One Step Behind You

By: Randall Austin
(© 2011 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 6

In high school we were taught that the reason the United States of America never had a so called "great slave revolt" when slavery was reintroduced, the way Europe did, was because we never really had all that many slaves per capita. Because our society has always tended to regard slaves as luxury items, the economy followed suit and therefore slaves were always quite expensive. Thus slaves have remained a relatively small percentage of the population. Also, our society, unlike Europe and especially England, was not rife with homosexuals and pedophiles and so there was not the driving force of perverse desire added to the general desire for the reintroduction of slavery. So with the high price tags on slaves, there have never been enough slaves in a given area for enough of them to get together and be a force to be reckoned with.

Slaves in the United States are still very expensive. And while the price is coming down gradually, and despite President Tom Hank's campaign promise that his administration would usher in an era that would see 'a slave in every household', slaves are simply still beyond the reach of the vast majority of Americans.

So that fact tends to make me stand out whenever I go out on errands with the Falkenberg's. Even in high class Collingwood only a relatively few households own slaves. I am something of a status symbol for Mr. Falkenberg, and he admits it. I am less so for Lang because he grew up having a house slave around, and he takes a slave's presence for granted. When I go out on errands with Mr. Falkenberg he likes me to stand out and be proper in every way. He usually makes me wear my blue outfit. The trousers are blue 'spankers', trimmed in gold embroidery. The outfit is completed with a white puffy sleeved shirt, matching blue bum warmer jacket and bellboy hat, both trimmed in matching gold embroidery, and black shoes.

I am totally embarrassed when I go out with him; even driving in the car with him gets me stares. One of the hardest parts of my slavery for me is the fact that I am owned by someone in the same city I grew up in. I live in dread of running into old acquaintances. While it has never happened, and our city is just too big for that to be a common occurrence, I nevertheless am always ill at ease on public outings with my owners.

Mr. Falkenberg wants me well-behaved and following strict decorum on our outings. I have to walk to his side, but always about two feet behind him. I have to keep my head held up high, and maintain a cheerful disposition, and must appear eager and pleased to follow out his every request.

One of my worst experiences occurred when we were in the city's large and famous department store. Mr. Falkenberg asked me to go back to the entrance and fetch a shopping cart. As I was about to do so I saw three students who were underclassmen at my school, and I was too embarrassed to have them see me, so I sort of stalled. "Mr. Falkenberg said, "What's the matter, boy?" I told him I could hold his purchases in my arms, and he told me he planned on buying a lot and that I was to hurry and fetch a cart. So I went off, and purposely side tracked myself over to the women's cosmetic's department where I could hide out until the underclassmen stopped their chatting and left.

When I returned with a cart about 4 minutes later, Mr. Falkenberg was furious. He grabbed me by the arm and said, "Come along with me." He took me into the men's restroom. It had about 15 urinals against one wall, and against the opposite wall was a row of 15 sinks and a giant mirror spanning the entire wall above the sinks. The restroom was very busy at that time of day, with constantly moving traffic. Every urinal was almost constantly occupied. The majority of people using the urinals were students, taking advantage of the 'back to school' special sales.

Mr. Falkenberg led me to a sink, and immediately started to unbutton the rear flap of my spankers. He lowered my flap, pulled my undies down underneath my bubble and told me to bend over the sink. I was numb with humiliation and acted slowly. As he took out the short tawse he always carried with him when I was along, he said, "Do it now or you'll get double." I grabbed the sink and leaned over, cleanly exposing my butt for him. I could see in the mirror that every guy standing at the urinals had turned his head and was watching Mr. Falkenberg and me. Once a guy was finished peeing and zipped up, he would turn and either fold his arms or put his hands on his hips and just stand there and watch. And the new guys entering the restroom didn't even go to the urinals, but stopped in their tracks, surprised, and watched me get it. The restroom was soon packed full.

Mr. Falkenberg began swinging the tawse. I was determined not to cry in front of everyone. What was a horrible moment for me was obviously a good bit of unique entertainment for everyone else. There was much laughter, as if it was funny to see someone getting punished and humiliated. I finally started to howl. The restroom echoed and amplified my screaming. I heard the voices of some younger kids, "Hey, a monkey boy is getting a spanking." Some of them imitated my cries. The laughter and interest and talking grew louder along with my wailing. When it was over and I was getting my rear flap buttoned up one child started playfully spanking his younger brother and aping Mr. Falkenberg's words to me; "When do you intend to stop acting like a free boy, young man?" "Do you need to spend some time in diapers?" "I paid a lot of money for you, and I intend to get every penny's worth out of you!" The room was howling at the antics of the children as Mr. Falkenberg led me out of the restroom.

*******

During most of my first year of enslavement I had a sense in the back of my head that punishment was not inevitable. I tended to do what I was told and carry out orders with the same frame of reference I had as a free boy. And even when I knew I didn't do things quite the way the Falkenberg's had requested, I had a naïve belief that whatever I did was no big deal, and they certainly would let me off the punishment hook and not nag me if I explained myself.

I have since learned that the rules of my life have changed. I know now that if things are not done as ordered I get punished, and there is no way out of it. So I now act always with the thought in my head, 'is this exactly the way the Falkenberg's want it?'

When I'm in my room looking out on the street, and I see all the free boys passing by, either walking, riding bikes, or driving cars, life seems unfair as I watch them and think, 'They don't have to suffer physical punishment for normal human failings, why should I?' 'Why am I 'owned', and they are not?' 'Why can't I walk on that street, happy, free to go wherever I want to?'

I am finally beginning to accept the fact of my new reality, and it is that I am simply locked into this life. There is no way out. I am a slave now. I cannot escape it. No one is going to come and rescue me. I am going to be getting spanked and punished whenever my owners judge that I need it for the rest of my life. I have no life of my own, but have to build my life around someone else's life. I cannot follow my own desires and dreams, and never will be able to. I have to obey. I have no right to anything. I have no right to privacy. I have no right to not be humiliated and demeaned. My role is to serve, and only serve.

*******

On the weekends Mr. Falkenberg and Lang are usually at home all of the time, and that means I have to be available for whatever they want. The things they have me do are not especially difficult, they don't load me down with mountains of work, and they aren't ordering me around every second of the day. But the very fact that if they do call for me I have to get hopping highlights for me in dramatic terms how my life has changed. I used to love the weekends as a free boy because they meant I could do whatever I wanted to do. Just knowing now that I have to do whatever the Falkenberg's want, that I will never have a weekend to myself like I used to, is not only a bummer, but is humiliating to me. It's humiliating for me to think of my family and friends thinking of me, knowing that I never get a day off, that I'm here and have to do whatever I'm told to do while they are enjoying their weekends off the way free people do.

If anyone were to drop in on a weekend, most of the time they would see what looks like a perfectly civil, even ideal, bit of family life. The Falkenberg's often treat me like a family member; they chat and share things with me. But just as it begins to seem like they really respect me for who I am and that I am an important and loved member of their family, they find some fault with something I did. Then they suddenly start lecturing me, talking down to me, and perhaps even order some kind of punishment. But because just seconds before I was beginning to feel like a family member, with some dignity having returned to me, their lectures, put downs, and calls for punishment are all the more humiliating. And once they decide that punishment is needed, they then start treating me in a most patronizing manner, like I am the bumbling family mascot who was inevitably going to fuck-up and now finally did.

One Saturday afternoon Perry and Tony called and asked if they could come over. Mr. Falkenberg said it would be okay as long as they didn't stay too long. When they arrived the Falkenberg's and I were sorting through family photos and arranging them for placement in various photo albums. We were just finishing up, but Perry and Tony got to see the Falkenberg's treating me like a family member, explaining each photo to me, who all the people in the photos were, the circumstances of the photos, and sharing tidbits of personal family history. And my friends got to see that Mr. Falkenberg and Lang were genuinely interested in my comments. They may have begun to think my life wasn't so bad after all. At one point I took a pile of photos Mr. Falkenberg had given me, looked through them, and had gotten them out of the order he had put them in for placing in the album. When he noticed I had gotten them out of order, he was frustrated and said to me in front of my friends, "Shit Billy, you little kazoo head! Look what you did!" When I am demeaned in front of friends in such a way my shame at such moments is overwhelming.

And when one of the Falkenberg's admonishes me, the other one inevitably joins in the put down. Lang's comment, "Shame on you Billy? Are we going to have to keep an extra close watch on you today?" was typical of the way I was treated. It was the way I was never spoken to as a free boy. As a top honor student I was used to being treated with respect and dignity. And Perry and Tony knew it, and now they got to see how I am treated in my new life; like a bumbling loser who is lucky to have the Falkenberg's keeping me in their control and watching my every move, making sure I don't mess up. At that moment I wanted to run to my room, escape the humiliation, lock the door, and cry. But I didn't do that because I had already done that twice before in the past, and I didn't want another paddling like the ones I had gotten when I ran to my room and shut the door. So I had to just sit there and take it.

And there is no point in my trying to offer any comeback, or refuting what they say. It will just get my face slapped or a stroke of the flip whip or tawse across my trousered leg. The only course of action that keeps me out of any physical punishment is to just remain silent, show that I am hearing what they say, and indicate that they are right, and that I need to get on the ball. So to Mr. Falkenberg, and in front of Perry and Tony, I said, "I'm sorry Mr. Falkenberg. I wasn't paying attention. Can I help you put them back in order?"

"No Billy, you'll just make matters worse. But you watch yourself today. You're getting awfully close to another strapping. Why don't you go and get your friends something to drink, and then take them out into the yard where you can chat." As I went off to get the drinks I heard Mr. Falkenberg continue talking to Perry and Tony; "Would you boys help keep an eye on Billy for us? He's a good boy, but he tends to slip back into bad free boy habits if he's not being watched."

In the back yard the mood was effectively strained by the Falkenberg's put down treatment of me. It was hard to get on talking about old things. Perry and Tony were sympathetic, but I could feel that they would rather be someplace else, and I didn't blame them. So I said, "Fuck man, there's nothing you or I can do about it. I'm a real slave now." Tony said, "Fuckin bummer man! Don't put up with the way they talk to you." I answered, "Do you know what happens if I offer the slightest resistance?" There was silence. We were not having a good time. It made me wonder how much longer my friends would be interested in coming around to visit a slave and see his dreary life.

So we just sat out in the back yard, sipping our drinks and taking in the sun. Eventually we got back to a mood where we could play some lighthearted catch. After an hour or so an almost normal mood had reasserted itself. Then Lang appeared on the deck, clapped his hands and called us all over. "I'm glad to see you're all having a good time. We need to take Billy on some errands with us this afternoon, but I'm wondering if I could ask you, Perry and Tony, if you would be interested in helping me out by doing a big favor for Billy before you boys leave here?" They both replied with an eager, "Sure!"

Lang sat down on the deck floor, with his feet hanging over the edge. We all joined him. "This is really great that you boys can help out. This should be a real bonding experience for you. Billy, like all slaves in Pennsylvania, maintains a punishment account. The state recommends that all slaves maintain at least one level one and one level two punishment in their accounts. After a year Billy still has no level two punishment in his account. I was just thinking this would be a good time to take care of that matter, what with everyone in a good mood and all. The whole idea of the punishment account system is so that slaves like Billy never get punished in the heat of anger. Punishments are simply drawn from the account if there is any tension between owner and slave."

Tony was getting angry, "Why are you asking us to help you punish our friend?" Lang was calming, "Hold on there, Tony. This really isn't a punishment because Billy hasn't done anything wrong. It's a chastening procedure and is something that has to be done, no matter how you, Billy, I, or anyone else feels about it. I hate it more than you do, because Billy is my slave, and I love this guy." With that Lang threw his arm around me, and with all the conflicting emotions I was feeling I knew he meant it. "But I just thought that if you really cared about Billy, if you really were his friend, then your presence as holders for his whipping would offer some solid support for Billy, would be a real balm. For level two punishments it is preferred that there be witnesses, and at least one other person is needed to assist to hold Billy down. Billy is going to get it whether you help out or not, but I just thought it would make things easier on my Billy if you could be there for him."

Strange the power of an embrace, Perry and Tony, by Lang's hugging me, suddenly seemed to accept, or at least put up with, the presence or necessity of the slave 'system', and all its laws, protocols, and customs. They agreed, but looked questioningly at me. I was confused, because I was scared of a level two punishment, and as frightened as I was, the presence of two of my closest friends was something that perhaps could help. As I was led to my room where I was to be whipped, I started crying. Lang told my friends, "Don't let that bother you. Everything is going to be all right. It won't be that bad. Slave boys cry a lot just before a punishment. It's what they do."

Lang told us to go to my room and for me to strip. As I removed my clothes in front of my friends, no one said anything. Lang came in carrying a flip whip just as I pulled off my undies, and ordered me to lie on the bed on my tummy. As he cuffed and tied my ankles to the bed, with my legs spread out, he noticed Perry and Tony looking apprehensively at the whip. "Now don't you two free boys be afraid of this. This is what's called a 'short' or 'flip' whip. This is nothing like the bullwhip, which is used in level 3 punishments. There is no comparison between the two whatsoever! This thing stings like a swarm of hornets, but is guaranteed not to break the skin so long as it is not used on the same spot more than three times."

"State guidelines for a level 2 punishment using the flip whip are twenty strokes moving gradually down the entire length of the naked backside. So you two boys sit on each side of Billy's head and hold his arms above his head. You each take one of Billy's arms and use both of your arms to hold him. Get a firm grip, because the moment the first stroke lands Billy will be bucking and screaming something awful. Just be prepared for it. Get a good grip."

Each of my friends held one of my upper arms with both of their hands. And as Lang instructed, I could feel all four hands getting a very firm squeeze on my arms. Lang came and stood alongside the bed, "That's good. Now what I'll be doing is starting at the upper back, and with each stroke I'll be moving slowly down his back side, ending up with the last swats on his lower legs. If I get down there and still haven't used up all twenty strokes, I'll apply any remaining strokes to his buttocks." My mouth was dry, I was breathing heavy.

Lang swung back the whip, as if about to start, and then stopped. "Okay Tony, be careful about leaning over Billy too far and getting in the way of my whip. This special whip delivers a horrendous sting that no free boy like you and Perry should ever have to feel. The sting this thing delivers was intended for slaves. It speaks the language they understand. And I want to warn both of you that when the first blows are delivered you will probably be shocked at the way Billy will start violently bucking, humping, and screaming. You both need to concentrate on your jobs of holding Billy down securely so we can get this over as quickly as possible for Billy's sake."

Lang retook his position, "Are we all ready? This is going to be hard on the both of you, but I think you'll prove yourselves!"

When the first stroke landed I screamed and bucked so much that both Perry and Tony, keeping their grips on my arms, stood up and used their entire upper body weight to lean onto my arms and keep me pinned down. Lang said, "Good move. We've got him now."

As the whipping began, and as I yelled and cried and screamed, "No, Oh No! Please! No More!" I could hear both Perry and Tony breathing and exerting as much as I was. And through the intense pain I felt envious of the free life that Perry and Tony had. I envied their free hands holding me down, helping ensure that I take and feel my punishment. I envied their free muscles, their free voices, and their free smell. It seemed unfair that I had to get whipped and they did not. We were no different. Once. Now we were very different, and I wanted to be free the way they were. Free to leave the Falkenberg's and go home. To some home. Somewhere.

When the twenty strokes were over, I felt Lang uncuff my ankles, and then rub a portion of my legs. He told my friends, "A gentle rubbing will feel soothing to him now because the skin is not abraded." I could feel Perry and Tony start rubbing my back with both of their hands. And as they rubbed me and helped to take away my pain, a new pain seized me as I lay there crying; the pain at the unfairness of life. I just had to endure extreme physical torment, while everyone else I knew was having weekend fun. I had just received a bare-naked whipping across my back, ass and legs, while two of my best friends watched and held me down. Why should Perry and Tony not have to get a whipping? Why should they be free and not me?

I didn't talk to them; I just stayed there on my belly with my head hidden in my folded arms. As Lang left and said he was going to record this in the punishment account he told me to look at the bright side of things, "If an entire year went by without you ever having needed a level 2 punishment, that bodes well for you Billy. It's probable you may not need another whipping for quite some time." That actually made me feel good, but not good enough to be able to want to talk to Perry and Tony. I thanked them for "being there for me", and told them I wanted to stay in bed.

As they were leaving the room they ran into Lang in the hallway. He stopped them, "Thanks for helping out. Billy owes you one! If you guys need any odd jobs done, or have been putting off some shit job, don't hesitate to ask me. I can let each of you have Billy for an afternoon."

"And don't you two go worrying about Billy. Most slaves are a little moody after a whipping. We're going to let the little guy rest up for a bit, and then we're going to take him out to get a haircut and then go shopping for some new clothes for slave school. And don't you forget Billy's school play is coming up real soon. He'll want you all to be there."

*******

One evening I walked into Lang's room without knocking to prepare his bed and I found him in bed with a woman. I said, "Oops", and immediately backed out, but he called me, "Hey slaveboy, get in here!" Lang and a very pretty raven haired girl, who seemed closer to my age than Lang's, were cuddling together naked under a sheet cover. I was jealous. "Kate, this is my little slave boy, Billy."

"Hi Billy, how you doing?" "I'm sorry to interrupt, I just saw you in the backyard, Lang, and came in to prepare your bed."

"As you can see, Billy, it's pretty well prepared!" We all smiled. I said, "Yes it is, you are very lucky, Lang." Kate thanked me for the compliment, and asked, "But don't you have a girlfriend, too?"

Lang answered for me, "I don't think Billy likes girls." I blushed. Lang called me over to the side of the bed. Kate asked what I did for fun. Lang answered for me again, "Everyone knows what slaves do for fun. They masturbate. Masturbation is the chief recreation of slaves. That's what they all do. Little Billy is no exception." He reached over and rubbed my head, "Our little guy here is in his room tugging away at it every night. Right Billy? That's why we call him 'Billy the masturbator.'"

I stood there and blushed and Kate said, "Well he's cute. I bet he had a lot of girls after him and what a totally cool outfit."

Lang asked her, "Do you think I would look good in it?" Everyone laughed. Lang told me he wouldn't need me anymore that night, and we all wished each other a good night.

I went to my room, and thought of Lang and Kate rolling around, and I was envious and jealous of Lang. I love him, yet he gets to slap, spank, tawse, paddle, and whip me whenever he thinks I have it coming. And he could have that power over me for as long as the rest of my life.

Lang was almost 26. He had already experienced more of life and its pleasures than I ever would. I turned 19 during my trial, and now was almost 21 years old. I had a depressing feeling that life certainly wouldn't be offering me any more of the pleasure that Lang was indulging in right now. Even simple things I took for granted as a free boy were no longer mine; choosing the clothes I wear, styling my hair the way I want it, decorated my jacket with a hiking club tag, twittling sunglasses and trying to look cool. Would I ever have a chance to be 'cool' again? If I tried to twittle sunglasses in my servant uniform of spankers, bum warmer jacket, and bellboy hat, I would be the opposite of cool.

Lang was right. I ended up that night jacking off, alone. Just like slaves do everywhere. I thought of Lang's muscled armpits and silky cock, his Nordic chest and beautiful eyes. And as I came I thought of the warmth of his right hand as it spanked my butt, and the pull of his left hand as it tugged my balls to hold me in place on his lap. I was a lonely slave boy. Nothing but a lonely jerk-off, with nothing to do or look forward to except play with myself. I was nothing but a typical wanking, jacking, slave, and would be that for the rest of my life.

*******

One day I made the mistake of walking in on Lang while he was with two of his acquaintances who supplied him with weed. Roger and Dimpo were two guys Lang wouldn't normally be seen in public with, but when they were over to the house doing a transaction, the three of them always shared a joint. For some reason, Lang wanted to show his dealers who was boss. "Billy. Why didn't you knock before entering?" "I'm sorry Lang. I didn't know you were in here!"

"Duh! Of course you didn't know. That's why you are always supposed to knock before entering a room with a closed door." I knew Lang was in some weird mood, so as I backed off closing the door behind me, I said, "I'm sorry, Lang."

"Hold on just a minute. Did I say you could go?"

"No sir."

"What in the hell's going on with you?"

"Nothing sir."

"What kind of wise ass answer is that? Get over here!"

Roger was stoked, "How fuckin cool! Man, that's hot watching you keep that slave in line." Dimpo filled Roger in, "That's nothing! You should have seen him when he used to paddle the ass of his last slave, Joey. It was totally hot!"

Lang stood and rolled up his sleeves, "Well, you two just hold on, because Billy's got one coming for backtalk. Billy, take your clothes off." I tried to protest, "I didn't backtalk, Lang."

"It wasn't just what you said; it was your attitude, man. Now run and get a paddle, on the double, and get back here and take your clothes off!" There was no point in arguing, since I knew Lang wanted to get off on being a real tough slaver for his friends. When I returned with the paddle all three of them had faces with hungry looks and evil grins. As I started to remove my clothes, Roger and Dimpo exchanged comments, "This is fucking awesome man!" "Fuck, a goddamn naked slave about to get punished."

Lang came and grabbed me, led me over to a high top desk, and shoved me against it. He grabbed my balls with his left hand, told me to grab on the desk, and with his right hand wielded the paddle. When the first blow hit and I yelped. Roger let out a loud, "Whew!" Roger and Dimpo high-fived. "Fuck man; lay it on that fucker's ass!" Lang swung again. "Holy fucking shit. Paddle that fuckin monkey boy's ass harder!" "Yeah, Lang, you are one super ace stud, dude! Way to go!"

Their words encouraged Lang. "Lay it on! Harder, man!" I was screaming. "Listen to that fucker scream his slave head off! Serves you right, you fuckin scum slave." Lang continued swinging hard, as his friends kept up the encouragement. "You can be sure that fucking slave deserves everything he's getting, I'll tell you that!"

I struggled to get away, but Lang let go of my balls and gathered my arms behind my back and pinned me against the table while forcing my arms up tight and high against my back. He used his body weight to lean into me, and his right hand was free to paddle. "Look at Lang hold that slave down for punishment. You can tell he's been beating slave asses for most of his life!" Lang, inspired, gave me a super swat, and I did a high pitch yelp. "Listen to slaveboy sing!"

Lang continued to concentrate on the paddling, while his dealers continued with the commentary:

"Holy humping shit! This is hotter than fucking teen pussy!"

"Hell man! This even beats fucking pre-teen pussy!"

"Look at that slave's pecker slapping his belly. Fucker's got a hardon!"

"What a fuckin scuzzbag pervert! Lay it on harder, Lang! It feels fucking good to see the shit whipped out of a pervert slave!"

"Fuck man! I'd love to piss on that turd's face."

My mind did summersaults trying to think away the pain, but suddenly the paddling stopped. Lang, breathing heavy and sweaty, laid the paddle down.

Dimpo wiped his brow, "That gave me a fucking hard on, man!"

All three guys were breathing hard and I was afraid. But from the conversation that followed I could tell Lang wanted to be alone with me now. He told them he was late for a class. As he led them out, Roger shouted at me, "Hope you learned your lesson, you worthless fuck asshole scuzz shit!"

Lang came back in the room, shut and locked the door, and immediately dropped his trousers, took off his shirt, sat on the couch, put his arms behind his head, and, indicating his exposed pits, ordered me to get to work on him. I had never seen him so horny. I worked on his pits for only a minute when he could take no more and forced me to get to work on his cock. It was fast, but intense. When he came he was totally exhausted. He told me to remain with him, as he collected his breath and himself.

Two minutes passed. Then he put his hand on my head and said, "I'm sorry about that, dude. You really didn't deserve any punishment. Bring your punishment book over here. I want you to know I'm putting this paddling in your punishment account, and I'm calling it a level two." I thanked him and started to cry. "Don't be a crybaby, because you really are a brave little boy."

In the past whenever Lang, just a few years older than me, called me a 'little boy' it would not only humiliate me, but also it would piss me off. And there was never anything I could do about it. After all, I have to take whatever the Falkenberg's dish out. But now, suddenly, it didn't piss me off.

*******

How many times I have said to myself after an especially difficult day, "Oh well, at least things can't get any worse!" And how many times I have been wrong! One morning as I was about to serve the Falkenberg's breakfast as usual when they came down, they asked me to remove my entire uniform, including my shoes, and to serve them naked. It was awkward, but they seemed pleased. When they left for the day they told me I could get redressed. The same thing happened two more times that same week. One more time in the morning, and another time when they came home in the late afternoon, they asked me to serve them in the nude.

Then one Sunday afternoon shortly after that experiment they called me into the den. They had a bottle of champagne opened and three glasses on the table. Mr. Falkenberg told me he had some very good news for me. "Billy, you've been with us a year and
10 months now, and you know what? We like you. You are the best damn slave we've ever owned. You're smart, bright, attractive, a good worker, a great cook, you are clean and neat, we never run out of supplies, you handle our phone calls like a pro; your handling of my schedule has been flawless. And since you've been around taking such satisfactory care of my personal needs, I've been able to stop wasting my time trying to find a woman."

Mr. Falkenberg stopped talking and filled the three glasses with champagne. Lang picked up a camera that was on the table and snapped his dad filling the glasses with me standing beside him.

Mr. Falkenberg, handing out the three glasses to each of us, continued, "Billy, Lang and I have been up late for several nights this past week. We have some very special news for you. We have decided you are going to be 'our' slave. For life! We are just so delighted in your work, your attitude, your intelligence, that we believe you are the right boy for us, permanently."

I was actually very happy to hear that. We raised our glasses and toasted. "But that's not all the good news, Billy. When Lang and I decided that you were, indeed, the boy for us, one thing led to another, and so we decided to make some changes around here in the way you'll be serving us. The first thing we decided was that we are going to have something very special done to you. This is something we could never do to any of our previous slaves, although we wanted to, because it would have affected their resale value. But since we do not intend to sell you, we are going to do something that will make you ours in a very 'family' sort of way. We want to show the world that you belong to us, that you are our property, exclusively, and that we are all committed to each other."

"Across the top of your right shoulder, to prove to you and the world that we have made a commitment to keeping you for life, we are going to have tattooed the words, "Property of Enar and Lang Falkenberg." Think how proud Lang and I will be when we see that on you! Not many slaveholders can afford to have their slaves personalized. But we are so convinced that you are the little boy for us that we are going to go ahead and have it done!" We all took a sip our wine, though the Falkenberg's smiles were broader than mine.

"So then Lang and I were thinking, 'How is anybody going to see that tattoo if Billy wears a shirt all day long?' So that, of course, led to discussions about the slave tradition in the American Southwest where slaves are kept naked all the time. It's not, of course, all that uncommon. It is actually the general practice for high class households in all of Eastern Europe for slaves to serve naked, and that tradition is moving to higher class estates in Europe and the US Eastern seaboard states as well."

"The more we thought about it, the more that seemed to make sense for our household. Because we are just so proud of you, Billy, we want to show you off more, and show more of you off! So Billy, starting in a few weeks you will be working around the house naked for most of the time, and when we have guests, and then nudity will be mandatory." Mr. Falkenberg was genuinely excited and happy as he talked. And Lang, too, was beaming the kind of smile adults beam when they have given an especially large birthday present to a child, and are eager to see the child's reaction.

"As I have told you, Billy, you are not only a beloved family member now, but you are also a prized possession. You are a status symbol, and you should be as proud of that fact as I am. And if I can be one of the first slaveholders in the State to import this sophisticated mode of service into my household, then that is just an extra feather in all of our caps. I'm sure all the local news media will be eager to get a story on this when word gets out."

My head was welling with mixed emotions. I finished my glass of champagne. Mr. Falkenberg refilled my glass, and continued with his good news; "So then, Lang and I got to talking, and we wondered, 'If Billy is going to be naked and on display all the time, maybe we should have him prettied up.' A lot of slave magazines run articles about beautifying slaves, and so we decided that it was the way to go with you, and now was the right time to go for it. We just want to make sure that everyone is envious of our property." He smiled at Lang, Lang smiled back, and both of them smiled at me. "It will be so very special for all of us! I think you'll like what we have planned." Mr. Falkenberg gave a happy nod and raised his glass to Lang and me. Lang raised his glass in return. I just drank.

"Billy, we have decided that we are going to have your body decorated with a design motif derived and influenced from the American Southwest. The tattoo artist we consulted with, and who will be doing you, specializes in slaves, and he assured us that your designs will be classic, so they will not be going out of style with changing fashions. And it will all, of course, be very subtle."

I finished my glass, and refilled it myself. Then, suddenly remembering I was a slave and not just a design piece, I topped Mr. Falkenberg's and Lang's glasses as well.

"Your front and back will be similar, and all designs in Southwestern art are symmetrical. Tasteful swirling curlicues will encircle both of your nipples. These will swirl off into the center your chest where they will join, and lead into a single line down to your belly button, which will be the center of a beautiful flower. The same design will be on your back, with your shoulder blades encircled by the swirling curlicues. And the flower on your back will be located just above your ass crack."

"On your lower portion a swirled line on your thighs will go across and down the front legs and disappear in back of the legs just above the knee."

"For your buttocks, something very special! Two large concentric circles, known as the 'spanker's target'. They are traditional in South America, and add a playful note. For special events when you are serving me and my guests, you will apply either rouge or body paint in the form of a one-inch dot in the very middle of each circle. The bull's eye is both whimsical, and a public statement that you want to be on target for obedience."

"On your penis we are going with a design pattern that is called the "The Bandit". It is a tasteful filigree of repeating vortices; again, it derived from Southwest Native American Art. I am sure you will like it as much as everyone who sees it will."

"As a highlighting touch to your decorated penis we have both decided, and we are very excited about this, to have your scrotum dyed a permanent nut brown, to add a tinge of Mediterranean allure. With your light coloring and size, a brown colored bag should stand out very nicely and will make you one very desirable item! Guests will not be able to refrain from giving you a tug as you serve them, I assure you."

"And of course, all of this means that you'll have a lot of shaving to do each morning. You'll have to keep your face, chest, nads, ass, and pussy nice and smooth for Lang and me from now on."

"And then, as Lang and I explored other options, we decided that since we are going to be using you in an older and more stylized type of domestic service around the house, we would go ahead and have you ringed through the head of your penis so we could attach an elegant silver slave bell to it. Its gentle tinkling as you scamper about the house will be a constant delight to both Lang and I. It is not to monitor you, of course. It's more of a tasteful stylization, intending to recall an earlier, a more genteel, time when slaves really were monitored by bells hanging from their penises. It will be especially important that you have your bell on when we have guests."

"I'll be honest with you Billy; you are a status symbol. Having a personalized slave scampering about the house naked with the traditional penis bell tinkling, a brown ball sack swinging, and buttocks sporting two playful bull's eye targets as you serve us, will make me the envy of everyone. And with Lang's and my name on your shoulder the world will know we take pride in our ownership of you, and you should be honored. We are proud of you Billy, and we want to show you off to the world." Mr. Falkenberg grabbed my head and kissed me. Lang snapped a picture.

"I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to the day when we have our first big event here with you in your new mode of service. With you proudly serving everyone, scurrying from guest to guest to tend to their needs, naked and decorated, with your dark ball sack jiggling, and your wiener bell merrily tingling." Mr. Falkenberg was truly elated. He hugged me. "Billy, it will be so special." He called Lang over. "Lang get over here, it's time to for a hug." The three of us were tied in one big hug. We had become quite a family. In our hug, with our arms encircling each other, Mr. Falkenberg spotted his wristwatch; "Oh my god! We better get a move on it. Billy has his first appointment with the tattoo artist in just 45 minutes."

I started to cry, and Lang asked what was wrong. "Mr. Falkenberg, please don't do this to me. I don't want to be tattooed. I don't want my nut sack dyed and my penis to have tattoos on it." The sense of violation was total and absolute. To know that you are going to be modified and decorated to suit the whims of someone who has enough money to own you sent shivers through me. Mr. Falkenberg merely looked at me like I was being a nuisance.

"Please, Mr. Falkenberg, I, I, I --", and I had no words to really say so I just started crying some more. Mr. Falkenberg came over with the rest of the champagne and poured more into my glass, "Finish this bottle up. You'll feel better!"

To be continued...

Posted: 09/09/11