
me "Well, they repealed the slavery laws 30 years ago here as I told
you. So there has been time for two generations of slaves to be born
in captivity - with the owners breeding them at 14. Obviously any
children of a slave are slaves themselves, and the owners see there's
a profit to be made by selling the next generation on. The children
are left in the home compounds with their mothers until there's any
sign of sexual maturity, then they're sold on. There are special
slave barracks that buy the slave boys at around 12, and start
intensively training them for the future. They're toughened up with
rigorous daily exercise, until at 16 they can be legally sold as
fully mature stock. A lot go down the mines then, and they have a
pretty miserable life as once down there, they never come up again -
they spend all their time on their hands and knees crawling along the
tunnels, and their development basically stops. They get tough
elbows and knees, but after a year or two, they can no longer stand
upright."

"Some of the 16 year olds though go on do more training - weights
from morning until night, treadmills, and the like. All this costs,
of course, as they're eating a lot with all that exercise, and they
have to be guarded. But at 18 you have some pretty amazing tough,
muscular specimens who are really good at long hours of the most
gruelling physical work. And they know they're slaves - they were
born that way, and they know they will die that way. Ever since they
were 12 they have lived a communal life, naked at all times, in the
barracks, so they have no conception of privacy. And they're always
made to jerk off communally every morning and evening, and that's all
they know about sex. It's a pretty good package, and a lot of owners
will now only buy these 'farm-bred' slaves."

"Of course, every now and then you get a rebel. That's probably what
402 was. So at some point, they simply whipped his balls out to calm
him down. But then the farmer's facing a big loss, so they stitch
them up with prosthetics, and then try to sell them on. He shouldn't
have been here at all, as this government auction house is only for
guaranteed 'wild' stock - i.e. guys like us, who have lived free, but
have now become slaves for one reason or another. Some owners only
want wild stock, or want us for specific tasks where they get more of
a turn on from seeing a previously-free guy being made to do the job,
rather than one of the farm-bred ones who don't really know any
different".


It had been a harrowing day, and I was glad it was night again.



to be continued


THE MAKING OF A PONY SLAVE - PART 2

By Pete Brown (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)


THE AUCTION

Soon I blinked awake as the lights came on in the cage. As
yesterday, most of the guys were sporting their morning hard-ons, and
some of them started to jerk off. Once again I thought how my life
had changed - here I was in a cage, totally naked with 20 or so other
naked guys, without even the smallest element of privacy so that if
we wanted to jerk off, there was no choice but to do it in front of
the others.

My cock ached, and I decided to put aside my inhibitions and started
to stroke my erection. But guards then came in and surrounded the
cage, and shouted at us all to stop! This was a change from
yesterday, when our breakfast had been brought in, and I was hungry -
we had only had that meal the day before, and fruit and water that
night, before the lights had gone out.

The trap door in the middle of the cage opened and we a guard came
up, into the cage, and started to herd us down the stairs,
threatening us with his stun-gun. I managed to stay with Hans and
Mike as we went down the stairs, and along the corridors of the
building that I now knew to be the state slave centre. Mike was in
front of me, and at some point we came to a cross-corridor and the
guards shouted at us to halt, as there was another party of slaves
making their way along it. The guards came along the line of us and
told us to stand close to the wall, and shuffle up close together, so
as not to block the corridor.

The guy behind me in the line pushed into me, and this pushed me into
Mike. My semi-rigid cock was forced against his muscular ass, and I
could feel the sweaty body of the guy behind me pressing along the
length of my back and ass. Although I had been close to guys in the
showers before, never as close as this: I had never felt the heat of
two naked bodies on either side of me, being pressed close by the
need to get into a short line. My cock seemed to have a life of its
own, and I felt it jutting at Mike's clenched ass cheeks.

"Hey, Steve", he said, "Don't fuck me here. If you want to play, you
should have said earlier!".

I felt myself flushing crimson, because I knew that he knew that it
was my cock pushing at him, and I couldn't help myself. I'm not gay,
and I have never wanted to go up another guy's ass. But somehow
being in this corridor in an otherwise normal office building, naked
between two guys, being herded along to I knew not where, was
overwhelmingly erotic and my cock was responding in the only way it
knew how.

However before things got any worse, we started off again down the
corridor, and eventually turned in through a set of swing doors
marked "Auction Ring 1 Preparation Suite". The room was tiled on all
the walls and floor, and there were a set of five shower heads along
the far wall. The guards told us to hurry up and shower, and I
assumed we would do it five at a time. But it was soon clear, as
they forced us forward, that all 20 of us were to use the same five
shower heads at the same time.

We stood huddled together under the gushing water which, it turned
out, was soapy. We were ordered to wash each other, and soon there
was a mass of soap-covered guys with their hands sliding over each
others bodies as we complied - by now, we all knew that the slightest
hesitation or sign of disobeying an order and the stun guns would be
used on us. I hated to think of the effect of one of those
electrical discharges into the mass of nude, wet guys, in intimate
contact with each other, and I was glad that everyone, even Hans, was
following orders.

The water turned clear, and we washed the soap off each other, but
then it went from being just warm, to freezing cold. The guys at
the edge tried to get out of the icy spray, but the guards drove them
back, threatening them with the stun guns. We all clung together,
trying to get some comfort from the warmth of each others bodies, as
the icy water continued to deluge down on us for about five minutes.
The guards were all laughing, and I heard one of them say that this
was the simplest way that they had found to get rid of our erections
without allowing us to jerk off - and we weren't allowed to do that
this morning as we needed to be in peak condition for the sale.

When the water finally did stop, the shivering mass of us were
allowed out into the room, and we stood there with the water dripping
off us and all our cocks shrivelled and our balls all retracted - we
looked a miserable sight.

The guards then picked one guy, and forced him through a door into
the next room. A few minutes later, the next one was hustled
through, and it became clear that we were all being taken, one by
one, through into what was, presumably, the next stage of our
preparation.

My turn came, and I went through the door. On the other side there
were a two guards with the obligatory stun guns, one guy in a short
white coat and trousers who was holding a clipboard, and two tall
muscular black guys, who were totally naked and who had absolutely no
body hair. The guy in the coat looked at me and said "377 ", and
made a tick on his clipboard. He nodded at the two blacks, and one
of them came up behind me and slipped his arms under mine and then
back behind my neck so I was in a classic neck lock. I could feel
his naked muscular body pressing all down my back, and then he leaned
backwards, and my feet left the ground. I was in effect semi-
recumbent, with my legs hanging down on either side of his massive
thighs.

His partner then came over with a shaving brush, and unceremoniously
soaped my balls and proceeded to shave them again. He also shaved
the two days growth of beard from my face, and fondled my balls and
chin to make sure he had done a good job. He was obviously satisfied
with his work, and he grunted, at which the guy was holding me let me
go.

The black who had been doing the shaving then bent over from the
waist, clutching his knees with his hands. I was told by the man in
the white coat to bend over, and when I started to copy the black
guy, I was pushed towards his bending body - it was made clear to me
that I should mount him, so that my feet were again off the floor, my
chest was pressed into his muscular back, and my cock was nestling in
the crack at the top of his rounded muscular buttocks. I was told to
clasp my hands around his chest, and to hold on tight.

The second black, then proceeded to shave the crack between my ass
cheeks, so it too was devoid of any possible re-growth from the
shaving I had had two days before. When this was finished, he too
grunted (it was only later that I would find out why neither of them
said a word), and I was released.

The white-coated guy gave one of the two blacks a magic marker, and
he touched up the 377 that had been written on my left ass and right
pec when I had first arrived at the slave centre.

Next one of the blacks knelt down and shacked my ankles to each end
of stainless steel bar about 0.75 metres long - the shackles were
quite loose, so I could walk in a kind of shuffle, but I could not of
course close my legs together. His companion then grunted at me to
hold my hands out in front of me, and my wrists were manacled to each
end of a similar bar. Finally, a ball gag was pushed into my mouth
and its elastic strap slipped over my head so that I was unable to
speak.

Whilst this was going on the white-coated man was speaking to the
guards, and was telling them how efficient this new set-up
was. "When we used to have a shaving chair and a shaving table in
here, it took much longer ", he said, "as there was always some
reluctance on the part of the new slaves to be tied down, and quite a
lot of time was lost whilst we encouraged them with the stun guns.
But with these two black giants, they don't realise what's going on
until it's too late and they're being held for shaving. I don't know
why they don't use the same system during initial processing. It
would have the added advantage of getting the new slaves used to
bodily contact - most of the Europeans have never been in intimate
contact with another man's body, let alone a big, muscular black, and
it would let them know from the start what they should expect".

The guard started to reply, but I never got to hear what he said
because they motioned for me to shuffle out of a door across the
room, whilst another of my group of 20 was entering from the door I
had previously come through. It was obviously a production line
process, with our bodies being the goods they were processing!

We waited in the next room until all 20 of us had come through, and
then a clanking noise started. A row of hooks came across the
ceiling out of a slot, and the guy in the white coat came in with the
two blacks and proceeded to give them instructions to hang us from
the hooks by the bars between our wrists. He took care to hang us up
in numeric order, so I found myself between Hans and Mike again.

So there we were, 20 naked guys standing with their hands above their
heads hooked onto some kind of conveyor belt running across the
ceiling. The guy in the white coat said "And now I am leaving you,
as you are ready for sale. This will be the last chance for the
buyers to look you over at close quarters, before this afternoon's
auction".

He pressed a button on the wall, and the hooks started to move. We
went out through a slot in the wall into a luxurious reception room,
shuffling along because of the restraints between our ankles. It was
strange to come into this room, because it was carpeted - I felt the
luxurious pile between my toes, and I realised that it was the first
time for days that I had been on anything other than raw concrete or
tiles. It was furnished with sofas and low tables, and there were
luxurious drapes handing at the windows. The conveyor continued to
run, until we were all in the room and all spaced out around it
because the conveyor belt with its hooks from which we were hung
snaked in a serpentine way around the ceiling.

When we had all been standing here for about five minutes, large
double doors opened and a crowd flowed in. They were mostly men,
and about half of them were in traditional Arab dress, and half in
western suits. They were all expensively dressed, and you could see
the discrete glint of very expensive watches on their wrists. There
was clearly a lot of "money" in the room.

Mixed in with them were four of the 16 year old slaves we had seen
before, still naked, but now carrying trays with glasses of
champagne, orange juice, and canapés, which they offered to the
guests.

Whilst I had been getting used to being naked after my days in
captivity, I now felt something different - whereas before I had been
naked, now I was "nude". Somehow, with other guys in a prison-like
environment, being naked had become the norm. But in this very
western setting, with the soft carpets, furniture and drapes, and
with all these people coming in so expensively dressed, I felt
different. It was like a nightmare, where you wake up sweating
because you have been the only one naked at a cocktail party - but
this was not a nightmare, it was real life. I was clearly on
display, and I was just an object hung up for the pleasure of these
people.

I recognised several of the groups of people who had walked around
our circular cage during the past days, and they were talking to each
other as they sipped their drinks. Some of them were comparing notes
from the notebooks they had been carrying on their initial inspection
trips, and they clearly wanted to check up specific things about some
of the slaves hanging there.

One group came over and started to look at Hans - he was about four
feet away from me, so I could hear what they were saying. "Ah yes",
said the leader, "this is the one who would not turn around and show
us his cock. I don't know why, as he has nothing to be ashamed of -
it's the usual size for this build of slave. Perhaps there's
something wrong with it". He turned to one of the serving slaves and
barked something in Arabic. The boy put his tray down on a nearby
table, came over and knelt in front of Hans, and proceeded to suck at
his limp cock until Hans was massively erect. "Don't bring him to
climax ", said the Arab, "we don't want to get his semen on these
fine carpets. And we don't want to spoil the fun for others later.
I can see from the pre-cum starting to drip out that he's normal".
And, turning to his companions, they walked off.

Three men came over and looked closely at me next. They ran their
hands over my arms, pinching my biceps to feel the muscle
development. One of them knelt down behind me and I winced as one of
the massive rings he was wearing caught the flesh of the back of my
thighs as he kneaded them to test the musculature there. They also
tweaked at my nipples, and were obviously pleased when they went hard
under their fingers - I had never had anyone touch me here before in
this way, and it was a stomach-churning new sensation for me. One of
them knelt down in front, and closely examined my cock and balls.
Then he hefted my balls in his hand, and squeezed lightly until I
started to twist and writhe with the mild pain he was causing. He
didn't call a slave over, but stroked my cock himself until I was
achingly erect, and he pinched my cock head between the nails of his
fingers when it emerged from its protective foreskin sheath, just to
see how I reacted I think - he was amused when I tried to jerk
backwards from his grip.

Tears were running down my cheeks from the shame, humiliation and
rage I was feeling, but the inspection still was not over. One of
them unstrapped and took out the ballgag, and I was told to open my
mouth. I decided not to, and he simple smiled at me as he reached
down and squeezed my balls - hard this time, not gently like before.
I gasped in pain, and he kept up the pressure until I did finally
open my mouth. Keeping tight hold of my balls, he ran a finger of
the other hand round inside my lips and cheeks, prodding at my jaw so
that he could make a quick visual inspection of my teeth. They were
obviously satisfied then, because they replaced the ballgag in my
mouth, and went away.

The two Arabs who had had the five of us on the inspection tables the
previous day then approached, and one said "Yes, 377. He's still
looking good. I don't think we need to look at him again, and we'll
still bid up to the price we agreed yesterday to get him".

After we had hung there for about two hours, the crowds of elegantly
dressed men and women gradually left until only the 20 of us
suspended from the conveyor were left, and the four young serving
slaves. They came around to each of us in turn, took out our
ballgags, and pushed a straw into out mouths so we could take a long,
refreshing drink - it had been quite hot in the room in spite of the
air conditioning, and of course the tension of the occasion,
especially when the examinations had been going on, had caused most
of us to sweat a lot. Next they came around with buckets, and we
were all required to piss into them.

After about 20 minutes, the conveyor jerked into life, and we started
to shuffle along. It stopped after only a short time, just long
enough for a couple of the suspended slaves to go through a slit in
the wall. After a few minutes, it started up again, and one slave
passed through the wall before it stopped, and this process continued.

I gradually progressed around the room, as required by the pattern of
the track in the ceiling, and soon it was my turn to go through into
the next chamber. The two naked blacks were there again, and they
were glistening curiously - I soon realised why this was, as they
both quickly rubbed my body all over with a fine oil. The oil was
dripping from their hands onto their own muscular bodies, and making
their already enormous bunched muscles look even more pronounced
under the lights. They covered me completely in a coating of the
oil, paying particular attention to putting a layer between my ass
cheeks, and peeling back my foreskin so that the whole of my cock was
covered. They said nothing as they did this, and there was nothing
sexual about it as far as they were concerned - clearly they were
just doing a job, preparing a piece of man-meat so that it shone in
an agreeable way prior to sale. Finally, they undid the shackles
holding my ankles apart.

The conveyor jerked into life again, and I went out from that final
preparation chamber into a blinding light. I realised that I was
being led across a stage - at least I could walk properly, now that
my ankles were free. I could only just see the audience beyond its
edge, comfortably seated in a plush auditorium, and at the back of
the stage, a large video screen was showing my progress, with my body
blown up to 10 times life size. It was just as if they were holding
a rock concert, but the only thing on the stage was me.

The conveyor led me up to three steps leading onto a small platform
in the centre of the stage, and I mounted it. The conveyor stopped,
and I was left standing there with my hands above my head. A
spotlight then came on, and the small platform started to rotate, and
I could see that my nude, oiled body was therefore being displayed
from all sides on the video screen for the audience to see.

Just beyond the platform was a man with a microphone, and he began to
talk to the audience. "This is lot 377, ladies and gentlemen. A 23
year old American. Like all our slaves, he is certified free of
infectious diseases and HIV, his X-rays show no sign of lung
disorders, and his ECG tells us that his heart is in excellent
shape. In our opinion, he is in very good condition with an
excellent muscle tone for a man of his age from America, and he can
easily stand heavy training to turn him into a heavy-duty field
slave, or a general purpose worker, or, of course, into a lithe sex
toy."

"Whilst we can't certify his sexual orientation, there is no sign
that he has been buggared, and it is possible that he has a virgin
ass. Our agents in the USA, after his enslavement, interviewed a
number of his friends and work mates anonymously, and he is believed
to have been exclusively heterosexual. His balls are in full working
order, and he produces live sperm should you want to breed from him.
Whilst he still has a foreskin, the centre here will remove that at
no additional charge should the purchaser prefer the more regular
uncut cock."

"He was enslaved only a week ago in the USA to pay off gambling debts
he incurred, and brought to this country immediately because the USA
still does not of course allow slaves to be owned there. He has had
no experience of slavery, except for the routine processing that we
have done here at the government auction centre. To some extent
therefore you are buying an unknown quantity, but of course many of
you, we know, prefer an untamed wild slave to a more docile farmed
one".

"So I am now opening the bidding for 377 at $100,000. Please use the
key pads at your seats to enter your bids".

Superimposed on the video screen showing my body a big 100,000
appeared in white letters, and this rapidly went up until it got to
350,000. It stopped there, and the auctioneer said "Is that your
final bid, ladies and gentlemen? I will sell this slave in five
seconds... four... three..." and then the 350 changed to 360, 370,
380, 390 in slow steps until it stopped again. The auctioneer
said "Selling at 390,000 dollars in five seconds... four....
three.... two... one... sold!". The big 390,000 on the screen
changed to a set of Arabic characters, and the auctioneer said "Slave
377 sold to the El Quadir Ranch". And with that, the conveyor jerked
into life again and led me off the stage.

In the chamber on the other side of the stage I was let down of the
conveyor, and my wrists unshackled from the bar that had been holding
them apart. I was allowed to remove the ballgag from my own mouth.
There were of course guards with stun guns much in evidence, and a
supervisor who said "377 into cage 8". They took me through a door
into a set of barred cells, and I was put into number 8 where,
already there, was Hans. We were joined a few minutes later by Mike,
and as other slaves came through and were put into different cages in
the row, we realised that we had probably been sold to the same
buyer.

The experience had clearly been very difficult for all of us, and we
were shivering with tension now it was all over. We crouched there,
on the bare concrete of the cage floor, three once proud men, covered
in oil, our balls and asses shaved, not knowing what was in store for
us.

...to be continued



THE MAKING OF A PONY SLAVE - PART 3

By Pete Brown (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

TRANSPORTATION


The three of us had been in the cage for some time, and gradually the
other cages in the row were being emptied as guards came and took
away their naked occupants.

Finally, our turn must have come, because the cage door was unlocked
and we were shepherded out, along a set of corridors, and out on to
what was obviously a loading bay. There were a number of light
trucks drawn up, and drivers in regular delivery driver uniforms
standing around. It just looked like a parcels depot back home, but
the only merchandise being moved here was slaves - as well as us
standing there, there were some blacks, and a couple of women - I
guess they must have been at different auctions held later in the
day, as the one I had been sold at was exclusively for white men.

The dispatcher came up, holding a clipboard, and looked at the
numbers that were still showing on our asses. He consulted his list,
and told a guard to take us to one of the small trucks standing
towards the end of bay. "Make sure they ease themselves first ", he
told the guard, "as they've got a long journey". I was glad at least
that our supposition had been correct - evidently Hans, Mike and I
were all going to the same place.

The guard pushed us along, and stopped by a hole cut in to the floor
of the bay. "Piss and crap now", he said. I went to piss in to the
hole standing up, but the guard pushed me down. "Even if you only
want to piss, you crouch over that hole. We don't like slaves with
poor aim getting the floor wet". I squatted there, and really didn't
believe I could crap in public - as well as Mike and Hans and the
other naked male and female slaves on the loading bay, there were of
course all the drivers and guards watching. It wasn't so bad having
the other naked slaves there, but the sight of the normal, every day
workers in their western-style work uniforms just standing around and
shooting the breeze with each other caused me to cramp up. But
nature took its course, and in spite of myself I felt a huge turd
drop in to the hole, and a stream of piss splash down after it.

Mike and Hans were then made to squat over the hole in turn, and
finally we were once again all three standing there waiting to see
what would happen next. One of the drivers came over and asked the
dispatcher if we had cleaned up. "I've got a long journey, and if the
slaves don't clean themselves properly after crapping, it makes the
truck smell", he said. There had been no toilet tissue offered to us
after our performance at the hole, but the dispatcher now went off
and came back with some sheets of tissue and we were told to clean
up. Somehow standing there wiping my ass in public was even worse
than crapping in front of other people, and I realised how low I had
become. None of the people on the bay seemed to think it unusual to
see three guys bending over and cleaning their asses, and I guessed
that this must be normal for slaves. Indeed, no one even seemed to
be noticing us, as they went about their every day business.

We were then led over to the light truck at the end of the bay, and
the driver and dispatcher fussed over paperwork on the clipboard. I
had often had UPS deliver things to my college dorm, and I recognised
exactly what was happening - the driver and dispatcher were
completing transfer forms, so that the merchandise could be accounted
for through the system. The only difference was that this time the
merchandise included me; I was no more than an expensive parcel to
these guys.

Inside the truck there were two rails at chest height running
parallel to the length of the truck, and about 1 metre apart. Hans
was pushed in between the rails, and his arms were pulled over the
rails, then stretched out to the sides of the truck, where they
were manacled in to cuffs on little sliding rails mounted on to the
truck walls. I was next, and Mike came in behind me.

We stood there for a couple of minutes, and I could see that in front
of Hans there were already some guys similarly shackled - obviously
they had been loaded earlier, or had come from elsewhere. I suppose
this truck specialised in slave transport, and picked up slaves from
a number of destinations.

Finally, behind Mike two more slaves were loaded and manacled -
twisting around, I recognised a couple of the Slavic types who didn't
speak English, who had been in the cage with us and auctioned on the
same day.

Suddenly we were all pushed forward - I heard shouting behind, and
saw the guards with their stun guns urging the Slavs forward. We all
shuffled along the truck, until Hans was almost touching the guys who
were already in there. But we couldn't stop - the pressure from
behind continued, and Mike nudged me forward and I had to push Hans
into the slaves who had already been waiting in there patiently. The
pressure continued, and now I was firmly sandwiched between Hans and
Mike; their warm bodies were in close contact with mine, Mike's cock
was pushing at my ass cheeks, and mine was firmly lodged in Hans's
crack.

I heard the driver say "That's enough. They need to be firmly
together so they don't get damaged in transit as the truck goes over
the highway and around corners. The rails were a big innovation to
stop them swaying in to the walls all the time, but I find you still
need them packed up lengthways, too, in case I have to brake
suddenly." And with that, the doors at the back were swung shut, and
we were in darkness.

Moments later the truck started off - I realised that the motor had
been running all the time, as there was air conditioning inside;
without it, we would have been in a terrible state as with the
blazing Arabian sun even a white truck would have been like a furnace
inside. I suppose this was another of their "innovations" to keep
the stock in good condition.

We lurched along, bouncing up and down slightly and swaying from side
to side. The rails under our arms did indeed prevent us from getting
thrown around too much, and when the truck braked we couldn't get
thrown forwards as we were already packed tightly in that direction.
But there was a problem - Hans, Mike and I were still all lightly
oiled from the auction display, and the motion of the truck caused us
to constantly rub against one another. Even though I had got a bit
used to body contact with other guys in the last few days, nothing
had prepared me for this - the most constant, intimate rubbing of our
whole bodies together. In spite of the air conditioning, I broke out
in a sweat, and this increased the sensation as our slick bodies
glided over each other.

My prick went into a wild erection, pushing into Hans's ass cheeks in
front of me, and the hairless crack was hot and very wet. I could
feel Mike's erection in turn trying to thrust up my ass, and I
started to cry: I couldn't say whether this was from shame,
humiliation, or sheer frustration - it was probably a mix of all
these, and showed the state I had fallen in to.

Hans turned his head around as best he could and said in his South
African accent "Hey, Steve, man, don't worry. None of us wants to be
here like this. None of us is gay. I know from the service though
that when you get guys close together you can easily find yourself
against your mate's erection. Isn't that right, Mike?"

"Yes ", Mike answered from behind me. "But when we have been out in
the bush on patrol and pressed close waiting for the rebels to
appear, we usually had our erections covered by a jockstrap and
combat trousers! This is a bit different."

In spite of our misery, we managed to laugh a bit at this, and the
journey went on. Not only was the feeling of Hans body in front of
me a totally new sensation, but I after a little while I started to
smell him as well. Although we had been showered and cleaned before
the sale earlier in the day, the constant sweating we had all been
doing had caused our skins now to have a strange, musky man odour.
And as I bumped and grinded into Hans in time with the rhythm of the
truck, there was a strange, heady mixture of sweat, body odour, and
the faint ammonia whiff of pre-cum being pumped up into my nose from
where my cock was still firmly wedged between his ass cheeks. This
made my erection even worse, and I whispered to Hans that I was
sorry. "Don't worry, man", he reassured me, "You should feel what
I'm doing to the guy in front of me".

After what seemed an age, the truck stopped and the doors opened.
The two Slavs behind Mike were offloaded, and we could hear the
driver discussing the paperwork with someone out side the truck. I
was right - this was a straight delivery service, and he was working
a route, delivering each set of merchandise in turn. No one else was
loaded in, so I guessed we would be the next delivery.

Finally, the doors opened again, and Mike, Hans and I were unmanacled
and told to get out. We stood under a blazing desert sun, on sand
that was almost too hot for our naked feet to bear, in front of a
long, low white building. All around we could see other buildings
that were set on fresh, green grass, in a park-like setting. After
days of seeing only the inside of buildings, it all looked very
beautiful. We stretched our aching arms, and Hans and Mike did a
couple of squats to get their legs working properly.

We were signed for by a guy in his mid thirties who was wearing denim
cut-offs, and nothing else. He was deeply tanned, quite muscular,
and had a thick thatch of curly black hair on his chest and stomach.
One of the now-familiar stun guns was cradled loosely in one
hand. "Welcome to the ranch", he said. "I'm one of the Overseers,
and you'll be seeing a lot of me if you get assigned to field work.
I don't know what the master has in mind for you, but he's due back
here in a couple of days and I guess he will decide then. That will
just give us time to get you properly processed and trimmed, and
through testing and quarantine.".

I don't know whether it was the relief from being in the open again,
or the cumulative shock of everything that had happened to us, but
none of us seemed able to say a word. And when he gestured for us to
move off in the direction of the door in front of us, we all meekly
obeyed.


THE SLAVE MASTER

Inside the building we went into a room, and there was an Arab
sitting there in western dress. He said "I am the Sheikh's slave
master, and have complete power over all the slaves on his estates.
And by 'complete', I mean 'complete'. I say whether you are fed,
what jobs you do, whether we breed from you, or whether we sell you
on. I'm going to take a little of my time to tell you about your
future life - listen carefully, because I will say it only once. You
will find that paying attention now will save you much needless
fretting and worry in the future, as I am going to map out the rest
of your life for you."

"The Sheikh has bought you men because he likes to revitalise his
slave herd with wild stock from time to time. Understand that as a
slave you have absolutely no rights, only a duty to work hard at
whatever tasks your master assigns you. You are very fortunate to
have been bought by the Sheikh, because he is a good master. The
only form of punishment allowed here is the whip, and he will not
allow the overseers to use mutilation even for very bad or persistent
offenders. His fellow owners think he's too soft, because he does
not practice body modification on his slaves - even if your permanent
job is to work a treadmill to pump water in to the fields, he allows
you to keep your arms even though they are not necessary for the
work. And he does not have you blinded, even if you are chained in
one place every day and have no need to be able to see."

"I can see that you are all in your twenties, and in good physical
shape. You will be pleased to know that you can expect a long life
here, as we take proper care of your diet, and our veterinarian is
always on hand to treat any diseases that develop. In fact you can
expect to be in much better physical shape when you're 45 than you
would be in the West. Our slave diet is specially formulated to give
you the energy you need without containing any sugar to rot your
teeth, or any fats to give you heart attacks. Each day we look at
the energy you have used working, and give you just enough of the
slave feed that you need. So you'll never put on an ounce of fat,
and will remain lean for the whole of your life. Initially you'll
get extra rations because we'll be building up your muscles to the
standard we require for your particular work, but it will soon taper
off to the normal daily replacement amount. When you get your ration
of slave feed each evening, it is therefore particularly important
that you eat it all - either we are building you up, or we are
replacing the energy you used. Either way, failure to eat the entire
allocated ration upsets our plans for you and we will whip you."

"Although I am speaking to you in English, you will be taught a set
of basic Arabic phrases to control your work and your life. All the
overseers and guards only use this basic language, and any failure to
obey their commands is punishable by whipping. As you will see
later, you will have no need to learn to speak this language, just to
jump to obey commands in it."

"Any physical violence, however slight, to an overseer is punishable
by death. Any attempt to leave the grounds of the Sheikh's estate
here is punishable in only one way - by death. Wherever you go,
we'll track you down and bring you back here for execution. This is
not usually a problem, because the estate is out in the middle of the
desert and without access to a vehicle you would certainly die of
exposure and thirst before you reached the next settlement. As an
added precaution, however, we have you electronically tagged like any
other valuable property. We will implant a microchip in you, which
can be tracked by satellite. If you go missing from the estate, we
can then very quickly locate where you have gone, and bring you back
for execution."

"The Sheikh will almost certainly choose to breed from you. As I
said, he likes to invigorate his herd with wild slaves. I can see
that he has chosen you two South Africans because you have the
stocky, muscular build that we need in our heavy workers. And I
suppose he likes the blond because he wants to lighten the colour of
some of the darker blood lines resulting from interbreeding with
blacks to increase the musculature. However understand that breeding
is only permitted according to the Sheikh's stud plans. We take a
blood sample when you arrive, so we have your DNA on file. Every
baby born to one of the brood mares is DNA typed, and if it is
discovered that you have fathered any child outside the proper stud
programme, the punishment is castration."

"Sex with other male slaves is not allowed either. Generally you
will be too exhausted at the end of each day to want to fuck each
other, but even if you're tempted to, don't do it. The Sheikh likes
the assholes of his slaves to be kept just for the pleasure of any of
his guests who are turned on by the sight of your body. So
periodically we swab all the assholes in a barracks, and check them
for traces of semen left here by illicit slave to slave fucking. We
can use our DNA register to find out who has been fucking who, and
the penalty for both slaves is castration. It is important to keep
your balls in good working order, because of the possible use in the
breeding programme, so every night on your return to barracks you
will milk yourselves before entering the shower."

"All male slaves on the estate live and work entirely naked. You
will never wear clothes again. This may seem harsh, given the strong
sun and high daytime temperatures, but look at it from our point of
view. You would not work any harder in clothes. Providing clothes
would be an extra expense, and there would be additional costs
associated with washing them and so on. Without clothes, you are
constantly reminded of your servile status, and it's easy for you to
know who to obey - anyone clothed must be a master, even if like the
overseer here the master chooses only to wear very minimal clothing.
When you are working at job that is continuous, there is no need to
keep stopping for breaks to piss - without clothes you can simply do
it whilst working. Keeping you naked also makes it easier to see
your ownership marks. And lastly, of course, there is a great deal
of aesthetic delight in seeing a muscular, tanned slave straining his
muscles at his allotted work."

"Finally, let me give you one last word of advice: forget your past
life completely. You are now naked slaves, working for the Sheikh.
Your days will be filled with hard work, it will be boring and
repetitive, and you will be exhausted every night. There will be no
colour or excitement in your life at all, and every day will be very
much like the last. So do not have any expectations or hopes - just
work away like the draft animals that you have become. If you do
that, you will survive, and will not be whipped often. You can
expect at least 25 years of slavery here on the Sheikh's estate, and
when we judge that you are finally worn out, or your bodies are no
longer giving us pleasure, we will have you painlessly terminated.
On the other hand, if you keep hoping for 'rescue', or if you have
notions that you are a 'free man' and try to disobey orders, you will
be constantly frustrated and unhappy. The overseers will detect that
you do not have the right attitude, and you will attract punishment.
The more punishment you have, the more resentful you will get, until
one day you will snap and attempt to escape, or strike an overseer.
And then you will be painfully executed."

"Now we are going to process you into the Sheikh's service. You will
notice that I have not asked you if you have any questions. Slaves
do not ask questions!".

And so saying, the slave master gestured to the overseer who had been
standing there listening, and he marched us out through a door
leading further into the complex.

...to be continued.

THE MAKING OF A PONY SLAVE - PART 4

By Pete Brown (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

PROCESSING


In the next room there was a shower head on one wall, and a leather-
topped table. The overseer in the denim cut-offs said "Under the
shower all three of you. Scrub each other clean. All over. One
lesson you have to learn is that as slaves you are not allowed to
wash your own bodies. We usually have bathhouse slaves to groom you,
but here you wash each other."

He waved his stun gun menacingly, and we knew he meant business. So
we turned the water on, and all three of us clustered under the
shower. I stated to soap myself, and an instant later was lying
quivering on the floor, with my limbs spasming in agony.

"I told you that you are not allowed to wash your own body" the
overseer said. "If you disobey a simple order like that again, you
won't just get the gun, you'll be whipped. Now get back under the
shower. And you " - he pointed at Mike - "wash him thoroughly.".

Mike helped me to my feet, then started to soap my body. "And up his
ass too ", said the overseer, "And be sure to get any smeg out from
under his foreskin. I think they're perfectly unhygienic myself, but
the Sheikh has decided to keep it on him for the time being."

I felt Mike's soapy fingers sliding between my ass cheeks, then he
stood in front of me, and looked apologetically into my eyes as his
fingers pushed my foreskin back. It was a strange mixture between
pain and tickling as he ran the edge of his nail around behind my
cock head, to make sure there were no particles of smeg lurking there.

After we were all showered, the overseer opened a door and
called "Barber!". A naked slave came in, holding the now usual
shaving kit, and a pair of electric clippers that he plugged in to a
socket in the wall.

"The Sheikh doesn't like body hair. " said the overseer. "The
barber here is going to give you a very, very short haircut. Then
he's going to trim your armpit hair down to a length of a quarter of
an inch. You are only allowed a decorative trim of pubic hair, so
you'll lose all of that, except for a one inch wide strip just
running the width of your cock and ball sack - and that will be
clipped back to a length of a quarter of an inch. All your other
body hair will be shaved off."

"It will be interesting to see what you big guys look like after you
have lost that thatch of hair from your pecs and stomachs ", he went
on, looking at Hans and Mike. "It will be easier to see your muscle
definition. And, of course, without all that hair you'll look much
more like all the other slaves. When you join your team, we don't
want there to be huge differences between you, as it's more pleasing
to see a team of near clones than one composed of mismatched sizes
and shapes, with all varieties of body hair. It's irritating,
though, because we have to keep you shaved and clipped - it all
starts to grow back so quickly."

"But with this one ", he said to the barber, pointing at me, "leave
that trail of hair up from his cock to his navel. It's blond, so you
really only see it when you look closely, and I think it emphasises
his different nature. We're not looking at a muscle-god type here,
and the small line of hair there just makes him that bit different.
But strip of f the rest, and trim his armpits and pubic hair as
standard."

Once again, I felt I was being talked about just as if I wasn't
there. The overseer was obviously an American, but he didn't seem to
notice that I was, too, and that Hans and Mike were South Africans -
proper civilised people, like him! I think we were by now all so
amazed at what was happening to us that we didn't even put up a
token resistance as, one by one, we were first sat on the leather
table whilst the hair on our heads was cut off, then lay on it whilst
the clippers and razor did their work over the rest of our bodies.

I looked at Mike and Hans after the barber had finished, and it was
certainly true that they were now much more alike. Hans had been
covered in a layer of wiry, black hair, whereas Mike had been much
smoother and had brown hair. Now, with their very short haircuts and
the small one-inch strip of clipped hair over their cocks, they
really did look almost like twins.

"This way ", said the overseer, as he led us on to the next
room. "Time for the veterinarian".

We went through the door, and were in what looked like a doctor's
surgery. There was a handsome thirty-ish guy standing there in a
white coat and slacks. The overseer said "These are the new three,
for the stables. You know what to do".

The doctor came over to us and said "I am the veterinarian here at
the ranch. I look after the health of all the Sheikh's slaves, and,
if necessary, carry out any minor surgery that is needed - including
castrations if the Sheikh orders it. I'm going to do two things
today - take blood, urine and semen samples, and give you massive
shots of vaccines against all the infectious diseases that are
hereabouts.". Hans went to say something - I guess to tell the guy
that we had all that done at the slave auction centre - but as soon
as he started to speak, the overseer prodded him with the stun gun,
and he fell to the floor.

"Don't you know yet that slaves don't speak?", asked the
veterinarian. "Never. You do not start speaking to a master. I
know that you had samples taken at the government auction house, and
I have the results here. But we don't trust them completely, and,
anyway, I need much more detailed tests so that I can file your DNA
profiles. Now, all of you, go up to the desk and fill those urine
containers."

He pointed to a desk against one wall, on which there were three
plastic cylinders, and we went over to them. I guess it is
symptomatic of the way that I was turning from a free man into a
slave that I had no problem in peeing in public now.

The veterinarian then came over with three smaller cylinders, and
said "Now for the semen", and we just stood there and jerked off,
without a murmur of protest. And finally he approached us again with
syringes, and proceeded to take a blood sample from each of us.

"Now for the vaccine shots ", he said, "and for the two tough ones,
the first of their steroids". Looking at Hans and Mike he went on to
say "You are both well muscled, but you're going in to training for
the hardest jobs on the ranch. You need to put on a lot of extra
muscle quickly, else you'll put an unfair additional burden on your
team mates. So we help you along in the early days with massive
doses of steroids. Because these tend to shrivel the testicles and
dry up your sex juices, I'll compensate by also giving you booster
shots of testosterone. Of course I couldn't do this whilst I was a
doctor in the USA, but as the Sheikh's veterinarian, I do everything
I can to get his stock into peak condition as quickly as possible.
Now, bend over".

We all three bent over the desk, and I had about four injections in
my left ass cheek. Mike and Hans had two more than me.

After this, the veterinarian said to the overseer "OK, that's all for
today. We'll do the rest tomorrow morning, assuming the test results
come back with no problems. Lock them in an isolation cage tonight -
we don't want them mixing with the rest of the stock in case there is
some lurking infection."

The overseer motioned us to go out of the surgery, but halted us for
a moment whilst he said to the veterinarian "Are we still on for that
game of racquet ball at 8 tonight?"

"Sure ", said the veterinarian, "I'm looking forward to it. You
butch guys who are out driving the slaves all day think you're fit,
and can beat anyone. But I'm working my way up the leagues, and I've
already pissed all over your mate Greg on Monday night. So you're
next!".

I couldn't believe this conversation. Here I was, stripped of my
dignity and my freedom, standing there whilst two American guys
talked about their workout later that night. I again felt another
wave of humiliation and despair sweep over me - it was made worse by
the fact that, apart from the guy styling himself a "veterinarian"
rather than a "doctor", I had been treated in what looked like a
normal hospital emergency room.

The overseer led us out of the veterinarian's room, along a couple of
corridors, and then locked all three of us into a small cell. This
was totally bare, with plain tiled walls and floor, except for what I
recognised as the hole for pissing and crapping in one corner, and a
peculiar small flap, about 1 inch wide, sticking out of the wall.
Hans went over and looked at this, and, after a moment, came back and
told us that it was a water tap - you had to put your mouth over the
whole thing, then lift the flap up with your tongue to get water to
flow. "I guess it's so that you can drink, even if your hands are
manacled", he said.

This is the first time any of us had spoken, and we cringed,
expecting to get jabbed with a stun gun. But of course we were alone
in the cell, and we soon fell to talking.

"Jeez, man", said Hans, "This is bad. We're in the middle of
nowhere. I've been shorn of all my hair and I feel like a school boy
again. And what's all this about a 'team'?".

Mike said "don't worry, Hanny. We've been in worse than this.
Remember when our whole patrol was captured by those rebels, and we
thought they were going to kill us one at a time. At least we're
alive, and they seem to want to keep us alive. They keep talking
about how much we cost!".

I was about to say something, when the cage door opened and a guard
came in with three plastic plates, each containing a pile of what
looked like dried worms. "Eat this now", he said.

I picked up two of the "worms", and smelt them - they had no smell.
So I touched one to my tongue, expecting them to taste foul. But
they had no taste. So I cautiously chewed and swallowed them. They
were difficult to eat, because their texture was like cardboard, and
they were utterly bland and taste-free.

The guard was becoming impatient, and said "This is slave meal. You
eat up your entire ration when it's given to you. Slaves are not
permitted to refuse to eat their ration of slave meal each day. And
when you've finished, be sure to drink at least one litre of water.
It's a special dry formulation so we can easily store the sacks of
it, but you need to wash it down with lots of water to make sure your
guts can digest it properly".

We struggled on, and when we had finished, the guard went out and
locked the door behind him. This was my first taste of slave meal,
and I was to find out that in future that was all I was ever going to
be given to eat.

The lights went out, and there was nothing else for us to do but to
try to make ourselves comfortable on the hard tiled floor. We spent
the night huddled together, for mutual comfort and support.

After what seemed like a very long night the lights came on again and
the guard unlocked the door and we were herded back to the
veterinarian's office. He was waiting for us, and said to the
guard "Are you certain they have not been fed and watered this
morning?"

"Yes ", replied the guard, "They have had no slave meal, and we
turned off the water feeder in their cell last night".

"Good ", said the veterinarian, "I need to anaesthetise them, and
sometimes the slaves throw up if the needle hits them after they have
been fed. Now, who's first? "

Hans, Mike and I looked at each other and, in his usual way, Hans
stepped forward.

"Into the chair", said the veterinarian, pointing to a dentist's
chair. Hans went over and sat down. The veterinarian pressed a
button, and Hans's arms and legs were clamped to the chair by straps
that came out from the structure. He then adjusted what I thought
was the head rest, but soon saw was a clamping device to hold Hans's
head upright and rigid.

"Open wide", he said, and, when Hans did nothing, he casually reached
down and squeezed Hans's balls until Hans complied. Whilst his mouth
was open, the veterinarian then pushed wedges in to Han's open mouth,
so he couldn't shut it again.

"You slaves don't know how lucky you are to have a merciful master
like the Sheikh", said the veterinarian. "At my last place, I used
to do dentistry entirely without anaesthetic - as well as being much
cheaper, the master there thought the pain was good for the slaves,
and he would often come and hear them scream, especially when I was
doing extractions. But this won't hurt a bit ", and, with that, he
started to inject Hans's gums as dentists usually do.

He then went through a full inspection, and said "Good - excellent
condition. No need for any remedial work. That South African
lifestyle obviously did you good. And there won't be any problem
with caries in future here, as the slave meal is mildly antiseptic so
there's no danger of getting tooth decay even though you'll never use
a toothbrush again. Now if the other two are in such good condition
as you, I'll be finished early and can get out on to the golf course
this afternoon!".

I thought he meant that he was therefore finished with Hans, but
instead he tilted the chair backwards, sat over Hans, and pulled the
drill towards him. He took over one hour to treat Hans, and there
was a lot of drilling, clamping, and filing going on - neither Mike
nor I could see fully, as we were on the other side of the room.
After about 20 minutes of standing, we had been allowed to sit down
on the floor by the guard, and sat there with our backs against the
wall.

Finally, the veterinarian was finished, and pushed the button that
released Hans. Hans was muttering something, that neither Mike nor I
could understand, and we thought it must still be the effect of the
anaesthetic on his mouth.

Mike was told to go to the chair next, and the whole process was
repeated. But he took even longer than Hans, as he needed two small
fillings before the veterinarian began the same lengthy job he had
done on Mike.

Then it was my turn, and I sat in the chair with some fear - I have
never liked dentists. The leather seat was warm and sweaty under my
naked ass, as both Hans and Mike had occupied it for about two hours
now. The straps curled over my arms and legs and the veterinarian
clamped my head rigid to the chair. "Now, he said, are you going to
be sensible and open wide, or do I get to twist your handsome balls
too?"

I knew it was no use resisting, so I opened my mouth and soon it was
wedged open - I noticed that the same wooden wedges were used on me
as were used on Hans and Mike, and they were already wet with saliva
when they went into my mouth. I think the veterinarian noticed me
seeing this, and said "Yes, we do make some savings for the Sheikh.
Why do you need new wedges? You and your fellow slaves are all
disease free, so there's no harm if you drink a gallon of their spit!"

He examined me thoroughly, and said "Good. No fillings here
either." Then he approached with the syringe, and injected my lower
jaw on both sides of my mouth. I wondered why he was doing this if I
didn't need any treatment, but couldn't ask as my mouth was wedged
open.

"You're the one who has to have a bit more done ", he said. "We'll
just wait for a moment for the anaesthetic to take effect. " He came
back a couple of minutes later with surgical pliers, and, to my
amasement, proceeded to struggle to pull out the molar at the back of
the left side of my mouth. It was followed a minute later by the
lower right back molar, and out of the corner of my eye I could see
my two beautiful white teeth, in perfect condition, lying in a steel
tray by the side of the chair. In spite of the anaesthetic, it
wasn't at all a pleasant experience, and if Hans and Mike had not
been sitting slumped against the wall on the other side of the room,
I would probably have cried.

But all was not yet over. Like Hans and Mike, he worked away,
drilling and filing at my lower jaw for another half hour or so.
Then there was a "snap" in my mouth, and he straightened up and
pressed the chair release button and said "OK, you're through".

Turning to us all he said "The blond here will have some pain later
today because of the two extractions he has had. But all three of
you should have no discomfort from the tongue restraints I have
fitted, unless you try to push against them."

"Let me explain. Slaves are not allowed to speak. The Sheikh finds
it unpleasant to have the possibility that his own conversations, or
quiet moments, may be interrupted by a slave improperly asking a
question. So he has all his slaves silenced. In the olden days we
did this by simply cutting the vocal chords, and that's what many
masters still have done. But the Sheikh is merciful and does not
believe in extremes of body modification. And he has an eye to the
resale value of stock if he wants to trade you on - some masters buy
unruly slaves specially so they can whip them or torture them, and
it's not so much fun if the slaves can't scream in agony. So he has
that bar fitted across between your lower jaws that you can feel if
you probe it gently with your tongue; it's not permanent, as it
screws on at each end to sockets I have drilled into your teeth. Of
course you can't remove it, as it needs a special type of
screwdriver, and only I have one of those. Be careful, because he
underside of the bar is fitted with a set of spikes. The idea is
that you have to keep your tongue firmly on the floor of your mouth.
And with your tongue there, you can't speak. Simple, isn't it?".

We realised the truth of what he said, as when I tried to speak, I
couldn't. Now I knew why I had only heard the two big black slaves
grunting whilst they had shaved me and oiled me at the slave auction
centre. And why the barber here at the ranch had never said a word.
But why had I had two teeth extracted too? - Hans and Mike hadn't.

"OK, said the veterinarian, just one more thing and then you're done
here and I can get to my golf game. I need to microchip you."

He went to a cabinet, and got out three enormous capsules. They were
very big for medicines, but he came over to where we were slumped
against the wall and said "Swallow these".

When we hesitated because of the size of the capsule, he motioned to
the guard, who came over and waved his stun gun over us - this was a
big incentive, and with a lot of gagging and choking, I managed to
get mine down.

We were left sitting there for about an hour, whilst the
veterinarian went off to coffee, so he said. When he came back, he
took us in turn and stood us in front of a small X-ray machine in the
corner. We were then left alone again for about 15 minutes, then we
were X-rayed again.

"Ah, good. ", he said, "They're in the right place."

He took out a small electronic control box, and pressed it against
each of our stomachs in turn, and then e were again moved in front of
the X-ray machine.

He seemed satisfied, and said to us "You now have your microchips
implanted. I watched on the X-rays as those capsules you swallowed
went down your gut, then at the right moment I sent a signal to
activate them. They shoot spikes out and lodge in your gut wall, and
now they're there permanently. You don't feel anything, as there are
no pain receptors inside your gut."

"Whenever we need to know where you are, we can send a signal from
the satellite and the microchip will act as a transponder, so the
satellite can accurately locate your position. Funny, isn't it, that
we're using American satellite location technology to track down
escaping slaves! And remember, even though the Sheikh is merciful,
he will, without hesitation, have you brutally put to death if you
attempt an escape, or if you strike a guard, overseer, or master".

"I've finished with you now. That's all the veterinarian has to do
for new slaves. You've just got to go through marking, and then you
can start work. Meanwhile, I'm off to golf!".


...to be continued
THE MAKING OF A PONY SLAVE - PART 5

By Pete Brown (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

MARKING


The Overseer led us out and across the yard towards a building with a
small chimney coming out of the roof. The sand was burning the soles
of my feet, and the sun was beating down unmercifully on my naked
body.

"You'll soon toughen up.", the overseer said to us "All of the slaves
soon get a layer of very tough skin on the soles of their feet just
from walking, and in the work you three are going to, it will happen
very quickly. And your skin soon goes dark, dark brown from the
desert sun. In fact, we hardly need to mark slaves at all, really -
all we need to do is to get a suspected slave to strip, and we can
tell from the way he's browned all over that he must be a slave.
That's why I always keep these shorts on - I've nothing to be ashamed
of down there, but the white area around my cock and ass is very
special when so many men are totally brown."

We arrived at the building, and went it. It was obviously a forge -
there were many tools for bending metal around, two huge anvils, and
a roaring furnace. The fire in the furnace was kept at high heat by
blowing air through it, just like in a normal forge, but there the
blower was not driven by an electric motor but by a naked slave. A
black guy was standing on a treadmill, stoically pedalling away, and
a belt transferred his motion to the fan.

The overseer called out "Slave !", and from the shadows further in to
the room the blacksmith appeared. He too was, of course, a slave,
and so he was naked. He truly was massive, with shoulders and biceps
obviously well exercised from his work. He had absolutely no body
hair, and his massive cock swung freely between strong, muscular
thighs.

The overseer said "These three are for marking. You - ", pointing at
Hans "first."

The blacksmith motioned to Hans (he obviously had a tongue restraint,
like us) to go over to one of the large anvils, and to lie on it.
Hans did, so that the sharp pointed end stuck out between his legs,
and his feet were on the ground on either side. The blacksmith
proceeded to get out a set of webbing straps with the type of
fastenings on the end that in the USA people use to strap things on
to the roof of their car, and used them to tie Hans firmly to the
anvil. One went around his waist, one around his shoulders under his
arms, and four held his arms and legs immobile. The blacksmith then
signalled to the black slave on the treadmill, and he started to
pedal faster and faster, making the fire glow white hot.

The blacksmith got out a small tool and put in into the hottest part
of the hearth, left it there a couple of minutes, then withdrew it,
its end now glowing white from the heat of the hearth. Without
hesitating for a moment, he stepped over to Hans's immobile body, and
pressed the end of the tool firmly, centrally, into Hans's left ass
cheek.

Although he couldn't articulate words, Hans could still scream, and
an anguished roar came from his taught body. We could see him
straining, desperately trying to get his ass away from the white hot
tool, but it was no good - the webbing straps held him immobile on
the anvil, and this was of course too heavy to move. There was a
terrible smell of burning, charring flesh.

The blacksmith did not flinch, and kept the tool - which we now
realised was a branding iron - pressed against Hans's ass cheek for
several seconds. He then released the webbing, and Hans fell to the
floor, groaning and sobbing from deep down in his throat.

But the horror was not over yet. Whilst Hans was not properly in
control of his body, the blacksmith pulled him up from the floor and
pushed him backwards onto the anvil, and again strapped him down. It
shows what a giant of a man the blacksmith was, because Hans was a
big, muscular guy and the blacksmith had been able to pick him up and
get him restrained easily - Hans was in no position to put up any
sort of resistance, as he had been overwhelmed by the pain he must be
feeling.

The branding iron went back into the fire, and when it was white hot,
the blacksmith repeated the branding onto Hans's right pec, just
above the nipple.

"It shows you how we think in advance ", said the overseer, looking
at Mike and me. "If we hadn't had your chests shaved, there could
have been a nasty incident there as your hair caught fire with the
branding iron!"

The blacksmith released Hans, and the overseer gestured with his stun
gun for Mike to move over to the anvil. Mike knew what he was in
for, but realised there was no escape - there he was, naked, in the
middle of the desert, with an overseer with a stun gun standing over
him. What could he do, but submissively lie down on the anvil, and
lie there, clenching his fists impotently, as the blacksmith strapped
him down.

The gristly ritual was repeated on Mike, and he too was left groaning
on the floor next to Hans, and then it was my turn!

I shall never forget the searing pain as the white hot branding iron
bit into my flesh. The pain from my ass was bad enough, but when my
pec was branded, it was an order of magnitude worse.

But we were not finished in the forge yet. I was allowed to sit
against the wall, where I huddled with my arms around my legs in
absolute misery, whilst the blacksmith went to work on Hans and Mike
again.

He took lengths of chain and fashioned a sort of harness for each of
them. There were two loops that went over their shoulders and around
under their arms, and a short length of chain joined the loops
together in front, just above the arm pits, and at the back, just
below the shoulder blades. These were welded into place, so they
could not be removed, and the blacksmith had to put wet rags
inbetween the chain links and their skins whilst he was hammering
home the final red-hot connections. In the mifddle of each of the
back chain connectors a large ring hung down, about 9 cm in diameter,
and I wondered what this could be for.

The Overseer had several discussions with the blacksmith whilst the
chains were being fashioned and fitted to each of the men, and at one
point he made the blacksmith insert an extra link into one of the
loops around Han's shoulders. Later I was to realise that the
Overseer had again being doing his job, and making sure that the
Sheikh's property was being treated properly. The chains were a
loose fit now, but as Hans and Mike put on extra muscle, they would
become a tight fit. The Overseer wanted to make sure that they did
not become too tight after the muscle growth, and dig into Hans's
flesh.


"Good ", said the overseer, "another job done. Now they only have to
be numbered".

He gestured at us with his stun gun, and in spite of the agonies we
were in, we had no choice but to haul ourselves to our feet, and
stumble after him as he led us out of the forge and into the searing
sun, and across the yard again. I didn't even notice the pain from
my feet this time, as the other agonies from my ass and pec were so
intense.

We went into a small office, and were allowed to subside onto the
floor, still making little inarticulate cries in our throats.

We were now subject to the final indignity in our induction into the
Sheikh's estate - we were tattooed on our left arms with our slave
serial numbers. The overseer carefully checked against a list in the
office, then instructed a slave who came in to tattoo each of us in
turn. The numbers were quite large, so they could easily be seen at
a distance.

When it was over, the overseer led us out, back in to the building
where we had started out the day, and we were locked into a cage to
allow us to recover from our ordeal.

As well as the awful physical pain from our brands, we all felt, I
think, the pain of the loss of our freedom. Before, when we were
being auctioned, there might have been some hope that it was all an
elaborate stage setting, and that at some point someone would
shout "surprise", the curtains would roll back, and we would see the
normal world we knew again. But now we had been physically hurt,
badly, and we knew these people were not joking.

We sat on the floor, naked, unable to speak, only moan, with our new
brands pulsing angrily with the inflamed flesh on our asses and
pecs. And the indignity of knowing that we had just been marked like
a piece of property - because, of course, that was just what we were
to the Sheikh.

TO THE STABLES

The following morning we were fed and made to eat all the slave meal
that was given to each of us, even though we did not feel like eating
at all. Then we were taken to the now normal hole to piss and crap,
before returning to the single shower head to wash each other. We
all took particular care as we soaped each other's asses not to touch
the angry wounds that our brands had turned in to.

The overseer collected us from the shower, and told us that we did
not look bad, considering what we had been through. Then he told
Hans and Mike to bend over and grip their ankles, so that he could
give them their daily hormone injection into their ass cheeks. "I'm
going to be kind ", he said, "and inject you into the right cheek to
avoid the brand! We can't let up on this, as it's important to get
you properly bulked up with new muscle before the Sheikh comes to
inspect you in a few weeks time. ".

He then led all three of out of the building and we shambled, because
of the pain in our bodies, across the yard, through an entrance way,
and into a long, low, building. Inside, at a desk, was another
European just wearing shorts, like the Overseer.

"I am the Sheikh's stable master ", he said, "and you are the new
ponies who have been assigned here to the stables. In future, you
will be treated just like ponies - you will be commanded in Arabic,
fed and groomed by the stable-boy slaves, and work each day at
pulling carts around the estate."

"You two ", he indicated Hans and Mike, "will be proper work horses.
You will work in a team of eight stallions pulling a large cart with
heavy loads around the place. You will not be required to run much,
but when the cart is full, pulling it at ordinary walking pace will
require every ounce of muscle and effort you posses. The chains that
have been welded onto you are your harness - you will be attached to
the cart by the ring at the back, as we like to leave your arms
free. We find that work stallions pull best when they can pound with
their arms, so in general you will not be shackled, or your hands
bound behind you. And, of course, you have to load and unload the
cart."

"The other six slaves in your team are indeed stallions, like you -
we don't geld ponies doing this type of work, as it's important they
keep all their energy for the hard work they do, and we find that
geldings lose that important will to pull just that bit harder when
the whip bites. They are however all farmed slaves, unlike you.
They came to the stables here when they were 18 years old, and most
of them have been doing this heavy pony work for five years. We
usually find that ponies doing this heavy pulling can carry on until
they are about 40, so providing there's no attempt to escape, you can
look forward to more than 15 years of working together. I can see
why the Sheikh bought you - your physique is already almost there:
you're quite like the other six ponies in general height, shape, and
muscular development. And by the time you have been working for a
few weeks and your muscles have finished bulking up, it will be
difficult to tell you apart from the other six. The Sheikh likes his
teams to look smart and regular, so your hair - both on your head and
on your bodies - will be kept cropped and trimmed as it now is, to
emphasise the similarities between all your bodies."

"However I know the Sheikh wants to breed more wildness into his herd
from bought-in slaves, so from time to time you will be used to cover
the brood mares. But remember what you have been told - it is
absolutely forbidden to fuck any of the Sheikh's mares without being
told to do so; and babies that are born to them that are yours,
outside the breeding program, will result in death for you."

"The other six ponies in your team have never covered mares, and
never will. As soon as they were sexually mature they were
introduced to the joys of fucking their fellows up the ass, and they
do this every night. You were told that slaves were not allowed to
buggar other slaves, but we make an exception for you ponies in the
heavy teams - we want to ensure you really work together and
understand each other's bodies, and getting you to be totally
intimate with each other every day is the best possible way we know
of accomplishing this. And, of course, there's no loss to the
Sheikh: the large, heavy muscles you have in your thighs and
backsides are not attractive to him or his friends, so he will not
want to fuck you and he doesn't care therefore whether your ass is
being kept virgin for him to play with, or not".

Hans and Mike were then led off down the stables, and into a stall.
I should have said that we were standing at the top of a large
central paved corridor, lined on each side with stalls - small wooden
fences that came up almost to mid-thigh height. You could see all of
the body of a slave standing up in a stall, but if he lay down, he
could not see over the top of the stall. I could see Hans and Mike
standing there, looking bewildered, until a stable boy came up and
shouted at them Arabic until they lay down.

The Sheikh's stable master then looked at me and said "But you are a
different thing altogether. The Sheikh has bought you for two
reasons - to cover his mares and breed some of your blond colouration
back into the lines that are too dark, and to be a rickshaw pony."

"The Sheikh and his friends travel around the estate in rickshaws,
and you will be one of the ponies specially trained to pull them.
You don't need enormous strength, like the ponies who pull the heavy
carts, because the rickshaws are light and run on ball-bearing
wheels, but you do need stamina Typically, the Sheikh travels over
10 miles a day around his estate, and you need to be able to do that
mileage, day after day. You've got good long legs, and a lithe
athlete's body, so after we have put you through the endurance
training you should be able to cope."

"But let me warn you now. Don't fuck around with any other ponies.
You have exactly the type of body that appeals to the Sheikh and his
guests - you'll have good muscular development without being 'puffed
up', and a great butt because of the work we'll do to build your leg
muscles. The Sheikh and his guests will certainly want to fuck you,
and they like a really tight ass to grip their cocks as they ride
you; they don't want you spoiled because one of the other ponies has
repeatedly pushed his prick up there. If I ever see you being
mounted by another pony, I'll have him killed and you castrated."

"We'll keep your balls in good condition because we want to breed
from you, and because it's more aesthetically satisfying to see a
pony with balls in peak condition. We do that by jerking you off
every evening when you come in to the stables - we call it the
nightly milking. The only other thing worth mentioning is that you
are unusual in still having a foreskin. The Sheikh specifically said
it was not to be cut off until he has had time to observe you in his
rickshaw - I think it's a bit of a novelty, as so many of our wild
slaves are Americans and they almost universally are circumcised as
infants.".

With that, he motioned to one of the stable-lad slaves, and I was led
off into a stall and the stable slave gestured for me to lie down,
which I did. The floor of the stall was covered in a peat-like
material, so it wasn't uncomfortable. My wrists were then pushed into
a clamp, which the lad then locked shut, and left me alone.

I was left lying there on the peat, with my arms stretched out above
my head and my wrists immobile. I could reach to one of the water
nipples similar to that in the cell on our first day at the Sheikh's
ranch, and I could if I wanted get up on to my knees. But I couldn't
stand, and therefore couldn't see over the stall partitions on either
side of my enclosure.

I could see into the stalls opposite me on the other side of the
corridor, and over the next two hours each of these was filled with
other naked slaves, with his wrists clamped in to the front of the
stall, as were mine. Most of the stalls had a single pony slave in
them, but immediately opposite me the stall was filled with four
black pony slaves, who, like the eight that Hans and Mike had joined,
were all basically similar. Four in a stall was a bit crowded, and I
could see them wriggling together to try to make the most of the
limited space available to them. I was to learn later that this was
a team to pull a light carriage, and again the emphasis was to have
four slaves as closely physically similar as possible.

The lights were turned out in the stable, and I tossed and turned,
trying to sleep. I sucked at the water nipple, because I was very
dry, but the pain from my two brands was still so intense that sleep
was impossible. It must have been a couple of hours later that the
inevitable consequences of drinking a lot struck - I had a desperate
desire to piss. What was I to do? I couldn't leave the stall or
even stand up to get attention, because my wrists were clamped in. I
couldn't shout to attract attention, because of the tongue restraint,
and there was no obvious piss and crap hole in the floor of the
stall. I then realised why I was lying on peat - it wasn't to make
it more comfortable for me, but to allow me to piss if I wanted to
without the piss running out in to the corridor and making the place
look unsightly! I held it as long as I could, but eventually had to
let go a long, warm stream of piss - the feeling of relief was
exquisite, and I felt a bit better than I had done all day. Of
course, as I was effectively stuck in one position, I soon realised
that I then had to lie on the damp patch in the peat for the rest of
the night.


TRAINING BEGINS

The following morning as soon as it was light the stable lads came
along and released my wrist clamps, and I was motioned to get up and
stand in the corridor between the stalls. This was lined with the
other ponies, and most of them, like me, had their over night hard-
ons still very visible. Without being able to touch my cock because
of the wrist clamps, I had had to lie all night with an erection,
without being able to do anything about it.
I soon realised that it was a requirement at this time to stand
at 'display position' as slave masters would say, with my legs apart,
and my hands clasped behind my neck. Not surprisingly, most of us
stayed erect, too.

Group by group, the pony slaves were led away by the stable lad
slaves, and it became my turn. A young 16-year old came up, grasped
my outstretched cock, and used it as a handle to lead me along the
central corridor. I was taken into a shower stall, and four of the
stable slave lads proceeded to wash me thoroughly - and I do mean
thoroughly! As well as shampooing my hair, and rubbing soap all over
my body, they pushed back my foreskin and washed under it, slid soapy
hands between my ass cheeks, and made sure that even my anus was
squeaky clean by rubbing a soapy finger over, around, and even
slightly in to it. I felt completely humiliated, but there was a
guard with a stun gun standing around, and I knew what would happen
if I made any protest or move to stop the stable lad slaves doing
their job.

They rinsed me off with an icy deluge of very cold water, which had
the effect of at last causing my erection to subside, and one of them
slapped me hard on the right ass to signal that they were finished,
and that I was to "move out".

I then joined a line of the other ponies waiting for our morning
feed. We went past a guard who stood at a small machine. As each of
us came up to it, he read the number from the tattoo on our arm, and
punched it into a keyboard. The machine then delivered a measured
quantity of the slave meal from a nozzle into the cupped hands of the
slave concerned, and we had to eat it as we continued to move along
the corridor.

The other pony slaves then went on outside, but I was taken off to
the side, and led into a room with what looked like an exercise
machine in it - the type you see in health spas all over the USA,
where you run along a moving belt that is rotated by an electric
motor to a speed you choose. A leather belt was put around my waist,
and a spring attached to it joining me to the rear of the machine.
My hands were cuffed to railings on each side of the machine. The
stable master then came in and said "This is the first day of your
training. In a moment, I will turn the belt on, and you need to
start running to keep away from the back of the machine. If you give
up, and you are carried backwards, you will touch an electrified
probe that will give you a very unpleasant electric shock. The
spring behind you makes you run against a tension, to simulate the
load of pulling a rickshaw. And the angle of the belt will change
randomly, from where it is now, flat, to quite a steep slope as the
exercise proceeds, so that you get used to running up and down
hills. You will feel that the surface of the belt is rough, and this
is intentional, as we need to get the soles of your feet toughened
quickly - I expect you will be bleeding before the end of the
session, but don't worry, that is quite normal for your first few
days. Today, you'll only have to run three miles this morning, and
three this afternoon, and we'll increase it every day until you can
do ten miles non-stop."

With that, he turned some dials to calibrate the machine, and turned
it on. The belt beneath my feet began to rotate slowly, and I had to
walk forward because I could see, over my shoulder, the sharp probe
sticking out from the machine behind me. It didn't seem too bad at
first, but the belt picked up speed until I was doing a light jog,
and then quite a pacey run. I've jogged and trained a lot at
college, and at first I thought that three miles would be a breeze.
But there's a difference between jogging around a college town, in
your own time, and running at a fast pace, uphill. I began to sweat,
and my lungs felt on fire. Faster and faster it went, and I couldn't
keep up the pace, until suddenly I got the most terrible jolt of
electric shock as the probe behind me touched my naked butt - I leapt
forward with renewed energy, and began to pray that my ordeal would
soon be over.

The machine stopped after a time, and I sank down onto my haunches
with exhaustion. I was covered with sweat, my lungs were burning,
trying to suck in enough air to keep me going, my feet were painful
from the motion over the sharp surface of the belt and there was
still the nagging pain from my ass and pec from the brands, which
were now covered in ugly blisters.

The stable master entered the chamber, saw my pitiable condition, and
said "Good. No pain, no gain. You won't find it any easier this
afternoon when you have another session, or on any subsequent day.
We adjust the level of difficulty each time, so you will always feel
like this at the end of an exercise. It's only by pushing you to
your absolute limits that we can get you properly in shape for
carrying the Sheikh and his friends in your rickshaw."

He undid the shackles keeping me on the machine, and said "Now to the
gym. We used to make the mistake of only exercising a pony's legs on
this machine, and of course their hearts and lungs. But that left us
with superbly muscled butts and legs, and somewhat scrawny arms. The
Sheikh thought that this was aesthetically unsatisfying, and has
decreed that you have to do upper body exercises too to give you good
development of your shoulders and arms, and a lot of trunk exercises
so you have a reasonable six-pack. You won't find it any easier, as
we use the same techniques - you have a measured amount of work to
do each day on the exercise machines, and electric shocks keep you at
it".

We went in to the gym and there were about seven pony slaves on
different pieces of normal-looking weight-room apparatus. I was led
up to one, and told to sit down. The stable master glanced at my
tattoo, and pressed my number in to a keypad. A dial in font of my
eyes lit up, and he said "Start lifting the weights. If you flag,
the pointer in front of you will go back around the dial. And if it
crosses the 12 o'clock position, you will get a shock!".

The leather seat of the weights machine I had sat on was slick with
the sweat of the previous pony slave - obviously they didn't bother
to clean it off between ponies, and I soon understood why. The
weights were just about as much as I could lift, and looking at the
needle on the dial, I could see that I had to do a fast pace of reps
in order to avoid getting shocked.

I spent the rest of the morning, rotating between different exercise
machines, and on each one I felt I was pushing the limits of what I
was capable of.

It must have been around noon when I was finally allowed to rest, and
the Stable master came up to inspect me. He stood there looking at
my heaving chest, as I continued to try to recover my breath from the
hard exercise, and said "You can rest now before we do it all again
this afternoon, but we can't waste your time: we'll use the rest
period to start you off on your tan, else when you first go out in a
cart you'll get too sunburned. We don't care about the sunburn of
course, but it might prevent you from working for a day and that
would not be good for the Sheikh who wants to get his money's worth
from you".
So saying, his rasped some orders to two of the stable slaves, and I
was led away into a yard in the centre of the stables. It was open
to the sky, and about five metres square.

The slaves put a collar on me, and gestured for me to put my wrists
behind my neck, where they were then fastened to the collar with
small straps. Ropes from the corners of the yard where then attached
to my collar, so I could not leave the centre of the square. The
slaves then went away, and came back with a bucket of white, oily
stuff, which they proceeded to rub all over me. I realised that this
was sun cream - obviously they wanted me to get brown, but not to
burn! They paid particular attention to my armpits which were of
course cruelly exposed to the sun because of the position of my hands
behind my neck, and rubbed the cream deep into my ass crack, my
balls, and my cock - I guess I should have been grateful for this,
but I had not been a slave long enough and it was still humiliating
to have another guy rubbing oily cream into my cock and balls.

It was so hot under the burning sun, and my slickly oiled skin was
soon beaded with drops of perspiration. But there was no escaping
the rays, as I couldn't move from the centre of the yard.

It was almost a relief when I was led back to the exercise treadmill,
and made to do another three miles on my already painful feet,
followed by another gruelling session in the gym.

BACK TO THE STABLE

After my second gym session I could barely move: I realised that
everything must be finely timed - obviously they had a lot of
experience in training slaves to their physical limits. My brands
still throbbed, but the pain from my feet, and every muscle in my
body, almost drowned out those pains. My skin felt it was on fire
all over, and I could see it was red, but not burned.

Back in the stable I joined some other pony slaves who had just come
in. They stood there physically drooping with tiredness, and I could
see that this was to be my lot, too, from now on - complete physical
exhaustion each day.

In turn each of the slaves in front of me crouched low over the usual
crap and piss hole, then moved on into a communal shower area - just
a large tiled room, really, with a couple of spraying nozzles on one
wall. They resignedly raised their arms into the air as they went in -
this was obviously what you were supposed to do. There were four of
the stable lad slaves in the shower already, and they proceeded to
soap and wash the pony slaves thoroughly, using a hose pipe in
addition to the fixed nozzles on the wall to make sure the pony
slaves were thoroughly clean.

As soon as they pony slaves in front of me were almost finished, the
stable lad slaves motioned for me to go in, too, and they started to
shampoo me. It was difficult, as I had the remains of the sun tan
cream on me, and they needed to scrub my sore skin quite hard to make
an impression. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the ponies in front
of me being "finished off" from the shower - one of the four stable
lad slaves was jerking them off whilst they still stood there with
their arms in the air. Their semen spurted on to the stable lad
slave's naked body, but he was obviously used to this as he didn't
seem to find it at all unusual or repulsive. So this was what the
slave master had meant by the "evening milking"!

Then it was my turn. One of the lads grasped my cock. I went to
stop him, but the moment my hands came down, there was a shout from a
guard who I now saw was standing in a "viewing gallery" overlooking
the shower room. He gestured for me to get my hands up again, and I
could see his stun gun ready, so I did. The stable lad again grasped
my cock, and briskly brought me to a climax, following which I was
led off, fed as I had been in the morning with a measured amount of
slave meal, and locked by my wrists into a stall as I had been the
previous night.

I lay watching the stalls opposite me fill up as slaves came out of
the shower, and as I was near the end of the row, I could see into
one particularly large stall. The eight muscular ponies in the team
that contained Hans and Mike were led into the stall, and I noticed
that they were not locked down. I remembered that this was because
those slaves were allowed uninhibited free sex with each other as
they were meant to bond and team, and the stable master did not want
to prevent them having free access to each others' bodies. Six of
the slaves seemed to be completely at home with each other, and there
was a lot of fucking, kissing, and mutual masturbation going on. But
two sat at the side, against the wall of the stall, with their heads
down in shame - I guessed these must be Hans and Mike.

Several of their team mates went over to them and tried to start
jerking them off, but Mike and Hans hit out at them. The other
slaves in their stall clearly couldn't understand their behaviour,
and there was a lot of puzzled looks and shrugging of shoulders as if
to ask "what's up?".

Then the lights went out, and I tried to sleep, in spite of the pains
all over my body.

The next day was just like the previous one; and the one after that,
and the one after that. It was clear that the routine of getting up,
being showered, being fed, exercise, being showered, being jerked
off, being fed and going to sleep was a pattern that would repeat
endlessly.

The only change came on day five, when after my evening shower, when
I had been "milked", the veterinarian came over and gave me a
quick "once over" with his stethoscope. He also ran his hands all
over my body, feeling for strains and injuries, and inspected the
brands on my ass and pec, where the scabs had now just dropped off
the healing wounds. He finished off by cupping my balls in his
hands, and I winced and a scream came from my throat.

"Good ", said the veterinarian , "That's to be expected. Have you
been getting a lot of pain from your balls these past few days?" I
nodded in agreement, because the previous night I had hardly been
able to sleep because of the dull throb that was coming from them - I
had wondered if it was the jerking-off by the stable lad slaves that
was the cause of the problem, but as I had usually jerked myself off
at least twice a day when I was still "at home", I didn't really
think this was so.

"That's the running", said the veterinarian. "Almost all our European
and American ponies feel pain in their testicles for the first few
weeks because they are not used to exercising nude. I expect that
when you were playing football, and taking part in track and field
events, you always wore a jock strap under your shorts to provide
support. And a lot of young guys always wear briefs rather than
boxers, and even if they wear boxers, their trousers are tight enough
to give them some support. The pain you are feeling is because your
balls are bouncing up and down, unrestrained, as you run, and they
suffer slight bruising from them swinging against your thighs and
from having your cock flop up and down on to them in time with your
running steps. I expect that slaves in ancient Greece didn't have
this problem, as of course their games were always played nude!"

"But don't worry, after a week or so, the pain will go away as your
balls get used to their new life. And just be grateful that the
Sheikh doesn't want you to be ringed, as some of his neighbours do.
They have their ponies' balls pushed down in their sacs, then a broad
collar welded around the stem of the sac so the balls are no longer
floating free. It certainly cures the problem, and doesn't seem to
affect the ponies' virility, but the Sheikh here has decided that he
likes to see his ponies 'au natural', and won't allow ball sac
ringing, or, indeed, permanent collars or shackles of any kind welded
onto his animals unless it's absolutely necessary for the work they
do. Personally, I think it's a shame, as I like to see a slave with
four bands welded around his wrists and ankles, but there you are -
the Sheikh pays the money, so he has the choice!".

I was led off into my stall, for another night's sleep.

...to be continued.
