Rebuilding a Gladiator

by Wolf

15 Jan 2018 493 readers Score 9.6 (15 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


Wow! This afternoon I get married, I, uh, connect with three of my four masters, I get some gigs and a new playmate, I FaceTime the warlord that owns me, the owners and Boss Henry tell us how Hardwicke Co turned hardass, and we start gladiator training.

Mike tells me I remember what guys did, especially to me, better than what anybody said because my Marine muscle head uses muscle memory. No pain, no memory. That makes these last couple chapters — mostly what got said — way harder to remember and write. Mike says I’ll get better, produce quicker. He’ll help. Like the cane n blacksnake that got me into the chair to write this.

============

WHERE WE LEFT OFF IN 13

Even in a mess hall half-full of mostly naked construction studs, me n Mike (he wants me to write, Mike and I) get whistles in our gladiator straps — more thong or tanga, like a bodybuilder’s posing strap, than bikini, with an uplift loop in the pouch around the balls and dick. Mike’s a heavyweight gladiator, 6′3″ 230 lb, I’m just over middleweight, 6′ 190 lb, both solid, tapered muscle. Then too, even for slaves our hides look abused. Mike has 11 blacksnake cuts from last night’s competitive initiation; l have 12 from that plus a half-dozen from yesterday morning and a couple dozen from this morning, not to mention yesterday morning’s bullwhip (Chapter 11). And both our butts must glow purple from gettin caned by our guys this mornin, then strapped in a blowjob race (Chapter 13).

Just before we walked in, Mike proposed by blacksnake, blacksnake broke me, as my fiance and master. Cold shower could’ve lasted longer. Deodorant, sunscreen. Clean glad straps. Little head still shows interest. Mirror shows I look like a hamburger jigsaw. Walk into the mess hall. LOTS more looks, whistles, hands-on attention to all our blacksnake stripes, uplifted pouches, caned, strapped glutes, plus the tanned, toned muscles underneath.

Keep a straight face; look straight ahead. Get our trays through the line. Find the table with the owners, lawyer Jon, n my four guys. Plus overseer Pete and Dr Shrink (from this morning’s testing and career counselling).

============

INTRODUCING THE BLACKSNAKED BRIDE

All our crew — slaves, owners, attorney Jon, Dr Shrink (from our career testing that included dick-monitoring) — stand up to welcome me n Mike (Mike and me). Our four guys — my 23-year-old lifers Jamie n Darren, their 18-year-old indentured kid brothers Luke n Demon — know we’ve been practising their initiation events tonight, but they eye my latest stripes. Mike says I’ve just made him the happiest man in the world by accepting his proposal to marry him. Jon, the owners, and our guys all wrap around us. Hug, squeeze, swat, pinch. Congratulate us. Dr Shrink stands back but smiles.

I should reintroduce our owners. Hardwicke Co’s Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore own Mike. Mr Kraus, who owns Kraus Co, owns me. I own Darren and Jamie outright and their brothers by indenture. That is, my offshore trust owns them. Mr DD, Demon and Darren’s dad, and Mr JL, Jamie and Luke’s dad are both directors too. (Chapter 12).

Jamie asks Mike if he gave me a ring. 13! The dozen y’all see plus one that y’all don’t (the titanium ball ring). The dozen they see are wraparound blacksnake welts; actually another pair too. Guys laugh, squeeze, swat, pinch.

Congratulations, you two studs, Mr Hardwicke says real proud. Private ceremony just for us, between gladiator practice and dinner.

Mr Whitmore asks if me n Mike want to wear shorts and overseer muscle shirts to help initiate the guys tonight. Mike says I need to show my stud stripes; besides, the Hardwicke guys expect to see what our initiation did last night. Everybody else laughs. I blush. Maybe as red as the welts.
============

CAREER COMMITMENTS

All of us except head overseer Pete, who Mr Whitmore said had his regular work, meet back in the office. Dr Shrink stands by the monitor, goes over all the results. (Chapter 13) Team profile. Gladiator suitability. Blaster suitability. That we’ll all train and qualify as master blasters in about six months between this company boot camp and the guys’ school term next fall.

The team profile impresses all us guys. This morning maybe I didn’t understand it the way I do when all the guys talk about it. Nobody’d ever told me I was brighter than three out of four other dudes — top quarter or 25% ranked by aptitude. Always just heard that I had to sit still and talk better (French at school, English in the Marines and now with Mike). Mike says this score validated me, but his top 10% still dominates my top 25%. Jamie and Luke got validated too, top quarter like me. Darren and Demon kinda smile at their top of the lower 50%.

The guys all got their results private from Dr Shrink before lunch, while Boss Henry’s bullwhip drove the owners through an easy run, Pete’s bullwhip drove Jon and Mr Kraus through a hard one (Jon won), and Mike’s blacksnake was proposing to me after a short, easy run.

The guys talked with their dads before me n Mike came down. Getting to become an architect thrills Luke. The architecture tech, estimator or engineer tech, eventual OVERseer really turns Jamie on because he’ll design kewl stuff, natural overseer who’ll drive other dudes to build it.

Their dad, Mr JL, says a 12-year contract is worth it, and he’s very grateful to Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore. He’ll work out with Jon how he can contribute to their tuition and books without messing up the ownership percentages. Start with what the gladiator stable paid him for Jamie when he had to sell his firstborn (but at least the County let him do it without convicting Jamie, and let the dad get the money).

Demon, Darren, and their dad, Mr DD, all look forward to the stud meatheads (Mr DD’s words) as bricklayers, masons. Demon will extend for the 12 years.

Jon sums up what could happen after the 12 years, too (Chapter 13). Demon and Luke eye the big brothers that they may end up owning. Or all four might get free plus Mike, so I’d be the only lifer. Mike my trustee as well as my husband, my whip hand, my master. Mike holds my thigh real tight, real possessive, like my husband, my whip hand, my master, my next trustee. Unless we go to that place in the mountains with my warlord.

============

JON’S COMING OUT

After their bullwhip-motivated runs, Jon and the owners look great, especially for older free men, in their gladiator straps. 23-year-old overseer Pete’s back shows a dozen fresh bullwhip cuts, so he looks kinda like I feel. This comes from their three-way match, when overseer Pete drove 38-year-old attorney Jon and my 38-year-old black owner, Mr Kraus, with a bullwhip. Jon came first, so he beat Pete in the run and after, then fucked him. Mr Kraus finished second, fucked Pete too.

Jon looks like a misbehaving hardass slave with yesterday’s 12 bullwhip cuts on his naked torso (he took half what I should have gotten, then got over-endorphined and got the lashes doubled) plus six cane cuts like me (Chapter 11), then 10 cane cuts from the owners (Chapter 12). The owners show a few bullwhip tracks each, random patterns, meanin Boss Henry motivated their runs. They got what Mr Hardwicke calls phase one of a gladiator-owners’ orientation. Before today’s two gladiator practices.

Mr Hardwicke says the men met Dr Shrink, and he went over the test results with each one, but they still need to talk with their owners — their dads.

We sit down. Jon sits down carefully. He’s not used to getting caned, and the gladiator strap leaves his caned glutes directly on the wood bench.

I ask him how crew practice went. He blushes but laughs. He had to wear yesterday’s slave collar until the owners changed out of their suits just now. Pete didn’t leave the tool to open it when he drove Jon and Anne home last night — or Anne didn’t want to use it. Anne is Pete’s sister; she’s carrying the son I impregnated her with after her body twice rejected Jon’s offspring.

So Jon wore yesterday’s slave collar to his eight-lawyer-plus-lawyer-cox crew practice. He wore a warmup suit to drive there, collar up, so nobody noticed. But his slave collar, bullwhip tracks, and cane cuts cracked up the locker room. All the crews, not just his. He tried to explain that he represents a gladiator team, which is true, and that he got oriented, which isn’t quite. He started to take half of what the slave barracks wanted to give me, like I said, but got overendorphined and wound up matchin my 12 bullwhip lashes and six cane cuts.

The cox recognized him as the naked slave who took a dozen bullwhip cuts next to me, holding a pullup position, in yesterday’s Slave Steve’s Greatest Hits.

His crew made him row in just a thong, not shorts, and no shirt. (No two-strap jock because you want no strap between the working part of the butt and the seat.) They made Jon stroke, sit facing the cox so the cox could snap his chest with a belt. The guy behind him said Jon inspired him, and he thought Jon’s caned glutes made Jon sit better on the wood bench. They want him back like that every day, with a proper whip for the cox. Jon wants to dress more lawyerly. His team say they’ll, uh, see.

He wants me, Mike, Darren, and Pete in the boat for the lawyer-client regatta. Says we’ll wear gladiator straps.

Mr Whitmore asks Jon if he thought his crew buddies might sign up for weekend warriors, train like gladiators with gladiators. He agrees straight up. Rowing crew is physically demanding, physically competitive.

============

NO HEAD SHOTS

Mr Hardwicke says the other men might wonder why they’d invest so much in gladiators, guys who’re gonna fight, when most gladiators end up punch drunk, useless, under bridges or down mines. Most gladiators end their fighting careers from getting knocked out, concussed, too often.

Did he mention yesterday that Hardwicke gladiators won’t take head shots or give them? When their regular guys fight, company policy has always prohibited head shots and punished it severely, way heavier than just fighting.

The companies that they’re talking with about a gladiator league agree because they want to keep their workers working too. They expect our working-stud crews to draw enough, sell enough tickets and ads and TV and pay-per-view time, that the gladiator stables will agree to get our guys into their stadiums on our rules.

So what if a guy hits a man’s head anyway? Three obvious consequences: forfeit, get flogged, get kicked in the nuts while he holds his protector cup in his teeth. Unavoidable accident, shake hands and fight on. If the hit’s an avoidable accident and the other guy gets up and checks out okay, just the kick, to even the rest of the match. If the hit’s intentional and the other guy can go on, kick plus flogging. Match end means forfeit plus kick plus flogging.

So we’ll have no-headshot fights. Our dudes are fucked up enough as they are. Slaps my blacksnaked back.

============

INKFREE ZONE

Mr Hardwicke asks if I mind if they erase my dudes’ slave-number tattoos but leave their gladiator name tattoos on left shoulders front n back plus dick. Laser this Friday. Their left delts will be a little tender for a couple days.

Sir! No Sir!

He says Hardwicke Co’s been an inkfree zone since his dad’s time, except for any small service tattoos like a couple Eagle, ball, & anchor of the (Marine) Corps. Everything else goes — tropical sunsets, gang IDs, manga stories, Disney characters, ex-girlfriends or boyfriends, bad-dude shit like Fuck off on one dude’s forehead. Boss Henry?

Sir! Until your granddad retired and your dad took over as president and made me head overseer, we ran kinda like a turn-of-the-century civilian prison. Dudes organized by gangs, tribes. Baddest bastards were overseers because they scared every other dude into line, kinda. That made it quiet for the owners but not very efficient or effective. The overseers’ least favourite dudes worked too much; got scared too much; got abused too much. Their favourite fuck buddies slacked too much. All this shit made it hard for a man to care about his work, hard to take pride in it, hard to take pride in the company he belonged to. Men need to belong to what they’re proud of.

But your dad, Sir, wanted it run more like what he learned in the University of Alabama business school, the same one he let me graduate from — and more like the Army Airborne you and Mr Whitmore served as majors. We broke the gang culture by removing all the gang tattoos, plus all the rest. The skin sore after lasers boiled out the ink got the men’s attention. For a while. No ink makes lash marks show better, too. Dudes take pride in their shape, stand taller.

I talked private, confidential, with every man. I fought, flogged, and fucked every overseer, every lead hand. Six-four, 250-lb ex-all-Southeast Conference defensive linemen helped. So did coming from outside the jail-gang culture. Demoted the overseers, lead hands that knew intimidation but not construction. Sold the worst as experienced construction overseers, experienced construction lead hands to outfits that still ran that way.

Bonus was our trademark fit, tanned, barechested workforce. Proud prime beef do prime jobs.

============

HARDASS CREW, HARDASS OWNERS

Mr DD and Mr JL, the outside owners, ask how Hardwicke Co got so hardass military. So does Mr Kraus, my owner, who owns his own construction company. (I asked this our first morning — Chapter 4.)

Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, his co-owner, look at each other, shrug, ask Boss Henry to explain. Boss Henry’s the head overseer, sergeant-major. He’s my other master in the company (Chapter 10). He’s Mr Hardwicke’s and Mr Whitmore’s master too (Chapter 13).

Boss Henry tells us about a new slave’s traditional initiation, pretty much like what Mr Kraus described this morning (Chapter 13). The slave started at the slave bureau, where he gets oriented with cane, strap, tawse, flogger, and bullwhip. Probably S-branded, slave-number tattooed. Shoot for the lab. Get skinned or circumcised if he wasnt already. Then the naked cage ride to his new home. For life. Becoming a slave punishes him, like his future life. The new slave ended up here the way losers used to go to jail.

Here at the company, unload the naked loser. The head overseer and the new dude’s crew chief used to stand the flogged, sore-brand, sore-dick bastard up in the mess hall, flip a coin. In Kraus Co, it’s Mr Kraus and the head overseer. Heads bullwhips, then facefucks while tails canes, then buttfucks. That’s the part the other guys see.

Then the head overseer used to take the naked dude to another room, blindfold him, and put him on his knees with all the overseers standing around him. Maybe lead hands, senior slaves too. Naked blindfolded dude gets tawsed from one dick to the next, sucks em all, maybe gets fucked and caned or flogged. This shows the dude he’s a worthless cocksucker. Might make him easier to manage. But it didn’t build a proud hardass construction stud.

That’s pretty much how Mr Hardwicke’s grandfather got me here for my initiation from the Greyhound, Boss Henry said. My full premium orientation including the 12 bullwhip lashes plus the lifer’s brand, number tattoo, and dickskinning. No blacksnake stop, though, and I already had my number chip.

Boss Henry ran the company after Mr Hardwicke’s father and brother got killed by that drunk dumptruck driver, while Major Hardwicke and Major Whitmore were deployed with their US Army 82nd Airborne, until they could get back to Ft Bragg, get discharged — and get oriented. Major Hardwicke commanded a combat infantry battalion. He recruited Major Whitmore, brigade logistics officer, as half-owner to help run Hardwicke Co. Wearing suits, shades, and cowboy hats against the sun, they visited the company with some random dudes, like visiting Chamber of Commerce types, maybe prospective customers.

Boss Henry explains that Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, the new owners, believed they should experience what their men did, the way Army officers did. Especially Airborne officers. The new owners told Boss Henry to show them the operation from the bottom up. That’s how the six-month bootcamp started, rotating the new dudes through all the operations to see where they’d fit.

For the story that Boss Henry picked them up in ratty jeans and t-shirts (that they still like to wear) at the Greyhound station and took them for beer and barbecue. Then he drove them to Slaves R Us and the back room, where random men learn blacksnaking by practising on random naked dudes.

Two buff Army Airborne dudes, Tom (Hardwicke) & Jerry (Whitmore), made prime targets. They learned for sure that Boss Henry’s the top blacksnaker, and they collected the stripes that made the Hardwicke men believe Tom & Jerry were indeed two hardasses the Army wanted smartened up in the baddest indenture.

When they looked well tenderized, the staff stuffed em back into their cages to ride to the slave bureau for processing. They used their real fingerprints, eye retina scans, and Social Security numbers but not their full names. They were already skinned, from West Point, and no brand, no number tattoo. But they got their number chips. Plus the premium orientation — 12 cane, 12 tawse, 12 strap, 12 flogger — instead of just the basic six. The blacksnake welts showed they understood the bullwhip, so they skipped bullwhip, there. They shot for the lab too.

After the naked cage ride here, Tom and Jerry looked rougher than the buggers that got the full bureau process. They looked right sorry. And they felt like they looked. They got introduced to the company with the traditional initiation as lowlife cocksuckers. One of Boss Henry and Boss Big Dog bullwhipped and facefucked, and the other caned and buttfucked.

Then those two overseers blindfolded the newbies and put them on their knees in a room where the other overseers and lead hands tawsed them from man to man to feed them dick. This showed the new men that they were worthless except as cocksuckers. They weren’t construction studs.

The morning after their slave-bureau orientation and first company initiation, Boss Henry still marvelled, Mr Hardwicke told me to set up the initiation like y’all’s (Chapter 3). Cane tawse quirt flogger bullwhip, six each, to show the new dudes that the company and its men mean business, to show them that the new dudes mean business. That mostly duplicated what the slave bureau did to the incognito owners the day before.

Now we orient the dude here first, like Darren, Jamie, Luke, and Steve got their first night (Chapter 3). Register at the slave bureau the next day, like Steve did (Chapter 9). Most men get the strap there too, the way Steve did, because we don’t usually use it. Shoot-for-lab, get skinned. Usually no brand or number tattoo, as Mr Hardwicke explained earlier.

============

JUST THE TWO OF US

Mr Whitmore says the men and their owners (dads) need to talk. So me n Mike (Mike and I) should go break in our new cell. Next to Pete’s, our names on the door. Gladiator straps (thongs) off, stay here; hot lube on.

Mike’s titanium ring around my ballsac stays here. His thumbprint opens it. It’s light, smooth. I’d almost forgotten except for a dull ache now it’s off. Wow! Balls miss it.

Boss says, stay close on the way — Mike hugs, squeezes my left shoulder (he’s 6′3″ to my 6′); I hug, squeeze his right glute. Smile at the dudes that smile or whatever at the two well-whipped horny naked studs. Shrug, say Gladiators if anyone asks. Talk only about why and how you want the other guy to fuck you.

Mike says he wants it lyin on his back so he can see me, see the face he loves, and work my trained, blacksnaked shoulders pecs tits. I show him I’m stud enough to own my stud husband and master. (My offshore trust will own Mike after my first five years hard labour with Hardwicke Co). Show his hole my dick’s stud enough to ream him right. Man enough to cane his cold pussy hot enough for my hot stud dick. Okay ... This is the husband and master who just broke me with the blacksnake our owners gave us

I say I want the full-nelson fuck so I can feel his strength, feel his bullwhipped chest on my bullwhipped, blacksnaked back, feel his voice. And if there’s a mirror ...

Flex our RFID chips into our new cell. Stand to face each other. Your hands on his shoulders. Your eyes on his eyes. First dick up, fucks.

One more time, I win. Or Mike lets me. Or my dick wins because I need to fuck my new blacksnakin master more than he needs to fuck me. This time. We have to stay competitive, even though he’s my bigger, stronger, older whip hand who may become trustee of the BVI trust that owns and my men . We’d both hate me if he won everything, every day. Try to forget that he may have let me win.

He stretches n flexes on his back. I stand on his right side. His flex, his look stiffen my rigid dick. He crosses his ankles, hauls em way overhead, flexes his cold-pussy hamstrings n glutes. His 20 cane cuts this morning from us five guys, plus the strap from our blowjob contest (Chapter 13) leave his ass looking real ugly. I swat, hard, pinch, hard. He smiles. I step over to grab the tawse instead of the cane, step back, flex, snap, practise ranging swings. His free right hand takes my balls, pulls me closer. I adjust my stance and rangin swings. He says, Don’t pussy me, draws n flexes hamstrings n glutes. My hot lube gets hotter.

My tawse surprises him, damn near splits him open. I said CANE, boy!

Sir! I’m protecting my valuable property, the earning power of whose ass I don’t want damaged. It’s fired enough now that just my hand, like THIS! (HARD!), should fire YOU. But if this TAWSE don’t get you hard enough, hot enough for my stud dick, in 24 cuts, cane it is. Sir! (as the tawse lands along cane tracks midglute)

Mike makes one of his evil grins. Boy! If your pussy tawse don’t get me off, your pussy ass gets the cane for real.

He grins, compresses my two balls to the size of one real sharp. I pivot around the balls to land a shot that makes him twitch. He holds the balls real solid but sexy. I tell him, count hits till he shoots. Not quite one, Sir, he grins. Tighter on my balls. Sharper, on the tawse. Each stroke, but mixed with some brainfucking handwork on and around. Swing! Bite!

Damn! I’m into this, both heads n every muscle. When I caned Darren in training, that was work, not fun. Hurtin people don’t turn this Recon Marine on. Protectin em does. When I nailed Mike n Demon their four cane cuts this morning, Mike had to provoke me into abusing him. I tawse damn hard. Mike shoots. I rub him nice, snap him another six. Hurts more after shooting. He breathes hard, says, Sir! Ready, Sir! Kewl to hear him call me Sir. Kewl I got him off doing what he needed, not what he said.

Good stud! I mount, drive in. Punishment fuck but with hot lube. He wraps his knees over my shoulders, around my leather neck. Squeezes there in time with his hand that’s moved onto my glute, off my balls. This is how I like to drive.

Wow! I feel connected. Partly because we connect physically, me in him, his strong shaped legs over my strong shaped shoulders, his hands on my tits, pecs, shoulders, my hands on his massive chest n shoulders n biceps. We don’t talk much but we sure communicate. Don’t look much in the mirror, don’t need to.

The man of my dreams is on my happy dick. His strong pecs are in my hands. I zone. I feel safe, secure — the way I never did in my Recon Marine deployments, the way I never did in the Philips Fuckers & Fighters gladiator stable.

Mike rips off my tits (damn near). Eh, BAW-EY! I ain’t no SQUEEEEZE toy. This ain’t how no stud slave ramrods his stud master, BAW-EY.

Fuck! Sir! Yes, Sir! Pull out, head above sphincter. Deep breath. Use his tit rip to drive deep, hard, WAY inside. Again. Again. If his hole feels like my dick, he’s ramrodded now.

That all you got, pussyboy? My tits yell goodbye.

Sir! No, Sir! Out. SLAM in and down. Slam his hand onto my balls too. Didn’t notice when that hand moved.

That all you got, pussyboy? My tits yell goodbye.

Sir! No, Sir! Out. SLAM in and down. Slam my balls. Mike twists his face, head. MAYBE I score. Sir! One, Sir! About fuckin time, Sir! Harder. Sir! Two, Sir.DRIVE with everything from ankles to ears. Dick maybe don’t enjoy it. Sir! Three, Sir! He shoots again.

I score. What a frag (whole-body orgasm). I collapse onto him, my mouth onto his. His legs slide off my shoulders; his hand releases the balls and traces my chest muscles up before it and the arm wrap me; my dick eases out of his ass.

When we can talk, he says when he got picked up from the quarry where our old Phillips Fuckers & Fighters gladiator stable disposed of him, he rode a slave cage what felt like all day through the mountains to our local Slaves R Us for blacksnake training with attorney Jon, overseer Pete. He recognized Jon from when Jon n Anne had me n Mike fight back at the gladiator stables. (The winner (me) fucked Anne, became the father of their son, then fucked Jon. What Jon explained in his cage ride with me yesterday morning, after he got bullwhipped with me at the slave barracks. Chapter 11. Y’all see why I have to work to write this out.)

First thing Mike asked Jon wasn’t about himself, his cage ride, or where he was or why. He asked Jon, how’s the fucked-up hardass (me) he didn’t know he loved until I was gone.

Mike asks if I know what we’ll do in our cell. I say fuck, maybe sleep. Mike laughs, twists a tit, asks what else. I look at the pullup bar on the wall, the one across the room, dip handles, weight bench, say we’ll train too. He’ll train me. He grins, nods at the rack for our whips and other implements, twists the tits the other way, asks me what HE’LL do. I say he’ll master me. That means flog and fuck.

And what else? he grins. What about the two-man desk on the far wall?

Okay. He’ll fuck me over it? Right, stud. What else? Remember we work there too? What do you (me) have to write? Okay, these stories that he’ll motivate me for. Then they sprung me

What about studying for the master-blaster and millwright-apprentice? Right.

And you’ll help tutor our guys and other Hardwick studs in the math parts of their GEDs (high-school equivalents) and apprentice and college courses.

Fuck! I hope I don’t look, sound as dumb as I feel. Me? Tutor dudes? In math?

Damn straight, stud! Remember our aptitude test results this morning? Just remember to use English, even if it’s redneck Marine English, just not Canadian backwoods French. He’s got me puffed.

He asks what I want from him. I say his strength (makes me feel safe, proud, horny). He asks what else. I say his respect. He nods, says damn straight. What else?

Sir! I hope your love, Sir! He nods, says Damn straight. What else? Boy!

I blush for the hundredth time today. Sir! Your whip and your dick, Sir!

Why, stud?

Sir! Because they help you master me, help me know you master me, make me remember my master when I feel em later, make me feel strong, make me feel safe. Even loved. Sir! Fuck! This ain’t no Recon Marine, like I’d always wanted to be, like I was for 10 years. Not even a gladiator, like I was for almost five years. Still learning who I am now. What I am.

Mike pulls me down into a hug, looks me in the eyes, knows what I’m thinking. Steve, you’re the toughest, strongest, most competitive, hardest-assed, and hardest-headed stud ever. I’m DAMN proud you’re my stud. When we hit the gladiator circuit, the Marines will be as proud as I am. Damn! Hard again.

Then he stumps me again. Question. When you and I do our full-nelson fuck and flog, who fucks you, who flogs? Don’t say I’m the boss so I decide. I need to know who’ll turn you on.

Sir! YOU fuck me, please, so I feel your strength. With a mirror so I can SEE your strength too. Darren would flog me okay, like a job. Demon would get off on it more but he’s smaller than me, don’t (doesn’t) have a history with me, don’t have to compete with me. Luke would blacksnake me, do it well enough, as part of taking care of me, relating to me. Jamie would do me best. He needs to outcompete me. (Fuck. Pole grows when I say this.) Jamie would give his left nut to blacksnake me into next week. When can we get him qualified, Sir?

Mike says they’ll qualify Jamie and a spare, but Jamie’s my man. Jamie’s my whip hand for playtimes. Wish this didn’t make me harder.

Let’s practise, stud. Face me under the bar. Grab it palms to me (that opens the pecs for him), pull up and hold it, close your eyes and keep them shut. Zone on my voice.

I wish this didn’t turn on both heads and everything between. Sir! Yes, Sir!

Count em, stud! Tell me where they hit, where they hurt. Shoot on six.

Brace, boy! Blacksnake whines, snaps to my left. It doesn’t hit me, but it jolts me as though I feel it. Sir! One, Sir! It hovered left shoulder to right tit, then snapped n bit, Sir!

Brace, boy! Blacksnake whines, snaps to my right. Sir! Two, Sir! Right shoulder, right pec, left tit, Sir!

Three more. I flex, feel, bark. I feel number five wrap left pec, left tit, right tit, right pec,

Brace, boy! Number six. Blacksnake whines, snaps to my right. Sir! Six, Sir! Right shoulder, right pec, left tit, Sir! I shot when he said to.

Mike says keep my eyes closed, keep hanging on. I hear the whip drop. Then he wraps around me, pulls me down, my tapered muscular chest to his massive one, three inches longer than mine. My dick next to his, mine through his thighs, his through mine. (Our legs and arms are the same length, so we fit to full-nelson-fuck, but he’s three inches taller than me.) Damn! Just his holding me like this feels awesome, keeps me hard. I work not to get my dick off between his thighs.

He says I need Jon to reprogram me so when someone’s persuading me I don’t have to hold out for six lashes before I shoot, say yes. Mike and the owners can blacksnake up to 36 lashes me to persuade me to agree to something. Jon says not to agree before six,

Sir! Six is the lowest number to persuade me, Sir. Three and five are odd numbers so I couldn’t take fore n aft. Four’s unlucky, sounds like death in Chinese and Japanese. Why condo towers in Vancouver and Toronto go from floor 3 to 5, floor 13 to 15. And I can’t just always say yes, Sir! Damn! Makes me harder.

Seems like forever but too soon when the intercom calls us to shower. Mike rubs me hard but says don’t shoot. Grab clean gladstraps and hit the office. Maybe I glow: the dudes we pass grin.

==================

ALL THE WHIPS N DICKS MAKE ME FEEL SAFE

Mike says the owners, overseers, and our crew need to hear why I feel safe, when every dick, every whip has my name on it.

Sirs! No random dude has me in his rifle sight. Especially while his buddy does something to a woman or kid that I’ll try to stop. No random dude fingers his cell phone while he watches me walk past the North Korean antitank mine that he’s buried in camelshit. Like what I lived with, lived through for 10 years Recon Marine.

And nobody will throw me away, like the Recon Marines did me, like the gladiators did Mike and Darren.

Y’all have taught me that y’all’s whips n dicks are tests of manhood that won’t kill me. Won’t cripple me. Just make me belong.

Like I told Boss Henry, I don’t WANT your whip (unless I’m endorphin buzzed). I don’t want your dick (unless I’m endorphin buzzed). But whoever’s man enough to give em to me, I’m proud to take em.

Fuck! I hope this makes sense, Sirs. Besides, Mike will marry me and y’all are investing in me — fight me as a gladiator, hire me out for stud service, train me for driller n blaster, train me for millwright, work me DAMN hard. Make me stronger. Make me hornier. Y’all will protect me to protect my earning capacity. I’m still learning. I’m proud that studs like y’all want to own me, Sirs. This makes me harder while I blush. Fuck!

==================

JON & ME NXXXT

Mr Hardwicke says the owners need to talk with Mike about his hard-labour career in banking or construction management (Chapter 13). Jon and I make the same walk, same session, that Mike and I did. Fresh hot lube, balls dicks holes. Wear nothing else.

Jon mastered me Saturday — he fucked and whipped me after he outran me. But he became my master, the first man I belong to, when showed he committed to me by getting bullwhipped with me at the slave barracks (Chapter 11), like I said. (Mike says, as I said.)

Jon holds me real tight, even tighter than Mike, says he envies Mike. Says he wants me to fuck him on his back, like Mike said, so he can see and feel my strength. I say I want his full-nelson fuck, like I told Mike, so I can feel his strength all around me, feel his bullwhipped chest muscle on my bullwhipped, blacksnaked back muscle, feel his strong rower’s body dominating and supporting mine, feel his love and his strength up my ass, plus I can watch all this in the mirror.

Jon’s dick wins, like the way mine wanted. He’s 6′2″ to my 6′, bigger, stronger, five years older. Plus he sprang me from the gladiators, got me Jamie, helped me buy Darren, planned out my new slave life, to protect me (Chapter 9. Fuck!). His full-nelson fuck holds me close, makes me feel safe, just like Mike’s did when he held me to get blacksnaked this morning (Chapter 13). Jon’s expert dick takes us both away, the way he moves me on it. His muscle all looks as awesome in the mirror as it feels, when we look. One more frag, full-body climax. Together.

Jon asks if I miss the blacksnake. Damn! I do, at least in the full-nelson fuck. He works my pecs n tits hard instead.

Jon wants his turn too. Yes, SIR! On his back with his strong rower’s legs on my strong slave traps rhomboids lats, hands on my pecs tits delts arms. He feels as awesome on my dick, under me, as he looks. GREAT fuck but no frag.

Still holding me tight with me in him and on top, he asks, You know what’s going down? You understand it? He was a psych major before he was a lawyer. I ease in and out, maybe to help me think, mostly because he feels good, looks good on my dick.

Sir! Not really. I know you have me in a slave system — lifetime indenture to my offshore trust that sells the rights to me through a Delaware corporation. Steve’s Studs Inc. I own 40% — enough to block any change until I get blacksnaked enough to agree. Hardwicke Co owns me n my guys for at least the next 12 years. Mr Kraus, my black owner, leases the rights to me (Chapter 12). I do hard labour under the lash, which I’ll love. Mike will marry me, master me, damn near own me for these 12 years. Maybe own me outright after the 12 years. You’re my trustee, my first master. Sir!

But I feel fuckin clueless, Sir. Talkin about owners n masters turns both heads on. Wakin up with Luke wrapped around me with his dick in me turns both heads on. Full-nelson fucks with muscles n blacksnakes turn both heads on. I love you, I love Boss Henry, I love Mike. I thrust when I remember, Sir!

Jon stretches under me, flexes, squeezes, says, You’ll love your fourth master too, Mr Kraus. (Okay ...) But what do you FEEL?

Sir! Besides endorphin-buzzed, fuckin lost. I can’t really remember the Recon Marine sniper who took bad dudes out but who didn’t DO dudes. That’s who I was for 10 years, who I’d always wanted to be, but I didn’t belong. Recon Marines didn’t own me. Then they threw me away.

Only Marine buddy I bonded with was Jason. We deployed together my last two enlistments. Now I see he spent all his time with me trying to get into my shorts. Then he turned up as the prick free-man overseer at the gladiator stable. He raped me.

I don’t really know the gladiator who fought to compete but never belonged to Phillips Fighters & Fuckers. They held me prisoner but they never owned me. I got to know Mike, Darren, Jamie — and my mostly naked body. You n Anne sprang me before they could throw me away like they did Mike and Darren. Y’all got me Jamie too, found me Darren where they’d broken him, thrown him away. Then the stable wanted to get me back cheap, for life, with some bogus third arrest and third-strike conviction. Why they put up the Castrate Steve FaceBook page, the Youtube of me in court and the punishment centre. That’s what you saved me from, Sir!

Now I’m a slave who belongs to four men. The black one owns me. And that turns both heads on. (I stiffen, thrust, get Jon’s attention.) And none of this makes any fuckin sense. Uh, Sir!

Jon says I’m becoming the real Steve. Not #SlaveSteve. He’s just a brand to market. Stud Steve. He says men’s relations are complicated anyway, belong AND compete AND love. Adding owners and masters fucks it all up even worse. Especially when owners own masters, like Hardwicke Co’s Boss Henry masters Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, who own him, like I’ll own my master Mike in five years. But Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore master Mike, besides owning him. We’ll talk some more. Both heads look forward to that.

Back to getting to know your mostly-naked body, he grins crosseyed while I thrust again. You’re a sex object. The trick is to keep that turning you on. That’s why you’d rather ride naked in a cage in the bed of your Steve’s Studs’ truck than drive it. Why you’d rather run alongside it than drive it. You need to feel your body and to know other people want it, want you for it. You don’t flaunt it, don’t swagger like some military-gladiator types, don’t bully because of it, like your Jason did. You stand out because you stand TALL. You’re just YOU.

So maybe Jon knows me. But I don’t. He says we’ll work on it.

He asks if I know why Jamie rags me. Why he used the gladiator stable’s guards and slave prods to program me not to discipline him, not to fuck him.

Sir! He’s an overseer on the make? I’m his toy, his challenge?

Jon eases me out, smiles crooked. Steve, Jamie wants to provoke you to master him. Visualize. See yourself, feel yourself grab him by the gills, flog him hard front back ass, fuck him up, fuck his ass, fuck his face. Like Mike taught you to cane him this morning. (Chapter 13) He pulls me back in. Hard.

He asks how I compare this construction-stud gig with Recon Marine. Wow! I try to think. I hope what I say makes sense. This hurts more, all the flogs n fucks, but it’s more fun and I feel bonded to Jon and my men, Mike, Darren, Luke, and Jamie. Now Demon too. And there’s my company master, Boss Henry. My black owner Mr Kraus. Even with all the whips and dicks, this feels way better than captive gladiator did. I’m proud to belong, proud be owned by studs who want me. I don’t get bored like in Recon, trying not to get jumpy, waiting for something to happen. Even my body gets WORKED way more, way harder, worked way better than when I was just a gladiator or a Recon Marine.

But my Recon Marine helped make some small corners of the world better, especially for women and children. I’ll miss that. He says they may have an opportunity for me, a chance to help women and children in trouble here, too.

He says when we get back to the office, I need to tell them all about the warlord who claims me, because they need to know how to handle that claim. It may make a good cover story for my BVI trust. If anyone finds out there’s an offshore BVI trust that owns me for life, we need an answer why. That’s the trust that owns my 40% of my Delaware corporation. Nobody but us studs and owners know I’m the beneficiary (Chapter 12).

Intercom hits too soon, again. Shower, deodorant, no sunscreen, clean gladiator straps, rejoin the grinning crew, even Mike.

============

THE WARLORD WHO CLAIMS ME

Jon says, tell us about the warlord that captured you. Fuck! Sirs! The summer before I turned 19, just at the end of my first Marine year. My first Recon deployment. I’d done my basic training, advanced individual training, Army jump school, Recon qualification, Recon unit training, especially sniper, demolitions, and disarming random boobytraps and IED explosive devices. One more job I’d rather do than watch. They gave me those jobs to keep me focused. So I got combat pay plus demolitions hazardous duty pay, but I sent most of my pay as a family allotment to my brother’s widow. This was the calmest my dick had felt in hours.

We didn’t stop shaving because we’d wear our uniforms, wear dogtags, carry ID. We trained high-altitude in the Rockies, practised 100 words you’ll needin Tajik and Pashtun. We deployed in August to that funny place in the western Himalayas where Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and China’s Xinjiang all meet. Most people, most places there speak or understand Farsi (like the Tajiks, like the Afghans who call it Dari) or Pashtun (most other Afghans).

A tribal chief I’ll call Warlord A was marauding. He set up roadblocks for payment. He robbed crops, not just opium poppies but even grapes and cotton and wheat. He interfered with irrigation systems, cut power lines. The folks he was disrupting worried about stocking up for winter.

The Tajikistan government asked Recon to help. They wanted Recon because we get in and out quiet, not like SEALS live on CNN. Especially not like SEALS live on Fox. Right after we set up and met some locals, we split into recon patrols to get oriented off the roads, meet some folks, maybe find what kind of help folks needed. I went with a buck sergeant E5 and a gunnery sergeant E7 (Gunny). I was a brand new lance corporal, one chevron with a rocker, E3. We bivouacked okay our first night. The next morning we got surprised, captured by men from Warlord B, one of those we were supposed to help.

It turns out that the local army had some of Warlord A’s men, so Warlord A took a Warlord B irrigation crew. Us three Marines were trading stock. Warlord B’s men took our flak jackets, helmets, weapons, night-vision goggles, satellite phones, MREs (meals ready to eat),all our gear except our water, bedrolls, and changes of socks and underwear. Plus my deodorant and sunscreen. They walked us back to their compound. They kept us busy talking with us in their Tajik Farsi dialect to distract us from our route and the landscape.

Warlord B was the tribal chief and district governor. He was an honest one, and his district and towns looked prosperous because the farmers and traders got fair prices, kept what they earned except for the traditional 10% income tax. His granddad had broken up the big farms and got the land sold on fair terms to the workers. He paid his police and other workers through a credit union by each worker’s’ own phone app, so nobody could skim their pay. The water and power systems, natural gas and sewers in the cities, worked well 24/7. Roads get kept in good shape. All this pissed off Warlord A because his people wanted him to act like Warlord B. Besides, District B had way better crops to harvest than District A because the farmers got their full pay for growing them.

So our warlord apologized for capturing us. He said he’d treat us well. We’d join local work crews. We say, donate our pay to girls’ schools. My sergeants told me to chill, do what the locals tell me.

They put me on a crew of young dudes, teenagers like me, humpin machine parts, cell-tower hardware, cement bags, n other supplies along some mountain tracks to some irrigation works and microwave towers you couldn’t reach by jeep or ATV. We built the tower structures for the technical parts, dug and maintained irrigation channels, worked on roads. I raced a fun dude up a tower, got bullwhipped for that, just like last Thursday with Darren (Chapter 6).

We prayed three times during the work day, facing west-southwest to Mecca, plus before we left and at sunset. I wore more sunscreen than uniform. By the end of the first week, I wore what the other dudes did — more loin cloth than shorts. Still sunscreen but no deodorant. Second week I traded my boots for their footgear. They wore ballcaps, so I kept my fatigue cap. I stopped shaving, so mostly looked them too, especially since as a halfbreed I look more tan than white. I worked on my 2,000-metre (a mile and a quarter) high-altitude aerobic capacity. I loved it.

The dudes helped me with my Tajik Farsi. We competed friendly. Who could hump what weird, awkward, heavy shit across what steep, gnarly track fastest. But no slips, no rockslides, no accidents — crew chief carried a bullwhip besides the quirt he drove us with.

The warlord’s son my age was supposed to start university in Dushanbe, the capital, but stayed home to train with me — and translate. He traded his ballcap for my Marine fatigue hat. He took care of me.

They told me about their lives and homes. Some of them took me to meet their families on our Fridays off. When they asked, I told them about my backwoods Franco-Ontario, the family I’d lost (Chapter 12). After work we smoked what might have been weed; no alcohol.

They taught me their Olympic, Graeco-Roman wrestling. I lost all the matches but started learning. The gladiator stable never got interested enough in me to ask this brawler about wrestling.

We showed them how to use the commo and night-vision gear, our assault rifles, my sniper scope. The sergeants walked their defences with them, learned how that part of the world worked, made some suggestions. I demoed some ways to clear boobytraps, IEDs. I put the uniform on to work with the French teachers in the district, and we helped improve security at the girls’ schools. Liaison and training like we actually came to do.

It all went down kewl until the governor relaxed one evening, smiled at me, said he’d like to keep me and let Warlord A keep his sorriest two or three irrigation workers. When everything seemed cloudy and quiet, I slipped away. I remembered the route they’d brought us. I forgot they had our night-vision and commo gear.

They caught me, made me strip, made me tie my bootlaces around my balls, tied a line around my wrists, and walked me back. More like dragged me back, in the dark, barefoot over the rocks. Some dude flicked my ass with what they drove donkeys with — now I know it was a quirt. So that’s the first time I got whipped, but I didn’t tell the Marines. Not even my sergeants.

I’d escaped. I got caught. Two mistakes. I’d disrespected the man who captured me. I disrespected his tribe and mine (the Marines). I belonged to him now. He’d punish me. That happened to men who ran away.

My sergeants tied me to a frame, wrists and ankles. Like they’d expected this, maybe done it with other rookies. Somebody took my bootlaces off my balls. The warlord took a bullwhip, just like in a western, rubbed my face and chest with it, flicked it around my neck, then slid it off. He beat the living hell out of me, front, then back. I didn’t shoot. Too scared. But I probably yelled loud enough to scare the villagers and the livestock. He said he’d stop after I took 12 more lashes like a man. Damn near bit my tongue off. I did. He did.

He told my sergeants to go with their work crew, who’d all stayed to watch. He left me there in the sun what felt like all day. I missed water. They said I was lucky it wasn’t Ramadan — no food, no water until nightfall. I hurt too much, felt too scared, too stupid, to pass out like I wanted to. After the sun showed it was midafternoon, they threw some water at me. Gave me water. This was the real whipping, the one me n the sergeants told the Marines about.

The warlord and his son untied me, half-carried me into a building. He said, now we make you know we own you. I bent over a table on what felt like a scratchy barracks blanket on my back, legs apart. They rubbed something into my whipped chest, arms, shoulders, legs too, even balls and dick. Massaged me. They turned me over, chest down. The son, ate my head, held my shoulders, rubbed my whipped back and shoulders, dug in some knuckles, held and rubbed my head and neck too. The warlord, the dad, rubbed my unmarked ass, dug in some knuckles. It all felt good. I relaxed. Maybe my dick came out of hiding.

The dad rubbed a stick over my ass — I guess a cane. He thrashed the living hell out of my sore sorry ass. Then he fucked it. Told me to get his son’s dick ready to fuck me next. Right — our 100 words included mouth, dick, and fuck. The dad worked the cane in time with the son’s facefuck while his dick ground deeper down my throat and his hands and knuckles dug deeper into my traps delts rhomboids lats. Then the father held me, fucked my face, ground my shoulders n back while the son spanked my ass (first time since my dad started using a belt when I turned six), caned it, ground it, fucked it. My first fuck, first facefuck.

They stood me up. Dad in front, arms on my shoulders. The son behind me in my first standing full-nelson fuck. Only time till this morning. I spread my legs, bent my knees because his legs were shorter than mine. Dad bullwhipped my chest again. Harder. They told me that I belonged to them. For life. The father gave me to his son, who fucked hard, proud.

They showed me I belonged to his son. The dad stood me up in my second full-nelson fuck while my new master, the son, bullwhipped my chest. The son showered with me, gave me my shorts and sandals to put on. When he offered me my fatigue cap, though, I just set it aside because Marines’ heads aren’t covered indoors. After prayers and dinner, the son took me to bed and fucked hard, soft, crossways what felt like all night. He said it was his first too. His Mom, Dad, and sister acted chill with their new houseguest.

They said they’d send me to back to the Marines. With the sergeants when they made the grand exchange. But when I got out, I belonged to them. They told me how to contact them for instructions and airfare. They made me repeat it till I got it right. The son and I swore in blood — put two wrist cuts together. We sealed it with bread and salt. The sergeants never asked about this part. I never told anyone. Until now. Damn dick.

The son told me I don’t take dick from any man but him, his, dad, or the overseer (crew chief), that I fuck any married woman when she and her husband both ask me (they want strong sons like me), I fuck any man that asks me and that I fancy (thought about it with a couple dudes I outwrestled but no way), but fuck no unmarried woman.

The next day, every day, I worked with my master and our young-dude crew. The son took care of me with the quirt, drove me with it, fucked me every night. Bullwhipped me but not every night. I won more hauling competitions, some with the son. When he and I wrestled, he won and fucked me. Finally I won a couple times, fucked him, my first. I was almost sorry when summer camp ended and they traded me back to the Marines. Okay. Sir!

Jon told me he’d found the capture in my Marine records. My warlord got killed last year. The son, the new chief and governor, wants me back to reinforce his security. This was the owner he told the barracks about to explain my transfer from the BVI trust to the Delaware corporation. The transfer that Jon and me got bullwhipped, caned, and face-fucked, and fucked to get witnessed. (Chapter 11).

Jon, the other owners, and I agreed that the son should have a claim because I belonged to him, not just to explain the BVI trust and Delaware corporation, Steve’s Studs Inc. Not a share of operations and profits, but the right to match any offer to the corporation when I, uh, get disposed of and to get a half of what Mike calls the proceeds of disposition from the trust if I get sold to someone outside the company. Even Mike if he gets me from the company rather than through a tax-free reorganization (Chapter 13).

But the son doesn’t want anything like shares in a company, doesn’t want to be beneficiary of a trust, doesn’t want any offshore assets. Weird. Both heads feel proud that I belong to a stud warlord too.

Jon says, Sit here. Look at the monitor. Okay ...

Khaled! My first civilian FaceTime. It’s with the new warlord, the son I belong to.

I remember, Sir! It’s good I’m sitting down.

Khaled — Stand up in front of the camera, Steve, flex, turn real slowly, so I can see my favourite warrior slave. Jon helps me stand, puts me in line with the camera. (Warrior slave! That’s me. Thought I’d get there with the Recon Marines but didn’t. What I am now. Mike’s warrior slave.)

Magnificent! I’ve missed you every day, every night for 14 years. I want you here. I want to work you up and down the mountains every day. Build you up even studlier. Show you every day that I own you. Flog you, then fuck you crosseyed every night. Find you a good woman to take care of you, give you strong sons. I see you want this too.

Fuck! Damn number-two head. You master. Me warrior slave.

But we really need you for our security. My dad got killed leaving the girls’ high school after he presented the diplomas. If you’d been his bodyguard, he’d still be alive and I’d still be the youngest, fairest judge in Dushanbe, the capital. After you qualify as a master blaster, as a millwright, we could use a dozen of you in our work here in the mountains.

You’d really help our gladiator team too. We want them to win internationally, starting in Xinjiang. China accepts gladiating as a martial art in Xinjiang, where they suppress every other Uyghur Muslim activity, so we can cross the border that way.

You remembered your capture well, but you didn’t know that I’d asked my dad to say what he did about keeping you because I wanted you to try to escape. Damn! Makes sense. Damn pole grows. Khaled sees it, says his does too. Reminds me to call him Cal. I say I need to call him Sir.

It happened on your 19th birthday, but I got the present. Of course, you did get me.

Khaled gestures for me to sit down. I adjust my pole. Jon says you’re about to marry that massive stud, Mike, who’s looking protective. Congratulations to you both! I’ll want the chance to buy him too. He could help our credit unions and our construction work.

You didn’t remember that the morning after I mastered you, you stood me up with your dick up my ass for the overseer to bullwhip me when I told him he had a year to work me, whip me into shape like you. But you were pretty buzzed from your capture and, uh, initiation. You didn’t have to worry about getting bullwhipped that day because a man bullwhips his slave to master him, like I did you, like the overseer did me, but not other random dudes except for discipline. Like when you raced up the microwave tower.

Fuck! Sir! Right, Sir! You scared me spitless when we met the crew the next morning, when you told me to lose the shorts, fatigue cap, sandals while the overseer flicked a bullwhip that I expected he meant for me. Then you shed everything too, worked body parts to scare my scared dick alive, stood me up and backed onto my dick. I thought I’d never forget how studly, how electric you felt on my chest and dick. I wanted to be your warrior slave forever.

Sir! I said too late.

My sergeants say when we got back to our base, I ran them damn near to death keeping me stimulated. They were ready to fuck me themselves before they replaced all my gear and started me running wearing half my body weight. Windsprints uphill till I looked ready to crash. Skipping rope in full gear. Then endless burpees dips pullups plus weights. They got me settled enough for rifle practice, especially running a course with popup targets, then moving distant sniper targets. Disarming boobytraps almost relaxed me. I kept training, wrestling with the younger dudes. I joined all their work details, their active training. Nobody fucked me, nobody flogged me. I missed you and your whip and your dick that told me I belonged to you. My company wouldn’t let me take the bus back to visit you on leave because they knew I’d never come back. The rest of my deployments went to French-speaking Africa. Sir!

Khaled — I tried not to cry when you left after you fucked me our last morning. I spent the next year, till college started, working with the dudes’ crew. Working as hard as the overseer could whip me. Mountain hauling like you did, cotton harvest, wheat harvest, road work, plus security with the militia. Got to know the district. Let the people get to know me as my own man who works with them, not just the chief’s kid. The same way that you Marines having worked as our captives got you a better reception everywhere.

Best year of my life, best shape too, except I wanted you so much. Look here. He pulls off his shirt. 14 years later, at 33, he’s still a stud, but still smaller than me. I get harder anyway.

Khaled flexes, poses. So after you left, a couple other dudes and I captured our own warrior slaves. District A has too many punks not in school and not working except in the cotton harvest, when they mostly don’t get paid. So they’re a nuisance, slipping over the mountains into our valley to steal stuff to carry back home.

My 15-year-old could barely read and write. Half starved too. I gave him to my dad’s driver, Faisal, who was dad’s warrior slave, to live with his family. Faisal’s son’s like my big brother, two years ahead of me in school. Faisal got killed trying to protect his master, my dad.

Faisal sent my kid to school, civilized him, taught him to use plumbing, kept him whipped into shape, sent him to the dudes’ crew on school breaks and after he graduated. He shaped up real well, says he’s grateful I captured him. When I married a neighbour chief’s daughter and set up as a lawyer in the capital, I sent him to train as a driver and bodyguard with Blackrock, the mercenary company. I keep him worked, whipped, and fucked, his wife helps mine in the house, and his kids are growing up with mine. His family moved back here with mine when my dad and Faisal got killed and I became chief and district governor. He’s great and we love each other. But he’s not you.

And you’d like the sons you gave the three couples. Well, you’d mostly like your 13-yearold teenage sons. We’ll buy your sperm when your company milks you. Ouch?

I’d have had to circumcise you, but I see from your photos on the web that that’s been done. You wore the only foreskin in our county. Not even the Marine sergeants had fluffy dicks.

But when the Marines kicked you out, you didn’t contact me the way you knew to do. We’d have had you in a car to Dulles, then on a flight to Frankfurt with a shower, clean but revealing clothes, and a Tajikistan passport the next day. We’d have made you WAY more welcome than the gladiator stable did. How come you didn’t? Damn! Dick likes this.

This conversation with a man on the other side of the world feels totally natural. Sir! I had no phone, no web access. At my first trial, they didn’t give me the chance to contact anyone. That’s the trial that convicted me of sexually assaulting a woman in a bar, that got me caned, that got me kicked out of the Marines. They hustled me off the base like toxic waste because the Marines worried about bad publicity in the election that fall (Chapter 9).

The second trial convicted me of sexually assaulting the truck driver who picked me up hitchhiking, then tried to make me go down on his dick. The fine would have enslaved me for life without the lady lawyer in an office across the road who found the gladiator stable to buy me for five years to pay my fine and her fee. She kept telling me how much she hated sex offenders. Like me. Especially trained killers. Like me. I figured she’d turn me in for a terrorist if I mentioned you. Sir!

Damn! I’d have loved ALL that back with Faisal as his stud warrior slave. But then I’d never have given Jon a son, never have rescued Mike, Darren, Demon, Jamie, and Luke. Just been a disgraced ex-Marine hiding out way out back somewhere. Never become a stud gladiator.

Khaled smiles, shrugs, say he wishes he could, uh, hold me the way he used to. He knows I can’t visit — no passport, no export licence, I might not get out again if I went — but maybe he can come here. He tells Mike to take care of me, keep me well-worked, well-fucked, well-flogged, until he has the chance to buy the two of us after our 12-year term with Hardwicke Co (Chapter 13). I damn near shoot.

============

& MR KRAUS

My dudes and their dads need to talk contracts or something for the next while. Boss Henry needs to get acquainted with Mike, the way he, his whips, and his dick did me on Saturday night (Chapter 10). He won’t master Mike, though. Plus they’ll sort out how they share me, share mastering times with me.

Mr Kraus needs to get better acquainted with me. He’s the black man who pegged me as the free slaveowner in the weekend at Doc’s to pay for Doc fixing Darren’s leg (Chapter 2). He owns a construction company, and for at least the next 12 years he owns me even though I live and work with Hardwicke Co.

Same drill. Same fresh hot lube. He’s about my size. He walks on my right, as owners do with slaves. (Mike’s proud I didn’t write like.) He wraps his left hand around my left glute. My right hand goes around his right one. Damn, he feels tough when he walks. Even his glutes. He’s a black Apollo because he works with his men when he can. He says I’ll teach him to full-nelson fuck, first me in him, then him in me.

Luke n Jamie are waiting in our cell. Luke smiles kinda shy, flicks a tawse easy. Jamie snaps a bullwhip out real proud. (He’s not qualified on blacksnake. Yet.) Luke lubes my dick n hole. Jamie does Mr K.

Mr K turns his back to me, backs his back onto my chest, his hotlubed crack onto my ready dick, his arms up. I thrust, wrap his study neck, shoulders, take his weight. Full nelson holding my stud black owner, muscle to muscle, feels AWESOME. Tawse bites my butt the same time as the bullwhip nails Mr Kraus’s chest. Tawse thrusts me forward into his hole, onto his back, onto his traps delts neck, even glutes, hamstrings. Bullwhip drives him onto me n dick chest abs. Mr K feels electric when the bullwhip bites him. I feel like the studliest fucker ever when the tawse bites me when the bullwhip drives him onto me. Luke understands, tawses my back, hamstrings too. Me, Mr Kraus, Luke, n Jamie all frag together.

Mr K says it’s just his second frag. His first was that Saturday night at Doc’s, when I tawsed n fucked him in the pickup bed after he’d bullwhipped n fucked me on the pickup tailgate. (Chapter 2).

Switch. Damn he feels great holdin me, stretchin my pecs open for Jamie’s bullwhip. Jamie gets off on floggin me, both his heads, both mine too. I feel Mr Kraus jump into, onto me n thrust me into the bitin bullwhip when the tawse hits his glutes. We frag together. Again.

The dudes leave. It takes the two of us a while to settle down on the bed, holding each other. Mr K says I know he committed to me when he paid for my 12-year indenture what Hardwicke Co paid for lifer Mike. And so far I’ve done to him what he’s done to me, except my tawse for his bullwhip that first night. But he’ll REALLY commit to me this Friday night, when he and lawyer Jon will do the gladiator challenge (Chapter 12) for first rights to me. Wow!

Then he says on Saturday, my Hardwicke Co’s football team will play his Kraus Co, and I’ll play for Hardwickes. Slave rules. Winners fuck losers. Kraus and Hardwicke Cos have a side bet too. If Hardwickes win, we cane the losers, then fuck em, even the owners. Winnin Krausco straps, then fucks; winnin Hardwickes cane, then fuck. (Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, Hardwicke Co’s owners, flip a coin so they don’t double-team Mr Kraus. Heads gets Mr K. I’ll be his second owner, so when Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore flip the coin, tails gets me.)

Then to be fair I’ll take my place with the other Hardwicke men, win or lose; Mr K says this hedges my bet. Finally Kraus Co’s overseer on a white horse (!) bullwhips the losers into formation, the runs them home, even the owners; losers wear boots n jocks for this run of shame. Winners get steak dinners and microbrews; losers get vegetarian slave chow and warm Diet Pepsi. So I better hope Kraus Co wins.

Sir! If my Hardwicke Hardasses lose, I’ll run real proud with them, then run back to y’all’s base, Sir! And if we win, I’ll run real proud alongside you and your men, Sir! Okay. Runnin in boots n jock with the bullwhippin overseer on the white horse sounds like a trip for this fucked-up stud. I hope the endorphins hold up for the football game n this one.

He grabs tighter, grinds sore spots. We’ll welcome you properly Saturday night. That’s why I’m learning the full-nelson fuck and flog. We want to show you a good time, at least turn you on for our men — better than just our usual stand for bullwhip, then bend over for facefuck with cane, buttfuck. As I said, the overseer and I flip a coin. Heads will bullwhip you in your full-nelson fuck, facefuck you while you get strapped. Tails will strap you and full-nelson-fuck you. Heads or tails, I go first.

But first we shower you, put you in a clean jock, show you around, let the men make you feel, uh, welcome. Showtime after dinner. Steak bloody rare if we win the game? Yazoo microbrews. Lose and the warm Diet Pepsi with the vegetarian slave chow. Wow!

The overseer with the white horse and bullwhip is our trademark. Taxpayers, especially white ones but proud black ones too, love to see him running our mostly-naked black boys. We’ll train you on the pick and sledgehammer Sunday for a Monday road crew. You’ll put on a great show, the way you like. Mike will give you a couple lessons this week on quarry picking and sledging. We’ll send you back home to Hardwickes after Monday dinner. If we wait an hour after dinner, the overseer can run you, the way you want.

You and our Boss Lucy (Lucius Clay) have something in common. You both belong to Boss Henry. And I belong to Boss Lucy the way Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore belong to Boss Henry.

Kraus White Horse does mostly reinforced concrete structures, lots of roads, parking garages, skyscraper foundations, and warehouses. Sophisticated stuff too, like freeway interchanges, water works, sewage plants. I graduated in Civil Engineering from Auburn, so there’s a kind of rivalry with y’all’s Boss Henry, the Alabama grad. After three years as a lieutenant, then captain in the US Army Corps of Engineers, I signed on as a trainee overseer with what’s now my company. They did mostly roads, pavement but also basements, parking garages.

The company didn’t run its new overseers through y’all’s boot camp, but trainee overseers got something like that except nobody wanted us to learn any grudges. Another dude and I had the basic cane buttfuck bullwhip facefuck initiation, then a night blindfolded with the overseers, but no full nelson. You’ll, uh, like yours way better.

============

Later, y’all, but Chapter 15 comes WAY sooner than this one. Thanks for ridin with me this far.

by Wolf

Email: [email protected]

Copyright 2024