

THE ARKANSAS PROGRAMME - PART 12



By Pete Brown  (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

Read all of Pete's Stories on
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories





RESOLUTION





Carl or Mitch?  How could I decide?  How could they decide? 
After all the traumas of the recent days I just wasn't up to any
more decisions, any more cares, any more worries.  The young
huntsman was snuggled up close to my body, and I could feel his
firm young flesh warm against me.  After our heavy dinner - the
first real meal for days - he had fallen into a deep sleep, and
his body was lolling in that delicious abandoned way that only
very tired, young guys can manage.  His arm was lying loosely
across my chest, and his head had fallen onto my shoulder.  A
small dribble of drool had trickled out of the corner of his
mouth, and was lying wetly in the little hollow between my neck
and shoulders.



Looking at Mitch and Carl I deferred a decision by mouthing half
silently "I can't disturb him....".   They both saw the poor
young guy's exhausted sleep, and nodded their understanding. 
Carl fetched a blanked and draped it over our bodies, then
taking Mitch by the hand, led him off to the bed where Carl and
I had spent so many happy nights.  Just as they got there, Mitch
suddenly shook Carl's hand away.  In those half suppressed tones
you hear in hotels when a couple don't want to disturb other
guests I heard him say, somewhat angrily to Carl,

"I'm not a slave any more!  I'm not a bed slave that you can
take to your bed to be fucked.  I broke away. I earned my
freedom.  And I'm going to keep it." 



Carl was, I could see, shocked.  His gesture of leading Mitch to
the bed was only one of kindness, as I knew he understood our
position.  He whispered back, in the same sort of tones

"Fuck you!  I just wanted to show you where to sleep the night. 
What makes you think I'd want your ass anyway - I don't find
hairy guys that much of a turn-on, and you won't have been
shaved for days - pushing my cock up your ass would be like
trying to go through the gates of hell, I should think!   Now,
if you want to share the bed with me, that's OK.  IF you want to
lie on the floor, naked, like a slave, that's fine too!   If you
really are a free man, you'd better start acting like one, and
when someone tries to show you a bit of kindness, don't react
like a fucking slave who thinks every guy who is a master is
going to want to rape him!"



Going to the chest where he kept his clothes, Carl got out a
pair of boxers and threw them at Mitch.  He said ""Now, do you
want to share my bed, or sleep naked on the floor like a slave? 
If it makes you feel better, put these on - perhaps they will
make you feel more 'free'!  But, you know, free guys can choose
to sleep naked with their friends - you don't have to fuck, or
be fucked, just because you're lying companionably naked with
another man."



Mitch obviously knew that he had misunderstood Carl's gesture,
because that special grin he has broke out, and he leapt into
the bed, without the boxers.  Carl climbed in more slowly, and
the next instant Mitch had leaned across and wrapped his arms
around Carl.  I fell asleep, hearing Mitch and Carl making
little endearing sounds at each other, above the gentle slap and
slurp as they pleasured each other, unhurried and languidly.



_______________



The next morning we were all awake at dawn, and Carl started to
make breakfast.



"You guys have got a few problems", he told Mitch and me.



"First, they'll probably turn on your pain circuits.  Although
they're probably assuming you're dead, it costs nothing, and
they may as well make sure.  I've seen slaves with that thing
turned on, and, believe me, you'll want to turn yourselves in to
be rid of the agony."



"Secondly, what are you going to do with this young guy?", he
asked, looking at the young huntsman who, like us, was sitting
waiting expectantly for his breakfast. "He's a free man,
remember.  And if he gets back to civilisation, not only will he
turn you in, but he'll turn me in, too, for aiding your flight. 
So you'd better make plans for disposing of him, to protect us
all."



I gasped in amazement - surely Carl couldn't be serious!  He
couldn't be proposing that we kill the young huntsman.  "Hey,
I'm no murder!", I snapped at Carl.



"Well, what other solution is there?   And before you answer,
remember what he was trying to do to you - what percentage of
the hunt's prey are allowed to live, do you think?  I went on
one of those hunts once, and it sickened me - even if he prey
was not torn apart by the dogs, it was ritually butchered at the
end of the hunt.  They may have told you that without dogs you
had a good chance of living, but the chief of the hunt would
have slit your throats when you were captured - they like to
take the bodies back to base draped over the backs of their
horses - and the bodies need to be dead for them to be able to
do that!  Quite apart from anything else, I was appalled at the
waste - they always have good, strong, sturdy slaves as prey to
give them good sport, and what's the sense in killing slaves
like that - there are much better uses for them!"



The young huntsman had been listening to all this, of course,
and broke in:  "It's true.  We would have slit your throats once
we caught you - that's what we always do with the hunt prey.  I
had been promised the honour of being allowed to ride back to
base leading the pack horse with the bodies of you guys draped
over it - we refer to the 'dead bucks' from the hunt.  But I'm
sorry.  I can't make amends for all the bucks I've hunted in the
past, but I'm sorry about you two.  I do deserve to die,
probably.  But in those days in the forest, when you two kept me
warm at night, carried me when my feet were bleeding, and kept
me alive, I came to realsise that you're more than slaves -
you're real, honest, genuine, nice guys.  You didn't care for me
because you wanted to use me for a hostage, but because you were
concerned for me as another guy like you, hungry, cold, naked,
and lost.   And when you humiliated and punished those cops, I
was glad for you and sort of joined in, you may remember!   But
you're right - I will be a problem, and you'd best kill me - I
do deserve it.  Just make it quick and painless, will you?"



Then looking a Mitch, he said "Mitch, you told me you were
taught lots of ways of killing a man with your bare hands by the
marines - do me one last favour, to add to all the other stuff
you did in the forest:  take me quickly, don't hang around, and
make it painless for me."



Mitch looked at the huntsman, and I could see that he had no
intention of killing the guy - Mitch had effectively
incorporated him into our "platoon".  He was now "one of the
men".  And marines don't kill their buddies in the platoon,
whatever the provocation.  "Enough of that, boy!", he said.  



"You're one of us.  There's to be no more talk of killing.  You
will be punished for all the crimes you have committed against
other guys in your life - but neither I, or anyone else whilst I
can help it - is going to kill you!  We're going to find a way
out of this, and you're coming along with us - whatever happens,
you're not going back to your former life as a rich slave owner.
You'll take our chances with us, and however we end up, you'll
be the same.  Steve and I will need a servant if we get out of
this, and you can atone for your past by being our slave for the
rest of your life.  Understood?"



"Yes, Sir!  Thank you, Sir", the huntsman replied, humbly bowing
his head in the way that slaves are taught to do.



"Oh, great"", Carl exploded. "Mitch, it's not as simple as that!
 You and Steve will be driven mad by the pain any time soon. 
Then what are you going to do?"



We all sat there, glumly, and the remains of our breakfast were
untouched.



_________________



Later that day we were no better off - we were just sitting
around, waiting for the inevitable to happen.  It was only a
matter of time before new pain controllers arrived, and then
they would activate the chips inside us.  



I had sat all morning with my own gloomy thoughts - going back
to my life as a slave would  be dreadful.  But I didn't think it
would be a long one:  who would buy a slave with a record of
escaping, for anything other than some job that would soon
result in death?  



Then it came to me.  "Mitch!  There's only one thing to do. 
We've got to get rid of those pain chips from inside us.  Do you
remember that the doctor who fitted them said that the only way
they could be got out was with an operation - well then, let's
get a surgeon, and let's have the operation!"



We rushed and got Steve, and asked him to go and find a surgeon.
 But he shook his head: "It won't work.  There's absolutely no
doctor, or veterinarian, in this State, who would risk his
licence by doing it.  There have been a couple of cases where
doctors have acted to remove slave chips and were caught, and
there's a cunning penalty automatically in the legal code - the
doctor himself is then enslaved.  A lot of the might risk it for
money, but none of them will risk it with the fear of
enslavement hanging over them."



"Well then", said Mitch, "There's only one way.  We'll have to
do it ourselves, here".



"You must be mad!  We've no tools, no anesthetics, no skill,
nothing.", Carl snapped. "And if we go to try to buy scalpels,
or anesthetics, it will give the game away.  There are only one
or two suppliers o this specialised stuff, and they
automatically report to the authorities any sales to people who
are not legitimately in the medical profession."



"And, anyway, who can hack around inside you?  I only know what
the inside of a body looks like from those medical TV shows, and
that's hardly enough to be able to hack you open!".



"Sir.  Sir...", the young huntsman interjected . "Sirs, I did
two years at med school before I dropped out to go into my dad's
business - it was too tough, and it was much better to go home
and have my slaves......"



He realised he probably shouldn't continue describing his life
at home like that, so he went on "But I could open you up, get
he chip out, and sew you back together again.  If we really
honed a couple of those cut throat razors I saw in Master Carl's
bathroom, and you don't need special needles or anything.... 
The only problem would be the anesthetic."



"Hey, guys, you can't be serious...", Carl started.  But Mitch
broke in:



"He's right.  It's our only chance.  And forget the anesthetic -
in the old days they used to cut guys' legs off on the battle
field without anesthetic - a little cut through our bellies
can't be as bad as that!"



"Yes, they did do that", I said, "And most of the patients
died!".



The huntsman cut in "But they didn't die of the pain.  They died
from septicemia, or something - we know about disinfecting and
cleanliness now.  And even if we can't get supplies of medical
penicillin or anything, Master Carl could go to a country store
and buy animal stock - some masters routinely use it on their
slaves, anyway, as it's a lot cheaper!"



"It will be painful, though.  Excruciatingly so.  The hard
muscles across the belly take a lot of strain, and even after
the operation you'll have weeks of pain."



"We can take that!", Mitch cut in in his "marines can take it"
voice.  Let's get started!



___________________





Later that day, the stage was set.  Inside the cabin the kitchen
table had been scrubbed, and a lot of portable lights rigged up
over it.  The young huntsman had a variety of kitchen knives and
razors honed as sharply as we could do them - he had personally
sweated for hours moving them up and down a whetstone.  And Carl
had been and bought vials of antibiotic  and antiseptic, which
all now stood there lined up, their labels all ominously saying
"Animal use only - not for humans".  Still, as we had been told,
they were supposed to be all right for slaves.



"OK", Mitch said.  "I'll go first.  I can be the one he
practices on."



"No, Mitch", I said. "You think you're being brave by going
first.  But you're stronger and braver than me.  Let me go first
-  if I see the suffering you go through, I'll never have the
courage to submit myself to it.  So I must go first, so I don't
know what's coming".  



And Before he could argue further, I got up and lay on the table.



The huntsman said to Mitch and Carl "You won't be able to hold
him down.  It's essential he is kept absolutely still, so you
need to tie him down.  Ropes around his arms and legs, or
course.  But under his ribs, and across his hips - it's
essential that the stomach can't writhe around at all when I cut
in to it."



Carl tried to make a grim joke about "the ultimate bondage
experience" as he and Mitch lashed me to the table, but none of
us felt like laughing.  Carl knelt down so his head was close to
mine, and said "OK, Steve, this is it.  We're ready to start. 
This is your last chance, buddy - you could still give yourself
up, you know.  Don't worry about me - I'd rather be enslaved for
helping you, than have you suffer and possibly die at the hands
of this untrained butcher!"



I shook my head - I knew that Mitch could never live as a slave
again, and we had to take this as our only chance.  So I
whispered "No, Carl.  Go ahead".



Carl bent closer and gently kissed me, then, as he stood up, the
most awful pain I have ever experienced hit me.



You can't really describe pain.  Not pain that's all consuming.
Pain that blots out everything else from your mind.  Pain that
is somewhere in your inner being, and from which there's no
escape.  Pain that goes on, and on.  



Somewhere in the dim distance I heard screaming - tortured,
animal howling from deep in the throat.  Cries that cut across
any feeling of humanity.  Somewhere else I realised it was me
that was doing it .



I had lost all control.  I smelt a dreadful smell, and realised
my bowels must have evacuated.  But the pain went on and on.



Mitch had told me of his experiences in the pain palace - but
nothing could compare with this.  Hovever painful "recreational"
pain is, inflicted by a pain master in the controlled
surroundings of a dungeon, it can't possibly compare to the
awful agony as our body is cut open and your guts exposed.



I lost consciousness.



When I came to, there was an agonising ache from my body.  I was
soaked in sweat.



Then little stabs of pain - short and sharp, driving down deep
into my brain.  I heard myself screaming for it to stop, begging
to be put out of my misery, imploring Mitch to end it for me.



But Carl and Mitch just stood there, one gripping my hand, the
other with his hand on my forehead.



And then it was over - there was just the background incessant
ache that spread from my stomach all through me. An ache so
intense I could hardly think of anything else.



Carl and Mitch were sponging me with cool, wet cloths.  Then
they were untying me.  Mitch picked me up and with a huge effort
carried me over to the bed, and laid me down gently.



"Lie still, Steve", he said.  "The worst is over.  You've
survived the operation.  Now be strong, and don't move so the
wound can start to heal.  Just lie calm.  It's my turn now, and
I know I'm going to howl like an animal when they cut into me: 
but promise me you'll do nothing.  Don't try to interfere.  Just
lie there.  Promise me... OK?"



I nodded, weekly, and he walked off to lie on the table.  I
could see the huntsman and Carl start to tie him down, and
realised that their bodies were covered in blood - my blood.  
But they knew what had to happen, as did Mitch, and went about
their tasks unhurriedly, testing the tightness of the ropes and
the efficacy of the knots with  a grim professionalism.



And then I heard Mitch start to scream.  I wanted to go to his
help, reflexively.  But I knew I must not.  It went on and on -
evidently even Mitch's days of agony in the pain palace had not
prepared him for the ordeal of an operation under these
circumstances.



I drifted in and out of sleep.  I was too weak to move.  I
wanted to piss.  I did.  I slept.



_____________________



Morning.  Light.  Pain.  I lay there trying to remember what
happened, then made the mistake of trying to move - agonizing
pains from my wound spread through my body.



The  young huntsman was bending over me "You must lie still", he
said, "So the wound does not open."



"How's Mitch...?"



"Just like you.  Surviving!  In pain!  We've had to leave him
tied to the table, as neither Carl nor I could carry him here to
the bed.  But he's OK."



I looked across the room, and saw Mitch's body lying there nude
on the kitchen table.  They had untied his shoulders, and when
he heard me, he managed to turn his head towards me.  I saw him
give a small gesture with his hand - his thumb raised in the
air, in the "thumbs up" guys use when they know that everything
is probably going to be all right. 



______________





Three days later Mitch and I were back on our feet - we were
walking - just - although every step was painful as our stomach
muscles moved in spite of our efforts to keep them rigid.



The young huntsman was pleased with his work - he carefully
inspected our bellies, and said "Sorry, Masters, there will be
scars!  I'm not expert enough to have been able to sew you back
together without it.  And scarring is always worse when you
haven't been able to use really sharp scalpels.  And I couldn't
go in through a small aperture - I had to slash quite a big gap.
And...."



"Shut up, will you!", said Mitch, not unkindly.  "You did your
best.  We can't ask for more from a slave"  And anyway, look at
the bodies of Master Steve and me.... Look at all the tattoos...
One scar is not going to make the difference!  If anyone gets us
in bed past the look of the tattoos, a bit of a scar isn't going
to stop them!" 



The young huntsman beamed with delight.  He was learning that
praise from a master is the sweetest thing that  a slave can
hear.



_____________________





We started to exercise.  Mitch forced me - shouting at me if I
tried to slack, and didn't keep up with him.  He was back, doing
the thing he loved most - building up the bodies of his men to
turn them into strong, proud marines!  Carl went off to work
every day, but the young huntsman joined Mitch and me as we ran
and did pushups to get our bodies back into shape.  

         

He was turning out well.... The harsh time in the forest, and
his healthy diet now and forced workouts had got rid of the thin
layer of fat from under his skin, and the start of a small fat
belly had been turned into the beginnings of a proper six pack. 
His biceps had formed hard balls, as they do in young guys who
exercise, and his back muscles had thickened to show he was
developing proper strength there.  His long legs had nicely
toned thighs at the top now, and his whole body had taken on a
dark tone from exposure to the Autumn sunlight.



We hadn't resolved the fundamental question of who wanted whom
in this foursome - I wanted Carl and he wanted me.  I loved,
admired and respected Mitch, and he wanted me.  Mitch and Carl
were fuck buddies, but that's all it was I think - one man
seriously enjoying another's body, as strong unashamed guys can,
without any real emotional commitment.  All three of us had
fucked the young huntsman, without asking him, and without
allowing him the pleasure of fucking us in turn:  we wanted to
show him that we considered him to be a slave (even though we
did not subject him to most of the indignities that slavery
would otherwise imply).  But it was clear that the young
huntsman idolised Mitch - although he respected Carl and me as
masters, he worshipped Mitch.



When he was serving us dinner, he served Mitch first.  He stood
in the bathroom in the morning, in the hope that Mitch would
allow him into the shower to soap and clean Mitch's body
(sometimes, arbitrarily, Mitch did, and sometimes he didn't. 
Always, of course, without explanation - a slave has to learn
that he waits for his master's command, and his master is under
no obligation to give him any explanations).  And in the
evening, when we were sitting in front of the fire, he sat on
the floor so he could press up against Mitch's legs;  if he was
not rebuffed, his hand would creep in towards Mitch's lap as he
sat there talking to us, and the young guy would try to fondle
and stroke Mitch's cock.  Sometimes Mitch would let him, and
sometimes Mitch would kick out with his foot and shove the
huntsman away - but we could all tell that this was done
playfully, and Mitch did not want to hurt him.  



He was in heaven if Mitch allowed him to sleep with him - Carl,
Mitch and I shared the bed, of course, and the slave was made to
curl up on the floor (although we did give him a blanket).  But
sometimes Mitch growled at the two of us to move over a bit, and
allowed the young guy to get in beside him and press close to
his body.  Mitch always kept him on the outside of the bed, so
it was only Mitch's body he could experience, and we sometimes
woke up to hear the slave gasping, with that special mixture of
pain and pleasure, as Mitch thrust his cock rhythmically in and
out of the slave's ass.



The slave was of course available to Carl and me whenever we
wanted, and Mitch often urged us to fuck him  to emphasise our
superiority if we needed sexual relief.  And, of course, we did,
as we understood how important it was for the young guy to learn
his new station in life quickly:  it was doing him a favour, to
et him used to the idea that a master could at any time simply
order him to his knees, and take him doggy fashion.



___________________



Three weeks later, and we were all fit and well.  Carl reminded
us one morning that Billy would be home from school for the
holidays soon, and that we really ought to decide on the future
before then - Carl was very concerned that we might still be
taken as escaped slaves, and that he would be enslaved, too, for
aiding us.  Whilst that was a risk he willingly took because of
his love for me, he didn't want to expose Billy to that risk - 
one night, as we lay in each other's arms, Carl said that he
thought it was more than he could bear if Billy's lovely 16 year
old body were to be exposed on the auction platform, and he was
sold off to some old pervert who simply wanted to fuck young
boys.  Or, even worse, Carl could imagine Bill being forced to
service the succession of clients in a sex parlour, living out
the remainder of his young manhood as a toy for the rich of
Arkansas.



So it was important that we resolved something.... Probably
Mitch, our slave, and I should quit totally and move to the East
Coast or West Coast, where our chances of being detected were
zero (provided, of course, we never took our clothes, or even
our shirts, off in public!).  But we didn't want to leave Carl,
and he couldn't come with us - he really did want Billy to grow
up in Arkansas, close to his grandpa, his uncles, and his
cousins. 



"Look", Carl exclaimed, "It's impossible.  I can't give up you
guys.  But I can't tear Billy away from his family.   These next
years, until he's in his twenties, are really important for a
guy:  if he doesn't bond properly with the rest of the family
now, he'll always be an outsider to some extent.   I've seen how
my brothers in law are, and even though they join in all the
family games, it's just not the same for them as it is for
someone who has learned the true joys of being an intimate
member  of the family all the time he was growing into full
adulthood."





FLOOD



It truly did seem that we were in an insoluble dilemma, and we
all racked our brains for a solution - what was really right for
Billy?  Should we all leave for freedom, but tear Billy away
from his family?  Or stay, and risk the enslavement of Carl and
Billy?



Although we argues it every which way, we just couldn't decide
what was the best thing to do for all of us.  How could be
balance the needs of some of us against the needs of the others?



Mitch and I were going over the arguments again late one
afternoon, sitting on the porch of the cabin whilst the Autumn
rains thundered down.  It was getting chilly now, and Carl had
bought us shirts and jeans to wear, although we liked to still
go bare footed.  We had also allowed our slave to wear a T-shirt
and shorts, when we had seem him shivering slightly one day as
the weather turned:  to his credit, he hadn't complained, and
had waited for his masters to recognise his discomfort.



As the rain thundered down and it got darker and darker, we
wondered where Carl was - he couldn't still be working, given
the weather.  But then we saw the headlights of his pickup below
us on the steep trail up to the cabin, and we knew he would be
back in about 10 minutes after negotiating the hairpin bends of
the rough way.  



But he wasn't, and after 20 minutes or so we decided we ought to
go and see if he had broken down - or, if the lights we had seen
on the lower  trail weren't Carl's, we ought to see who was
trespassing!   



So we set off through the drenching rain, Mitch and I walking
hurriedly together, and the slave tagging along behind.  We
turned the corner - and there was no longer a trail... A
landslip had washed it away, down the hillside.  And then we saw
the pickup, headlights still on, lying drunkenly against a tree
several metres below us.



All three of us scrambled down the wet, slippery slope of dirt
and rubble, and found Carl lying trapped under the steering
wheel of the truck.  We opened the door, and Mitch was trying to
pull him out as we were concerned that the truck might at any
time start to slip further down the mountainside, when the slave
told us to stop - the emotion and worry of the situation broke
his conditioning, and he ordered Mitch and me to stop pulling at
Carl in case there was a spinal injury and we ended up by making
Carl permanently paralysed.



So what to do?  Mitch said that he would go down the mountain
for help.   I protested, as the rain had soaked his shirt and
his slave tattoos were clearly visible.  



"You'll be captured", I said.  



"I know, Steve.", Mitch replied. "But you can stay here with
Carl until the rescuers arrive, then slip quietly into the
woods.  I will say I had been hiding in the woods, and found the
pickup.  When Carl gets out of hospital, you can simply resume
your life living with him:  I know you two really like each
other, and I'm just in the way.  Let me do this one thing for
the two of you".



"No, Mitch!  You can't go back to slavery.  They'll soon kill
you!"



"Steve, some things are perhaps meant to be.  Perhaps I am meant
to die a slave.  Perhaps you and Carl are meant to live your
lives together.  Who can say?  But if we do nothing, Carl will
surely die, whereas I might survive slavery, and in 10 years
time we can all be together again".



Then, to stifle further argument, he stripped off his shirt and
jeans (so there would be no questions asked as to who had
clothed him, and strode off, proudly, naked as slave should be,
down the mountain.



Our slave went to follow him, but I put out an arm to restrain
him.  "No, boy, it's no use.  They'll take Carl, and there's
nothing you can do about it.  Better you come back to the cabin,
then in a weeks time, walk out of the forest and resume your old
life - perhaps there will be something you can do to help Mitch.
  If you go down now, they'll know you are in some way
connected, and it will make it worse for everyone - you might
even end up becoming really enslaved, and totally unable to
help."



"But, Master, if I were a slave I would be with Master Mitch..."



"Don't be stupid!  You've been to slave auctions.  Even if you
were in the same auction with Mitch, you wouldn't be bought by
the same master.  Mitch is destined for the hunt again, or
something similar.  Whereas you'd be snapped up by a sex
parlour, given the way your body has come on these past weeks.  
No... Go back to the cabin.  That's an order, slave!"



He went off, reluctantly, uphill.  And I knelt down to try to
comfort Carl.  But then there was a rushing sound - I saw that
he pickup had fallen into the bed of a dried-up creek, and now
the heavy rain was causing it to start to fill up.  The water
was rushing along the bed of the water course, with  sound like
thunder, and soon my ankles were covered in the swirling brown
turbulence.



The noise increased, and the volume of water.  It rose higher
and higher.



Carl came to, and we spoke.  "Don't worry, Carl.  Mitch has gone
for help.  Rescue is on the way", I told him.



He whispered tome that he was in pain - which he said was a good
thing as it meant that there was no permanent damage to his
spine.  But he was totally trapped, as the engine had moved
forwards when he had crashed in to the trees as he had dropped
down the mountain after driving onto the nonexistent trail where
it had washed away.   



The water was up to my chest, and I was having to brace myself
against the pickup to be able to remain there, but it was almost
covering Carl's face.  Inexorably, it rose over his mouth, and I
could see from the terrified look in my lover' eyes that he knew
he was going to die.



As the water rose further, I did the only thing I could - I
filled my lungs with air, bobbed under the surface and clamped
my lips over Carl's, and filled his mouth with air.  Then I went
up above the water, breathed in, and did the same thing.... 
Over and over.   As Carl's emotional life had been given life by
 the kiss of our lips, so now his physical life was sustained as
we continued to share the same air.  



After what seemed an eternity, at last I saw other lights coming
up the trail.  The local Sheriff and the fire and rescue truck
appeared.  I saw Mitch, naked and cuffed, standing there looking
utterly forlorn in the light of the headlights of the vehicles.  



They saw what I was doing, and in a few moments the rescue
people had taken an oxygen supply to Carl.  The sheriff came
over to me as I was standing there, panting and trying to
recover my breath.  



"What have we here?", he asked sarcastically.  "Get those
clothes off, boy!  I don't like to see slaves standing around
wearing men's clothes!"



There was nothing else for it, so I complied, and stood there
with the icy rain stinging on my bare skin.  



"Cuff him with the other one", the Sheriff commanded one of his
men, "Then put them in the car and drive them back to the
Auction House - they'll know what to do with a pair of
escapees!".



As Mitch and I were bundled together naked into the trunk of the
patrol car (the officer had not wanted to get the interior wet
from our bodies), we saw the rescue services getting Carl out
from under the water - at least he seemed to be alive still!



_________________



We lay there naked, our bodies pressed close.  We were both very
cold from the rain and the water, and it was good to have the
warmth of each other for mutual comfort.



"Well we're in it now", Mitch said.  "They've got us both back. 
Do you know what they do with  escaped slaves?"



"Not really - I don't think the death  penalty is mandatory,
although I guess we'll be sold to something where death is a
near certainty in the not too distant future - back to the hunt,
or to one of those grossly unsafe mines, or something.  'Normal
folk' won't buy escapees, in case we run again!"



"Steve, man, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I got you into all this. Now
I've got you killed, instead of taking our chances at the hunt."



"No, Mitch.  We had no chance there anyway - remember what the
huntsman said.  And I'm not sorry about a bit of it.  Without
the escape, I'd never have been as close to you as we've been
these past few weeks.  If it is all to end, at least I've known
you.  We could have gone all our lives without ever discovering
what real buddies can be to each other.  Don't blame yourself -
I'd rather be here with you, in the trunk of this patrol car,
than back with my bitch of a wife as a 'free' man."  And to
reassure him, I wriggled around so I could kiss him.



He responded hungrily, and our tongues were soon intertwined. 
Our cocks were erect and jutting into each other as we thrashed
our bodies around, but with our hands cuffed behind us we could
do nothing to ease each other's ache for real sexual contact.



After a bit, I said "Mitch, whatever we do, we must protect
Carl, and the young huntsman.  I think he's suffered enough,
don't you?"



"Yes.  He's a decent guy really, and I don't want to see him
enslaved.  Let's tell the cops we've been wandering for days in
the woods, and just came across the pickup and the trail out."



"We won't say we even knew there was a cabin up there - we just
stole the clothes from another empty vacation cabin, two or
three days ago - they may doubt us, but they won't be able to
search every vacation home in the county!"

  

   

AUCTIONED AGAIN



Back at the Auction Hall it was the familiar scene - naked
slaves arriving and being processed.  Some back from ongoing
work assignments, standing proudly naked with their bodies
darkened by outside work.  And some new slaves, feebly
attempting to hide their genitals behind their hands as they
were ordered to strip naked for the first time.



We were given special treatment - normally, once the slaves were
in the reception hall and naked most resistance vanished and the
guards were relatively relaxed.  However with us the guards
clustered around, cattle prods at the ready, and herded us not
so much like a crowd of docile sheep as they did the other
slaves, but like dangerous stud bulls who might at any moment go
berserk and attack their handlers.  But in truth, Mitch and I
were both so tired, exhausted and dispirited that we had no more
fight in us than any of the others.



We were showered and given a good internal wash out with the
enema hoses as usual, and told to shave each other so that our
pubic hair had the proper slave trim - this wasn't difficult,
because even during our period of freedom we had found we liked
our balls shaved - like a lot of guys, we actually found it much
more sensual to be able to really feel our own balls properly
without a coating of wiry hair.  And of course for our sexual
partners it was infinitely preferable - who wants to end up with
pubic hairs in his mouth when he's been sucking his partner?  So
in the cabin we had shaved each other, and Carl, and had of
course insisted that our young huntsman "slave" had undergone
the ritual shaving to which all slaves were subject.



But then instead of being taken to a cell or dormitory, we were
herded along into the tattooing room.  I was told to stand
against the wall whilst they took Mitch and made him lie on the
tattooist's table, and I heard the whine of the electric
needling machine start up.   I didn't see what they were doing,
and then it was my turn.



All tattooing hurts, to some extent, and those on my ass, pecs
and arms had been mildly uncomfortable, shall we say.   But the
tattooist was putting something on my forehead, and this hurt
like hell - there's no deep cushion of flesh below the skin, and
the pain was intense as the tiny needle stabbed up and down. 
But it was soon done, and not really as bad as some of the stuff
we'd had to endure - it certainly didn't compare to the
operation without anesthetic!



The real "pain" was waiting for me when I saw Mitch, and
realised that I was the same as him:  in large black letters,
right across my forehead, it said "Slave".  How could they have
disfigured my handsome Mitch in this way - I had got used to his
body being tattooed, and indeed we each found our tattoos rather
sexy.  But the stark reality of this public marking, in a way
that could never be concealed even if we were one day to be free
and allowed to wear clothes again, was the ultimate humiliation
and symbol of how the Programme controlled and debased all who
entered it.



A senior guard, seeing our looks of horror, commented "So if you
get away again, there'll be no hiding now!".



_______________



We were taken to an isolation cell - it was the first one I had
seen in the Auction House where the doors were solid and not
made of bars:   evidently there was no thought that prospective
customers might need to walk along and have an informal
inspection of the stock for sale!     





The cell was completely bare - there wasn't even the usual
sleeping pad on the floor, just bare concrete.  And after the
guards had closed the door, it was pitch black, as there was no
light.  But Mitch and I didn't care - we had each other's bodies
for warmth and comfort, and spent the night caressing each other
and gently fucking and sucking.  We thought it would probably be
the last time that we  would ever be able to share such a time
together, as the likelihood was that we would be sold to
different projects when we were put up for auction.



The next morning we were proved  right -  the guards came and
took Mitch away, and left me in the cell.  I suppose it must
have been for about half a day (although without light, it's
difficult to say) because of the growth of the stubble on my
chin and the ominous rumblings of my stomach before I was
collected and given a quick shower.



I was led into a small private preview room, where a couple of
buyers were seated with a representative of the Auction House
leisurely sipping coffee.  The guards motioned for me to get up
on to the inspection block, and told me to assume "display",
which I did, and I heard the Auction House guy saying "This is
one of those celebrated escapees.  We think he and his partner
killed one of the huntsmen, but we can't be sure as the body
hasn't been found - we're giving them the benefit of the doubt
at the moment, else they would have of course  been executed
immediately for harming a Master.  However we recognise that
they won't fetch high prices and so they're a bit of an
embarrassment to us - we don't actually want to put him into a
regular auction at all, as the presence of such a menacing hulk
tends to put buyers off the whole idea of slaves, and all the
prices in the auction that day will be somewhat depressed.  So
if you want to take him off our hands, we'll gladly give him
away...."



The buyers got up and came over, and started to subject me to
one of those humiliating intimate examinations that only
experienced masters are capable of.  Without any shame, without
any hesitation, and with absolutely no concern for my rights or
thoughts on the matter, they hefted my balls (conveniently at
the right height as I was on the inspection block) and rolled
them around, feeling the size and shape of them.



"Of course we'll have these off, and that'll calm him", one
said.  



"No it's not worth it - he won't last that long, and we don't
need any additional expense!"



I was of course wondering what they had in mind, but then I was
told to get down off the inspection block, and stand with one
foot on it and the other on the floor.  This  had the effect of
exposing my ass fully, especially when I was told to bend over
from the waist, and slipping a latex glove on, one of the buyers
expertly slipped a couple of fingers up me to test my ass hole.



"He's been well fucked in his time, I see", he commented to his
colleague. "But that hardly matters."



Then after telling me to stand up straight, both of them ran
their hands lightly and expertly over my body, testing the
muscles for tone and firmness.  With a final tweak of my
nipples, they were finished.



"Yes, we'll take him off your hands", one said.  "A nominal
dollar, isn't it?"



"Yes", the Auction house representative seller replied. "We need
some sort of sum to make it a legal contract, so a dollar a
month is fine.  Shall we say for 12 months?"



"Yes, but he'll be gone before that - they usually only last a
couple of months at the most.  And we'll take the other one,
too.  Where's he?"



"Oh we needed a pacifier today, and he's the biggest, ugliest
brute we have, so we've pressed him into service.  But he's a
big strong brute like this one.  If you want, I can get him in
here...."



"Yes, I think we had at least better give him a cursory
inspection."



I was left standing there next to the inspection block waiting
for Mitch to be fetched, and the three men carried on chatting.



"So what do you use these slaves for?"



"Well, it's a variation on the hunting theme, with a bit of
medieval jousting thrown in.  We find a lot of our younger
clients can't ride horses, and don't have all day to waste on
all the formalities of a formal hunt.  A lot of young guys can
ride trail bikes - not as expertly as they imagine, of course,
but they can make a reasonable attempt at it. And they're
looking for a bit of hectic relaxation in their busy schedules."



" So we turn the slave lose into an arena - it's about the size
of a football pitch - and the client is on a trail bike.  He
then tries to run the slave down - it's quite good sport, to see
the slaves trying to dodge the bike:  some of them get very
expert, rather like bulls in a bull fight, and can survive many
'passes' at them by the rider.  But sooner or later they make a
mistake, or tire, and then it's curtains for them."



"But usually they manage three or four weeks.  It all depends on
how much time the rider buys - if he's only got an hour, the
slave will probably survive for another day.  If he buys all
morning, then he'll usually succeed in getting a kill, as the
slave does tire."



So this was to be my end - sport in an arena, for a motor
cyclist!!  And again, no concern or thought for me - just a
question of how long the rider bought off them.  My life
depended on some rich guy's diary:  if he had a packed schedule
and could only spare an hour, I'd probably survive.  Otherwise...

  

Just then the door opened, and Mitch came in.  His lovely cock
was rock hard, and sticking firmly out in front of him.  As he
strode over to stand next to me, it swayed from side to side in
time with his steps.



"This is the other one - do you want the pair at the same price?"



"OK", the buyer replied.  "I see now - they're that chained pair
that were on the run for weeks.  I read the story in the papers,
and about the only thing that was never made clear was how they
managed to get out of the chains.  It doesn't matter to us, as
we don't go in for pairing - each of them will take his own
chance separately in the arena."



"Yes, you're right", the auction house guy said.  "We couldn't
understand how they could get free of the chains either, or
avoid the pain chip when we activated it.  They must have got
help from somewhere, but I guess we'll never know from whom. 
The police have closed the case now they're back here, and even
if you hadn't taken them, they would not have had another chance
to try to 'pass' in normal life - see their foreheads!"



He gestured to the guards, and we were taken back to our cell.



__________________





"Fucking hell, Mitch - you're still sporting that hard!  Come
and let me do something about it."



"No, Steve.  It's no use.  And I just want to be left alone for
a bit."



"What's the matter, buddy?  Did they hurt you badly today?"



"Not physically, no.  But they totally humiliated me and used me
in a way I wouldn't have thought possible."



"Would it help to tell me....?"



"No".



"Come on, Mitch, you can share everything with me.  Tell me what
they did - get it off your chest, and maybe you'll start to feel
better."



"It seems they had a whole lot of new slaves in, mostly college
boys.  It's 'hell week' at the State college, and there's been a
lot of public disorder and illegal drinking.  Under the new
tough liquor laws in the State, they were warned - but they
still did it.  And one of the real bible-thumping 'drink is sin'
judges sentenced them all to six months slavery."



"When they got here, they were all together, laughing and
shouting, and calling for their families, and their lawyers. 
Even when they were stripped naked, they didn't understand the
seriousness of their situation and their new status.  So the
guards decided they needed pacifying."



"They get the biggest, meanest looking slave they can, and make
him rape one or two of the ring leaders.  That quietens the
whole lot down!".



"And I was it.  Not only have we got old-style tattoos, that
make us look especially fierce anyway, but the new one on our
foreheads adds a special touch, the guards said.  Coupled with
the scar on my belly, and my huge muscley body, they thought I
would scare the shit out of the boys, and would only have to
rape one or two of them."



"You didn't.....", I interjected, planning to ask him if he
really did rape a fellow slave.



"I had no choice, Steve!  I refused point blank to rape them of
course.  I was led into the cell with about 12 college boys -
some of them were football players and track eventers and had
quite reasonable bodies for 19 and 20  year olds, but some of
them were a bit flabby and under developed.  They'd all got over
their initial shyness at being naked, and even though they still
were not at ease with touching each other's naked bodies, they
were past that coy stage where new slaves try to cover
themselves."



"When I went in, all the talk and laughter stopped.  The guards
pulled one of them out of the pack - I guess he was an athlete
of some kind, goaded him lightly to bend over and touch his
toes, then told me to fuck him."



"I told them to fuck off!  There's nothing left they can do to
me, after all, so I can afford to disobey.  The worst they can
do is kill me, and they're going to do that anyway.  I told them
of all the things they might make me do, fucking another guy
wasn't one of them - I wasn't going to get a hard on, and so it
didn't matter what they did - no hard on, no rape!"



"They were pretty pissed off, and dragged me out and along to
that doctor's office.  He got out a needle and injected
something into the base of my cock - he muttered something about
it being a long-lasting derivative of Viagara.  After a couple
of minutes, I got this hard on, and it's been there ever since."



"They took me back to the cell, got the same boy, and told me to
go at it.  When I wouldn't, they stabbed me with the cattle
prod... And I still wouldn't.  I puked of course, and after I
had come around from the third prodding, they knew that wouldn't
work.  So instead they pulled out one of the college boys, and
told me they would prod him for every refusal of mine.  They had
the poor boy stand at the side, and they put the end of the prod
up his ass.  Then they told me to go at the stud still there
bent in front of me."



Mitch started to shudder and half sob.



"What could I do, Steve?   I didn't want the college boy hurt -
you know what a prodding is like even for tough guys like us. 
And for a 19 year old, and directly up his ass...."



"So I went up the slave in front of me, as gently as I could. 
It wasn't a really forced rape - I tried to slip it in gently. 
But instead of relaxing, the boy fought against it, and when the
guards threatened again, I just had to apply more pressure.  The
bastards hadn't even let me try to relax him a bit first with a
finger, or lube him with spit:  they just wanted to see me stick
my cock in his ass, as hard and as quickly as possible."



"I didn't cum really - just pretended to, and after about eight
thrusts came out and said I was done.  But then they made me do
two more - they were laughing, Steve, about the fact that I
couldn't cum that quickly, but it didn't matter- all they wanted
was the college boys to feel a real cock up their asses!"



"All the college boys were silent by now of course, except for
the ones that were sniveling.  One of them called out at me
'bastard', but the guards heard and he was the next one forced
to submit to me."



"After five, they decided the boys now understood what slavery
was all about, and I was allowed to stop.  But I've been used,
Steve - it's just as if I am a dildo.  A big, warm, dildo -
nothing more."



I took Mitch into my arms, pushed his head down into my shoulder
and stroked his head.



"There, there, Mitch - you couldn't help it.  These slave
masters are real experts at controlling and humiliating slaves. 
 Don't let them win - they didn't really humiliate you - you
held out.  You withstood the prod three times.  You only went
ahead in order to save the young college boy.  And you tried to
be as gentle as you could with your cock in their asses - after
all, some of the slaves they could have chosen to do it would
have actually gone at it with enthusiasm and hurt them more. 
You at least tried to minimise the suffering for everyone".



I could tell Mitch knew I understood, and we stood there with
his cock jutting into mine.  Of course, having Mitch this close
again made me erect anyway, so we lay down and gently made love.
 But even after cumming inside me with a series of great
shudders as his balls that had been teased so many times that
day finally got their fulfillment, Mitch's cock remained rock
hard.  What bastards those guards were, to treat Mitch in this
way - even a slave has he right to let his cock subside when
he's cum - a continuing hard erection really gets painful after
a time.



________________



We were expecting the transport to come and take us off to the
arena at any time, but a couple of days must have passed before
we were taken down onto the loading bay.  As usual, there was
the usual paperwork and computer input to transfer us formally
to our new owners, with us as the hapless merchandise being
shipped just as if we were a couple of packing cases.  And we
were almost like packing cases - we were crammed into a couple
of  "transport cages", barely big enough to hold our big bodies,
and put into the back of a small  white truck.



We didn't even have the comfort of being able to hold each other
as we set off on what would probably be our final journey from
the Auction House, and the truck sped on.   It made a couple of
other deliveries of caged slaves, as they seemed to have used a
"UPS" service rather than sending a dedicated truck for us, and
we were the last two cages left on board.



Imagine our surprise when the doors opened and we were unloaded
to find that the person who then opened our cages was Carl - but
a changed Carl!



Gone were the shorts and bare chest, now Carl was in a crisp
white shirt, silk tie, dark business suit, and black wing tips! 
 We wondered whether to go up and embrace him, as we would have
the Carl of old, but both Mitch and I thought that perhaps he
might  still under some suspicion for helping us escape - so we
stood there, eyes cast down as slaves would to a master.



How odd it felt - instead of being able to have the feel of
Carl's familiar body against mine, there he was immaculately
dressed as a real master, whilst I was humbly naked.  But the
tension lasted only for a moment - Carl threw his arms around me
and hugged me, and I could feel an erection under his clothes
pressing into me.  Then he went up and greeted Mitch in the same
way - although I felt that perhaps it was a little less warm, as
Carl still really loved me most of all.



To our amazement we were at the slave entrance to Jase's
mansion, and Carl told us that we had been brought there to
avoid any nasty suspicions that might have been reopened if we
had been taken directly to the cabin.



__________________



Later we learned that in order to save us, Carl had done a deal
with Jase.  He had sacrificed his freedom and his integrity for
the sake of us slaves.



In return for giving up his freedom to work as a contractor, and
make his own way in the world, Jase had agreed to use his
influence to get he slave contracts with  'the arena'
transferred to Carl.  As the owners of the Auction House, and
with his many political friends and rich patronage, Jase could
do this:  but there was a price to be paid.



Carl had to agree to go back and work in the family bank.  Jase
was fed up with his sons-in-law and Carl's brothers, and had
always thought that Carl was the only real businessman in the
family, worthy to lead the bank on into the next generation when
Jase retired.  He had been bitterly disappointed and wounded
when Carl had left to strike out on his own, but there was
nothing he could do as Carl had made it clear he was renouncing
all the family's wealth and keeping his assets in trust.  Jase
was also concerned that Carl would not make Billy understand the
family's position and importance in Arkansas - if they skipped a
generation with Carl, would Billy really ever be able to take
over the firm?



So, against his will, but seeing that it was the only way to
save us, Carl had returned.



______________



It was actually quite an erotic experience:  in his bedroom in
the mansion  that evening, Mitch and I stripped Carl of his
fancy clothes:  normally he had just shrugged off his shorts
when he got back to the cabin, but that night  all three of us
giggled and laughed as Mitch and I tried to undo the buttons on
Carl's shirt (you try doing that, when you have not undone
buttons for months and months!).  Then it was really sensuous to
undo Carl's belt, unzip his fly, and push his pants to the
floor.  We let them lie around his ankles, as we felt his cock
straining through his tight white cotton briefs and then pushed
down the elastic waist band to let it spring proudly free.



"Fucking hell...!", Carl said.  "If I'd wanted a couple of
wanton whores, I could have gone to a sex parlour!", and he tore
off the remainder of his own clothes so we could all three be
totally naked together, as real men are amongst their true
friends.



As the three of us lay in bed that evening, in that comfortable
after-sex mood you have when you are satiated with pleasure and
are slightly drowsy, and your lovers' arms and limbs are all
mixed up with yours, Carl told us of our new life.



He had to agree to work at the bank, five days per week.  And on
Sunday through Thursday nights, he had to live in the mansion,
go to business dinners, parties and receptions, and do all the
other things that the deputy head of the most powerful bank in
Arkansas was expected to do.



But from Friday evening through to late Sunday afternoon, he was
free to live his own life.  



The Bank now owned the remainder of our slave contracts, until
the day of our freedom.  But Carl had agreed that he wouldn't
live with us as lovers during the week, only at weekends.  Jase
had pointed out that he would be expected to go to sex parlours,
and possibly pain palaces, after some of the dinners, and that
Arkansas society considered it inappropriate for a leader of the
social scene to be living as a true couple with a slave.  So we
were not to stay in the mansion, but to go to the cabin - which,
as Carl pointed out, we all loved.



Carl had decided to set up a small business, so we could feel
more independent, and was going to do some logging on his
acreage (but hidden from the cabin, so its tranquil views would
be protected).  We would run the business, and could continue to
live the healthy outdoor life, doing hard physical labour.  Carl
would spend every weekend at the cabin with us.



Then, as a surprise, he told us of another concession he had
wrung out of Jase - Jase had to but the contracts on Dave and
Jim, too, so they could join us - Carl remembered how we had
told him of our bonding with these guys from our first moments
of slavery, and how Mitch had protected and cared for Dave on
the road gang.  He was a good negotiator and hadn't wanted to
give in to Jase too readily, so by adding in these extra
conditions to his 'deal' he felt that he had maintained some
measure of his own independence, whilst doing something extra
for Mitch and me.



"What's more", said Carl finally and sleepily, "It's ll be great
for Billy.  Not only will he have his dad during vacations, but
four of the best looking studs in the State!  What boy could
want more for his enjoyment?"





LIFE



I was still worried about how I would resolve my dilemma of
wanting Carl desperately as my lover, but adoring Mitch, too,
and knowing that he relied on me.  But I need not have worried,
as things turned out.



The first weekend when all five of us were in the cabin was
tough - although in the excitement of so many bodies to explore,
and so many combinations to indulge in two, three, four and five
way sex, we got through it.



Jim was delighted to be able to make love to real men again -
after all those months of only being allowed to jerk off to
donate his sperm to the clients of the stud farm, they had
finally made maters even worse by the introduction of fully
automatic milking machines:  "It was just like being a cow being
milked", he told us. "This rubber-lined metal tube with a
suction line attached was slipped onto my cock every morning,
and it milked me!  They went to this system because some of the
clients wanted to completely distance themselves from the
slaves, and mechanical milking was the ultimate way of treating
us like some form of animal, rather than as men".



Mitch immediately took Dave under his wing again - he was the
youngest and had always had the slightest body of us all, and it
was only Mitch's strength that had got him through that time on
the road gang.  Now, although his body had filled out to a large
extent and he was immensely more self confident after his time
as a dedicated sex toy to a number of wealthy and influential
scions of Arkansas society, he was still the "junior" of us all.
 



Mitch organised all the work during the week, and bossed us all
around just as if we were his old platoon.  He usually referred
to us collectively as "Men" when giving orders to run the timber
business.  



During the week we all slept in the same bed, and had whoever
was next to us quite haphazardly.  I think the pain of losing my
very close relationship with Mitch was tempered by my seeing him
so very happy again.



But the weekends were a riot!  As soon as Carl arrived on Friday
nights, we stripped him naked.  We developed a ritual where
anyone who wanted to could fuck him, and he then had "first
pick" of who he slept with first on Friday night.  But Saturday
night was reserved for me - we always had each other first,
surrounded by the bodies of our companions, before turning to
any of the others who were interested in joining in.  This is
how a true group of men behave - men who have lost all the
inhibitions that society imposes, and who have learned to rely
on each other and enjoy their buddies in the way that only men
can.



Although the Arkansas winter was now upon us and it was cold, we
had all decided to carry on being naked at the cabin: although
we were effectively free, it was slavery and its enforced nudity
that had brought us together, and we wanted to keep that very
special bond.



And, of course, we had a slave of our own!  The young huntsman
had eventually returned to "real life", telling of how he had
been thrown from his horse, then had lost his clothes whilst
bathing in a stream, and had been hopelessly lost in the dense
forest for weeks.  I guess they believed him!



But one Friday night Carl had appeared at the cabin with the
young man in tow - he had tired of his life of pleasure in the
city, and was missing his masters desperately.  He had been to
see Carl and said that he was thinking of committing a crime, so
he could be enslaved - and Carl had had to fight hard to
dissuade him as he liked the guy, and did not want the worst
excesses of the system meted out on him.  



So Carl had brought him to the cabin, to see if we would accept
him as our slave.  We weren't sure at first, but then Mitch
pointed out some of the advantages of having someone to keep the
cabin clean, and to cook for us whilst we were out logging so
that a proper meal was ready when we got home.  "And", he went
on, "he has got a cute ass!  And when we get tired of each
other's beefy muscles, he'll be a juicy morsel to fuck".



The young huntsman - because that's how I'll always think of him
- had blanched at this a little, but then I think he saw that
this was Mitch's ay of emphasising to him hat slavery to us
would really mean - it wasn't a soft option, that he could pick
and choose - this was to be for real!



And he really understood it when Mitch roughly stripped his
clothes off him, then told him to jerk off so his new masters
could inspect his cum.  The poor boy was blushing with
embarrassment as he stood in front of the five of us studs,
frantically jerking at his cock.  And when he did cum, Jim
inspected the small pool of cum he produced and said that he
wouldn't have done very well at the stud farm!



Talking together, all five of us agreed it would be good for the
boy to get a real taste of slavery by working for us.  We agreed
that we would treat him just as we were treated:  he would not
be allowed to share our bed, and would sleep on the floor by the
side.  We would have sex with him, of course, but casually - we
agreed that every day at least two of us would fuck him at some
point - throwing him on he bed, or across the kitchen table.  He
would of course have no choice of which of us did this, or when
and how we chose to take him.  We wouldn't give him a name, and
would make him recognise his station by always referring to him
as "boy" or "slave".



And finally, of course, it wasn't right that he should have
unblemished skin whilst we were all tattooed. So we branded him
that night, with a waffle iron heated to a bright red glow in
the fire.



____________



Billy was amazed when he next came home from college and found
he had to stay at Jase's mansion.  But he too revolted, and told
Jase he would never come back to Arkansas after college unless
he was allowed to live his own life.



He spends every vacation now at the cabin - it's really crowded
in our bed on Saturday night!



How strange life turns out.  Mitch, Dave, Jim and I are still
nominally slaves, but live a glorious life of good honest toil
in the open air, without a care in the world.  We enjoy the real
pleasure of true male companions and lovers.  None of us would
want to go back to the boring world of families and kids - once
you've known what it is to have a real man as your lover, who
would want anything else?



Carl is a free man, but has to slave away all week in his dull
office in the city.  It's only at the weekends that he can join
us and become a "slave amongst slaves".    



The young huntsman is still a free man under the law, but is a
total slave in life.  He has learned that there is a real
pleasure and fulfillment in totally serving masers who are just:
 we punish him for the slightest transgression of our rules, of
course, or if he does not work hard enough.  But we're not
gratuitously violent with him, and would not cause him permanent
harm.  If only all masters treated their slaves this way, it
would be a perfect world.



But my story is not meant to be a moral homily.  And it's
Saturday night, and the other guys want me in bed.  So I'll end.



THE END                           







