We were sweating heavily under the late June sun. The trip had gone well so far. This was our second day on the Sand River. We would make camp tonight near Elkhorn and be back home late tomorrow.
Earl and I had been making this trip every year just after school let out. It was a kind of welcome to summer. We'd been in the seventh grade when we first did it — then it was a one day trip.
In the back of our minds this time was the idea that this could possibly be the last such trip. We had graduated just a week before. In a few days I'd be leaving for college.
I had a football scholarship to Northern and had to go to summer training starting June 29th. Earl was headed for Tech and wouldn't be going till early September.
Earl and I had promised to keep in touch. We would be seeing each other on vacations, but I think we both wondered if this was the last time we would ever be as close again.
The sky above the river was blue and cloudless. The thick woods on each side of the stream screened us from the wind. It was warm and we had stripped down to cut-offs. I watched Earl's tanned and muscular back bend and come upright as his powerful arms worked the paddle smoothly. The canoe glided smoothly through the bright water. It was quiet here except for the constant murmur of the river and the sudden cry of a bird that wheeled up from the water ahead of us.
It would have been perfect except for one thing. Earl had noticed it first and then I became aware of it. Though we saw no one we had the uneasy feeling that we were being watched. It was hard to say how we knew. It was a kind of sense of being followed, of being observed, from time to time, by unseen eyes along the bank.
Shortly after noon we headed for a shady stretch of river-bank. We beached the canoe and settled down to eat lunch. Since it was warm and our pants legs and shirts were wet from beaching the canoe, we stripped down to our underwear and threw our clothes over some bushes.
For the last hour we hadn't felt that sense of being watched. I had begun to dismiss the whole idea as crazy. The quiet forest and the food made us drowsy. We stretched out and fell asleep.
Earl's yell woke me up. I just had time to see some big men come crashing out of the forest and onto the stretch of sandy beach before they were on me. Both Earl and I had been too surprised to put up much of a fight. The men wrestled us to the ground, threw us down on our faces and tied our wrists behind our backs with rope.
We were both yelling and struggling when they hauled us to our feet. It didn't do any good. We were forced-marched towards the woods. The men shoved us along a dirt path through the trees. The new branches reached out and scratched their 'fingers' along our thighs and abdomens and chests. The man ahead of me seemed to take especial delight in pulling back limbs chest high to see if he could slap me across my tender nipples — on ones at crotch height to whack me in the nuts.
The first time he got me square on the nuts, I screamed and cussed, calling him every nasty name I could think of. He just laughed and did it again. I didn't cuss at him again — just muttered under my breath.
Eventually we came to a logging road where a dark van was parked. The burley men checked the ropes to be sure they were tight then gagged us and shoved us into the back of the van, me first. I fell forward onto the hard floor — it had a carpet on it, but no underlayment and was a hell of a lot harder than falling face forward on dirt or grass. They grabbed my feet before I could think and tied my ankles then my wrists with the same rope and cinched it tight, making me bend by knees. Then they shoved me to the back and rolled me onto an old 'bean-bag' chair, nearly jerking my shoulders out of their sockets as my legs tried to straighten. I wriggled back and forth, pulling my feet up, bending my knees, loosening the pull on my shoulders, bending my elbows and finally getting in something less than an intensely painful position — it hurt, but I no longer felt like my arms were going to be ripped off.
Soon as I was on the bag, they threw Early face forward onto the floor and tied his feet and wrists the same way and forced him onto another 'bean-bag' chair next to me. Then they slid the door shut with a loud thunk. I heard a faint click as the door was locked and then the van took off — the guys who had kidnapped us didn't get in. Maybe they went back looking for more guys to kidnap — or make sure there weren't any witnesses — I don't know, but my mind was running wild by this time.
The sides and floor of the vehicle were carpeted but there wasn't anything else. Earl and I both bounced out of the 'bean-bags' as the van lurched back and forth, rocking down the rutted road. We ended up sliding back and forth over the floor for most of the trip, our splayed legs keeping us from rolling over, though our shoulders and knees felt like they were about ready to dislocate several times — mine at least, I'm pretty sure it was the same for Earl.
I figured the van was going generally in a south-westerly direction, though I don't know why I figured that. And even if I was right, that didn't tell us much. There was an awful lot of country up there in the North where somebody could hide a lot of things. I tried to make some kind of sense out of being kidnapped but no explanation seemed to fit. Our folks sure didn't have enough money to make a ransom worthwhile.
Some pretty wild thoughts crossed my mind — slave traders, thrill killers, cannibals. Maybe they were going to skin us for some kind of sick leather outfits. I remember seeing this layout in an old National Lampoon my father had of leather coats made out of body-builder pelts. Earl and I weren't body builders, but we were athletes — and maybe that was just as good.
After psyching myself up to a real panic, I sort of calmed down. It couldn't be as bad as I thought. Maybe it was even a college prank by the guys on the team at Northern — sort of an initiation. Yeh, that's what it was — I pretty much convinced myself of that after a while.
I would guess that it was about two or three hours before the van finally stopped. Nothing happened for a few minutes and then the door opened. Big hairy arms reached in and grabbed our ankles and jerked — nearly popping my arms out of their sockets again the way my ankles were tied to my wrists.
Well we were hauled out and after the darkness of the van inside, I was blinded by the bright sunlight. I squinted but still couldn't see anything for several minutes. While I was blind, they untied our ankles but not our wrists.
When my eyes adjusted, I could see eight guys standing around us. They wore a kind of military-looking uniform: black shirts and black pants tucked into combat boots. A couple of them had Sam Browne belts strapped across their chests. They all looked to be in their twenties and they looked mean and tough.
Earl managed to tooth his gag out enough to spit out,
"What the hell do you bastards think ...."
One of the guards — that's the term I thought of right away because of their uniforms — stepped up and slapped Earl across the face, real hard.
"Hey, watch that shit, man," I tried to yell through my gag.
I got slapped across the mouth too.
One of the guards said,
"You will keep a civil tongue in your mouth at all times. She does not like foul talk!"
I immediately looked round for a woman but couldn't see any — but she could be hidden or watching on video or something. I started to say something smart, but I couldn't think of anything — just as well because I'm sure I would have been thrown to the ground and stomped on.
As it was, the guards grabbed us by our arms and shoulders and marched us towards a concrete-block building. It stood in the middle of a big enclosure. Surrounding us was a high stone wall, topped with broken glass and barbed-wire. Beside the concrete-block building there were several long, shed-like buildings. It looked like a prison camp. I couldn't figure out what any of this meant, but it wasn't any good as far as I could see.
Inside the building we were taken down a corridor, past several doors and finally into a room that looked like some kind of an office. There was a desk, a couple of file cabinets and a table. The walls were white-washed and bare. Behind the desk was a dark-haired, impressively built woman, probably about thirty-five. She had the same kind of uniform that the guards had but she had some kind of insignia on the lapel of her shirt. Her hair was bur-cut — almost none there at all. And she had hard, cold eyes.
Earl and I were pushed forward and we stood in
front of the desk.
One of the guards threw a package on the desk. The woman behind the desk opened it and spread its contents out.
It was our clothes and all the stuff from our wallets — driver's licenses, Social Security cards, ID cards, pictures, the whole works.
I started to try again to say something and then I remembered these guys didn't seem to like our comments or questions — besides, my jaw still ached.
I kept quiet and looked over at Earl. He'd been roughed up too but evidently not learned his lesson too well.
He had managed to spit his gag all the way out so it hung round his neck like a neckerchief.
"OK," said Earl, "So now you know who we are. How about telling us who the fuck you are — and what the hell's going on."
I waited for the blow but nothing happened. The woman behind the desk didn't even look up. I think that was even more scary. She just finished looking at our identification. Then she looked up at us and motioned to the guards who had brought us into the room.
"Let's see the merchandise," she said.
The guards grabbed us. I yelled as I felt the hands slip under the waist-band of my underpants, then felt my throat close in on me as they jerked my jockies down to my knees. With dry air quickly chill-drying my squirming cock and balls, I could feel my face get real hot. I knew it must be redder than it ever got before. I could feel my cock and balls peal away from my body, squirming and twisting.
The woman behind the desk watched closely. I think maybe she gave a little smirk or some such look, but I couldn't be sure.
"Good work, boys," she finally said. "According to their ID's, they're both nineteen and they both look pretty healthy."
She turned to Earl and me,
"Listen, scum — and listen carefully. I don't 'explain' anything. I tell you what to do and you do it."
"I got news for you ...," Earl began.
One of the guards grabbed Earl's balls in a tight, vise-like grip and twisted them, pulling down and to the side at the same time. Earl screamed. The woman behind the desk grinned:
"Now shut up or I'll let Mike rip 'em off and stuff 'em in your fat, flapping mouth."
The guard released his grip. Earl was bent over with pain. He didn't try to say anything more.
"All of this crap goes into the incinerator. You
don't have names or identities anymore. You're dead. They'll look for you for
a while, then decide you got eaten by some bears or drowned in the
xxxxx"From now on, you're just property — two more slaves. We brought you here to break you in and train you to be slaves. When we think you're ready, we'll sell you.
xxxxx"If you're lucky, you'll be bought by someone who collects pretty boys. Maybe a stud farm if you're really lucky. Otherwise you might be bought by some African mining interest and end up in a hole in the ground the rest of your lives.
xxxxx"Wouldn't matter to me none, but pretty boys sell for a lot more than work animals. Be smart — don't resist. Try to be a good slave — docile and obedient and all. You'll have a lot easier life that way — what of it you have left.
xxxxx"Now you know enough — all you're ever going to know."
The guards force-walked us out of the room and back outside. We were taken to a heavy post, securely anchored in the ground. A short, horizontal bar crossed it at the top. The guards untied our wrists and quickly re-tied them to the ends of the horizontal bar so we stood facing each other. Our legs were kicked out from under us.
I saw a guard behind Earl with a whip and I knew there was another behind me. Before I could twist my head to see him, I felt the first stinging lash of the whip snake across my back. I yelled and kept yelling while the blows fell across my shoulders, back and ass.
There weren't many blows, even so, that afternoon they seemed to be a lot. But that 'introduction', short as it was, sticks in my mind more vividly than any of the other whippings I've endured since. It was designed to put us into a 'receptive' frame-of-mind. It sure accomplished that. It wasn't long before both Earl and I were screaming at the top of our lungs that we'd cooperate.
The whipping stopped but we remained tied to the post. The guards drifted away and we still stood there, naked and whipped and scared. Once I started to whisper to Earl and then I heard a guard step up behind me.
"You wanna get some more of the whip, dog-shit?"
I shut up fast.
In the late afternoon, the gate opened again and a file of guards and about forty or fifty naked prisoners came into the enclosure. The prisoners seemed to be all about our age. They shuffled into place.
It was a kind of roll-call and inspection. Finally the prisoners — the other slaves as we soon discovered — were lined up. They stood there and waited. We all waited. Then a red light flashed and a woman's voice came over some speakers somewhere,
The guards came over and untied Earl. They stood him in front of the other slaves, then turned a hose on him and sprayed the water all over him. Then a guard came out with an aerosol can and began to spread foaming cream over him. He struggled a little but they said something to him and he stopped.
Then I saw why. One of the guards had a big, old straight razor. With deft and practiced strokes he shaved Earl's body — his arm-pits, chest, belly, thighs, legs, crotch and ass. Another guard took a pair of scissors and cut Earl's hair as close as he could; then they shaved the stubble off. They turned the hose on him again and washed the last flecks of shaving-cream off.
Earl really looked strange, standing there in the late afternoon sunlight without any body-hair at all — more like some kind of alien than something human — or like John Carpenter's Thing!
They came over to the post and untied me. While Earl and the other slaves watched I was shaved — from head to foot too. I stood real still as the wicked looking razor slid over my skin. Big gobs of cream and hanks of hair went with every stroke. In a few minutes I was as hairless as I'd been when I was ten years old.
Earl and I were put in line with the others and one of the guards shouted,
The other slaves immediately straightened, shoulders back eyes forward, military style. Earl and I did the same. Out the corner of my eye I could see the door open in the building we had been interrogated in. Four uniformed figures came out; they were all smaller and I realized they must be women. They were. They came to inspect us.
I tried to stand as straight and tall as I could and maybe they'd pass by despite the fresh whipping wounds. But they didn't. One of the male guards stepped behind and between Earl and me and shouted in our ears,
"I guess you didn't hear me, turds. I said 'TEN-HUT!'"
I pulled my shoulders back more and stiffened my neck, pulling my chin forward. I could feel folds in my neck, under my chin like you see in those photos of Drill Sergeants shouting at recruits. My heart was pounding in my throat and I knew I was in for more.
The guard stepped in front of Earl and me and shouted again,
I didn't know what more I could do so I just stood there. Two other guards stepped forward and one grabbed my cock and jerked me out of line and to the front of the line. The other guard jerked Earl the same way to stand next to me. The four women were standing to the side, watching sternly.
The big guard stepped in front of us and said in a calm, soft voice,
"OK, boys, look at your fellow slaves. Tell me what you see you're not doing right."
What I saw I didn't believe at first and I tried to look for something else. But what was obvious was obvious.
"Well, boys. You can't be blind!"
There seemed a little irritation in the guard's voice. Earl spoke before I did,
"Well, uh, sir...."
Earl hesitated and the guard cooed like a mother to her baby,
"Sir, they all seem to ... uh ... have ... uh ... hard-ons, sir."
The guard looked at me,
"Is that what you see, boy?"
I nodded and said,
He spoke in a very soft voice,
"What's that, boy? I couldn't hear you?"
"Yes, sir!" I shouted.
"Yes, sir, what, boy?"
"They all have hard-ons, sir!"
"That's right, boys. They're at attention — cocks and all. Now let's see if you can get your cocks to come to attention too. We have ladies here — and they want to see you like 'em. You do like ladies, boys, don't you?"
"Yes, sir!" both of us said.
"I couldn't hear you."
"Yes, sir! We like ladies, sir!" we both shouted as loud as we could.
"Let me see it, then, boys."
I started to touch my cock then drew my hand back. The guard said,
"You can use your hands — this time."
Both Earl and I started stroking our cocks. Mine didn't want to respond — what with everyone watching. After a couple minutes of getting nowhere, I started concentrating on my girlfriend, trying to think of what we were doing the last time I was with her.
It was hard — the memory was so repressed now, but I finally thought I could smell her. I squeezed my eyes really tight and inhaled deeply, imagining her soft, powdery scent. I felt her lean close to me, her hot breath on my face, pressing her lips to mine. As I felt my heart beating harder in my chest and in my throat and in my cock and balls, there was a touch on my shoulder and I was back in the parade ground.
"Stand at attention, boy."
I braced and stood there, shoulders back, next to Earl, facing forward at the others still at attention but not seeing them so much as seeing past them. I stood there trying to concentrate on keeping my cock hard as I saw the four women out the corner of my eyes. They came and stood right in front of Earl and me. An older women with gray hair had a riding crop and lightly stroked it along the shaft of my penis. It made my balls tighten and squirm and I breathed deep.
She smiled and put the crop under my balls and stroked them. They squirmed more. Then she slashed down on my cock with her crop and I gasped hard. It was all I could do to keep standing there at attention, but I knew I had better.
The women walked round Earl and me, looking at our fresh whipping scars. They didn't say a word but must have motioned something because the guards grabbed our cocks and walked us back to our places in the second row. I immediately braced at attention again, looking straight ahead.
The women walked past us slowly then turned round and walked back to the door and went inside, closing the door behind.
After a few minutes a female voice said,
The big guard then snapped,
He came to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said,
"Boy, practice coming to attention. You're gonna be expected to point to the sky on an instant's notice. These women like that. They'll give you maybe a week of letting you use your hands, then.... Well, let's say you don't want to find out what."
After letting us stand around a while the guards marched us to some barracks where we were fed — a bland mix of eggs and grits and onions and other things I couldn't identify. It was bitter — I think they had added vitamins and minerals and things. It tasted awful, but I was so hungry I ate all they gave me — more than I thought I would ever eat. Then they gave us water. That too was bitter, but I drank until my stomach hurt.
Then Earl and I were assigned sleeping spaces in what looked like a large wine rack or beehive or something. It was a series of square spaces or pigeon holes about two feet wide, a foot and a half high, and about seven feet deep. The other slaves crawled into their holes — feet first. The ones higher up grabbed handles cut into the plywood walls and stepped up to their assigned slots then stuck their feet in and wriggled inside.
Earl's hole was one up from the bottom. Mine was three up. I grabbed the handles cut into the plywood up one from my hole, over my head but not much. Then, emulating what the others had done, I stepped on the bottom of the first hole up, touching the top of the guy's head inside. He moved his head and I arched my back and butt back some as I stepped up to the second row. My foot nearly slipped inside. That would have been a minor disaster — there was already a guy inside, besides my other foot was still on the second platform and I would have crushed my nuts if I slipped all the way in.
I arched myself nearly in two like a high-diver touching his toes at the top of his dive, held my two feet together, pushed back with my feet while simultaneously lifting my legs as high as I could then held my legs as high up as I could as my body straightened out and sprung inside. My thighs and butt hit the plywood, jerking to an instant stop, burning somewhat from the friction. I was half-in/half-out and had to wriggle myself in. Where I'd been whipped burned like fire as I slid in, but they sort of just smoldered after a couple minutes.
I didn't think about it at the time, but I'm sure glad some guy did this a few hundred times before me because there were no splinters, but I could feel where some had come from and it makes me cringe thinking of ramming a plywood splinter several inches into my butt!
One of the guards came over to my slot and said,
"For your own good, boy, practice on getting your cock to snap to attention. I found the best way is to think of some hot babe's pussy and just lightly touching the underside of my cock-head. It should come up. Practice that tonight. Tomorrow night try to do it without touching. Then practice doing it quicker and quicker."
He reached in and rubbed his hand across my clean shaven head. I did that, not even thinking about the whip burns on my back or the injustice of it all — or anything else. I just concentrated on my lesson for the day — get hard — without touching if possible.
After a number of times doing what the guard had told me, I found I could get hard by folding my hands over my chest and lightly stroking my nipples while thinking about the way my girl smelled. I drifted to sleep with my cock jerking and my hands to my side, pretending I was in line with the other slaves.
That was our first day, the beginning of our 'training'. How I've wished it had been some college prank. More than once I've dreamed a bunch of guys came rushing in shouting 'surprise!' But it's never happened. And never will.
The next day, after a breakfast of the same bitter-bland mix as the night before, Earl and I were marched out with the rest of the slaves and lined up and ordered to attention. Guards then went man to man and shaved our faces with straight razors — but not the rest of our bodies. We were marched to a latrine where we had to do our business standing up, letting the shit smear down our legs. We were then marched out to a rock quarry for work-detail.
We had to move rocks that weighed so much it took three of us to get them out of the ground. After just an hour Earl had collapsed and I didn't hold out much longer. Since we were newies, they let us rest a few minutes and gave us water. But soon as we had caught our breath, we had to work again. Most of the guys only got one, two at the most breaks the whole day. A couple got three. One got four.
By the end of the day Earl and I were folded over ourselves in cramped agony and could barely walk back to camp where we were hosed down before we entered the parade ground to stand at attention for inspection. I was glad to get the morning's caked shit off my legs and thighs as well as the rest of the day's dirt and grime.
But it was all I could do to stand straight. I had to touch the underside of my cock-head and concentrate on my girl's aroma to get hard, but I did it and thought about her all the time I was at attention as the women slowly walked passed, looking at each of us in line. I didn't even notice if Earl had "come to attention", but he must have since they didn't pull him out of line.
By day four I was able to "come to attention" the way I was supposed to, though it took about three minutes or so. By day seven I could "come to attention" in fifteen seconds and seemed fast enough to satisfy the guards. The women were never out there till we had come to attention, so they never judged us. And by day seven there were other new recruits so Earl and I were no longer the center of attention.
In the next two months, Earl and I worked and sweated through twelve and fourteen hour work-days, seven days a week. We carried rocks, hauled timbers, worked in the fields with shovel and pick-axe.
The work was hard enough but it wasn't all or even the principal means used to 'train' us. At feeding-times, we had to crouch on all fours and eat from a trough like an animal. At night, in the slave-barracks we slept in our slots and couldn't touch or talk to anyone. I practiced "coming to attention" and then "at easing" till I could get hard within three or four heart beats and get soft just as quick.
When we failed to perform a task instantly and as ordered or when we acted like we were thinking about something other than our assigned duties and position, there were instant and brutal punishments. Whippings were frequent, usually with the women attending, but not always. Sometimes we were even punished because the women were having guests and wanted to show us off.
But above all this, and forming the central core of the 'training', was the constant humiliation and debasement.
When a guard ordered us to lick his boots we had to get down and perform the task. And then, if the boot was clean enough, we had to roll over on our backs, like puppy-dogs, and let the guards tickle our stomachs or play with our genitals.
When we were punished with the lash, we had to kiss the whip before the guard used it on us. We had to keep track of the number of lashes and thank the guard after each blow. We were never allowed to touch our own genitals without permission after learning how to "come to attention" without touching; and we couldn't piss or shit without the permission of a guard.
And always there was the constant reminder that there were women watching. The soft whir of cameras moving or zooming in, the occasional female voice directing some task we had to perform or some punishment — often not for anything we'd done, but just to amuse them.
One day, working in the blazing sun, the sweat pouring off my naked body, I saw two guards approach. When they got closer I noticed the smaller one was a woman. That sight always caused a small knot of fear to twist in my belly. I was hoping they'd move on but she stopped in front of me.
"This one," she said.
The larger guard snarled at me,
"Turd-face, buck and brace!"
I dropped what I was doing, grabbed my ankles and waited for him to whack me across the ass. That was the 'buck' and the signal for me to jump erect again and take a 'brace' — come to attention with a hard-on.
"OK, turd-face, what's a slave?"
"Sir, a slave is an animal, sir. It belongs to its Owner, sir."
He grabbed my tits between his thumbs and fore-fingers and twisted.
"What are these, turd-face?"
"Sir, those are my tits, sir."
He twisted them even more viciously; I thought he was going to rip them off.
"You stupid son-on-a-bitch," he roared. "Don't you know nothin'? Slaves don't own anything. Now, whose tits are these?"
"They belong to my Master, sir!" I managed to say, sniffling back tears.
The female guard just stood there, hard faced all the time. When the male was finished with me, she gave the slightest of nods and the two walked on discussing us. He seemed to hang on to her every word. Her gestures were very conservative as she pointed to one or another of us. Several more of us were "interviewed" before they left.
Other than those occasional "interviews", the routine of work seemed unvaried till one morning, about three months after we'd arrived, Earl and I were summoned out from morning roll-call. A male guard took us to the building where we had first been interviewed — by the commandant or whoever she was. We were taken to a windowless room, stood against a bare wall and photographed: first face shots — front, both profiles and three-quarters profiles. Then full body shots — front view, side and back views — naked, of course.
We had to do a number of body-builder type poses, putting our hands behind our necks and flaring our lats, turning our backs to the camera and putting our thumbs on our hip bones and spreading our backs. They told us step-by-step what to do.
After that series of pix, we had to stroke our cocks till they got half-hard for another series of fronts and sides and close-ups. Then we had to get them hard for yet another round of photos. Then we had to bend over and grab our butt-cheeks and spread our asses for another couple — one real close-up.
As Earl and I went through the poses ordered, I took the chance to observe how this regimen of hard work had developed our bodies. Earl was 6'2", weighing over 200 pounds. He had been an all-around athlete in high school, always well-built. But the month of slave-camp had molded those 200 plus pounds into rock-hard muscle — the kind of body they like actors to have — and show off.
Earl's dark blond hair had begun to grow back, except now it wasn't dark — it was sun bleached to nearly white. And his skin was about the color of a penny — not a new one, an old one with that deep, brownish copper color except under his arms and between his balls and ass-hole — that was lighter but not white.
Between his legs there was a fuzz of white-blond pubic hair sprouting around his heavy, veined cock and big balls that seemed to never get tired of squirming all the time. The nearly white hair seemed to frame his cock and balls, making them stand out from his body.
I'm an inch shorter than Earl. I'd played football and been on the wrestling team. I had been proud of my build before. But now I could see a sharper definition to my muscles, a fine sculpting to chest and thighs. My hair too was growing back; I had a reddish 'bush' starting to frame my long cock.
That break in our routine started me thinking once again about our situation.
For the past three month I had been concerned with surviving and practicing coming to attention — it had become an obsession — a matter of pride, trying to get hard quicker than anyone else. It was now the end of September. We still lived and worked naked, but it was getting cold for that. I wondered how long we could take it.
But I sensed that it might not be too long. In the past two weeks, over half of the slaves had 'disappeared'. They had been summoned at morning roll-call, marched off to the headquarters building — and we never saw them again. There were now only thirty of us slaves in the camp.
I don't remember much about most of the slaves in that camp. At first my whole attention was devoted to just making it myself. Besides, we were all strangers to each other and lived in our own isolated existence. The only time we were together was at night in the barracks and usually we were too tired to do much except flop down and sleep.
But we did, from time to time, talk among ourselves. We would go over and over again the same stories: where we came from, what we were doing when we were captured. And then we would always come to the same question: 'Why?'
There were always a few who held out for the 'ransom theory', though it made no sense. One guy — I forgot his name but he was a college student — insisted that we were being held by the CIA and they were going to use us for germ-war experiments. Someone else proposed what I called the 'flying-saucers theory': that we'd been captured by aliens from another planet and they were getting ready to take us back to their galaxy as slaves. All I knew for sure was that though they'd built up our bodies they were just as quickly tearing down our spirits.
I thought this was ridiculous because the guards were as human as we were — even the women. But the guy said the women almost never spoke — all we ever heard was the voice on the loudspeaker.
"Besides, they can be working for them!"
I just let him have his delusion.
About a week after Earl and I had been photographed, we were called out again. They called out four others — Tom, Bob, Dan and Andy — also. We were marched to the headquarters building. The dark van was parked in front. The guards snapped handcuffs on us and shoved us inside. The door was locked and the van took off. For the second time we were headed for an unknown destination.
The trip took many hours. The six of us sat quietly in the back; we were well enough trained by now for that. They made one stop — in a deserted-looking area — where we got off, stretched and were given some food. Then it was back into the van and more hours of travel.
From the 'feel' of the road and the tiny bit of outside noise, I guessed we were in a city. From the length of time we'd been on the road and my guess at our direction I thought it was Chicago.
It was dark when we were unloaded and taken across some decaying-looking loading-docks into a big, brick building. Inside, however, the place was buzzing with activity. We were taken down a long corridor and finally into a huge area that was probably at one time used for a warehouse. Now it had been converted into a cell-block.
The cells were small, triangular with the end lopped off, just big enough for the three one-man-wide plywood shelves stacked one on top of the other, set in catty-corner, and a standing area just big enough for two guys to stand shoulder to shoulder and one standing behind. The sides were metal but the tops were grate-bars, like the front. The cells interlocked, so the reason for the shape, most likely, was so they could get more cells in the warehouse than they could have with square cells.
Earl and I were shoved into one and the door clanged shut behind us. There was another guy there, on the bottom shelf. He turned his head and looked at us then turned back and went back to sleep.
Earl and I climbed into the second and third shelves. We didn't say anything, just laid down and fell asleep almost at once.
In the morning, the other guy was sitting on his shelf, leaning forward because the bottom of my shelf was just two feet above his. I leaned over and tried to make conversation, but he just looked at me and then looked out the bars.
The guards came in and opened a small door in the door and shoved three trays of eggs and grits and oatmeal under. The oatmeal had honey in it — the first sweets we had had for quite a while, so Earl and I were pretty pleased.
I was trying to savor breakfast, but had to finish in a hurry when the guards started unlocking the cell-doors. We had to stand at attention in front of the door before the guard would open it. Earl and I stood side by side, the other guy stood behind us.
The guard opened the door and we lined up with the others in our aisle. When the last guys were in line, we were marched to the wide aisle in front of the cell block where the other aisles had been lined up. After several minutes of standing at brace, we were allowed to relax and mingle.
We could go down to a shower-room. The rest of the time we moved around the cell-block area, meeting the other guys imprisoned there with us.
In the camp up north, it seemed that all of us had come from the Upper Peninsula or from Wisconsin. In this group almost every part of the country seemed to be represented. There were some Southern farm-boys, tow-headed and slim-hipped; a couple of California surfers, with long sun-bleached blond hair and trim physiques; a number of servicemen — Army, Navy and Marines — all well-built. The oldest among us was twenty-three and the youngest was eighteen.
We all had pretty similar stories to tell — about being captured and taken to a slave-camp. The camps were all in really wild and deserted places it seemed and the routine varied only slightly. The surfers, like I said, hadn't had their heads shaved like the rest of us. And one guy, Mark, a college student from Oregon, still had a beard. They'd shaved his head, he said, and left the beard. He laughed in remembering his strange appearance.
We talked and exchanged names and addresses. We all hoped that maybe one of us at least would 'get back'. We wanted our folks to know what had happened. I couldn't believe that we could all just 'disappear' from the face of the earth without a lot of questions being asked. But it seemed there hadn't been too many.
I had forgotten how untalkative our cell-mate had
been. But when we were put back in our cells, he wasn't there. So Earl moved
down from the top bunk to the first.
Earl and I felt a little stir crazy, so we took turns doing push ups, pull ups, jumping jacks and sit ups.
There wasn't room for both of us to exercise at the same time. And we had to shove our feet under the bottom shelf to do push ups or sit ups — that was probably the reason they didn't have another guy in here, sleeping on the floor under the first shelf.
We did pull ups by jumping up and grabbing the bars overhead. We couldn't pull all the way up because the bars were too close to get our heads through.
Lunch had been the same eggs and grits and oatmeal, but with a chunk of corn bread. Supper was the same thing, and it was no longer that special — just food. But we ate everything and licked the plates, like we had been taught.
The lights weren't turned out, and I wasn't exhausted like I was last night, so I had a hard time getting to sleep.
I was just about to whisper something to Earl when there was a shriek and one of the guards growled,
I knew it was a warning — so did everyone else, since the silence became eerie — it was so quiet I could hear breathing. I listened hard to see how many separate and distinctive breathing 'styles' I could hear. I counted eleven before I couldn't determine for sure whether the sound I was concentrating on was another man or just one I had already counted.
I finally drifted off to sleep.
The next day I asked around about the mysterious other man in our cell. No one seemed to know anything about him or what happened to him.
Later in the day the guards brought in some weight-lifting equipment and we were ordered to work-out with the stuff. It was obvious we were supposed to get pumped up to display our muscles.
We were working-out when a tall, sandy-haired guard came in. He ordered us to line up.
"OK, ass-holes," he began, "your training period is over. If any of you thought this was all some kind of a stunt or a big joke at first, well you know better now. In a couple of minutes the auction's gonna begin."
I felt my stomach muscles knotting. I knew this guy wasn't fooling. They were going to sell us. The realization was frightening. I saw that a couple of the youngest guys were close to crying. None of us said a word.
The guard held up something that looked like a glossy-type magazine. He flipped it open and showed us a couple of pages. On each page was a series of color photographs — photos of a naked young man, front, side and back views, some doing muscle poses, a few close ups of hard cocks. Beneath were all the vital statistics ... age, height, weight, etc. down to the length of cock and whether 'cut' or 'uncut'. That had been the purpose of the photo-session.
"The buyers out there have this program," the
guard declared. "They've studied it, now they're going to get a look at the
xxxx"Look the best you can — the more you fetch, the better you'll be treated later. You sell for shit, you'll be treated like shit! And ground beef sells for two-fifty a pound — that's five hundred dollars for most of you. Sell for less and you just might end up on someone's barbecue spit."
He chuckled and licked his lips. Then the guards marched us to another room and lined us up in several rows, a good ten feet apart then hand-cuffed our hands behind us. They made us spread our legs and cuffed our feet to eyelets in the floor.
They put a ring round our nuts and chained them to the floor and then stretched our wrists to chains overhead. It was a very uncomfortable position. Then they strapped gags over our mouths.
One more time one of the guards told us,
A couple dozen or more buyers inspected us — mostly women, but some men, mostly white, but a couple Japs, an Arab, some blacks. One after another, they poked, prodded, fondled, slapped, pinched, and tweaked.
I held my breath each time one of them grabbed my
cock and balls. One woman kicked me in the
nuts while looking me straight in the eyes.
I tried to hold my face still.
"Can you get it up, boy?"
I concentrated and it popped up hard.
"Good boy. Quick. Long. Not thick enough — you'd be better fucking some faggot-wanabe with a tight ass."
It took all my concentration to keep up and hard after that comment, but I was practiced and even with guys handling me, I could do it, though it was easier when the women were checking me out.
It seemed like forever before the last of them pinched my nipples or pinched my cock-head or had the guard remove my gag and pry my mouth open while she looked my teeth over and then had the guard replace my gag.
It was a testament to how each of us had been trained that there wasn't a single 'incident'. But, then, if there had been, I can only imagine what might have happened to him.
After all the buyers had left, the guards uncuffed our wrists and feet and balls and let us stretch. Most of us rubbed our nuts a little — probably from some need to reassure ourselves that they were still attached — or maybe to subconsciously reclaim them from our Owners-to-be's.
None of us dared remove our gags until we were told to do so. After a few more minutes of stretching, the guards lined us back up and marched us back to the holding room. One of them explained what was going to happen now,
"When they want a certain type of individual,
we'll come and get you. And you be ready to get your fuckin' ass out there
xxxx"Remember, look strong, look sexy, but look obedient and submissive. You fetch a high price, you have a good life, you sell for nothing and you'll be meat at someone's luau!"
The guard left. It was now or never to learn as much about each other as possible before we were sold — with the hope that, if any of us got free, they could get help for the rest — or at least tell our families what happened to us. We quickly told as many as possible our names, our home towns. But I doubted that there was any use.
Several guards came in.
"They want to start with the pretty boys," one of them said.
The others laughed.
The guards took four of the youngest looking guys. One of them nineteen looked a lot younger than that — maybe as young as fifteen or sixteen. He was from Iowa.
As the guards marched them out, one of them slapped this youngest looking guy and he started crying. — I guess the guard did it on purpose. In any case, it made the guy look even younger, and everyone knows some men — and women — like what's called 'chicken'.
The rest of us waited. We didn't talk among ourselves much now. We just listened to the whooping and hollering from down the hall. There was excited bidding for one but not much bidding for the other three. I remember thinking the young looking Iowa guy must have gotten a higher price because he was crying.
I moved over next to Earl.
"You think we got a chance to make it through this?" I asked.
"Hang in there, Rick. We got it made."
"I don't know — neither of us is a cute little chicken, you know!"
Earl gave me one of his little grins and repeated what he had said,
"Hang in there — we got it made!"
I laughed through my nose:
"I wish I could be sure. You said the same thing last fall before the Negaunee game and they whipped us forty-two zip!"
"That's because you kept missing your tackling assignments."
I grabbed his head and forced his forehead onto my shoulder and ran my fingers through his hair roughly then pushed him back and gave him one of those 'Yes, you're right!' grins.
In about ten or fifteen minutes the guards came back — alone. This time they selected two of the hill-billy 'farm boys', a sailor and college student. As he was being lead out, one of the Southerners managed a grin:
"See y'all. I'm hoping no nigger buys me."
The other 'farm-boy' said,
"I hope a guy buys me — did you get a look at those women! Pee-you! Enough to turn you off sex for life!"
"At least the guys aren't gonna take you to bed!"
Some one shouted,
"That's what you think!"
We all laughed but we weren't feeling happy — it was more a nervous recognition of the truth.
Time went on. The bidding down the hall wasn't anywhere near as heated as it was for that one guy. I was getting more nervous. Then the guards came back.
"They want something different," one of them announced. "Let's get some real animal-types for 'em."
Vince, a dark-haired, Italian-looking, weight-lifter, was chosen first. Then they picked Mark, the guy with the beard. The last two chosen were Earl and me.
We went down the corridor with the guard, turned several times and finally came to the 'arena', as the guards called it.
The arena was hot and noisy. It was a brightly-lit auditorium-like room. On three sides, tiers of seats rose up, like bleachers in a gym.
There were more women in here than had examined us — men too, but still only a few. Maybe just the serious bidders got to 'handle the merchandise' beforehand.
Against the fourth wall was a stage. We were told to step up onto the stage. The arena got a lot hotter and noisier — there were lots of lights shining down on us and their heat made the sweat pour.
It was difficult to see far beyond the platform because of the lights. But I could make out just some shapes in the front row — women, mostly, leaning forward. I recognized a couple of them as women who had examined us earlier.
Some music began to play in the background and theater spots were turned on us. I started to put my hand up to shield my eyes, but thought better of it. I squinted my eyes but I still couldn't see anything.
The audience buzzed then quieted down. Behind us, guards growled orders for us to assume different poses.
"Turn around — give 'em a back pose! Spread your lats real wide! To the side! Muscles out — harder! Half-turn to the left — and swing those pricks!"
The music stopped and our posing ended. It was time for the bidding to begin. Suddenly an auctioneer began her patter. Her voice shrilled from speakers overhead.
Vince was pushed forward. He was the first to be sold. The auctioneer's spiel was too rapid for me to understand much. I was expecting to hear bids from the audience but there was silence out in front of us. Evidently the noise I had heard before was the hubbub before the sale, not the bidding itself. — That was a hopeful sign. At least I thought it was at that moment.
The buyers must have been indicating their bids by cards or by raising their hands. Vince was finally sold. I don't know why but I had the impression that he had not fetched as much as the auctioneer had expected and he was roughly dragged off the platform, accompanied by sniggers from the guards.
Mark was next in line so I was surprised when the guard behind me pushed me forward.
Now that I stood at the edge of the platform, I felt how bizarre and unbelievable all this was and yet it was happening. This was the first time since our first few days I felt like this.
Then the strangest thing happened. As I stood there I heard, from the seats in front, a sound, an appreciative murmur and I felt a surge of pride. I knew that I was going to fetch a good price. I wasn't scared anymore.
I stood there, head up, proud, moving slightly like I was relaxed, breathing deeply. I shifted my weight onto one leg so I got a sensuous curve to my torso and slowly raised my hand and combed my hair with my fingers then stretched my other arm to the side before dropping it and putting my other hand on my hip.
As the auctioneer rattled on, I was confident. Although I couldn't hear anything from the bidders, I could sense that the bidding was spirited — probably it was something in the auctioneer's voice or her pace. I'm not sure. But I was sure I was going to fetch a good price.
I decided to make my cock come to attention then
drop it then to attention again. I slowly
turned to one side, jerking to full attention, shoulders back, chest forward,
abs tensed, head braced, and cock hard and throbbing.
Then I dropped it, turned to the other side and jerked to braced attention again then turned back and relaxed again, hand on my hip, posing.
Then I did some muscle poses — lat spreads, back spreads, chest pumps.
I was enjoying myself so much that it was a disappointment to hear the auctioneer rasp out:
Two guards led me off the stage. They didn't man-handle me like they had Vince. This made me even more certain I had fetched a good price.
As I was leaving I saw that the bidding had begun again. They were auctioning Earl. I would have liked to have stayed. I was still on such a 'high' that I wanted to see whether I fetched a better price than my buddy.
My euphoria didn't last long. I was taken to a room. In the middle was an iron-frame contraption, resembling a saw-horse. I was bent over it and my wrists and ankles were strapped to its sides. That left my butt stuck high in the air. I wondered if I had been too much of a 'show-off' during the auction. Maybe they were going to paddle my ass for enjoying myself up there.
Then one of the guards swabbed some liquid on my ass; the liquid felt cold. At that moment I saw another guard approaching. He had a branding-iron in his hand. It was glowing cherry-red hot. I knew what was going to happen. I bucked and twisted. I felt the iron come closer. Then it was slapped on the flesh of my unprepared butt. I screamed in terror and pain. The instant I felt the heat from the approaching iron I clenched.
Almost instantly the iron burned me. The pain seemed to go right through my butt and into my guts — all the way up to my heart. My chest muscles seized, squeezing my heart, locking my breath inside.
After only a few seconds, I started to panic — I couldn't breathe! My throat was closed. I gasped, but I still couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die!
One of the guards saw what was happening and placed his knee on my back, mid-chest, then leaned his weight on me, forcing my breath out.
I gasped for breath several times. With each breath, the fear that I couldn't take another breath subsided a little more — and the pain in my butt got stronger.
There was another quick swabbing with the liquid and the guards undid the straps and lifted me to my feet. I started to stand but my legs buckled beneath me. Everything went black as I pitched forward unconscious.
I don't remember much of what happened in the next few days. I recall waking once or twice in a holding slot like the one I'd spent three month's in at the training center, then drifting back into a kind of stupor-sleep. Later I was taken from the slot and put into a truck.
On the outside it looked like an ordinary semi-trailer. Inside it was specially out-fitted. At the very front of the trailer there were a dozen, maybe two dozen two foot wide, foot-and-a-half high, seven foot deep slots like the ones I become used to, except steel instead of plywood. But these slots set behind bars so each could be opened and a man forced in feet first then locked with him inside.
Nine or ten of the cells were occupied when they put me on. I hoped Earl would be there but he wasn't. Mark, the bearded student, was in one cell; next to him was Jon, a Tennessee farm-boy. Under him was Andy, a tall, rangy Missourian. I can't remember whether I recognized any of the others.
They pointed to a cell next to Andy and I grabbed hold of the bars over it and stepped up and slid in. The metal was cold and made my nipples tighten the instant my butt hit it. Then a metal panel was set in place — a false front panel. Air was forced in to keep us alive.
The trip lasted several days and the eleven of us remained locked in the truck. We stopped twice and picked up more slaves.
Every few hours the truck was stopped and we were fed and watered. But we had to piss and shit in our cells — and wallow in it. Even with the forced ventilation, the air got fetid and hard to breathe.
I slept mostly, talked a little and fretted. After a while, the truck started 'letting off' instead of 'taking on'.
We finally arrived wherever it was Jon, Andy, Mark and I were going. We were pulled out of our cages and allowed to drop to the floor. Then we were pulled up to stand and stretch and walk in place.
It was hard to even stand. My knees wanted to collapse under me. My balance was all fucked up from lying on my back in a rocking truck for four, five, maybe six days. I nearly toppled over. But after a few minutes, we were all able to walk and we were pushed and prodded to walk to the back of the semi, passed bunches of cartons that had been moved to make a path. The false front was put back and the back doors were flung open.
The sunlight blinded us and the fresh air burned my lungs — but it was a very pleasant burning! I nearly fainted from the fresh air — it took all my strength and resolve to just keep standing.
After I regained my balance and I could see, I looked round. Rugged, barren mountains rose around us on every side. We were in a valley, hemmed in on all sides. The truck was parked alongside a corral.
We were stepped onto the hydraulic ramp rode it down. It hissed as the air was let out and the ramp sunk slowly.
My head was spinning still, and when the ramp jolted stopped on the ground, I fell to my knees. The waffled iron grating felt like knives — my skin was that tender!
The guard pulled me back to my feet then handed us over to the new guards — all women. If anything, they were even meaner looking than the male guards we have had so far, though they dressed a little differently.
The driver said,
"Le'me show you somethin'."
He turned to me and said,
Instinctively I jerked to a brace — shoulders back, chest out, abs tensed and, of course, cock hard and pointing skyward.
The women seemed quite amused. One of them stepped up and grabbed my nuts with her work-gloved hand and squeezed my nuts back and forth roughly, staring at me, glowering.
"Think we want this, turd face?"
She squeezed really hard till I gasped.
"Well maybe we do, maybe we don't, but it ain't up to you to decide. This ain't your body no more, shit-for-brains. We own it. And we decide what we're gonna do with it."
She slapped the underside of my cock. It stung like a bee had bit it — even my belly-button and tits hurt from the slap. I made my cock deflate almost instantly. She grabbed my balls and squeezed so hard I couldn't breathe.
"I tell you to drop it, cunt-lapper?"
I started to say 'No, ma'am!' but thought better of it. I just made my cock jerk to attention again.
She slapped the underside again, right up at the head, where the crown swoops up to the piss-slit — where it's especially sensitive. This time it wasn't a bee sting, it was a wasp sting! It was all I could do to keep standing there at attention — not to fall to my knees crying — or worse, haul off and hit her
"I tell you to point that filthy thing at me, numb nuts?"
She rammed her knee into my nuts harder than any man could — a man respects another man — he just can't do it with all his strength no matter how hard he tries. But she did.
I dropped to the ground, rolling on my back, gasping for air. The sky was red — everything was red — with exploding bombs of blinding white — loud explosions, like we were being bombed.
She kicked me in the side as I roiled in the dust, aiming for my kidneys. I wouldn't have believed the pain could be so all consuming — even worse than the branding. My body stopped flopping and arched back, stretched my head back, my neck taut, like a roach when it's on its back dying from bug spray.
I couldn't breathe — my chest was locked. I was sure I was going to die. But she wouldn't let me. She pushed me onto my back with her boot then positioned her heel on my sternum and kicked.
My breath exploded out and I started gasping again. She must have examined the other new slaves because they left me alone for as long as it took for me to regain some sense. But soon as I relaxed some and breathed normally, she stepped back to me and lifted my nuts with the toe of her boot.
Instantly I snapped my cock to erection. She put the toe of her boot on the underside of my cock, sensitive part, and ground it like she was putting out a cigarette.
"On your feet, shit-for-brains!"
I started to push up, but she kept her toe on my cock, still grinding it down. I had pushed my shoulders off the ground and was sitting-half-lying there, folded at the belly.
"I said get up, boy!"
I tried to push up but she pushed back with her foot. I started to reach out and push her foot off but didn't — I knew better. She ground my cock under toe some more and I started crying. Tears streamed out of my eyes as I blubbered,
"I can't, ma'am — you're holding me down."
She slid her toe down my cock, pressing hard, till she was stepping on my nuts. She said,
and let her foot drop to the ground, between my spread thighs, the pointed heel just touching my ass-hole.
I pushed myself up, turning over so I could get up easier. She kicked the toe of her boot into my ass-hole and sent me sprawling in the dust — right on my hard cock. It burned up and down the whole underside like it had been in a fire. She kicked me on my left butt and snarled,
"Last time, boy — ON YOUR FEET!"
I pushed up to my knees, skittered a couple feet forward, jumped up and stood at attention — sans erection.
and marched us to our new destinies. The other women followed. We were led into the corral. Beyond the corral-fence, ahead of us, was a big, rambling adobe-and-timber ranch house, with red-tile roof. On the other sides of the corral were barns, stables, sheds — and stone, barred-window barracks. The sun was warm on our naked bodies.
The four of us stood in the dust, waiting. I was sore all over from the "interview" I'd just been given. I had a fine layer of talc-like dust all over. It made me feel funny — it was something I'd never felt before — like I was dry dry and ... dusty — that's all I can think of.
There were women guards all around, though here most of them were wearing jeans and blue cotton shirts instead of the leather outfits our other guards had worn. Even so, as I said, they looked as tough and as mean as the male guards in the camp up North. Maybe meaner — what like I said, men just can't do some things to other men — there's a feeling for other guys — an empathy.
Some of the women ignored us, but most watched us but didn't make any move. We continued to wait.
Then a tall, statuesque woman, about thirty-five or forty, walked into the corral. She was wearing jeans, a chamois shirt, a buckskin vest and a pair of beautiful snake-hide boots.
Instinctively I knew she was the Owner, my Owner!
One of the guards, a broad-hipped, dark-haired woman, with a nose that had been broken at least once, came up to the Owner. She gave her some papers, pointing to us. The Owner came up to where we were standing.
"The new slaves, eh," she said.
She looked right at us and gave us an introduction. Her voice was deep. She was soft spoken — with the kind of voice that exudes authority and sexiness at the same time,
"You are slaves. That word 'slave' is still
hateful to you. You haven't come to accept it yet.
xxxxx"You have been trained to act obediently but not yet to be obedient. You have been trained to look like slaves but not yet to be slaves."
I watched my Owner intently as she defined our relationship. She moved her hands only a little as she continued,
"You hate me. I'm glad of that. You hate me
because I own you and you are my property. You hate me because I'm a
woman and you're animals — animals that belong to me. Keep that
hate — it defines our relationship.
xxxxx"Your life here will be hard. It's meant to be hard. Because you're slaves you think that's 'unjust'. And, because you are animals you can't understand it."
Her eyes stared right into mine. Only after several seconds did I think to look down.
"What did I buy you for, boy? Get that thing up when I'm talking to you!"
Instantly I snapped my shoulders back, braced my abs, puffed out my chest, and pointed my cock into the air.
"Well, you're not supposed to like it.
You're not supposed to understand it. You're here to obey and serve.
You have been taught that a slave exists only to serve his Owner. Now
you will learn how to do that.
xxxxx"I'm your Owner. You exist only to serve me. And you will live only as long as you serve me!"
She stopped speaking and turned to the dark-haired woman next to her:
"Ms. Scott, I'm handing these slaves over to you. Make them work."
The woman nodded.
The Owner started to walk away, then stopped, turned and came back. She pointed at me.
"Ms. Scott. That slave there — the red-head. He doesn't know enough to keep his eyes down when his Owner is speaking to him. See that he gets five for that tonight."
That was my second lesson at the Ranch — my first "authorized" lesson — keep my eyes down. My first lesson was those women were going to fuck me over every chance they got — and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
I guess the second lesson was a reminder to snap it to attention whenever I was being spoken to. That was becoming quite demeaning — as if it hadn't been from the very start. But now it was even more so — I was nothing but an animal to be toyed with and used and worked — like I had been trained to think I was. It was true.
The third lesson, then, was to keep my eyes down — even if my face was straight ahead. I knew that. I just wasn't thinking! As the Owner said — I had to learn to be a slave, not just in my head, but in my body, in my actions.
Right off the bat, I was in trouble — story of my life.. My fourth lesson was another obvious one — punishment sessions were the entertainment for the guards — the movies and dances combined. Several of the guards had gotten dressed up for the whipping — in leather dresses and blouses.
The dresses were short and held high like the kind women wear at a square dance. — except they didn't wear any panties, not covering their crotches at all. It looked really disgusting. You'd think it would be a hot scene — all these naked guys and women with their crotches hot and throbbing. But it was just plain disgusting.
There were even ranch managers there to watch me get my first whipping — dressed the same disgusting way.
Before the whipping, for ten or fifteen minutes or more, I had to entertain the women with bracing and relaxing, pointing my cock up then letting it hang loose. All the while, they made rude and crude remarks and gestures, spreading their thighs, stroking their crotches, finger-fucking their cunts or ass-holes. It made me sick to my stomach just seeing them.
Then it was time for my whipping — my first by a woman — and a nasty looking one at that. I learned that night to kiss the whip before they strapped me and another slave together, wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle then hung us by our ankles and laid the whip on our backs. The other guy was much smaller than me and he buried his face in my chest as we were being whipped.
The way they hung us, he only got the wrap-around — I got all the direct hits. Maybe that's why he didn't seem too fazed by the whipping. It actually got him excited — as I was being whipped, twisting in agony with each sting of the lash, his cock got harder and harder till it poked at the base of my balls, sandwiched between our bellies. Before it was all over, his cock head had managed to twist its way to my ass-hole and was knocking at the door. I was grateful that he wasn't an inch or three longer!
With that distraction, I still had to keep count of the strokes — the other slave sure wasn't. After six strokes I learned none of them had counted since I didn't shout,
'Thank you, ma'am! May I have another, ma'am!'
The Owner had ordered five lashes but it turned out to be closer to fifteen before I mastered the way it's to be done here at the Ranch.
They splashed the both of us with brine and let us hang there by our ankles while they had a square dance. Four of the male slaves were the band and the caller while the women danced with each other or with whatever male they picked. The slaves had no say, of course, and some of the dance steps were not quite regulation — such as "knee him in the nuts!" and "pinch his bee-hind!" and "ride 'im cowgirl!"
That last one worked only if the guy was hard — the woman pulled up the front of her skirt while pushing the guy down by his shoulders then climbed onto him, sitting down on his hard cock, forcing it inside her, wrapping her legs round him while he staggered round the dance floor.
Some of these women were really big and some of the male slaves were pretty small and when a big woman rode a small man, it was all he could do to keep his knees from collapsing. I was sort of thankful that I had been whipped instead of forced to do that my first night!
After the dance, the women cut us down and told us to lie on our bellies while they all took turns standing over our backs — mine mostly — and pissing. More brine to burn the fresh scars — that's why they did it, I'm sure. It burned like fire and I couldn't help from twisting and squirming. That just made them laugh.
Later, when we finally went to bed, was no better. The lash wounds were deeper and hurt a lot more than any I had been given by men. And the piss still burned in them — they didn't simply dissolve away into a hot "plaster" like the other whippings had. It stung all night, waking me every other minute, it seemed.
We started to work the very next morning as if nothing had happened the night before. Andy and I were harnessed together as a plow-team. Beginning that day I guess we must have covered about a hundred miles. Our 'driver' was a Mexican woman — the ones we slaves called 'The Wanabe' because her name was Wanita.
'Wanabe' fit her real well for a number of reasons — she wanted to be white and she wanted to be a man — at least that's what it seemed like the way she hated men so much — like you hate a guy who's smart and rich and good looking and has it all.
Wanita took a special delight in having two Anglo 'studs' for her team. From the first day she let us know we were just animals, and not very bright or valuable animals at that. She used her whip at every opportunity; our backs were soon criss-crossed with scars from that whip.
As the Owner had promised, our life at the Ranch was hard. In the first months there I didn't think I would make it. As if the work wasn't hard enough, the abuse at night was even worse. If there wasn't a whipping ordered by the Owner, then there was stud fights — where women made guys from their work teams fight guys from other teams, and if there wasn't a lot of ball-punching and dick-grabbing, there'd be a whipping after — there was usually a whipping after anyway, but if there wasn't the requisite number of knees to the nuts the winner got whipped along with the loser.
But before the loser got strung up and whipped, usually he had to be fucked. I'd never done it and never had it done to me before coming here.
It took all I could do to keep my cock hard while I mounted my first loser, hugging his back, trying to pretend it was a bad dream, trying to be as tender and gentle as I could as I positioned my cock-head at his ass-hole and pressed forward. I tried to do it slow and easy but one of the women picked up a 2x4 and whacked my butt real hard, making my hips jerk forward, ramming my cock all the way in, wham, just like that. He screeched and I gasped and he fell forward, flat on the ground, sprawling me on the ground on top of him.
Two women put a foot on each of my butt cheeks and stepped down when I tried to get up off him.
"Ride 'im, cowboy!" women chanted.
One of the women with her foot on my butt said,
"Raise your butt, boy — till your cock-head almost comes out his pooper-shooter."
I lifted my hips slowly as they pressed down, but not hard. When my cock was just about out of his ass I stopped.
"Still inside him, boy?"
I nodded and the two women dropped to their knees, each one landing with all their weight on one knee on my butt, ramming my cock all the way inside him again — hard and fast.
He screamed — it was awful. I know I hurt him — I hurt myself, but it must have hurt like hell for him. I cried and the women pulled me off and made the other guy lick his shit off my cock.
The first time I lost — that was even worse. I'd NEVER been fucked in the ass. I'd put my finger up there a few times — that hurt bad enough. But the first time I lost I was really winded and hurting all over, especially in my nuts — I must have taken twenty hard knees-to-the-nuts. And there I was on my elbows and knees, red faced with embarrassment, afraid of what was going to happen, tensing up — and I knew better than tense up, but I just couldn't help it.
Soon as the guy's hands touched my back I felt violated. Then his hands slid to the sides as he bent over me. His cock-head brushed against my ass-hole and I had to fight the urge to jump up and run — or turn round and beat the crap out of him — or the women laughing at me while other guys were forced to muff-dive them.
I tried to think of pleasant things — of running that winning touch-down, of splashing in the cold spring lake on a hot June afternoon, of being in class listening to the teacher — I would have never believed that would be a fond memory when I was in school! Then the burning explosion in my ass — like someone had shoved a burning flare in me.
The guy rubbed his face against my back tenderly as he pumped in and out, but that was little comfort — the burning just got worse and worse, filling my whole gut with pregnant fire — like I was a turkey being stuffed with hot dressing — hot, pressing fire inside, swelling up, growing, stretching my belly like a balloon ready to pop.
Thankfully the women have never stood on the guy fucking me, never shoved him to the floor on top of me, never dropped all their weight on his butt while he was fucking me, but it's only a matter of time before one or two of them do.
And even worse than that is having to get it up so they can sit on it. I hate this worse than gutting fucked. It's so demeaning, so humiliating — to be nothing but a hard cock for some woman to use as her dildo. Being a dildo is worse than being fucked by one! At least when you're being fucked, you can't do anything but lie there and take it.
Being a dildo means you have to think about it — and fight the natural urge to come — your body wants to come even if you don't. And if you do, then you get whipped. The whipping isn't so bad, but too much of it breaks you down.
Better to hold back, try to think of pleasant things while responding to her every move, anticipating what she wants, knowing that no matter what you do it'll be wrong, just trying to be less wrong.
Being a thinking dildo — that's the worst thing. Except for maybe having to muff-dive. I used to get really turned on by the idea. But now it is just plain repulsive. The smell makes my stomach turn and my lungs burn. I don't know if it would be any better if they bathed and douched, but as it is, I sometimes have to gulp down my retch when it comes up, burning my throat.
After awhile I was hoping I'd just die and get it all over with. I was dreaming about rebelling — that would make them kill me. I didn't care how bad it would be to die — how painful and drawn out they'd make it — and I knew it would be the worst punishment ever done to a man, worse than hell itself — I didn't care. I just wanted to be dead and have it all over.
By the middle of December I was even thinking about making a run for it. I knew I couldn't escape. But I thought that if they shot me it would all be over quickly. Even if I didn't die right off, I'd be so weak from being shot whatever they did to me wouldn't be so bad — I'd be too far gone for them to make it that bad.
Still I didn't do anything. We worked eight days and then had a day off. We worked in different gangs so that all of us didn't have the same day off either. So none of us could really tell exactly what the date was.
The days dragged on and each was the same — hard, back breaking work of one kind or the other in the hot sun or cold snow for twelve, fourteen hours, then hard sex abuse for another three or four, saw-dusted eggs and beans, bitter branch water, hard sleep in a slot, then rousted awake for another day of the same thing.
I was too much an unthinking animal to really try to change my lot in life, to rebel or run away. I was never going to do anything — just grow old in this place and die a dog's death.
Then one morning an overseer announced that everybody would have the next day off — it was Christmas.
Of course there wasn't any excess of holiday spirit; they wanted the day off for themselves. They'd probably come up with some perverted variations on traditional holiday games or symbols — maybe stringing lights on some of the guys and making them stand there in one spot all day as Christmas trees, or hanging us by an ankle and a wrist in place of garland, or hanging us by wrists and ankles belly down for mistletoe — our balls being the berries — you got to think like they do!
Even so it would be a day off from work. But since it was an 'extra' day, we were expected to work harder and longer that day.
Andy and I had been harnessed to haul timber. By late afternoon I was exhausted and I asked 'The Wanabe' for a drink. She refused my first request. When I asked again a little later she pulled down her jeans and ordered me to sit on my ankles. She stood in front of me and pressed her crotch to my face and ordered me to drink her piss ... "Aztec-Ade", she called it.
Somehow I got the courage to resist — to rebel. I wasn't going to do any more cunt lapping, no more piss-cola. I told her what she could do with her filthy Indian cunt and "Aztec-Ade". I was sure I'd get whipped right then and there, maybe even beaten with a stick or hacked at with a jagged rock, but she just smiled and pulled her jeans back up. She gave me water from the jug and then said we were going in early.
I felt strange — on the one hand I felt like I was finally becoming a man again, I was standing up for me and for all the other slaves. On the other hand, I felt like the calm before the storm — some kind of uneasiness — a dread of what is about to happen. It's like when you're suddenly in a situation and you want to run away and you want to fight all at the same time.
I was beside myself with wanting to get out of my skin — wanting to run away from what they were going to do to me but proud of standing up for me and the other men, being a hero once they found out, becoming their leader in a brave rebellion against these evil women.
That night, at roll-call, Ms. Scott, the head overseer, ordered me out of line. After the other slaves were marched off to be fed and watered and debauched again, I was told my fate,
"For talking back to a driver, refusing to obey her order, you'll spend the night in a sweat box. If you don't freeze to death, we have something special for you for Christmas. That should give you something to think about — if you can think at all when you're freezing to death!"
I was dragged over to one of the sweat-boxes and bolted in for the night. Despite the name, I didn't sweat even for an instant. It was a damn cold night. I shivered all night long in the tiny, corrugated metal box sunk into the ground, not being able to think of anything except the cold — not worrying about what they had planned for me in the morning.
I tried to remember it was Christmas Eve, but it was just freezing to death that I thought about — when I could think and not just feel — my nipples so tight they felt like they were being squeezed in vice grips, my nuts pulled so tight against my body it felt like they were being crushed, my cock shrunk so much it wasn't there at all.
I was no hero, no leader of a brave revolt. The other guys probably didn't even know I was being punished — I was just not there. Most of them had been taken off for a night of in-the-bed fucking by overseers and guards alike and probably thought I was just being debauched. As much as I hated that, I have to admit it would have been preferable to spending the night freezing.
At least I knew enough to put my hands under my arms then hold my feet — especially toes, then nose and ears — to transfer warmth — to keep from getting frost bite. If I did survive, I wanted to have all my toes and ear lobes and nose tip.
The next morning they hauled me out. I was nearly frozen stiff by then, and I wondered if I had saved my nose and ear-lobes. I could feel and wiggle my toes, though they were stiff and achy-numb, so I knew I still had them. It had been one rough night, but I had made it.
As I started to regain sense and was able to think about what I'd been through, I remembered they had promised something special for Christmas. I knew it wouldn't be pleasant. I didn't know what they were going to do, but I knew they weren't through with me yet.
When they took me into the barn where they were having Christmas, I saw that I had anticipated their decorations — with a couple dozen guys hanging by wrists and ankles round the room about eight feet off the ground as garland and a Christmas tree made up of one guy hoisted by a rope under his arms just high enough so his knees were level with the shoulders of four others tied together shoulder to shoulder, facing outward, all strung with lights with shiny glass balls hanging from the light cords and plastic icicles sticking to them all over. It was hot in the barn with a fire going in the middle of the floor, so the guys were sweaty enough for the tinsel to stick.
All the guards and ranch managers were there — including
'the Wanabe'. Ms. Scott was there too.
All the guards and ranch managers were there — including 'the Wanabe'. Ms. Scott was there too.
"It's Christmas," she said to me. Then to the others, "This is the time for 'Season's Beatings', eh? OK, guys, let's prepare our Christmas 'turkey'."
They tied my ankles together and threw me onto my back on the floor then forced my knees to my chest, my lower legs stretching into the air.
They slapped a one inch dowel across the back of my knees then pulled my legs down then pulled my arms so they bent around the dowel at my elbows and tied my wrists.
There I was, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, like they said.
"You see," Ms. Scott said, "you gotta package the 'bird' real neat."
The guards laughed.
"He looks good that way," said 'the
Wanabe', "but his balls are hangin' loose. They need binding."
She took some deep-hide cords and wrapped them tight around my balls.
"His ball-bag's gettin' shiny red," laughed Ms Scott. "That means he's about ready for the oven."
Two of them pried my knees apart and snapped a hook to the dowel then slowly hauled me into the air.
I spun around and around. A couple of guards produced leather paddles and started whacking my ass, slowly at first and then quicker and harder.
From time to time, one or the other of the guards would comment on how 'rosy' the bird was getting, or that the 'white meat' looked almost 'ready'.
I don't know how long it lasted. Finally I was lowered to the ground and untied. I lay there panting. But it wasn't over yet.
Ms. Scott nudged me in the ribs with her booted toe.
"We forgot one important thing. We gotta stuff the 'bird'!"
They did! Several guards threw me over on my belly. Ms Scott stood over me, straddling me. She reached down, spread my ass-cheeks and probed with her fingers. I moaned.
"You got a real tight hole there, Boy," Ms Scott said. "I bet you never been fist-fucked before, right. Just relax, 'cause I'll take care of that tightness for ya."
The fingers went in. Eventually I took her hand and finally even her fist. I screamed with pain and burned with shame. I prayed it would be over or that I'd pass out. But it wasn't over soon and I didn't pass out. When she pulled her fist out, she made me lick her hand. Then she grinned down at me,
"You're lubed up nice now, boy. No use wasting it. I think Wanita oughta try you out."
She did — even more brutally that had the
range-boss. She put on rawhide gloves and forced them in — rough leather ripping
at my tender guts. She balled her fist inside and punched my guts from the
inside. The pain was more than I thought I could bear — black and red pain,
star-shooting pain — so intense I could hear nothing but my heart pounding, see
nothing but white flashes on black and red.
And when she was done she passed me on to another woman who seemed to want to one-up 'the Wanabe'.
Then there was another, and after that maybe even more.
I don't know. I had screamed myself hoarse. I couldn't think straight anymore. The world had shrunk to this tiny focus of pain and degradation. Finally, mercifully, I blacked out.
I heard later from the other slaves what happened in the next days.
The guards dragged me back to the slave-barracks. Mark and Andy cleaned me up and laid me on my mattress.
By that night I was running a high fever and they got a guard to give me a shot of Ampicillin.
It brought down the fever but I still lay unconscious. In the morning the guards left me in the barracks.
The house-boys, Kevin and Billy, looked in from time to time.
They reported that I seemed to be awake but I was talking 'funny'. That night, when the other slaves came in, Wayne, who was the oldest of the slaves and kind of our 'big-brother', went to the guards and reported how serious my condition was.
The guards were getting nervous by now. The Owner was away. She had left the week before Christmas for another slave- sale. She wouldn't be too happy to come back and find they had ruined her property. They'd pay for their 'fun' if I died. I was so bad the slaves were betting which one of the guards would have to shed her boots and jeans and shirt and be whipped in front of everyone — slaves included.
The Owner got back on New Year's Eve. She had purchased three slaves at auction and brought two more from a fellow in Mexico. Kevin was working in the kitchen and over-heard part of the confrontation between the Master and Ms. Scott.
The Owner, Kevin said, was really mad and promised to 'kick ass' all round.
The five new slaves were taken immediately to the barracks and the guards left. Mark said I was babbling away, twisting and turning, and the sweat was dripping off my body. I guess I was half-conscious. I could hear the guys talking around me but it seemed far away and as if their talk didn't really concern me.
I remember hearing Mark talking to someone. I was used to his voice and wasn't paying any attention. My mind was floating some place. Then I heard another voice. I knew that voice and I thought I must have finally gone over the edge. It was close and I could hear it real clearly.
"Hey, Rick! It's me, Earl! C'mon, buddy. I thought you'd be the first one to welcome me to the Ranch."
I thought it was a dream, that my mind had snapped. I tried to focus my eyes. It really was Earl, squatting on the floor next to the mattress.
"C'mon, Rick," he said. "you gotta pull through. We're gonna beat this and get home — somehow. But I need your help."
I tried to get up. I said something. I don't know what it was but Earl laughed and he pulled my head against his chest:
"When we get back, Rick, you're gonna have to watch yourself. I never thought you even knew that kind of language."
I closed my eyes and went to sleep. It was a deep, restful and dreamless sleep. The next morning I felt much better. The Owner came over to see how I was. She had me transferred to the house-boys' quarters where there were regular beds and great meals. I was soon on the mend. In a week I was back at work.
Earl and I have been at the Ranch now for two years. We don't dwell on the past. We know that things out 'there' have probably changed a great deal. It sometimes frightens me to realize how much I have changed — as has Earl. We have adjusted to this life, to slavery.
I'm still harnessed on the 'team' with Andy. We're a damned fine matched work-team for all kinds of draft. I know the Owner has received some tempting offers for us but she won't sell.
Earl works as a sheep-herder. If Michelangelo was alive he'd have to do a new statue of the 'David' after he saw Earl out there on the hill-side, naked — his tanned skin glowing in the light, strong and yet gentle. Both of us are proud that we've been able to survive. We've both endured and both of us have learned a lot about ourselves.
Only once has Earl mentioned that night when I was delirious and he promised we would go 'home' again. Andy and I were out on the high-range with our driver; we had to stay for the night with the shepherd-crew. Earl and I were lying near the fire, outside the cabin, just talking, when Earl suddenly got serious.
"Rick," he said, "we both know how useless it is to sit around and spin out dreams and fantasies about escape and going home. Escape ain't easy — and we know what happens to those who get caught. Besides, even if we did get away, it would be hard to go back home. We're different now. I don't know if people back home could understand us — or accept us."
He was quiet for a few minutes, then said:
"But I want to say this now — and not mention it again. I meant what I told you the night I arrived. Some day we're going back — and we're going to finish that canoe trip together. And we'll never be separated."
Neither of us spoke. Earl put his arms around me and I laid back against his chest. The sparks from the fire rose into the night sky. We watched the sparks whirl free.
I didn't tell Earl — but I was thinking, if I ever do get back, I'm going to join a monastery — where I don't ever have to see another woman the rest of my life!