Novice Slaveowner

Part 8

Well, that's the exciting part of the story of my life as a slaveowner. The rest is rather dull and quickly told. I stayed and went on with my quiet life, enjoyed my friends, and, not least, my slaves.

I never finished my study. The world of finance sucked me in, absorbed me. I'd inherited some money from my maternal grandmother and, firstly more or less as a joke, tried my hand on the stock market, willingly helped by the stockbrokers I'd met at University. It went well, actually more than well. Perhaps I've inherited my father's skills. Anyway, after a year I'd doubled my fortune several times over, and I just couldn't stop there, I became addicted, used most of my time studying the markets.

After a time that wasn't enough. Earning paper money is fine, up to a point, unless you're a compulsive gambler, which I'm not, so I felt in need of creating something. What I did seemed silly, as things were, but it was my own money, so I gave it a try.

My garden staff of free slum boys did a fine job. Not that the house and grounds hadn't been maintained perfectly by the service company, but they managed to add something extra. Slaves are good workers, have no other choice, but usually don't invest their souls in the work, why should they? As long as they can avoid the whip, there's no reason to overdo anything. But a free person wants to show his boss how good he is, and what's more, he's proud of his work. I could see the difference, and, more important, so could my tenants, who often told how satisfied they were. So I plunged in, started a service company, hired a number of homeless boys, and girls, bought a dilapidated house and employed them to change it to a sort of dorm for themselves, equipped them with smart uniforms and began advertising. I offered the same product as the slave companies, at the same prices, but promised more attentive service. My first customer was, perhaps not surprisingly, the police. I had my doubts. Potential criminals serving police officers! But it worked. My staff really put their souls into it and what doubts their former enemies must have harboured, were soon wavered. Not surprisingly. They were served better and saw their workload reduced. After that success we never looked back. If you have the entire police force of a town promoting your company, you can't ask for more. A year later there wasn't a single unemployed youth in town and we had to hire staff from neighbouring cities. My first three boys were promoted overseers and Tim's little girlfriend proved to be a perfect manager.

Perhaps I became greedy, but my own slaves were soon turning a profit too. Nathalie put me on that track. Christine continued her cooking lessons for neighbouring slavegirls, even after she and Dan moved in together. She was clearly enjoying it and I quite happy doing my friends a favour, until the black slavegirl one evening, when she was kneeling beside my chair, suddenly mused aloud in the manner of her brother: "Why don't you charge them, Sir?" "Charge whom?" "Those mistresses, Sir. They get great cooks and don't pay nothing for it". "But I can't do that, they're my friends!" "Yes, Sir, but why not make a proper school, then? Chris is a fantastic teacher, she could easily take in a lot more pupils, from all over town". I thought it over and asked Christine's opinion. Of course she meekly promised to do her best, but her joy was obvious, so I spread the word and in a couple of months we had a waiting list as long as my arm. Julie was enrolled to help and my cooking school soon expanded from teaching slavegirls to arranging courses for their mistresses, just for fun, of course, but did the young things love to show their boyfriends that they had talents outside the bedroom. When taking in free girls I made it very clear that if they wished to stay on, they had to respect their teachers. Christine and Julie might be slavegirls, modestly dressed, collared and barefoot, but when teaching, they were the experts. I found rooms in town for the expanding school and only ventured in once, to find about fifty happy young women, shrieking with laughter, mistresses and slaves mingling effortlessly, and clearly not appreciating male company.

Steve was next. Dan and he played a couple of matches or three every day, most often watched by some of the tenants. That developed into Steve becoming a regular tennis partner for a growing number of young men, women too for that matter. I allowed it, of course, he had little else to do, and enjoyed it hugely, but when we started the cooking school, I thought: 'Why not?', and hired him out as a professional coach. Another success, another waiting list, and another happy slave. To charge for Fred's tutoring was almost inevitable after that and he soon had his hands more than full. So instead of six, I suddenly had only two slaves serving me, Nathalie and Tim.

Owner of six slaves and four of them turning a profit, splendid, for me as well as for them. My friends noticed how happy they seemed to be, even if working harder than most, but with something that make them feel worth their while, something to make them proud. Not that the four breadwinners among them felt in any way superior. I rather think that at least the three of them still staying with me were competing fiercely to be allowed serving in the evening and that Fred had to exercise his authority to deal with that. Neither did they avoid punishments. No one is perfect and I had my fill of whipping boys and tormenting girls, and of course I had a hot arse in my bed every night.

If I were neglecting my studies, Fred worked so much harder on 'my' thesis. His own was long finished and delivered to me. If he resented his unjust fate, deprived of a well-earned degree and 'ghost-writing' for a lazy master, he of course never showed it, apparently unshakeable as he was.

But I did shake him, once. I'd been paying frequent visits to my own country, leaving Dan in charge of my slaves, when I well into my second year abroad asked Fred and Tim if they'd agree to be equipped to accompany me. Of course they did and we left, a master with two slaves, to arrive at my home a rich young man with two ordinary servants. I'd removed their collars and made them dress decently before we landed. Tim was overawed by my parents' mansion in the city and very uncertain how to behave, but Fred seemed as unperturbed as ever. Until I brought him with me to a function at my old university. We entered the ancient hall to attend a lecture of a Nobel-prize winner, preliminary to bestowing new masters' degrees. I kept sending sideways glances to my slave, who was sitting stiffly beside me, calmly listening, until he suddenly jumped in his seat, staring at the vice-chancellor, who'd just called his name. "Sir!", he whispered, "Sir!" "Quite, slave, get up there". He rose in a daze and almost stumbled towards the dais. The vice-chancellor was droning on: "... rare ... very few occasions during the last five hundred years ... outstanding work ... no student of this university could have done better ... first class honours". Fred reached him in time to receive a firm handshake and his patent as a master of this ancient establishment. "... may not be aware of the honour, young man, but from now on you are allowed to cross the lawns of the quadrangles...". The vice-chancellor was actually joking. I reached poor Fred in time to cover him with the academic gown, he unwittingly had brought with him, and support him before his legs gave way under him. "Fifty of the best, if you faint now", I whispered and put the square cap on his head.

"Sir!" He was on his knees in front of me. "My feet, slave!" "Yes, Sir". He composed himself and relieved me of shoes and socks. Later, when I withdrew from his smooth hole, the new Master of Arts, who was tied on my bed, legs beside his ears, looked up. "Sir...!" "Congratulations". I freed him and with a sob he rolled up to clean my soiled meat.

It was unusual and no matter how influential my dear parent might be, only Fred's own academic excellence could persuade the ancient institution to bestow academic honours on a person, who'd never studied there. I made it quite clear that it was not to be mentioned and he understood, but it was a very special triumph for both of us, when his, and temporarily my university asked me to give a lecture. I arrived in full academic fig to look down at an expectant audience. "I am indeed honoured to be called to speak to such an illustrious assembly, but feel that my humble achievements are too feeble to justify this honour. I've therefore persuaded one of my more scholarly colleagues to take my place". I stepped down to be replaced by another academic, this one barefoot and collared. There was a stunned silence and Fred began to speak. When he finished an hour later, the whole of the audience, professors and students, rose to cheer.

I stayed my three years, as planned, but was longing to go home. Before that I had to decide what to do about my property. The house was easy enough. I hired Dan to manage it and my service company as well, offering him the use of the penthouse when I'd left. But my livestock? Of course Christine stayed with Dan, on loan. She remained my property and my responsibility to relieve him of any obligation to treat her as a slavegirl, apart from the formal rules of dressing, and she kept running her successful cooking school. Julie and Steve had no love of their own country, where they'd been treated so unfairly. Nathalie, I think, was looking forward to new experiences, and Tim, yes, he was torn between his girlfriend and me, but in the end chose the latter. Of Fred there was no doubt, he'd stay with me, whatever happened.

So here I am now, a happy, and successful, player of the markets, sharing a pleasant house in the oldest part of town with my friends. Steve and Julie, that is, and Tim and his sister, and his girl. Well, yes, I offered her a job as my P.A., but, cruelly, only after Tim had made his choice. Now I wouldn't know what to do without her, and they manage very well together, even if Tim is a slave and she a free woman. The two couples have their own small flats over the mews on the far side of my garden

Steve spends most of the day at the tennis club as a professional coach and tennis partner. Nathalie runs an academy for sophisticated young ladies, teaching them how to move gracefully and keep in shape. They need it; my countrywomen generally look like dough-faced horses. Julie cooks for us and shares the housework with Tim, who takes care of the garden and my cars. The other two serve me when home from their jobs. Fred doesn't live here. He finished my thesis, but as his own now. He got his PhD and was invited to become a fellow of one of the most prestigious colleges at my old alma mater.

We are still master and slaves, but friends too, and we often dine together, during weekends joined by our young lecturer. Yet I do have my fun. Even the best of slaves, like mine, inevitably make mistakes or neglect their duties and warrant a punishment. Most often Tim is the culprit, but Steve doesn't escape his share and even Fred's hide gets striped every now and then. Only last night the three of them decorated my livingroom. Tim was dangling from the ceiling by his wrists, awaiting the next ten of thirty lashes with the flogger, earned by forgetting to weed among the roses in the front garden. Steve's athletic body was forced into a very strict hogtie, thin twine cutting into his wrists and ankles, and with a large butt-plug rammed up his hole. Something he really hates, but then he could have got a move on coming home to help me change before dinner instead of dawdling with his friends at the tennis club. It was his turn as evening slave. And poor, honest Fred was tied bent over a straight-backed chair, displaying his thoroughly striped arse. Sometimes he's almost too much, his 'crime' was neglect of duty, or at least he claimed to have postponed correcting essays from his students unnecessarily. I do wonder if he invents things like that just to be punished, not because he likes it, but because he wants to share his fellow slaves' misery. Anyway, it was great to see them like that, especially when relaxing in an armchair with my coffee and Nathalie locked in the stocks to serve as my footstool. She spilled wine when serving dinner. It's an unspoken agreement between us that Julie never suffers a real punishment. On the rare occasions when she needs a reminder, I make her work naked and hobbled for a day or two

And if the regular punishments aren't enough, I still have Tim. We've never discussed it, but both of us know that he is a masochist, or at least has special sexual needs. So does his girl, who perhaps doesn't share them, but calmly takes care of her beloved when he returns from my bed, with sperm and shit leaking from a thoroughly striped arse. Oh yes, my sex life is as hectic and varied as ever. Hard stuff with Tim, quiet passion with Fred on his weekend visits, and occasionally a double session with Tim and Steve. Not that the latter likes it one little bit, but he knows I do and simply turns up in my bedroom every now and then to be tied up beside his black fellow.

But most nights I enjoy a very different bedmate. A gorgeous strained body spreadeagle or hogtied beside or under me, begging to be used and used hard, in all three of her holes. Yes, my black tiger has, if not turned me from the joys of male/male sex, then lured me back to the 'normal' path. She's so passionate, so insatiable, so incredibly lovely that I can't but swallow the bait, hook, line, and sinker, every time I find her naked in my bedroom, teasingly dangling the ropes in my face. And she has the cheek to do it even on nights when her brother is with me, smiling sweetly at his scowling face and grinning triumphantly when I give in and dismiss him. If I do, that is. It does happen that I have two black bodies trussed up side by side, arms out and legs up, and three tempting holes waiting for my attention.

So, no longer a novice, but an utterly depraved slaveowner, that's what's I am now.

And the future? Is a long way off. Steve and Julie have to stay my slaves for five more years, well, he for another ten, but I've already decided that the day she's a free woman again, I have a gift for her: One fine male slave. On the same day my P.A. will receive a bonus: Another slave to boss around, if only for the two remaining years of Tim's twelve. Though I doubt the poor boy will ever be free. And perhaps I should consider giving away my third slaveboy. Fred is officially mine for another ten years. I can hire him out, as I've already done it, though his scholarly fellows would be rather shocked if they knew that they had a real slave in their midst, but not free him. A slave must have a master, or a mistress, and last time I paid a visit to the university I did meet this cute little art historian, who'd been invited to join one of the women's colleges and, quite accidentally I'm sure, told me that she'd had enough of big hunks of man meat and was looking for a real experienced tongue.

That would of course leave me to fend for myself, something of which I'm quite incapable, but another freedom gift may lift that burden from my poor shoulders. I have already bought it, a diamond ring, which will look marvellous on a slim black hand, when my fifth slave four years from now, hopefully, agrees to accept it in exchange of her shackles. A honeymoon in her old country and a visit to a slave centre over there will allow her to choose all the domestic help she'll need in her now role as a housewife.