Wow! It's Monday morning after the weekend at Doc's (Chapter 2). I'm still Steve, ex-Marine, ex-indentured gladiator, violent ex-con, proud free man, owner of Darren, Jamie, and Luke. But today I look and feel like a badass slave (except for the collar that got taken off) who got what he deserved (even if I really didn't).
I'm still high from the weekend -- no drugs (ever), only a couple beer, but well-worked muscles, well-flogged hide, sensitive tits, balls, dick, and hole, serious men who appreciated me and my guys, strong adrenaline and endorphins from getting worked hard and played hard.
Today was a big day -- first time I sent all three three slaves off to work for their contractor. (The guys slapped my back and butt as they left.) Luke and Jamie had worked ever since we set up shop on our own, but Darren couldn't until now. I hoped he was ready and that the guys and overseers treated my rookie okay. I'd worked damned hard hard to get him ready, literally put my ass on the line. He'd worked too, but nothing really sets you up for a labouring job where the other guys have already hardened their hands and muscles learning the ropes.
The weekend paid Doc, an expert orthopaedic surgeon, for rebuilding Darren's leg after the gladiator stable that me, Darren, and Jamie had belonged to took a big fee to have Darren crippled, then threw him away.
I hit the gym where I worked part-time, training slaves. I thought I'd be ashamed, but taking the shirt off my flogged hide in the gym actually turned me on. So did the way it felt when I moved in it. I wished for an audience, a training partner or trainer, especially Darren, who was off working his first day. I missed him. I missed the feel of the collar too. I missed the feel of a man at least as dominant as me. This proud free man missed being a hardass thug. The place was empty after the morning rush. I booked off early.
I called Mr Hardwicke. He came right away to pick me up at the slave depot. I just needed what I wore to ride to Doc's -- too-small slave shorts, shorts, boots, collar (turned out to have a snap lock) -- plus runners. I left the guys a note, said I expected to be back but even if I wasn't to stay clean and show up for work in the morning. It included Mr Hardwicke's cell number.
First I signed the standard consent form for a 24-hour job interview that he said Jon drafted. I'd accept his orders and discipline. A normal labourer's day wage would go into my owner's bank account (mine).
This time I got to ride shotgun, beside him. He touched me, felt me, and said it was kewl if I did him too, just don't distract him or attract attention. On the way to his compound, at his command (the way everything happened) I told him about myself -- just the short version. I filled in what Doc had already said. Growing up, all I ever wanted was to be a Marine. After high school I joined the day I turned 18, worked hard, made Recon. I gave them the best 10 years of my life, fighting mostly in places I'd never heard of. Then the Corps gave me a break, they thought, rotated me back Stateside. First free night I hit a bar, met a bitch, and expected her to act like bitches always had. Times had changed, I hadn't, she didn't. That got me convicted of sexual assault with violence and judicially caned, 12 HARD. The Corps learned right away and my own colonel kicked me out -- dishonourable discharge. A trucker gave me a ride but wanted me to put out. That got me convicted of gaybashing, with the five-year gladiator indenture the only way to avoid lifetime slavery.
Jamie had befriended me when I got caned for my first conviction, and his dad drove me back to base. When he got enslaved at 16 for chronic violent delinquency, I decided to pay him back by buying him with my winnings. I also tried to keep him uncut. When he ragged me about still being an uncut gladiator (then), I spanked him, but I took 12 strokes rather than cane him for getting cut without approval. Mr Hardwicke's friends, Jon and Ann, negotiated my freedom and my payoff.
I tracked Jamie's dad to thank him for helping me, told him what I was doing for Jamie (families and slaves can't communicate), but he needed something more from me. Luke was Jamie's incorrigible younger brother, just turned 18. Their dad indentured Luke to me to avoid lifetime slavery for him, too.
Darren, a slightly older delinquent, paired with Jamie. After the stable threw broken Darren away, Jon helped me buy him out of the latrine in the slave remainders bin for $100. The weekend showed how well I'd driven Darren to rebuild -- and what I'd do for my guys.
Mike was the stable's champion, my mentor, and my partner until I defeated and fucked him to become Jon and Ann's prize for a day. I hated doing it to Mike, especially after Jamie told me Mike started losing and got thrown away too.
Mr Hardwicke knew that I'd set up my own stable and contracted the three guys out. He hadn't known I'd restricted the discipline used on them -- no whip like I took all weekend. I told him VERY proudly how I was living independently for the first time ever -- besides the guys' contract wages, I had my gym job, my growing savings, our health and liability insurance. Just not much for plans and prospects yet.
First Mr Hardwicke said how much he admired me for putting my own freedom -- and my own ass -- on the line for slaves I'd adopted to help but who I didn't owe anything but my own Marine loyalty. He didn't know if he could do that.
Then he asked what I thought of Doc's weekend. He'd seen how this free man hated the idea of becoming not just slave but sex slave -- and how much I got off on it. I told him I didn't know, felt confused. He already knew what I liked and what I hated. This hardass thug needed to maintain his free-man honour.
He asked if we had a better life now or in the gladiator stable. Hard question, just like I'd had to admit to Darren that the gladiator life was easier and more fun -- until it went wrong the way it did for him and Mike. Now life just looked like work with no immediate risks but not much future either, like most workin' guys. We were all unskilled, except fighting, and I was the only high-school grad, so we had limited prospects. I just knew I had to keep my guys together, never sell any of 'em off.
Mr Hardwicke had several ideas. First up was the proposition he put before he let Luke remove my weekend collar. I'd need a rig. This classic red Ford F250, Powerstroke diesel, crew cab that seats six, bed long enough to haul gravel and fuck big men. I work for him and it's mine, but work on a contract almost like an indenture. Jon designed that too. Six months gets me the truck with three years prepaid maintenance and insurance -- and 'Steve's Studs' on the doors. I could stay in our place with my guys, going to the slave depot with them every morning, coming back every night to our bare four walls, paying all the bills out of our wages, trying to hold it all together.
Or we could move into his system. He'd arrange for our jobs to stay open. If we moved into his system, the guys' wages would continue but he'd cover all the bills -- just add us to his crew for rent and food and insurance -- and we'd stay and work together and I'd be saving more than twice as much. Either way, we'd give it a tryout for the week. Or we could stay in our barracks this week, just me workin' for him, then move in on the weekend for the second week. After the guys' trial week in his system, I'd get all their wages paid. No regrets if we bailed on Sunday.
I called our building super to leave the guys a note to clean up after work and show at the pickup spot in boots and shorts with their runners and my tawse and cane. They'd eat in Mr Hardwicke's mess hall. It repeated his cell number for any questions. He sent the same message to their contractor.
First he showed me the facilities. The slave barracks had two-man cells that unlocked with a combination (or master control) outside but opened normally from inside -- privacy AND freedom (almost)! There was a main-floor lounge with real furniture, pool tables, even a bar that served a beer each AFTER work and training (our old compound was dry, to make control easier). Mess hall and after-hours snack bar.
He invested in his assets -- the guys. He made sure nothing and no one injured them (us), not even discipline. He trained his crews in a way better gym than the gladiator stable, with a graduate kinesiologist on staff who made and enforced individual programs. Male nurse practitioner. Physio and massage clinic. Pool, running track, intramural sports teams!
Discipline included the cane and tawse we knew too well, but also extra weight sets, laps, or specific training on your own time. No electric prods, no tasers. But the bullwhip and the quirt and the cat or flogger. Canes only work when the guy's in position. The quirt (kinda short braided body, lash like a bullwhip) worked better on moving targets than a cane and hit almost as hard but a little broader, so did less damage; every overseer and trainer carried one, needed less room than a bullwhip. The flogger spread the impact over a wider area than the tawse, way wider than the quirt, so leaves the unhappy guy in better shape to work; it usually hit backs or chests. The tawse stayed to fire the muscles for weights, pullups, or other training, and for some discipline on the butt. Bullwhips for field work and special or serious occasions. But you know, he said, it's about improving and motivating the guys, not hurting them.
Boots stay out in the slave entry -- keep the floors clean. Socks go into a laundry bin, like gladiator uniforms. Get clean ones on the way out.
Lunch in the mess hall -- everybody eats together -- no gladiators' Jason 'free man' bullshit -- good food for hard-workin' men. High protein and fibre, enough carbs and fat for fuel, two kinds of meat or fish, lots of vegies. Take all you want on your one pass through the line, but eat it all. Or ...
He explained why he wanted me and my guys on his team. We were competitors, fighters, guys who did stuff the hard way (how we got enslaved), drove themselves. Your average slave convict got that way by trying shortcuts -- steal rather than earn, abuse rather than earn love, drive drunk rather than sleep it off. We walked and stood tall, worked extra hard every job (like Doc's weekend), competed to work harder. Your average slave convict slumps and slouches, tries to avoid work, even eye contact. Sure, some are butch enough to get into the game, sometimes, but don't take responsibility. Overseers work their quirts and bullwhips to motivate guys that don't motivate themselves.
He wanted to train us up, too. Most slaves wouldn't benefit from skills or trades training. Free apprentices never show up after payday and fuck off to another job when they get their tickets. He'd book an industrial psych (next week) to assess all of us for the best fit -- the interests and aptitudes stuff that got me into Marine Infantry, then Recon. We learn how his crews work -- especially me. He wanted me to move up to overseer (some were slaves) but I'd get assessed for trades too, maybe management, maybe even sales.
But first I learn the business from the ground up, with my guys. Jamie's my lead hand, Luke is Darren's. Darren and I do what they say, when and how they say it. They have the whip hand because they have the experience. Good for my attitude, he says as he pats my butt.
After lunch he gives me the tour -- walk the compound, drive to a couple work sites. He adds that he wants a man like me as a play-partner, too, just as he knows I want one like him or Mr Kraus. We both need another butch alpha male (but he's top dog -- he can sell my contract, maybe even enslave me for breach of contract). He knows that Luke is a bedwarmer and he guesses that I miss Mike. Mr H says he'd like a guy like Mike, so will try to find and buy him. I tell him about Mike and his quarry work and corporate finance and his fear of ending in the mines (food goes down as long as ore comes up, slaves stay down). Mr H knows Mike will be my real partner, and Mr H has a wife and family, so no kinky arrangements.
About Mr Kraus and the other men. Doc used the weekend to repay me, too. He invited men who didn't just watch buff slave guys work and play but who owned or hired them for work. Some had bars and clubs where we could bartend, dance (!), or whatever on our free time; we keep our wages and tips. He traded crews with Mr Kraus, who he knew would enjoy me personally too (for pay), and he'd rotate us through his company. I said we were gladiators, fighters, not hustlers. He reminded me what gladiators do outside the ring, like me with Jon and Ann. You're still a fighter, still a man, just earning an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. And no, he didn't run an escort service, but he did trust a very few guys to freelance.
He trusted us. When we were ready, my guys would get the quick-release collars to enhance their earning capacity.
We ended our tour at the gym. Darren or Doc had told him how Darren and I trained. He made me the 5-km proposition for pullups (winner chooses to flog or fuck). My training paid off. He suggested, subject to my approval, that we go to an empty shop to learn his bullwhip. He showed me how to use it and had me practise, first on a spot on the wall, then on a hanging sheet of newsprint -- lay on, maybe crack just over the hide, never cut. I repaid a dozen pecs and tits, cracking! while he showed distress that I enjoyed. Then a dozen back, same way. Finished with six on the butt (REALLY careful not to wrap those ones). He says his men have to fuck up REAL bad to get 30 like he just took. This'll toughen his rep, build mine, when he leaves his shirt off the rest of the day.
Then us hard guys ran the 10 km in boots. I lost the run and stakes (winner flogs and fucks). I was younger and lighter, and I stayed a bit ahead until the finish, but he mighta got more rest the last three nights. He said I got enough bullwhip on the weekend, for now, but needed to learn the cat and quirt -- front, back, butt. He started easy, sexy, and warmed me up with the flogger, so I could start to zone. Then he went hard, so the hide and the muscles underneath all fired full-time. Same with the quirt, tickle, then hit on the flogged places (and the caned and bullwhipped welts). Not that this hardass enjoys getting flogged and fucked, but it's a trip when a real man does it after a tough workout, when the whole body-mind thing's up for it.
After a cleanup shower, together, me back in my undersize shorts, no shirt, his off too, we stopped by his office to meet Jon, the six-month contract, and the payoffs and risks. I signed. Jon kinda whistled at Mr H's over-bullwhipped hide, slapped tits back butt.
In the mess hall, Mr H handed me off to an overseer, Pete, who introduced me to some of the guys at dinner. Slaves didn't wear shirts in the compound, so everybody could assess their attitude and behaviour that day, especially mine. I'll try this hardass-thug scene for a week.
Mr Hardwicke brought the guys into the mess hall -- his bullwhip tracks got more whistles -- and left them with me and Pete. Darren had a REALLY rough first day -- see that from the cane tracks, including some that Jamie had to give him. Pete showed us our rooms and the combinations, then gave a quick compound tour, especially the lounge, bar, and gym.
The tour ends in the clinic. Mr Hardwicke explains that all his guys are clean. Test time. Give some blood, pee in the bottle, get throat hole piss-slit swabbed. Bad enough. He gives us each a beer while he tells us what's next. Every new guy gets initiated with all the discipline implements, which he hands around. Damn straight we hurt you. But we prove we mean business while you show me and all the staff and slaves that y'all mean business too.
We groan. What have I got us into? The guys give me a bad looks. I glare back -- I'm the free man, dammit, you're MY slaves, and I'm doing this to get us all a better life. They have to agree it looks promising, except for the initiation. We say we'll take it together for each other. We try to remember to breathe and flex, zone if we can. We actually hug, feel our chests (and dicks), and pat our backs and butts (not that hard, dammit!).
So after all the Hardwicke slaves have done their work and training, when the bar's open in the lounge and they're enjoying their beers, Pete walks us in, right up to Mr Hardwicke. He radiates his command and menace. Pete flexes. Some guys whistle. We stand at parade rest (head up, shoulders back, chest out, legs apart, wrists clasped behind back) in the centre of the room, with the guys all round us. We DO look good. (I remember how Mike said guys like any flogging but theirs.) Somebody tears off the old shorts we won't need this week.
Mr H introduces us to the guys. We're gladiators who need to learn to work an HONEST day's HARD labour. The guys yell. We're all violent convicts. I date-raped a woman (well ...) and gaybashed a guy who gave me a ride. Jeers (take what you deserve ...). The guys behind can read my name tattoos and Darren's and Jamie's. Pete says that the guys in front can read them on our dicks, too.
They can also read our behaviour. Luke's the only one whose hide didn't get marked up today. Darren and Jamie got caned. I look like a jigsaw puzzle from Doc's weekend and losing the run. Pete slaps me on my hardass butt while Mr H says that our attitudes will take some improving too. More whistles. Some laughs.
Now it's time to introduce the company to us. A horizontal bar drops from the ceiling to waist level. Mr H swishes and cracks the five implements - cane, tawse, flogger, quirt, and bullwhip. New guys get introduced with six of each, 30 total. But for us hardasses, who already know the cane and tawse real well, we get the six each of them but a dozen of the others, six front, six back, 48 total.
We bend over the waist-level bar and grab our ankles for six each with the tawse on the butt. It's broad enough and heavy enough that it gives mostly thud, but we're very aware, way more than with a trainer in the gym. Pete works the line, one for me, one for Luke, then Jamie, then Darren, then back to me. I hear it hit the other guy, hear him grunt, and feel the bar jerk. I work to breathe and flex and present after each hit. Show the guys who's tough. Build a rep. Build respect. I want leather for me to bite.
The cane starts with Darren's six all at once. Then Pete hands it to him to do the rest of us. He explains that Darren got an unfair load already today as a rookie, and Jamie had to give him some (and get some himself for his coaching), so Darren can make it up on us. Damn! He's way better than I expected, even better than with the tawse, even harder than when he caned me after he won 10ks back in Chapter 1. Each one bites deep, and he does all six on one guy before moving on. He times them for effect, just when the last one sinks in.
Then Darren gets down too while we each get the first six with the quirt on the butt. Rotation again. Damn! I got my own painful quirt intro after the 10 km, but the impact and its sting and thud jolt the guys, especially over the cane and tawse damage. You see why the company favours them. I feel movement and hear lots of growling and heavy breathing. But us hardasses flex, breathe, take it all quietly, knowing we do it for each other, while the other guys must be getting impressed. At least half of them get a great view - and see our dicks extending down our abs.
It feels good to stand, for a minute. The bar rises a bit overhead. Pete says to reach up and out at maybe 45 degrees, elbows straight. We hold on and flex in almost pullups, light on our feet, but we can't hold a pullup that wide. Upper body starts with the flogger or cat, six front - pecs, tits, delts. This spreads more than the tawse and hits softer, less sting. Less intensity, no coverage gaps, deep burn. As I learned after the run, it fires hide and pecs and tits. I do three quick pullups for some relief. Some yells and whistles.
Then the six back. All-over burn. Upper body's prepped. Six pullups this time. More yells and whistles.
Next up, Pete's second six back with the quirt. Sharp! sting and thud, less padding in the traps and lats than in the glutes. Wait your turn. Especially over the cat burn, Pete hits way worse than gym trainers. Trainer's quirt just drives your muscles. This fucks your mind.
Mr Hardwicke, the owner and boss himself, gives the six bullwhips on pecs and tits, popping right on my tit, then Luke's, then Jamie's, then Darren's, then back to mine. Six rounds! (Okay - I took more on the weekend, but hearing and feeling the other guys makes the waiting tougher.) Dicks at full attention, then the six back while I do pullups. Started after each, then before. Six more for the moving target while I hold the flexed position.
We take it for each other, but by now we're zoned (and I'm still high). We know more about the system and how it means business. We showed every Hardwicke bastard that we mean business too. We'll keep learning. At least I will.
Another round of beers for the guys, our second too, while they all come up to meet us. Mostly regular guys, some in awe, some laughing that privileged gladiators would take all that just to train like slave labourers. Some feel my and Darren's soft hands and try their hard ones on our tender dicks. Lots of chest feels and butt- and back-slapping. Pete and Mr H stand by and grin.
Finally they issue us their uniform shorts, which make me feel my abused butt. I get my regular slave steel-toe boots at the slave entry in the morning. No more Marine combat boots here.
Our own cells, starting in mine and Luke's. The guys bitch until I explain the opportunities for all of us. Besides, I'm the slave-owner, remember, and I get it worst. It sounds like we'll stay. Jamie and Darren must have a great night. Luke takes my best throat-fuck, but I miss Mr Hardwicke, Mr Kraus, and Mike.
Then there's my work day tomorrow, under Jamie.