A SLAVE FOR THE SUMMER, by Richard Davies

Part One.

My friend Jerry had found a summer job down at the Slave Courthouse.

He told me all about the new Short Servitude Orders that had been

introduced to deal with those who committed crimes not serious

enough to merit a full-scale enslavement order, but nevertheless

demanding stiff punishment. In the old days, a few months locked

away was the favoured sanction, but modern penal theory had decided

prisons were nothing more than expensive breeding grounds for

criminals. A couple of months on a chain-gang, working alongside

lifetime slaves, and with the occasional kiss of the whip across the

shoulder blades, was enough to reform all but the most recalcitrant

young tearaway. And those who retained their antisocial attitudes

could be kept in a collar until their lesson had been learnt.

So when Jerry called to say a batch of short-term enslavement orders

had been issued and half a dozen young males were available at

knockdown rates for the summer months, I felt as if manna had

dropped from heaven. My folks had gone to the coast for the summer,

taking my younger siblings and all the slaves. I had been left to

fend for myself, and I was not happy. I was used to having slaves

around. Having to prepare my own meals and washing my own clothes

was not my idea of fun, especially on sunny summer days. When in

trouble we look to our friends, and I asked a few buddies if their

parents could spare a slave or two for an hour a day. The response

was a uniform negative. It was even suggested I might benefit from

the experience of being slave-free. I was pretty miffed. After all I

am eighteen, and will be going to college this year. A free fellow

of my age does not expect to wash his own socks, or put the juice

back in the fridge. What's the point of living in a slave-owning

society, if there are no slaves around when you need them?

Jerry said the slaves on Short Servitude Orders (SSOs) were going

cheap, but even so buying one would mean dipping into my college

fund. In an emergency, however, a man must take decisive action.

There's nothing worse than false economy. I needed a slave for a

limited period; the Court was offering a choice at reasonable rates.

I could not ignore such a coincidence. There was no time to lose.

The SSO slaves were on offer for public sale for only forty-eight

hours before being assigned to the County's Public Works Department.

Jerry said the decent slaves always sold fast, leaving the rubbish

for the County. So I got myself downtown as quick as I could, armed

with my credit card and a pair of cuffs.

I can't deny I was excited. Like most young free guys I enjoyed

dealing with slaves and adopted a robust attitude towards them. My

parents were always telling me off for being unkind to the family

slaves, but I maintained the house-slaves were spoiled rotten. Even

so one can only go so far with slaves belonging to one's parents.

Owning one, however, would be a very different matter. It would be

great to be a slave-owner, if only until the end of the summer. But

by then I would be going off to college where there would be plenty

of dorm-slaves to do my bidding.

I'd arranged with Jerry to arrive at the Courthouse at eleven in the

morning when he'd be on his coffee break. Jerry's a good pal and I

had to smile as I saw him coming out of the elevator. He's one of

those guys whose hair that stands on end, and he had a bouncy way of

walking that wasn't quite regular. He's skinny, short-sighted,

funny, ruthless, and not to be underestimated. Around slaves he can

be the very devil. I guess it was the courthouse dress code that

demanded he wear neatly pressed blue slacks, a white shirt with a

couple of pens in the pocket, and a necktie. He looked every inch the

hardworking clerk.

When I made a comment about his formal garb he gave me a poisonous

look and said something about earning an honest living. I asked to

see the slaves. 'We've sold a couple this morning. You'll have to

pick among the dregs.'

He led the way through to the Courthouse Shop where, among the

postcards and trinkets, maps and books on local history, mugs, tea-

towels and key-rings, there stood four young men wearing slave

collars and ball-and-chains on their right ankles. A Mozart piano

concerto tinkled in the background. Middle-aged ladies wandered

around choosing gifts. While none seemed interested in the slaves

wearing see-through cotton smocks that were not, in a couple of

cases, quite long enough to cover the lower portion of dangling

uncut cocks, neither did they show any sign of being offended by

their presence. I guess it's an indication of just how used to the

slave system we've all become. However, my reaction was more

obvious. Just the sight of them disturbed my trousers.

As always in a line-up of slaves, there was one that stood out. No

one was likely to fork out cash for the skinny redhead, or the runty

pasty-faced one with a sagging belly, let alone the mousy one with

red eyes and shaking knees. On the other hand it was a miracle no

one had bought the one with olive skin, dark eyes with long lashes,

Roman nose, thick curling black hair, broad shoulders, flat stomach,

thick thighs and muscular calves, and a long uncut dick. The choice

was obvious. But there was a problem. I knew him. His name was

Sandro Nucci and he was in my economics class. He was also in the

football team and was a gifted saxophonist in the jazz band. How

such a high school hero could end up being sold in a gift-shop was

beyond me. I gulped when I saw him.

Jerry, however, was quite unfazed. He ordered the slaves to remove

their smocks. 'The best stock has already been taken, and what's

left is pretty crappy, but this one' (he went over to Sandro and

pressed a finger into his left nipple) 'is by far the best.'

Jerry flicked Sandro under his chin - a sign for a slave to open his

mouth for inspection. 'If you like a good mouth, this is the one for

you. Absolute dental perfection.'

Jerry leaned round the back of Sandro and then gave me a wicked

grin. 'The butt's cute too.'

All I could do was mumble incoherently. Even with his mouth open

Sandro was managing to fix me with a baleful stare. 'Er... Jerry... I

know him.'

Jerry was running a hand over Sandro's butt. 'Of course you do. We

all know Alessandro. A great guy. But for the next eight weeks he's

a slave... aren't you boy?'

'Yes sir.'

'Then drop your fucking eyes before I whip your cock.'

Sandro did as Jerry ordered, but he hesitated just long enough to

shoot me a look of contempt. Jerry hadn't noticed. 'Man, this is the

one to buy.' He gave Sandro's butt a light slap. 'I mean look at the

competition - crap, crap and super-crap.'

'Sure, but how about a discount? Ten percent?' I think a part of me

hoped this offer would be turned down. The idea of owning Sandro was

exciting, but also alarming. I felt I was biting off more than I

could chew. Sandro was not just any young guy who had landed in

trouble and could be kicked around for a few weeks. Sandro was

formidable. He was bright, an athlete and came from a good family.

He was known and respected... more so than I was.

Jerry put a hand on my shoulder. 'Hey, that's my Rob, always ready

to bargain right? I'll fetch the store manager. She has the last word on price.'

He went off, striding along in his funny way and give one of the

slave-girl assistants a loud smack on her bottom. The girl shrieked,

half in alarm, half with delight. I turned back to look at the

slaves. The redhead was giving me one of those 'please buy me' looks

familiar to anyone who has bought a slave or a dog. The other two

just stared at the ground before their feet.

'You're making a fool of yourself.' It was Sandro, speaking under

his breath. 'Just butt out and leave me to the chain gang.' There

was urgency in his whisper. 'I'll survive.'

It was obvious why he didn't want me to buy him. Not because he was

afraid I would mistreat him, or flog him, but because he would lose

face by being owned by me. Working on a chain gang, on the other

hand, would only add to his heroic status as the guy who could take

his punishment like a man.

I may as well admit here and now that I had a history with Sandro. I

must recall a brief encounter I'd had with him a couple of years

before in the school toilets. At the time I was on my knees in a

cubicle sucking the cock of a boy named David ******. I had a big

crush on David and had done more than simply suck him off, but

always in private. When the cubicle door was pushed open and Sandro

stood there with his hands already loosening his belt in

anticipation of a quick shit, I knew my reputation was ruined. But

Sandro was a sensual boy, and quick thinking. Sure he called us

every name under the sun, but he also let it be known that if either

of us wished to have a tolerable career in that school, we should in

future do as he demanded. And so, for a while, I became slave to

Sandro. It doesn't require much imagination to get the general idea

of his requirements. There were blow jobs after lunch, rim-jobs after

his shower, even the occasional attempt at buggery, although he

turned out not to be much of a cocksman.

Before long he grew tired of me and his demands petered out. He

ignored me until one morning between classes he jostled me in the

corridor. He was with some guys from the football team, but protocol

demanded I tell him to watch out. 'I don't watch out for faggots,'

he said to the amusement of the jocks.

'Just take it easy.' It was the best I could do. He leaned close to

me face. 'Suck my cock, pussy.'

There was some laughter and jeering, but Sandro was already moving

on. He was too shrewd to get into a slanging match. Who knows what I

might have said? No wonder he thought he could dictate the terms of his sale.

The store manager appeared with a grinning Jerry trailing in her

wake. She was a large, jolly woman, with blue-tinged hair, an ample

bosom and a deep voice. She strode up and took hold of Sandro by his

collar and yanked it round so she could see the ID tags. 'You're

interested in buying this one?'

'At a ten percent discount.' It was my turn to give Sandro a hard look.

'That's no problem. We'll have to run the standard checks. I take it

you're over eighteen?'

She held up the price tag that had been attached to Sandro's collar

and read off the details. 'Eight weeks only. You must surrender the

slave to the Court on the day the STO expires.'

I nodded. 'Does he come with restrictions of usage?' I tried to

sound relaxed and grown-up, like I'd heard my father being when

negotiating to buy a car or a slave.

The woman shrugged. 'Surprisingly few. Gelding and branding are out.

So is hobbling, gouging or anything likely to prevent him earning

his living as a free man subsequent to his release, but aside from

that, he's a standard issue slave.' She smiled. 'Whip it, fuck it,

do as you please with it, but do remember to keep it watered and

fed. We get a lot of returned goods that turn out to be suffering

from dehydration or starvation.'

For the first time Sandro began to look a little queasy. I handed

over my credit card. Jerry took it away to have the transaction

approved and also to run the checks on me. He was back in five

minutes. He gave me the thumbs up. The woman asked when and where I

wanted Sandro. I gave my parent's address and decided I'd take

delivery at seven that evening. All that remained was to sign the

registration papers. I shook hands with the woman. 'Congratulations,'

she said, 'and welcome to the slave-owning class.'

Part Two.

I got a call that afternoon from a young woman named Maria who said

she was Sandro's sister. 'The whole family really appreciates what

you've done. We've warned him over and over about drinking and

driving, but he wouldn't listen. You're a good friend to my dumb

brother in his hour of need, and that means you're a good friend to

all of us.' It was obvious she thought I was one of her brother's jock buddies.

'It's no big deal... just a few weeks.'

'Make sure he pulls his weight around the house, and doesn't just

lie in bed all day expecting to be waited on.'

'I'll treat him like a slave, Maria.' I said it lightly enough to

sound like I was joking, and that's how she took it.

She laughed. 'Yeah, you do that.'

'Maria, there's something they said down at the court that I ought

to share with you. The clerk says it's vital Sandro keeps well clear

of his family and school buddies for the next eight weeks. If the

judge gets wind of a secret deal...'

'Don't worry! The word is out... stay away. That brother of mine needs

to be taught a lesson. And when it's all over he'll still have to face Papa.'

'That sounds more scary than anything round here.'

Maria laughed again. It was obvious she was reassured. She blessed

me as she hung up.

It was a beautiful evening and I was sitting out on the porch when I

heard the bell for the back door ring. Being used to having slaves

it took me a moment to realise I would have to answer it myself. I

made my way through the house and opened the door to be confronted

by a burly Western Union delivery man who had my new slave standing

forlornly at his side and attached by a chain. Sandro looked

downcast but sexy in a very raggedy pair of blue shorts and a faded

shirt with 'Plains County Slave Authority' printed back and front. I

asked the delivery man (who I noticed was collared) to take Sandro

through to the slave quarters where there was a raised platform for

shackling slaves. When that was done perhaps he'd be good enough to

report to the boot room where I'd sign for Sandro.

The delivery man did not hesitate. Five minutes later the pair of

them appeared in the boot-room doorway. It was a small windowless

room lit by naked bulbs where the men in the family kept their

footwear. The walls were painted black and generations of shoes and

boots were arranged neatly along the shelves. The air was thick with

the pungent smell of linseed and boot polish. At the far end stairs

led down to a cellar where my father's kept his wine and

occasionally whipped his slaves. The boot room was where any

business relating to the household slaves was conducted, whether an

interrogation prior to a flogging, or when it was necessary to offer

an explanation to a slave we'd decided to sell at auction. It seemed

the natural place in which to introduce myself to Sandro now that I

was his master.

We did our business standing up. The delivery man asked me to check

the slave for any marks or injuries and then sign for him. The man

admitted the slave had two cane marks (one bloodied) across the back

of his thighs and a bruise on his left cheek. The tip of his penis

was also sore and swollen. These were listed under 'routine wear and

tear' incurred during transit. As I signed the delivery man said

Western Union would also be responsible for collecting and

processing the slave's release in eight weeks' time. He assured me

the company took a realistic view of the effects of everyday rough

and tumble, but would I please report any serious injury to his

office? An employee would then drop by to assess the damage and

offer and any advice required. Once I'd signed on the dotted line

the delivery man bowed and saluted and said he would see himself out.

He asked me to sign a form saying that he had, as a Western Union

Trusty Slave, performed his duty with efficiency, dispatch and

courtesy. I couldn't deny it, and so signed.

Sandro stood rock still until he heard the back door slam shut. Then

he relaxed, took a deep breath and shook his head. He ran his hands

through his dense black hair. 'Thank god that's over. That slave

bastard hit me. Wait till I'm through with all this. I'll tear the

skin off his back' He stuck his jaw out and took hold of his collar

with both hands and yanked it hard. 'FUCK.'

'Sandro, get a grip. I can't permit a slave to use bad language in the house.'

'Fuck you man.' He shook his head at me. 'And why the fuck did you

buy me? I told you... leave me alone!' He stepped forward and used

the knuckle of his right forefinger to tap my forehead. 'Hello?

Anyone at home? I'm not some fucking sissy's slave. I'm not on my

knees begging for an easy ride. I'll do my time on the county chain

gangs, sweat blood and take my licks, but as a man among men.' He

tried to stick his hands in his pockets, but his shorts hadn't any.

'Sandro you're my slave for the next eight weeks and you must show

proper respect. In this house we operate the demerit system for slaves -

two strikes and your butt takes the paddle. Do you understand?'

He narrowed his eyes. 'What is it with you? Haven't had enough of my cock?'

He looked down at the front of his shorts. 'Want some? Still after the cream?'

'Calm down Sandro... and back off.'

For the first time I saw a trace of doubt cross his face. 'Sure.' He took a couple of

steps back and looked around. 'Do we have to talk in here?' Suddenly reasonable,

he frowned and waved a hand over his head. 'It's kind of oppressive.'

'This is where we talk to slaves when something serious comes up. I

don't much go in for talking to slaves.'

I'd suddenly had enough of Sandro's sarcasm and his fidgeting. 'Stand up straight,

Sandro, like a proper slave and put your hands behind your back. Eyes down.'

For a moment it seemed he was about to obey, but then he took a step

forward and put his face close to mine. 'I'll say it once more fag,

and then I'm out of here. I'm not your fucking slave.'

'You're wrong, and you're earning demerits by the second. I'll

paddle you later, but right now you're going to clear a space for

yourself out in the slave quarters. Then you'll have a couple of

hours down time. If, after that, you're still not in control of

yourself, I'll have no alternative but to call the SP.'

'Go ahead. My family has those bastards to our summer barbecue. They

eat their dinner out of our hands. You'll not terrify me with them.'

My heart was racing and I was dripping sweat down my shirtfront, but

I knew this was a battle I must not lose. I had to keep calm. And

the odd thing was I felt pretty confident of winning. I might not

have the brave words or the good looks, I wasn't a jock or used to

all the admiration that came Sandro's way, but at my back I had one

great advantage - the slave system, and I could feel it gathering

force on my side. And at that moment I think Sandro, for all his

defiance and bravado, for all his flared nostrils and flashing eyes,

and his aggressive stance and bellowing deep voice, felt it too.

I took the cuffs from my hip pocket and made sure Sandro saw them.

‘Give me your wrists. You'd better wear them for the time

being.'

'Shit.' He held out his hands. As he did so he let his head tilt to one side and

our eyes met. There was still defiance, but also submission. It was my turn to smile.

'You'll feel better after some down time.' I slipped on the cuffs,

locked them and then put my hand on his shoulder and turned

him. 'The slave quarters are open. Your space is upstairs, first

right. Clean it out. You'll get used to working in cuffs. I'll

inspect in half an hour. And Sandro...' I patted his butt just as if

he was some new boy-slave fresh off the auction block, 'don't even

think of running away.'

New slaves hate 'down time' and it sometimes makes them panic, but

once they get used to it most recognise it as a necessary tool for

modifying their behaviour. There's nothing complicated about it. The

slave is made to strip and lie face down on his bed. He is then

secured that position for a set period of time. It's important that the

slave be immobilised. In our family we generally add a gag and

blindfold. Many experts in slave control techniques regard down time

as being quite as useful as corporal punishment.

When I went through to the slave quarters I found Sandro lying on

the bed in his unit watching a game on a TV he had moved from

another unit. As I came in he stirred but didn't stand. It was

obvious he knew he should but was too proud to show proper respect.

As I ordered him to his feet I asked myself whether having such a

wretched excuse for a slave was worth the bother. He got up off the

bed and stood slouching. I told him that if a regular household

slave acted in such a manner I would order him flogged and weighted

and placed on bread and water for a month. Sandro gave me a filthy

look but did haul himself into something resembling a respectful

stance. His hands were struggling in the cuffs. I told him to

replace the TV where he had found it and to clean out the unit

properly. In half an hour he would be commencing his down time but

before that I would be paddling him.

He stared at me with a pitying smile. 'You're a dumb little shit

aren't you? Don't you see... I'm not like you, I've got

Friends... good buddies.. .the kind of guys who matter in this town.

When they hear how some little cock sucking nobody has been trying it on

with me, they'll come for you... but good. Then it'll be your ass that's stripped of skin.'

'You do yourself no good Sandro.'

I felt quite calm. I knew I held all the cards and was a little

surprised that he should have put up this last doomed charade of

rebellion. I'd whip him for it, and make him suck my cock. Without a

word I removed his cuffs, turned and left. When I returned fifteen

minutes later the change was remarkable. The unit was spotless

(amazing how much a young man can achieve in a quarter of an hour)

and Sandro had evidently decided to submit. He was too late, of

course, but I could see he believed I would be pleased with him.

My father keeps two paddles in the slave quarters for on-the-spot

punishments. One is a standard wooden frat-style instrument and the

other a twin ply leather effort weighted with lead. The former is

for use on females and young males and for trivial offences, while

the leather is reserved for mature males who need a reminder of

their status. I took the leather from its hook.

Sandro was on his knees in his unit scraping together a pile of dust

with his bare hands. He had removed his shirt and wore only the

raggedy shorts. There is something very sexy about well-built slaves

doing menial tasks around the house, and my cock sprang to life at

the sight of his beautifully sculptured back stretching out and then

rearing up. His arms were covered in dust and it was nice to see his

big hands used for such a humble purpose. I told him to stand and

face me. He obeyed without hesitation. We were making progress. In a

couple of days he would be as good as gold.

'I'm going to paddle your butt. It's an informal punishment, and it

won't wipe the slate clean. Far from it, but I reckon it's only fair

to give you a taste of the house discipline so you can get your

bearings.' I had difficulty keeping a straight face, such was the

look of horror on Sandro's. Did he think I wouldn't punish him?

'Now listen carefully. When taking the paddle you need to assume one

of two positions - the first is kneeling on all fours with you knees

apart and your face pressed to the ground and your butt sticking up.

The other is simply kicking off your shorts, spreading your legs and

grabbing your ankles.

To have you assume the first I say 'on your face' and for the second

I say 'grab 'em.' I'm sure you're familiar with such instructions.'

Sandro was still staring as if transfixed. 'Grab 'em.'

To my surprised relief he obeyed as obediently as a trained slave.

He pushed down his shorts and kicked them away, then span round,

parted his legs and bend right over, giving me a superb view of his

very attractive butt, complete with the anus peeping out from among

some thick hair. I made a mental note to get him to a barber.

The male butt is designed to take a beating, and there is a unique

pleasure to be had in giving a spanking. Just as no two pairs of

buttocks are the same, so no two spankings are ever exactly alike.

There is an art to landing the paddle so that it cracks and marks

but doesn't bruise or blister, just as there is nice judgement

involved in knowing how hard to paddle and for how long. I was only

eighteen and hadn't a grown free man's experience of disciplining

slaves. Indeed most of my efforts with the family slaves had ranged

between the pathetic and the disastrous. But we grow into the roles

life requires us to assume, and I think I gave Sandro's hide what my

father would have called 'a good seeing to.'

He was being noisy so I had to break off to gag his mouth with my

handkerchief. Being untrained he had to fight himself to keep the

position, but once he realised I was paddling hard, and for real,

and would not call it a day until he took his punishment like a

proper slave, he got control of himself and submitted. As a first

paddling it was a success. It was a red-faced, red-butted, confused

and vulnerable young jock who stood up, clasping his hands to his

butt and with the corners of my handkerchief still dangling from his

mouth. I pulled it out and tossed it on the floor.

'Down time is next for you slave. Get on the bed, face down, arms

and legs spread.'

'Please Rob... have a heart... I took the paddle...'

Heavy droplets were forming on his long lashes. His lower lip

trembled. His hands rubbed his butt furiously. My cock was as hard

as steel. I used the paddle across the front of his thighs. He

yelled in anguish. There was no more rebellion in him. He fell face

down on the bed and spread himself. His red butt gleamed.

All slave beds are equipped with straps to secure wrists and ankles.

There was also a knee and thigh strap, a belly strap and a neck

strap. I used the same handkerchief to gag him and as a blindfold

took a pair of shitty undershorts some slovenly slave had left in

the laundry basket. Before leaving him I couldn't resist tickling

the soles of his feet. It made him squirm and moan through the gag.

I was laughing as I left the room.

Part Three

A week later I was walking down the main street in town when I saw

Rory Walsh and Jim Ford coming towards me. These two were not only

good friends of Sandro's, they were core members of the jock gang

that centred on the football team. Rory was a big red-faced boy,

with a swaggering walk and the beginnings of a beer belly, while Jim

was lanky with a droll air and long hair drawn back in a ponytail.

They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me. I resisted the

temptation to dive into a bookstore. The two big boys stood blocking

the sidewalk and stared at my approach. A couple of ladies had to

squeeze past them, and one said something, but got no reply. When I

was about ten feet from them I smiled and said hi. There was no response.

The truth was they weren't any longer looking at me. Their eyes had

refocused on the figure walking meekly behind me. It was Sandro who

was carrying the bags of shopping I'd accumulated. He hadn't seen

his friends because he was being a good slave and keeping his eyes

down. In fact it wasn't my bags that was bending his spine and

making his drip sweat, but the strain of walking with a backpack

filled with weights. This was a punishment I'd devised after he had

taken too long running an errand down to the Post Office. Anyone

taking a close look at my slave would also have noticed that his

shorts left visible some red marks across the backs of his upper

thighs, a further consequence of the same episode.

Rory and Jim were clearly shocked by the sight of Sandro. When they

ignored my greeting I went to pass them, but Jim put out an arm to

bar my way. 'Not so fast.' His eyes were fixed on Sandro. Rory was

repeating the same oath over and over.

I derived some satisfaction from their reaction. Breaking Sandro

hadn't been easy, and my guess was his friends wouldn't have

expected me to pull it off. Now my success was obvious for all to

see. Even so I wasn't in a mood to stop and pass the time of day. I

pushed Jim's arm away, using a little more force than perhaps was

necessary. There followed a brief scuffle. This would not normally

have attracted attention - in my part of the world we pride

ourselves on being quick to raise our fists - had Sandro not joined in.

He dropped the bags and had his backpack off in no time. He came

forwards and was about to take a swing at Rory, who held up his

hands in surrender. His face was a picture of amazement. Slaves

don't fight their master's battles. When free men get into a dispute

their slaves stand aside. But it was clear from Rory and Jim's

expressions that the real shock was finding Sandro siding with me against

his old buddies. We all stood back, straightening our clothes and gulping air.

When I glanced sideways at Sandro, he lowered his eyes and muttered

a submissive, 'Master.'

'Forgotten your friends Sandro?' Jim sounded more puzzled than angry.

'And look at you... like some pervert's sex toy. What's this bastard doing to you?'

Sandro was busy putting his backpack on. He wriggled his shoulders to balance

the weight. There was an expression of extreme disquiet on his face. He kept his eyes down.

'He's a slave.' I spoke evenly and I hoped without aggression. 'For the next seven

weeks. Then he's free again. So I'll ask you not to talk to him directly.'

Rory snorted. 'Fuck that. What's he done to you, buddy?' He spoke gently.

For a second Sandro raised his eyes. His expression said it all - leave me alone,

don't try to help. Rory walked forwards to take a closer look at Sandro.

'What's all this fancy shit for? You been fucking him?'

He bent down to lift the back of Sandro's shorts. 'Jesus man. These marks are raw red.'

I was losing patience. 'When slaves mess up they get beaten, right?'

Jim had edged closer beside me. 'You're a cruel fuck. Sandro's not a slave. He's one of us.'

Meanwhile Rory had slid his hand up under the back of Sandro's shirt. Sandro let

out a yelp. Rory dropped his hand. 'He's been whipped.'

From his tone of voice you'd have thought slaves were never flogged,

and yet only last term I'd heard Rory boasting of having whipped two

of his father's female slaves after he's caught them pilfering food.

I put my hands on my hips and signaled Sandro to move closer. 'He

got what he deserved, and please keep your hands off my property.' I

put my hand on Sandro's shoulder. 'Look at me slave. Tell the truth.

Have you any complaints about your treatment?'

Sandro's dark forlorn eyes looked into mine. My cock twitched into life. 'No Master.'

'There, see. You heard him.'

Jim scoffed. A man passing by stopped to ask if Sandro was Alfred Nucci's boy.

When Jim said it was, the man whistled and shook his head in disbelief.

I should have known it was a mistake to parade Sandro on the main

street. The Nuccis were well liked. If I'd been enslaved and Sandro

had bought and whipped me there would have been a crowd gathering to

congratulate Sandro on making an honest slave of me. Small town hypocrisy!

Jim had hold of my shoulder and shook it. 'He'd have been better off

on a chain gang.' He shoved me aside and stood in front of Sandro,

who kept his eyes down. 'When this is over...we'll settle things up.

We haven't forgotten you and we won't forget. We'll see you right.'

Jim's voice was choked with anger. None of this scared me. There was

a SP patrol car right across the street. It was unlikely they'd side

with Sandro and his friends. Besides which all the buddy-buddy stuff

seemed out of proportion and out of place.

Nevertheless I decided to try and cool things. 'Sandro's

Fine... doing well. He took a while to adjust, and we had some

problems with attitude, but basically he's OK. As you can see.'

Sandro kept his eyes down. Without another word Rory and Jim pushed

past me. Jim laid a hand on Sandro's shoulder and seemed about to

say something, but thought better of it.

Ten minutes later I was sitting having coffee in one of the more

genteel cafes opposite the park entrance. A slave-boy dressed as a

gypsy was playing the banjo and a girl was going from table to table

selling flowers. Sandro was standing outside in the sunshine. I'd

let him remove his backpack and he stood in the space marked out for

waiting slaves along with three others. With the improvement in his

behaviour there wasn't any longer much need to keep an eye on him,

but I nevertheless chose a table that gave an easy view of him. Some

customers had brought their slaves into the café with them, and one

middle aged man had a young female across his knee and had pulled

down her panties to spank her bottom vigorously with a rolled up

newspaper. This greatly amused a group of high school kids sitting

at the counter. Over by the door a bare-chest slave with a splendid

moustache and wearing tight leather pants sat obediently at the feet

of a young blond woman who was gossiping with a couple of friends.

Every now and then she'd offer this slave a piece of chocolate cake

that he'd lick from her hand like a hungry dog. The young male slave

who bought my coffee was wearing a thumbscrew. I smiled. All in all

it was turning out a hard morning for the town's slave population.

As I sipped the coffee I took a few moments to check out Sandro.

Obviously his superficial appearance had changed. Slaves never look

like free citizens. The barber had both trimmed his hair short and

cut a couple of two-inch bald paths through it. His shirt was a

loose blouson cut low on his neck to expose his collar. It also left

his lower ribcage and stomach naked, and that meant his leather and

metal harness was partially visible, as was the chain attached to

his nipples that was weighted with a small lead ball. Round his

waist there could be seen the belt that held in place both his butt

plug and the ball divider and cock-sheath. Such devices, while

uncomfortable to wear, gave the slave a glamorous non-utilitarian

look. His shorts were plain white in a see-though material that

permitted a good view of his butt and genitals. He wore weights

attached to ankle-chains and hard-soled sandals. I'd had a nose ring

fitted but it had caused an infection and the vet had advised

against him wearing it except for short periods.

In my opinion Sandro looked like the thing he was --a piece of

recently acquired property that was still undergoing training. I

felt justified in taking the credit for this progress. Long gone

were the oaths and insolence that had marred his first day. The

combination of hard work, down-time, and a regime of strict

discipline backed by rigorous punishment had quickly transformed

Sandro into a most obedient and biddable slave.

I had my father to thank for cracking the particular nut that had

been Sandro's rebellious streak. He had called me on the second day

and when I told him I had bought a short-term slave he (rather to my

surprise) congratulated me. 'At your age you should know how to

master a slave. Don't go easy on him. If he gets uppity, just take

him down to the wine cellar. You'll find everything you need there.

And if you do have to flog him, make sure you whip him good. Half

measures never work.'

This speech seemed a little out of character coming from my father

who ran a very easy household and was always reluctant to discipline

his own slaves. But like most young men I took my father's advice

seriously, more so perhaps than had been intended. That night I

whipped Sandro, giving him fifty lashes and reducing him to a

weeping, begging, heap of bloodied flesh. I'd been harsh, but as I

explained to Sandro the next day, an early flogging helps the slave

to shed the baggage of his free past and move on to being a real

slave. Eight weeks was not a long period of servitude, but it was

long enough to demand the slave undergo a transformation.

After the flogging Sandro was keen to show obedience and worked hard

to obey my rules and please me. Of course I had to punish him a good

deal because he was discovering the rules and my preferences as he

went along. Not being psychic, he made mistakes, and mistakes

require punishment if they are not to be repeated. So the paddle was

kept busy and was often as warm from use as Sandro's butt.

As I watched my slave waiting patiently for me to finish my coffee I

realised my cock was stiff. This was not a welcome discovery. I had

justified my harsh approach to training Sandro on the grounds that I

was not being influenced by my feelings towards him. If he was some

scrawny runt of a slave I'd feel no guilt in flogging him, so why

should I just because the sight of him made me hard? So far I had

restrained myself. Although I made no secret of having wood when

fitting him with a butt plug or placing weights on his balls, I

hadn't yet fucked him, or even had him suck me. That this restraint

might have at its core a desire to be fucked by him, and to suck his long silky

cock, was an idea that had not yet reached the conscious area of my brain.

In other ways, however, I found it hard to keep my hands off him.

His butt was always warm and firm as well as deliciously curved and

soft to the touch. To own such a desirable object was intoxicating.

His stomach was a series of taut ripples and his nipples were like

fruits waiting to be gathered. When I stood close to him my nostrils

would quiver with the odour he gave off - lactic and sweet, like

crème caramel. And then there were those unfathomable eyes...

I finished my coffee and rose to leave. The moment I was on my feet

Sandro noticed and stooped to lift his backpack. By the time I was

out on the sidewalk and signalling him to follow me, he was fully

laden. He bowed deeply and set off a few paces behind me. There may

have been better-trained slaves in that town, but none that had been

broken so quickly and so completely. There was a spring in my step

that morning, even if there was no longer one in Sandro's.

Part Four

A week after my encounter with Rory and Jim, I was sitting in my

room studying for the coming academic year when I noticed a stranger

walking up the drive. Sandro was painting the garage doors and the

man stopped to speak to him. This rather irritated me because I

think it's bad manners to strike up conversations with other

people's slaves, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He was probably lost and asking for directions. However, when I

looked out a minute later Sandro and the man were still talking. If

he had been asking for help, Sandro would have answered standing

upright and with his hands behind his back, like an alert and

submissive slave. But he was standing casually, chatting away with

his hands in his pants' pockets.

I took a closer look at the man. He was dressed for business in

lightweight pants, and a yellow short-sleeved shirt. He carried his

jacket over his arm and had a briefcase placed between his legs. He

had one of those plastic coated ID tags attached to his shirt

pocket. He looked like some minor official. I decided I'd better go

and see what he wanted.

As soon as Sandro saw me coming he pulled his hands out of his

pockets and stood up straight. He bowed to me, and thereby, I

decided, avoided feeling the back of my hand across his face. The

man held out his hand and introduced himself as Stuart Mason, an

inspector from the Slave Protection Society. We shook hands, but I

couldn't disguise my distaste for having such a man on family

property. However, I knew enough about the slave system to adopt a

surface politeness. I asked him if he would like to come inside. The

fact was, those slave owners who sent SPS inspectors packing were

likely to find themselves harassed by all sorts of agencies. It was

easier to let the do-gooders have a look round and go on their way.

I had to admit Mason seemed an agreeable sort. He looked trim and

fit and was bald with a full moustache and polished brown shoes.

There was nothing sloppy or impertinent in his manner. Once we were

indoors, and out of Sandro's hearing, he congratulated me. 'That's a

handsome piece of male flesh you've got there.'

He stood by the window and looked out at Sandro who was bending down

to paint the bottom of the garage doors. I went over to take a look,

and could not help agreeing. Sandro was very desirable with his butt

stuck in the air, stripped to the waist and wearing only a pair of

white pants. The sunshine made his dark skin shine and as he

straightened up he looked every inch a real slave with the fading

whip marks across his shoulders, and his torso rippling with health and energy.

'He's a good slave, but a temporary one. An eight week order.'

Mason sighed. 'That's a pity. We find them more trouble than they're worth.'

I told Mason that there were no other slaves on the premises but

that he could, if he wished, carry out an inspection of the slave

quarters. He opened his briefcase and took out a file. 'That won't

be necessary. It's this slave that has provoked my visit.'

'I think you'll find everything is in order. I bought him myself,

from the courthouse gift shop.'

Mason nodded. 'I'm sure the paperwork is in order. The reason I'm

here is we received a complaint.' My heart sank. I could visualise

Rory and Jim refining their lies and e-mailing their accusations. 'It

was anonymous, as these things usually are. Nevertheless, I would be

grateful if you'd answer a few questions and then perhaps you'd

allow me to make a quick physical inspection?'

I sighed. There was no point refusing. After all I had nothing to

hide. I slumped down on a sofa, told him to sit if he liked, and to

fire away with the questions. He didn't ask many. He wanted to know

why the slave had been whipped, and what I'd been feeding him. Where

did he sleep? How was he progressing? I answered as best I could.

Mason made a few notes and then put his pen away. 'Everything seems

to be in order.'

'I had good reason to use the whip. He was out of...'

Mason held up his hand to stop me. 'Please, you don't have to

justify a flogging. Not to me.' He sat down and ran his hands over

his face. 'To tell the truth it's refreshing to come across a young

man who is prepared to impose discipline. Most of my time is taken

up dealing with the mess left by owners who are too careless, weak

and plain stupid to impose order of their households.'

I liked what he was saying. 'You don't sound like an emancipationist.'

'What makes you think I am?' He paused and smiled. 'Sure I used to

be. When I started in this job my head was full of crap about the

evils of slavery. Well let me tell you, I soon learned that there's

not much wrong with the system, just the way it's abused by dumb

owners and exploited by cunning slaves.'

He stood up and went over to the window to take another look at

Sandro. 'No my friend, if we're to have slaves it's no use letting

them laze around getting fat and uppity. Slaves need hard work,

regular hours, discipline, direction, supervision and certain

punishment if they step out of line.'

I had to laugh. I might have been me speaking. 'Do you want to inspect Sandro?'

He laughed too. 'You betcha.'

I whistled and within a few seconds Sandro appeared in the doorway.

He bowed solemnly. Hard to believe he had once been so difficult and

insolent. 'This gentleman is going to inspect you.'

I signaled Sandro to strip. It took him no more than a few seconds

to remove his pants and sandals. 'Present yourself.'

Sandro took the position - hands behind head, legs apart, chest out,

butt out. He looked good.

Mason took a plastic glove from his hip pocket and pulled it on his

right hand. 'I'll start with the anus.' He used a slave owner's

signal to order Sandro to bend and spread his butt-cheeks. Mason put

his left hand on the small of Sandro's back and inserted his right

forefinger into the anus. He held it there for a few moments.

'Hmmmm. Have you fucked him sir?'

'No.'

'Interesting. Someone has been up there.' Mason removed his

forefinger and inserted his thumb. Sandro groaned softly. 'Lets have

no complaints slave.'

Mason frowned as he probed the rectum. 'I wouldn't say there's been

heavy traffic, but he's been fucked recently. No question.' He

pulled his thumb out and removed the glove. He immediately put on a

fresh pair. 'Lets see now...'

He bend down and ran his hand over Sandro's buttocks. 'He's been

well paddled, but no lasting damage.' He stood up and told Sandro to

do the same. He checked the slave's shoulders. 'The whipping was

pretty fierce, but I've no reason to doubt it was beneficial.' He

touched Sandro on his upper arm, indicating he should turn.

When Sandro failed to respond, Mason told him to move. His tone was

sharp. He ran his hands over Sandro's chest. 'I see the nipples are

pierced.'

'Yes, the barber down at the slave-grooming centre said it was

included in their special new slave package. A haircut, body shave,

piercing. I also had his nose done.'

Mason took hold of the cock and balls and squeezed the tip of the

penis from the foreskin. 'But not the cock?'

'Didn't seem necessary.'

'Try telling that to my wife. She has our houseboy wear a thing the

size of her wedding band... he can hardly take a piss.'

Mason got down on one knee to inspect the genitals closely. There

was a good deal of separating and tugging and twisting before he was

satisfied. There followed a quick dental inspection and it was all over.

'I'll be giving him a clean bill. A fine male property, well

maintained, and in excellent shape.'

He started writing notes. I told Sandro to get dressed. He obeyed without hesitation.

'How long before the slave is freed?'

'About six weeks.'

Mason shook his head. 'Have you thought of applying for an extension?'

I went over to Sandro and stroked the back of his head. He bowed in

submission. I could smell his sweat. My cock was on the move in my

pants. 'I surrender him on the appointed day. It's all arranged...

Western Union is collecting him.'

'Ever heard of Cawthorne Greaves?' Mason was putting away his

notebook. He picked up his briefcase. 'They're slave consultants. If

anyone can find a chink of light in an enslavement order, they will.

They're in the book.'

Sandro hadn't moved, and my hand was still ruffling the short hair

on the back of his neck. I noticed a tear had appeared in his

eyelashes. I told him to get back to work. He bowed to me and then

to Mason and as he left gave me an imploring glance. I rather

resented him trying to influence my feelings. His butt would feel my

paddle before long. Mason was still waiting for an answer.

'I hadn't thought of an extension. Do you think there's a chance?'

'I wouldn't have brought the subject up if I didn't. I read the case

papers. There was an injured party as I recall.'

'Just some slave who had been drinking.'

Mason laughed. 'That slave had a bad day. First he got knocked down

by a drunken driver and then he got flogged for being drunk

himself.' Mason gave me his card. 'I may be able to help. Don't

forget I work for the Slave Protection Society; it's our job to look

after the interests of slaves. Even drunken ones out late at night.

Take my advice... go see Cawthorne Greaves.'

The next evening I was sitting outside having an early evening drink

with Jerry who had dropped by after work. It was a sultry night with

a storm brewing and we were thinking of going in to avoid the

mosquitoes, but the daybeds were too comfortable. Jerry had arrived

in his work clothes, but after a shower had put on one of my shirts

and an old pair of baggy shorts. My clothes were too big but made

him look cool and fresh. Although incurably nerdy, there was

something both comic and attractive about Jerry, something that made

me want to hug him and smack his pert little bottom while sharing a

laugh with him. His attempts to keep the mosquitoes away by smoking

a cheroot seemed unlikely to be a success.

Sandro was in the kitchen preparing a meal. I could hear him

clattering around and whistling a popular tune. 'I just wish I knew who'd fucked him.'

'Did your slave protection man provide any clues?'

'Recently... he said it was recent.'

Jerry took a puff and gave me a mischievous look as he blew

smoke. 'It was you, wasn't it? Admit it, man, that slave worships

you and you repaid his devotion by giving him the big poke.'

'I've not touched him... at least not with my cock.'

'So who then?' Jerry took another puff and smacked his thigh to kill an insect.

'How should I know?'

‘Why not ask him?'

'Maybe I will.'

He grinned. Sandro appeared from the kitchen carrying refreshments

on a tray. He knelt on one knee beside Jerry who took what he wanted

and nodded to the slave.

'Jerry's got a question for you.' I spoke before Sandro had time to rise.

'Do I?' Jerry gave the slave a long quizzical look and then waved him away.

Sandro came to offer me the tray. As he knelt he said softly, 'Master?'

'Thanks Sandro.'

Normally people who thank their slaves give me the creeps, but there

was something still and direct about the way Sandro served me that

made me feel warmly towards him. I may have broken him, whipped and

kicked him a few times, busted his butt and weighted him, but I'd

never made the mistake of denying his attraction. He was one good-

looking dude. Without thinking, I asked who had fucked him.

Sandro's expression turned from solemn dignity to anguish. He bowed

his head and said nothing.

'Tell me.'

'Master... forgive me.'

Jerry snorted with derision. 'Flog him.'

He reached into his pocket and pulled out some small plastic device.

He tossed it over and Sandro caught it. 'I got it at that new discount slave

supplies place. They're giving them away free every time you buy an item of slave clothing.'

I held out my hand and Sandro placed the object in my palm. 'What on earth is it?'

Jerry groaned. 'Don't tell me you've never seen one... a thumbscrew,

stupid. A new design... very lightweight and user friendly. If you

want information from an uppity slave... just slip it on and ratchet

up the pain.'

I heard Sandro swallow hard. Jerry stubbed out his cheroot and flicked the stub away.

'Seems you've lost your way with this slave. I'd tan its hide.'

He stood up, brushed down the seat of his pants and came over to

stand near where Sandro was kneeling.

I tapped Sandro on his shoulder. 'Better answer slave... out with it.' Sandro hesitated.

'Give me your thumb.'

Sandro hung his head and sniffed. 'Master... please.'

Jerry snorted. 'Are you going to let that slave... put on the screw and lets have no more shit.'

I took Sandro's hand and isolated the thumb. The plastic device

slipped on easily. I tightened it. Sandro drew breath. I peered at

the calibrator. 'That's five per cent. I'm going to take it to

twenty. If you refuse to speak I'll go to fifty... all the way if I

have to.'

I began turning the screw. Sandro let out an anguished cry and

pulled his hand away.

Jerry let out a whoop. 'Jesus!' He laughed in derision. 'Man, you've

got to flog him. Whip him, whip him right now or I'm out of here.'

I let my hand rest of Sandro's shoulder. 'Tell me. Now.'

Sandro was weeping like a child.

'Look at me... give me your hand.'

His dark eyes were filled with tears. 'Rory. It was... Rory.'

I heard Jerry whistle, but kept my eyes on Sandro.

'When?'

'Last week. Down at the Health Club. I ran into him. You'd sent me

to renew your subscription. He invited me for a drink, but the

barman wouldn't serve us. Said we had to go to a private room... a

rule about no socialising with slaves in the public rooms.'

Although he spoke calmly tears were sliding down his cheeks. Jerry

was standing close over Sandro, stubbing his toe on the ground as if

eager to kick him. 'Man, that's hijacking another man's slave. It

stinks!'

I ratcheted the screw a couple of notches. 'Go on.'

Sandro cried out but managed to go one. 'I thought it was going to be like old times...

we're good friends after all. But Rory was angry. He said I'd sided with you that time

on Main Street... because...' Sandro seemed about to lose control.

'I'll remove the screw if you tell me the whole truth. If you fuck with me I'll hand you

over to Jerry who will force a confession. Do you understand?'

Sandro wiped his eyes and nose. He was a wretched mess, and usually

I wouldn't have wanted such a creature anywhere near me, but my cock

was as hard as steel and my mouth was dry with excitement. I removed

the thumbscrew and tossed it back to Jerry.

Sandro sniffed and cleared his throat. 'Rory said I'd become your

pussy-boy. He said I stood beside you not because you are my master,

but because I'd been fucked into submission. He said everyone knew

You're... Gay... and now I was a fag's fuck-slave. He said I was no

longer his friend, and when I was freed he'd spread the word that my

butt-hole was for the taking. Then he rang for security. When the

guard arrived Rory said I was a slave he was thinking of beating and

fucking, but he was worried about making too much noise. He asked if

the guard could help. The guard took a handkerchief and muzzle and

stuffed my mouth. Rory tipped him well, so the guard offered to

prepare me for fucking. He took me back through the main entrance to

a service area where he had a slave lubricate me and then open me

with a dildo. Then he took me back and handed me over...'

Sandro gave way to tears again. All the time he had been speaking he

had veered between weeping and hot anger. I patted Sandro on the

back of his neck. Despite myself I felt hurt and angry, but not at

Sandro.

'You should have told me. You'll be punished. Now go in.'

Sandro staggered to his feet and set off for the house, blundering into a chair and

knocking over a table as he went. Jerry stood, hands on hips, staring after him.

'My... what an emotional slave!' He span round and pointed at me. 'You're going to

whip him, right? Come on... Promise... No excuses.'

I shook my head. 'No need. Don't you see... things are falling into

place nicely? If I play my cards right, young Sandro's butt will be

mine for the taking quite a while longer.'

Jerry gave me a sideways old-fashioned look. 'What are you plotting?'

I stood up and emptied my glass. 'I've always wanted my own slave

when I go to college. I think Sandro might fit the bill. After all,

you said yourself he's very devoted. Just what a young fellow needs

to see him through his freshman year.'

Part Five

My father would have none of it. The mere mention of seeking an

extension order for Sandro's enslavement set off on a furious tirade

about good faith and community responsibility. By the time my father

was through I was feeling pretty stupid. My brothers shook their

heads as if in despair at my idiocy and the slaves wore supercilious

expressions of disdain, as if to have to serve me filled their

nostrils with a nasty smell.

I was furious. My father never lost an opportunity to scold me for

not earning money and for taking things for granted, but the first

time I'd come up with a scheme to make some real cash he knocked me

down. I was also angry with Sandro. He was all smarmy and charming

with the rest of the family, and all fake-humility with me. I promised myself

that if he stepped an inch out of line I'd whip his butt. He deserved it.

A re-enslavement order was there for the taking. The Slave

Protection Society supported it. The slave consultants said it was a

foregone conclusion. Sandro would get at least five years... maybe as

much as eight, or even ten years. At auction Sandro would fetch six

figures. How often did money like that land in one's lap? It wasn't

fair. I sensed the long shadow of the Nucci family. My father did

not want to jeopardise his status at the country club by falling out

with old man Nucci.

My parents had returned from the coast the week before I was due to

go to college. Sandro had only four days left to serve as my slave.

I was in a filthy temper. After having the house to myself all

summer, the place was suddenly full of siblings, their friends,

stupid old aunts and boring uncles... and slaves. Damn slaves! I made

it my business to kick each one's uppity butt. But this only made me

unpopular and my mother told me to cool down. Easier said than done,

when Sandro was going round the house with his nose in the air like

he owned it. Anyone would have though I was his slave.

My brothers decided to befriend him and treated him like a member of

the family. When he went shopping with my mother he replaced his

slave's pants with regular denims and a smart shirt and charmed her

with jokes and family anecdotes. It was totally sickening. Even so I

had to admit there was no point in continuing to treat him like a

slave. The difference between him and the family slaves was too

great. They were trained, and had been born as slaves. They existed

to serve and work. If I had to paddle a slave's butt I did so

without thinking twice. When Sandro had needed punishment, on the

other hand, my heart had raced and my cock was rigid.

There was always the possibility that he might cause trouble,

something unthinkable with the other slaves, who didn't know how to

refuse an order. If I told them to jump fully clothed into the

swimming pool they would obey without hesitation. They weren't worth

a second thought. They were just slaves.

I received a letter from the County Department of Slaves and

Servitude giving the time Sandro would be collected. So long as I

signed and returned the letter there was no need to attend the court

hearing. The letter ended by thanking me for taking part in the

Short Servitude Scheme. I signed and sent Sandro to deliver it to

the courthouse. I told him to make sure he got a receipt. He gave me

a smile, and a cheery 'Yes Master' and ran off. Sandro's slavery

seemed to be ending on a peaceful note.

The evening before Sandro was to be collected by Wells Fargo Slave

Logistics, my father called us both into his study. He gave us a

drink, said he had been pleased by the way we had both conducted

ourselves, and hoped there were no hard feelings. He made me shake

hands with Sandro, something I'd have been happy to do once his

collar came off, but not while he was still technically my slave. I

felt denigrated. I couldn't imagine my father shaking hands with one

of his slaves. I may have been just an eighteen-year-old kid, still

green behind the ears, but I had bought Sandro legally and deserved

respect. My father and brothers might think of Sandro as an equal,

but as far as I was concerned he could still kiss my butt.

An hour later I was up in my room getting together the stuff I

needed for college when the phone rang. My father had gone out to

his weekly poker game at the club and one of the slaves answered. I

heard him calling out for Sandro, saying it was his sister on the

line. I thought no more about it until a few minutes later when I

heard Sandro casually asking my mother if it was OK for him to take

one of the cars and drive out to his sister Maria's place. The

family was planning a liberation party and she wanted to discuss

details with him.

When my mother didn't immediately answer I knew my chance had come

to reassert my authority one last time. I went out onto the landing

and looked down to see Sandro standing in front of my mother with

his hands in his pockets. I knew that despite her liking for Sandro,

and the fact that in twelve hours he would be a free man, my mother

would feel insulted by having a slave speak to her so disrespectfully.

'Mother, I'll deal with this. Sandro, get your butt up here.'

Without waiting for a reply I went back into my room. I did not even

ask myself what would happen if Sandro refused. I just had to hope

he would obey. He did, but not before he had appealed to me mother

to give him permission to go out.

I heard my mother say calmly, 'it's better you sort this out with my son.'

She called for one of the house slaves and told him to bring her

some coffee. In my mind's eye I could see her turning her back on

Sandro as she went into the drawing room. Good old Mom: when the

chips were down she was still on my side.

Sandro came running upstairs and appeared in my doorway. He leaned

against the wall and shoved his hands into the pockets of his

freshly laundered chinos. He had on a blue shirt and looked fit and

relaxed. Only a slither of his collar was visible under his Adam's Apple.

'Hey, it's cool if I go to see Maria? She wants to discuss some

family stuff.' He spoke as if the matter was already settled and he

was just informing me of a fait accompli.

'No way. Go to your room.' My cock was rising.

He did a double take. 'Excuse me? I have to go see my sister.'

'Forget it, and don't make me repeat an order in this house.'

'This is ridiculous. Listen man, did we, or did we not, shake hands? No hard feelings right?'

'None at all.' I picked up a pile of book and crossed the room to my bed.

'You know what happens when an order has to be repeated.' I tipped the books onto the bed.

without looking round, I added, 'so move it.'

I'd have been disappointed if Sandro had obeyed. A showdown was much

more satisfying. Even so I was startled by his next move. He slammed

a hand against the wall and then came slowly towards me. He was

boiling over with rage, and his face was changing colour with each

step he took. 'I've taken all the shit in the world from you... You shit-faced faggot...

don't you tell me what I can and can't do. It's over... so kiss my ass, cocksucker.'

'I'll repeat my order. Go to your room. I'll deal with you later.'

He came close. His nostrils were flared and his eyes gleamed. 'Fuck

you, you dim-wit queer. You're an embarrassment to your family.' He

pushed his face right up against mine. 'I'm out of here, and there's

not a damn thing you can do to stop me.'

There could not have been more than two inches between our noses. It

was like confronting an animal of another species. All I felt was a

mild revulsion. It passed through my mind that I was glad I'd never

fucked him. I turned away to move some more books from my

bookshelves. 'For your own sake Sandro, do as you're told.'

He took a swing at me. It was a poor blow, as well as a cowardly

one, and it landed on the nape of my neck. I stumbled forwards but

managed to steady myself. From behind me I heard another string of

oaths and ugly accusations about my sexual habits. But by then I was

trying to curb an urge to smile. I was facing towards the door, but

Sandro wasn't. It followed he couldn't see who was standing in the

doorway. I could, but Sandro was busy suggesting I get on my knees

and beg to be allowed to rim his anus until I creamed myself.

I decided to cut him short. 'Dad! You're back early. Good evening

Mr. Nucci.' Considering I was still reeling from the punch my voice

sounded remarkably calm.

Neither man moved or spoke. They stood, side by side, just outside the door,

and were staring at Sandro as if in disbelief.

I'll never forget Mr. Nucci's face as he stood in court and explained why he supported

a three month extension to his son's servitude order. His words came with difficulty, and he

stood gripping the rail on the stand, swaying back and forth and alternating glances of fury at

Sandro and the floor at his feet. He was not a man used to being humiliated.

Sandro stood naked before the judge's bench. His butt was criss-crossed with fresh

stripes from my father's riding crop. His head was bowed and he was sobbing.

That was a month ago. The judge - one of those brisk young men with

close-shaven hair, a local-boy accent and a fierce look in his eye -

had mooted a year's extension, but my father spoke up for Mr. Nucci.

It was clear the two men had done a deal. Three months would be

punishment enough. And so I got to take my slave with me to college after all.

When I came in from a session in the gym this afternoon Sandro was

nowhere to be found. One of the guys on my floor in the dorm was

probably using him, but that was no excuse. Sandro knew to refuse to serve others

within half an hour of my expected time of return. It would be another paddling.

Would he never learn?

I'd been worried that bringing along my own slave during my first

semester at college might seem a bit much. But the other students

turned out to be not only impressed but very happy to use him. The

dorm slaves were a bunch of numbskulls who were never around and

made it their pleasure to ignore students' calls. We weren't even

allowed to beat them. Sandro, on the other hand, was not only quick

and efficient, he was nice looking and smart and altogether a good

thing.

Some of the girls thought I was a bit hard on him, but the guys all

agreed a slave has to be kept in line. I took the view that a slave

was best shared among all the eight rooms on our floor. That meant

Sandro had to serve fifteen guys and girls. Between us we kept him

busy. And the cool thing was, he was getting really good at it. Some

of the guys didn't believe he could be on a Short Servitude Order

because he was so obedient and willing. He was like a proper slave,

and that made them feel more relaxed about keeping his nose to the

grindstone. A friend lent me a book called 'Getting the Best from

your Slave' and it was full of good ideas. Poor old Sandro, how he

must have wished I'd never set eyes on it. But there were lots of

things for Sandro to regret.

(The story appears to end here – no more parts were filed)