The cell, testosterone time in the barracks. must be near mornin'. Like yesterday. I'm lyin' on my right side again, Luke spoons behind me, right arm around me, his right hand on my left tit, all feels sooo kewl. Luke pushes into my well-worked hide and muscles, his dick pumps my well-worked hole, his right hand works my left tit, he jerks my collar and growls, I shoot when he does. Like yesterday but no whole-body climax this time. Damn. He holds my balls while I lick my spunk. Like yesterday. He resurrects my dick, sits on it, shoots onto me, feeds me his spunk. Like yesterday. Then we get up at the horn, I square the cell away while he holds my balls, and we stand parade rest outside our open cell door, holdin' our shorts. Like yesterday. Me 'n' my slave.

Pete, our overseer, says to shave, buzz body hair, skip the sunscreen spray, wear jocks no shorts, no quirts for Luke and Jamie, and report to the warehouse super after breakfast.

Guys in the showers and mess hall treat us okay. With just the jocks, we get some look, smiles, and butt-slaps. Nobody seems to resent 'the gladiators.'


We wait at parade rest by the loading dock. Luke, on my left, has his right hand on my left cheek, workin' it, workin' the last few days' welts, explorin' the crack a bit. I want to slap his hand (and butt). But I hold my stance, try to ignore the tent in my jock. We don't see the overseer who cracks his quirt over Luke's butt. Luke swears. The next crack must hit his hand, because he jerks it and swears again. Third crack must get his butt. I feel him snap to. 'Parade rest, slave!' 'Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!'

My butt gets bit. 'Parade rest, slave!' 'Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!'

The super is one of Doc's weekend guests, Mr Whitmore, the one who bought me for Sunday afternoon. He explains the no-shorts. 'Why no shorts, men?' I answer, 'Sir! So you can work our butts, Sir.'

'Why work your butts?'

Me again, 'Sir! Because when I'm workin' you don't have my chest, Sir. If I'm lifting or carrying you don't want to hit my back.'

'Right. Why train you with a whip?'

We all answer -- 'That's how a man talks to a slave. Get my attention. Remind me. Motivate me. ...' We all get tit-bit for guessing.

'Reinforce the memory. Steve -- you were Army?'

'Sir! Recon Marine, Sir!'

'How do the Marines build a Marine?'

'They break down a civilian and build a Marine with the pieces, Sir.'

'Right. Does it hurt?'

'Sir! Damn right! You never forget what you learn that hurts, Sir.'

'So why do I work your butt?'

'So I remember what you teach me, Sir.' Tit-bite. 'Right! slave.'

'Sir! Thank you, Sir.' My guys look less slackass.

'Okay. I know. If y'all gotta work supply stuff, you'd rather do the lumber yard, so y'all can play catch with the telephone poles. But the big stuff down there don't get lost. The little stuff, like we keep here, gets lost, goes south. It's better with a slave crew. No pockets to hide fittings in. Nobody takes lunch breaks in his truck 'n' drives out at night with God knows what. But we safeguard these assets too -- not just walkin' assets like y'all.

'Remember your stock-picking yesterday? The computer told you what to get, from where. Then you showed the computer you got it. Not just tick it on the list, but scan its code?'

'Sir! Yes, sir!'

We're standin' at parade rest, wearin' slave chain collar, slave whip marks, red company jockstrap, low-cut slave steel-toed boots. We look buff. I feel normal, proud, even buff 'n' proud gettin' tit-bit and butt-cracked, yellin' 'Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!' Weird, but kewler, tuffer than the gladiator flexing and posing. More like Marines.

With Mr Whitmore and all the work goin' on around us, we don't notice the delivery van pull up, don't notice the two guys nearly back off the dock watching us. We follow the boss's look to a couple out-of-shape slackasses in tan Ace unifiorms. Slackjawed lookin' at us, too.

'Men,' he says, 'meet Ace Plumbing & Electrical. Their job is to deliver what their system says our company ordered to the dock. Our job is to check it against what we ordered, then stow it where the computer says it belongs.'

One of the Ace guys hands him a disc, which he pops into what looks like an iPad. Can't overwrite a disc. I remember the Navy supply system that the Corps used, and I'd done a couple turns as acting supply sergeant in the field. Weapons, ammo, commo gear all got tightly controlled. But our system sure didn't look like this.

The boss shows us the screen lineup -- left-hand column the item description and stock number, then the quantity shipped, the price, the serial numbers included. The right-hand columns match up what we ordered and any differences.

'Okay, men, start with this first carton -- 24 designer light fixtures, ceiling flush mount, LED, integral power supply, remote dimmer, motion detector, send-receive unit, $211.97 each wholesale. Find the carton number ... and scan the number. Then open the carton and unpack it onto this table. Scan the individual box tags.' We did. The system looked happy.

'Now unpack the individual boxes and scan the fixtures.' The system showed 12 errors out of 24, but the fixtures all looked the same.

The boss shows us the differences. 'The ones that don't match are basic lights with motion detectors -- look the same, but $150 cheaper wholesale, each.'

He turns to the Aces. 'Gentlemen, what you delivered doesn't match what we ordered and it doesn't match what your disc says you left your shop with. We're not your only stop this morning. Your van's recorder will show the others. Care to explain the difference? Did it happen in your shop or your van?'

They're dead meat. They look it. They cheated us or their company did. No answers.

Our boss calls their boss, explains that the first item we checked was wrong, asks how. He scowls at the Aces.

'Gentlemen, your company will sort this out when you get back. My men will check the rest of the delivery. For a start, drop your shorts and bend over the counter. Darren, grab the cane under the terminal and give them 12 each, one for each ripoff. Gentlemen, stay down and don't soil my warehouse. You men (to me, Luke, and Jamie), hold 'em tight.'

Darren performs, three well-timed hits for the driver, then three for the swamper, four sets each through the 12. Both guys handle this badly. They yell too much, so all our guys workin' notice. A couple get bit for stoppin'. The driver tries to stand up on his first one, tries to jerk away, tries to kick Darren. He gets a quick extra triple, gets back down. The swamper takes his but loses bladder control. Jamie uses the boss's quirt to hustle their cleanup.

The Aces stand by while we check the rest of the shipment -- all square -- and stow it. Not too many tit-bit or butt-cracked mistakes for us, mostly coordinating with the computer system. I can almost imagine it makes sense.

The tenderassed Aces load their dodgy dozen back into the van. The boss invites them to return with the missing fixtures.

Then he tells us to wait in the break room while he files his report.


Me n the guys haven't really talked much yet. I ask them how this compares with their contractor's job. They say their old job was just work, some kewl guys, some pride doing a tough job well but not always, not enough, boring when it wasn't heavy, except when they got to play grabass (and tried not to get caught and caned). Nothing to look forward to. This is way tougher , weirder, but more fun. Seems like more work gets done, or will when we get through the training. They're learning more -- LOTS to learn. And they never thought or heard about safety except seeing the odd guy hurt and off the job. Barracks beats the warehouse and my cooking. They agree we'll stay on for the six months, then see.

The guys start ribbing me. 'You're right, man. Thanks for showin' us what you wrote so far, but you really do only remember what hurts. Saturday night you stayed SO hard while we flogged and fucked you, and you shot each time we came in you.' Luke laughed, slapped my butt, said 'He still does.' He laughed at my look too.

The guys continue. 'Bet you don't remember cleanin' up your spunk each time neither. The porch light showed your rigid dick explode while THE MAN bullwhipped your chest. Outstanding performance for an old guy -- four times that night!.

'Our initiation -- you don't remember how hard you got when you flexed and did your pullups. You got so into it you didn't notice when you shot. You didn't notice when the boss ended your six extra bullwhip shots by snapping the whip around your bar. You hung on like a cat in a tree. Pete caned your butt to make you let go.'

Right. I don't remember any of this. Until they remind me.

The guys -- MY slaves -- go on. 'The Marines ain't beat your weird Canadian spelling out of you neither.' Right. I was the first guy from my northern hardrock mining town to escape to the US Marines. I really do know how to write AND spell too. Just easier to write like I think. I answer, 'Aah KAY-un tawk Y'ALL, too-oo,' but the King's English still comes easier.


We snap to when the boss enters. He introduces himself, 'Mr Whitmore. Yeah, the guys call us Hard Dick and Whip More.

'Congratulations. The lab results show y'all're clean.

'Y'all must have questions.'

Me first. 'I get off on it it, Sir, but how'd a construction company get so hardass military?'

'Good question. Mr Hardwicke and I met at West Point. Both career Army Airborne, made major, fought in the same kind of places you did. Okay, sometimes we jumped in after Recon. He did more operations, I did logistics. His dad and older brother ran the company. But 10 years ago, Mr Hardwicke's dad and brother got killed in an accident. Healthy lady driving her kid to music lesson. An artery blew out in her brain. Killed her, her daughter, both Hardwickes. Nobody's fault. Our Mr Hardwicke had to take over. It sounded like a great challenge. I joined him.

'It was a solid operation, but the crews looked too much like slaves. Worked that way too. We missed the military sharpness. We thought the guys might take more pride in a sharper outfit. They do. They hustle. Okay, sometimes.

'Our guys put out for us. We put out for our guys. Okay, we sell off any slackass that can't shape up. But we take care of the rest, for life. See anybody wear glasses? No. Laser. Anybody stove up? No. Best medical care. No 'veterinarian.' Y'all met our orthopod on the weekend.

'Notice most guys are whiteboy rednecks, like y'all? In the slave auctions, the brown guys, the Latinos, go first, top dollar. They're the ones that break into the country to work, who work the ugly jobs for zip pay, no benefits. Every owner wants workers like that.

'The black guys go next. Maybe they never had a job. But their grandaddies and grandmamas were fieldhands, sharecroppers, and you worry less about them workin' outdoors.

'You rednecks go last. So you're cheapest. Your folks worked, but like y'all they mostly quit school for some overpaid union job -- until their pay and benefits busted the company, sent the jobs to Mexico or China. Then they never worked again. Okay -- y'ain't all small-town rednecks. In this crew, only Steve is. You three (he flicks his quirt at my guys) were all delinquents from good, big-city families. Broke your daddies' hearts the second time, after your mamas died. Not much prospect for real work from y'all neither.

'So we buy rednecks cheap, shape 'em up, ship 'em out if they don't give back, train 'em up. Put in the sunscreen spray. Our guys live longer and healthier than most free men. Work harder too. Mostly.

'Doc and Jon told us about y'all. We checked you out on doc's weekend. We saw how you get into work. I bought Steve for the afternoon to check him up close. Not just for fun. He passed. Both.

'That's the long answer, sorry, to why we make it military. We're the best company because y'all shape up best, put out best. We can underbid any company that don't throw cheap labour away. Okay, we subcontract some of them. Like the outfit your three guys worked for. Make sense? See why we want you four hardasses?'

We all snap to. 'Sir! Yes, Sir!'


He shows us how things run through the accounting system. (Mike would understand this.) Every piece gets scanned in by barcode or radio id (RFID) chip. 'You notice how the overseers and slaves check into a job site? They walk past a post and wait for a light to flash green, back up if it doesn't. Their RFID chips clock them in and out. We don't cut them a paycheque, like we do Steve for y'all. But we charge them to the job.

'Their id chip also opens their cells for them, logs them into the mess hall and gym, gets them their beers. Just like mine.' He flexes at a reader, turns its light green.

'It sorts out who you are, who you belong to, too. That protects you. Say another outfit fancies you, claims you. The police or slave authorities scan you just like a stray dog. Then they call us. And you're back safe. It ain't no GPS scanner that can track you anywhere, just a little pencil lead between your armpit and your left trap. Beats another tattoo. Leaves the hides more marketable (except for y'all's name tattoos and all the flogging marks).

'All but y'all. You guys we have to key in every time, every place. Y'all are a nuisance just now. But we'll fix that. We'll run through the computer screens, scanning, and records for a bit, then break early for lunch.

'First stop on your lunch break is the clinic for your chips. We register Steve as our property, y'all as his property.'

The guys give me the quick snakeye. I ignore them. 'Sir! Yes, Sir!'

So we get id'd, then break before lunch. The work isn't physically hard (the way I like it), but it's intense and I need a break. I check the guys one last time. We stay.

After lunch, we make our own system entries with our new chips. Then we scan & stow the goods. We nailed all the entries. Darren got the only buttbite for turning a box wrong way on the shelf, so the barcode didn't show. We pull some orders, stack them on a pallet, score it all for the computer, wrap it with that plastic film. We use a hand forklift to raise and stow our pallet in its van. The driver signs off. Mr Whitmore slaps me on the butt. We pull and load another pallet. All clear but the buttslaps. 'Well done, men.'

We're proud of a man's job well done. 'Sir! Thank you, Sir!'

'Sir! We're staying on, Sir!'

'Great, men! VERY happy to have you on board.

'Darren Jamie Luke, you guys clock into running group B to the left of the slave entry, no shorts, then clean up for dinner and hit the gym afterwards.'

More snakeyes. 'Sir! Yes, Sir!' They're learning.

'Steve, you report direct to Mr Hardwicke's office. No shorts. Use the office entry, not the slave one.'

'Sir! Yes, Sir!'

Our new chips clock us out of the warehouse.


I report to Mr Hardwicke's office -- knock, enter, stand to attention, wait till he speaks. Good thing Marines don't salute indoors uncovered or I'd have saluted him. Answer, 'Sir! Yes, Sir! We stay, Sir!.'

He 'invites' me on a run, usual 10k stakes -- flog and fuck. Just what I need after a day hustling small items all over the warehouse. He says he'll help. The quirt. That's why no shorts here neither. He says he'll fuck me in his office, then make me a floorshow for my whipping. I'm pretty marked up already, so Just six cane, than bullwhip, six front, six back.

'Sir! Yes, Sir! But what if I win, Sir?'

I won't. He can't be a floorshow. I flog him here before I fuck him. But he leaves his shirt off to eat with me and train with me.

I know what he wants, 'helping' me with his quirt. He'll burn me out early. But I take the challenge. His quirt will energize me. So does the payoff I see. Damn! The run huts, my lungs hurt, the quirt hurts, my back and butt hurt, and I'm tired. I use the pain. I let him keep me JUST ahead. One last buttbite gives me the spurt to finish ahead. 'Sir! Thank you, SIR!'

Back in his office, we don't shower yet. He holds his ankles. Damn! Sweet to nail THE MAN this way. I cane well. Time 'em so each one hits just after the pain from the last one. He counts each one. 'One!' I strike again, 'One what, boy?' 'One, Sir!'

We stand him in a wide doorway. I pop the bullwhip better, just off his hide. Front six first, one, let each one sink in. Then his back six. I make EACH ONE count. Not enough! But we'll play again, when he 'asks' me.

I'm PUMPED. So's the man.

I take him doggy style. I slap his butt and hole till he opens for me. I press hard on his flogged butt and back (like Luke on mine). Too bad he has no collar for me to grab (like mine). So I use his balls from the front. I enter hard. Reenter hard. I pump harder. He shoots with me. I hold his balls while he eats his spunk. Like Luke.

We shower together. Jocks. Shorts, my first today. Too bad his cane tracks don't show below. No shirts, like the man said. I'll ENJOY dinner and the gym. Doubt the boss will. Good for his attitude. Good for the men's morale to see the boss puts out too. (Wish they knew I fucked him.) Next time he's a floorshow (in my dreams). Jason, gladiator stud, gladiator bully -- he never played fair like this.


PAYOFF! The two of us at dinner get some looks, respectful whistles. Only Mr Whitmore slaps Mr Hardwicke on the back and butt. Guys grin at me. I stay cool.

We clock our chips into the gym. The trainer grins at Mr Hardwicke while he puts us through my muscle-endurance workout. The man's good. He shakes my hand. We shower. Clean jocks and shorts.

He walks into the lounge with me and acknowledges the cheers and whistles. We'll all work WAY harder for him tomorrow.

Now if I can keep Luke out of me tonight.


Ward 604 842 0780



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