Father and Son

By: Jean-Christophe
(© 2011 by the author)

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

Luther had told me I'd be impressed with Darnell's Slave Emporium and he wasn't wrong. He'd told me everything about the building was tasteful and my dealings would be handled with the utmost discretion and privacy. The Emporium's understated street façade hid the fact that it was a clearing house for whitey slaves and the opaqueness of its frosted glass windows shielded its interior from the curious eyes of the casual passer-by in the street. I was impressed and my confidence grew.

Personally, I'd always considered the slave trade as sordid, and those who worked in it as my social inferiors.

It wasn't that I'm opposed to slavery. Not at all! Such a thought never entered my head. It's just that I'd always viewed the 'pedlars of human flesh' as boorish and uncouth. Well, that was how they always appeared to me in their shonky, television advertising. But then, I didn't know any slavers personally and my contact with them had been very minimal. Mainly, it had been limited to the municipal slave markets which I considered to be smelly, unsavoury places, and I seldom ventured into them.

I really hated the malodorous squalor of those markets. And I agreed with my good friend, Luther Thomas, that the municipal slave-markets left much to be desired.

Usually they had poor quality stock — rejects that the up-market slave boutiques refused to handle. And they stunk to high heaven!

There was something about the whitey's metabolism that offended my sense of smell. Should I be successful in buying a slave on that particular day, then I would ensure that he keep himself clean and his body odour-free.

I was in the market for a domestic slave and, acting on the advice given to me by my good friend, Luther — he'd recently purchased two slaves from there — one for himself and one as a Christmas present for his nephew, Max — I had come to Darnell's Slave Emporium to peruse their stock.

Written on the outside of the building was a sign which told me that Darnell's were purveyors of the finest slaves and invited me to inspect their stock at my leisure. However, I saw that I was too early, and the hours for viewing the slaves were between 10.00 AM and 3.00 PM. As it was only 8.30 AM, I decided to continue on to my office and to return later during an extended lunch break.

As I turned to walk away, the door opened and I was pleasantly greeted by a young, white slave of impeccable appearance. He fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground as a mark of his respect to me as a Black Superior.

I ordered him to his feet. I preferred to look into the slave's face as I spoke, rather than at his upturned ass.

"Stand up, slave!"

"Sir, thank you. Can I be of assistance to you, Sir?

"I doubt it, boy! I have come to inspect and perhaps to buy a slave. But I see that I am too early and that the slaves aren't available for inspection until 10.00 AM."

"Sir! Please come in and allow me to fetch my Master. I am sure my Master will want to speak to you about your needs, Sir!"

I scrutinised the slave and I liked what I saw. He was stark naked — that was, after all, standard practice for all whitey slaves — and he was a delight to the eyes. He stood at about six feet tall and weighed approximately eleven to twelve stones, and his body was muscular without it being excessively so. He moved with an easy grace, and as he did so, the muscles of his glabrous body rippled and flexed in a most delightful way. He possessed a flawlessly smooth, ivory skin, an angular face with an aquiline nose, and lustrous grey-green eyes. When he smiled — and he did so often — his full red lips parted to show the pearly whiteness of his teeth. Unusually, he had shoulder-length jet-black hair tied back into a ponytail. I was surprised by this; most slave owners of my acquaintance had the heads of their slaves closely cropped. But I wasn't opposed to it. Somehow his hair style suited the slave. And I estimated his age at somewhere between the early- to mid-twenties.

I remembered Luther telling me how he'd been greeted by his new slave, Ben, on his arrival at the emporium, and how he'd instantly been smitten by the slave to the extent that he knew immediately that he wanted to own him. I couldn't say that the slave had a similar effect upon me, but it was obvious he had been especially chosen to serve as a 'meet and greet' slave for the emporium's owners. And I had to admit — he performed the task admirably. He treated me with respectful deference and was unfailingly polite and I couldn't fault him. If he were, indeed, a sample of the stock offered by Darnell's Slave Emporium, then I was impressed.

Of course I wasn't aware that the slave's actions were being monitored on CCTV which would be reviewed by his Master at the end of the day, and should he be found wanting, then he would be whipped and returned to the pens for sale at the next scheduled auction.

The slave was canny enough to realise that being the cheerful 'face' for the emporium gave him an opportunity to impress any potential clients — much as Ben had done with Luther. If he ingratiated himself with them, then, just possibly, he could be sold by private negotiation. Better this than face the trauma of sale by auction.

Despite his efforts, I had no interest in the slave. It was my intention to return later when the slaves were available for inspection, and I turned to leave.

"SIR! PLEASE allow me to fetch my Master to talk with you. Please, Sir!"

There was a note of urgency in the slave's voice. It was as though he were pleading with me to stay and talk with his Master. Nevertheless, I disregarded him, and I was totally unprepared for what happened next.

The slave fell to his knees and began to plead. "Sir, please talk with my Master. Please. My master will be angry when he learns that I have allowed you to leave before he has a chance to greet you. Sir, he will punish me severely for my dereliction of duty."

I detected the note of fear in the slave's voice as he desperately pled with me. My first impulse was to ignore him. After all, I wasn't concerned whether his Master punished him or not. If he offended his Master, then, of course, he must be punished, but that would be his Master's decision, and it was unfair of the slave to try and involve me. Momentarily, I experienced a flash of anger at the slave's presumption in seeking to attach blame to me for any potential chastisement he would receive. However, I was not an unkind person — even to a whitey slave — and I agreed to speak with his Master.

The slave was obviously relieved, and to my embarrassment — with him already on his knees — he began kissing my feet as, intermittently, he thanked me most profusely. Once again, I ordered him to his feet and instructed him to fetch his Master. He hurried off and returned within a couple of minutes with Richard Darnell, the proprietor of the Emporium.

I offered my hand in greeting while saying, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Cleavon Sonntag. And you must be Richard Darnell? You come highly recommended, Mr Darnell. One of my work colleagues speaks glowingly of you and the quality of your livestock. It is at his suggestion that I am here."

"And who might that be, Mr Sonntag?"

"Luther Thomas. I believe he did business with you some months ago — around Christmas time."

"Ah, yes! I remember Luther. In fact, he made two purchases from me. One was a young Australasian slave he bought as a present for his nephew, and the other — if my memory serves me correctly — was for his own use. But I recall both purchases. They were prime young whiteys; truly magnificent slaves. I wonder, have you heard how both slaves fared?

"Yes, indeed, I do know, Mr Darnell. In fact, it was after I'd visited Luther's home and saw the slave — I think his name is Ben — when I decided I should follow suit and acquire a slave for my use. Ben is a delightful slave — happy, courteous, loyal, and steadfast in his resolve to do all within his power to please his master. And those are the qualities that I'm looking for in my purchase."

"Yes, I remember Ben. He was here for several months before I sold him to Luther. He served as our door slave, and I didn't have one complaint about him. Quite the contrary, we received many compliments on his pleasant demeanour, and we had many offers to buy him. But I had given Luther first right of refusal. So I take it Luther is happy with his new slave?"

"He's very happy, Mr Darnell. He told me that Ben — unlike his older slave, Tim — required the minimum of training. He hardly needed to cane or whip Ben, who proved a willing pupil. Why … Luther told me only the other day that Ben 'bends over' to please him."  I chuckled at the very thought.

"As he should, Mr Sonntag. As he should! But tell me ... does Luther still have his older slave?"

"Yes, he does. Luther is very attached to his slave, Tim, but he did confide in me recently that there are insufficient duties for both Tim and Ben, and that he will have to get rid of Tim to make way for Ben. So I wouldn't be surprised if you have a visit from him soon to arrange Tim's sale."

"I'm always happy to oblige, and should Luther wish it, then I'll happily handle the sale of his slave. There's always a demand for well-trained, docile slaves to act as a 'house whitey'. But what of the other slave — the Christmas present to Luther's nephew? How did he fare?"

"From what I understand, he wasn't as easy to train as Ben. I gather there was some 'emotional baggage' with that boy, and it had to be beaten out of him. I heard from Luther that the slave had to be regularly caned or whipped to get him to toe the line. But the last I heard, he has buckled down and is now quite happy in service to his young Master, Max. Presently, he serves Luther's nephew as his body slave at College."

"Ah! So the slave is sampling college life. I wonder what subjects he's 'studying'. From what I remember about the slave, he's eminently suited for 'extra-curricular' activities. I should think his Master assigns lots of 'homework' to him. And who could blame him? That slave is superb. But tell me. How can I be of assistance to you, Mr Sonntag?"

"Perhaps, if I tell you a little about myself it might help, Mr Darnell."

"Please do! But let's not be so formal, Mr Sonntag. Call me Richard."

"Thank you, Richard, and as I said earlier, my name is Cleavon, by the way."

"Well, Cleavon! Tell me something of your background. What are your requirements and what type of slave are you looking to purchase?"

"Richard, really there's not much to tell. I'm a widower and live with my teenaged son, Du-Shaunt on a small holding on the outskirts of town. However, the house is large — too large for me to maintain — and I now find I have to travel extensively with my work. This means that my son is left alone and it worries me. I thought if we have a slave in the household, then he could take care of Du-Shaunt while I'm away. And of course the slave will need to keep house and maintain the grounds. So basically, there it is. Do you have a suitable slave in stock?"

"And how old is Du-Shaunt?"

"He's eighteen and quite involved with his college work. That's the other reason why I need a slave. During my absences, I don't want Du-Shaunt interrupting his studies or skipping meals."

"Ah! Du-Shaunt is quite the young adult and well able to control and manage a house slave in your absence. But your concern is understandable, Cleavon. It does you credit. Please continue."

"In fairness to Du-Shaunt, I want to spend all my available free time with him and not be tied down with tiresome house chores and an endless routine of gardening and grounds keeping. I need a slave to relieve me of these burdens. I have discussed this with Du-Shaunt, and he enthusiastically supports the idea to such an extent that I have promised to let him help me to make my final choice. That's why I'm here; to do some preliminary "scouting", as it were, before Du-Shaunt and I make our final selection."

"Cleavon, I'm sure we'll find the ideal slave for you. I always tell my clients there's a slave to suit all requirements. But tell me more about your property. How large is it? And how big is the house?"

"Well, Richard, as I said, the grounds are extensive and the house has five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and large formal AND informal living areas. As you can imagine Richard, all this is beyond me. I find all my spare time is spent with house work and outdoor maintenance. Oh! I forgot to mention the swimming pool, the spa and sauna, and the barbeque area."

"That all sounds very impressive, Cleavon. With all that to care for, you certainly do need a suitable slave to assist you?"

"Well, not so much to assist me, Richard. I'm looking for a slave who can do all the work around the house and grounds and leave me free for my work and to allow me to spend all my leisure time with Du-Shaunt."

"Well, we have any number of slaves capable of meeting your requirements. In fact, our pens have just been replenished with a shipment of new stock. Would you like to inspect them, Cleavon?"

"Of course, Richard! That's the purpose of my visit. To see if I can find a slave to suit my needs."

"What exactly do you have in mind, Cleavon? Do you have any particular type of slave in mind?"

"Not really, Richard! I've kept an open mind, and thought I'd see what you have on offer. But I have to admit I was quite taken with Luther's two purchases —

Ben and the Australasian slave. If my memory serves me correctly, I think his name was Kurt. Do you have anything like those two boys in stock?"

"I'm sure we do, Cleavon. But to be honest, most of our current stock is fresh off the trucks just last evening, and I haven't had time to inventory them as yet. But other than them, we do have a few exotics — although they are locals and not imports like the slave, Kurt. I'm sure we can find you a slave that will meet with your approval."

"Great! I look forward to inspecting them."

"In that case, let me take you over to our holding pens and you can inspect the slaves in the pens at your leisure. Should any catch you eye then I can have them removed from the pens and taken to one of our inspection salons for closer scrutiny. But I must warn you. As most of them have just arrived, they haven't yet been processed so you might find them a little on the rough side."

"What do you mean, by not being processed, Richard?"

"Well we haven't as yet cleaned them up after their trip from interstate. Consequently they are malodorous. They came to us in slave transporters, and I believe the trip took two days and one night. So as you can imagine, after being crammed tightly against one another for that period of time, they're ... how can I describe them ...? I suppose there is no other way of putting this delicately ... they're pretty shitty and on the nose."

I supposed to be forewarned was to be forearmed, and Richard had done the correct thing in preparing me. But as we exited the calm, air-conditioned luxury of the main building and crossed the internal courtyard to the holding pens, my nose detected the distinctive slave odour of unwashed bodies, excrement, urine and vomit — and crinkled in disgust. I was reminded of the municipal slave pens that I found so distasteful.

I found the slaves' stink to be off-putting, and I was tempted to call a halt to my inspection. However, Richard has been kind enough to allow me to peruse his livestock before the official inspection hours, and it would have been discourteous of me just to walk away. And really, it wasn't his fault; if I'd come later in the day, I didn't doubt that his stock would be clean and sweet-smelling.

And as if to emphasise this point, I watched as a group of ten heavily chained slaves were whip-driven out of the holding pens and across the yard to the ablution block. Richard instructed the overseers to halt the slaves so that I could look at them.

At first glance the slaves were a sorry looking lot. They were young, adult males and of course all were as naked as the day their mothers gave birth to them. I saw confusion and fear written on their faces, and their wild-eyed expressions were those of trapped animals. I wondered about their backgrounds and about the reasons they had become slaves. Were they court-sentenced slaves, or were they 'harvested' stock, gathered up by slavers raiding their remote communities, and who had carryied them off into captivity?

At the time of the "Great Reversal", which saw the ultimate triumph of Blacks over the Caucasian race, many thousands of whiteys chose not to live under our benign dictatorship and deserted the cities they had once dominated. They retreated into the remote, unpopulated, heavily forested and arid areas of the planet and set up small, self-contained communities where they then lived free from Black Domination. There, they lived at subsistence levels maintaining herds of cattle and goats and eking out just enough crops to feed their families.

Of course, the "Reversal" took place some one hundred and fifty years ago, and the former 'unified' — and I used the word advisedly — white society, had fragmented even further into what could loosely be called a state of tribalism.

I had read media reports of how those remote white tribes were constantly at war with one another over land disputes and the stealing of one another's females and livestock. It occurred to me that nothing much had changed in the white psyche. The whitey remaind competitive and warlike by nature as always.

And in recent years those remote communities had become rich, "harvesting fields" for white slaves.

Our cities were still the principal recruiting grounds for most of our white slaves. Our zero tolerance of bad behaviour among our white subjects ensures that the courts were a continuing supply source of slaves to meet our affluent society's ever-growing demand for domestic servants. Those urban whiteys were eagerly sought after. Considered to be tame, those urban slaves settled readily into their lives of servitude and were easy to train. Consequently, they fetched high prices at auction.

But the wild whitey slave — those harvested in the remote areas — was a very different animal. He was unused to contact with the Black man and unused to our ways. Indeed, for many, their first sighting of a Black man was usually when he was captured by them. They remained resentful almost to the point of rebelliousness and must be trained with an iron fist. Such a wild slave was difficult to domesticate, and in the main, he was used for heavy duty work on our farms, in our factories, mines and quarries. And they were used — to a large extent — in our construction industries.

The market for this latter type of slave was a growing one, and in recent years many enterprising Black adventurers conducted slave-raiding expeditions into those remote white areas. It was a high risk enterprise; those white areas were wild, lawless zones where the Black man was seen as a predatory enemy. But the returns were great and many slavers were prepared to risk their safety in the interest of a quick profit. Unfortunately, many a Black slaver had paid the ultimate cost with his life.

Far more adept were our Arab brethren. They had a thousand years' history of slave-taking, and that made them far more successful than the Black slaver.

The Arab slavers were cunning and possessed a stealth that allowed them to surround a whitey village in the pre-dawn darkness without detection. The unsuspecting whiteys, slumbering peacefully in their homes, were taken by surprise, and within minutes they were stripped naked and securely fastened into a coffle.

Then they began their long journey into slavery. The absence of roads in the white areas meant the new slaves must be driven, on foot, and under the whips of their captors, to distant distribution centres where they were "sold on" to the wholesalers who then would sell them to the city merchants like Richard Darnell.

I was curious about the origin of those ten slaves and asked Richard if they were tame, urban slaves, or newly taken wild ones. I suspected the latter, and Richard confirmed that they were. They certainly had an air of wildness about them.

In the main, they were young — I estimated the oldest to be no more than mid-thirty at the most — and all had long, shoulder-length hair and were heavily bearded. Their chests, bellies, and limbs had a covering of body hair, and that was in sharp contrast to our domestic slaves who all had cropped heads and smooth, hairless bodies; we even routinely removed a slave's pubes for hygienic reasons.

Personally, I'd always preferred a slave with a glabrous body, but something about those ten slaves fascinated me. Their body hair added 'something' to their allure, and I was fascinated by it. It was true that their body hair gave them a primitive, untamed look, but it also hinted at their bodily strength and added to their masculine physicality. I quite liked it.

All ten had superbly well-developed bodies as you would expect from those who must work hard to survive, and they were of a uniform build and height. But that was where their uniformity ended, for each had a different hair colouring. That disparity of hair colour in the whitey has always intrigued me. I accepted the conventional wisdom of that as another example of the inherent 'weaknesses' in the Caucasian races. It is evidence of the fragmentation — and I would add the degeneration — of the white man in his evolution.

I recalled one lesson at school when a wise teacher likened the evolution of the human race to that of a mighty tree. I recalled vividly that he told his students the strong trunk of this 'evolutionary tree' is the superior Black Race whose extensive roots were firmly planted in the rich nurturing soil of Mother Africa, and the spreading, primary branches represented our brethren, the Arabs, and other coloured races. The tangle of weak, spindly growth at the end of those strong branches is synonymous with the fragmentation and multiplicity of the white races.

That vision of the 'tree of evolution' had stayed with me. And as I looked upon those ten slaves, I saw the living proof of it. At one end of the colour spectrum were the blonds, while at the opposite end are those with black hair. The hair colouring of the other slaves varied between those two extremes. One individual even had bright red hair, milky white skin and a face and shoulders covered in freckles.

I knew such a slave wasn't suited to outdoor labour — his tender skin would frizzle in the sun's intensity — and he would be sold for indoor duties. And I knew some buyers would see his red hair and freckles as a novelty. However, I didn't!

But one slave did interest me. He was the oldest of the ten, and I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. What was it that attracted me to him? Certainly he was an impressive slave with a magnificent physique and a prominent musculature. He had a thatch of unruly blond hair with bangs that hung down over his forehead, and a matching beard. His strong, handsome features were dominated by his noble nose and full red lips. And his eyes were the rich azure colour of a sparkling sea. His chest and limbs all had a light dusting of hair the same colour as that on his head, and he had a delightful treasure trail of slightly darker hair trailing down over his ribbed belly to his pubes; the thick golden bush did nothing to hide his prodigious genitalia. I noticed that he was uncircumcised and smiled inwardly at the thought that he was blissfully unaware that he was soon to lose his prepuce. In our society no slave was allowed to retain his foreskin, and our laws prescribed that all newly enslaved whiteys must be circumcised as a badge of their servitude.

The slave had broad shoulders, and his back tapered down to a narrow, trim waist that flared out into the full, rounded curves of his muscular buttocks. If there were a fault with the slave, it was that the deep tan of his body was broken by the lighter coloured tan of his ass and midriff. Quite obviously, he was an outdoor worker — most probably a peasant farmer — and worked semi-naked. I disliked the break between the colour of his upper torso and his muscular legs, but I considered that was a minor fault and not irredeemable. Working fully naked in the outdoors would soon correct the anomaly in his overall appearance.

But then I noticed the slave's touching concern for a younger slave who was chained next to him. At first, I was puzzled by this; the notion that slaves had emotional feelings was something I've never considered. Momentarily, I felt sympathy for the slaves, but then I told myself that I was moving into unfamiliar territory. As a Black Superior, I should only ever view a white slave as I would any other domestic animal.

The younger slave was obviously distressed, and I could see that he was crying. Touchingly, the older slave took him into a tight embrace, and that attracted the attention of the overseers who used their whips to separate the two slaves. Richard told me such displays of affection between slaves were actively discouraged.

The older slave reacted angrily and lunged at his tormentors, only to be restrained by his chains. Such defiance wasn't to be tolerated, and the whips fell repeatedly on his unprotected body until he fell to his knees in submission.

It was then that I saw the striking resemblance between the two slaves. They were as alike as two peas in a pod. Surely they are brothers? My curiosity was aroused and I asked Richard if that could be so.

"It's quite possible that the two are related, Cleavon. After all, if they are from the same village, then it is highly probable. Let's ask them, shall we?"

"Slave," Richard addresses the older slave, "are you two related in any way?"

The slave glared at Richard with hate-filled eyes and maintained a sullen silence. However, it was to be his last act of rebellion, and I was sure he didn't notice Richard's slight nod of the head to his overseers. Reacting quickly to Richard's unspoken instruction, they lay into the younger slave and whipped him to his knees.

"STOP IT! STOP IT!" the older slave pled with Richard. "He's my son! Please stop."

To say I was amazed, is an understatement. It hardly seemed possible that those two slaves were father and son. The older slave seemed too young to have sired such a well-developed son. I estimated that the father was roughly twice the age of the son. So if the father were aged in his mid-thirties, then the son would be aged seventeen or eighteen. But I have to say the father was very young looking and would pass as his son's older brother. I supposed those primitive whites in their remote communities do start to procreate at a much earlier age than we do.

"Tell me boy! You were taken together? Is that correct?"

"YES!" The older slave's answer was curt and lacked respect, and that angersed Richard. Viciously, he deliverd two stinging slaps; the first to the right side and the second to the left side of the slave's face with such force that the slave staggered under its impact.

"SLAVE! I own you and you will address me as Master until such time as you are sold to a new Master. Do you understand me? Defy me, and your son will be punished in your place. Do you understand me?"

"Yes..." the slave hesitated, but then accepted the inevitable, "... Master."

"Then answer me, boy! Were you taken together? And tell me about your background."

I listened as the slave told us about his capture and enslavement. He'd been a member of a small community of white subsistence farmers in a semi-arid area. Recently, the community had harvested their crops, and as was their custom, they'd marked the occasion with a day and night of feasting and dancing. They'd also indulged heavily in a heady, intoxicating brew of fermented barley and had fallen into a drunken stupor, unaware that their village had been marked as a target by Arab slavers.

Too late, they awoke to find themselves under attack, and in their drunken state, they were no match for the Arabs. Within the hour, the villagers were stripped naked and chained into two, segregated coffles; one for the adult males and the other for the women and children, and as they were driven into their new captivity, their village was torched.

The slave relayed to us a graphic story of the long march overland to a far distant distribution centre. He told us of the heat, the insects, the hunger and thirst, and of the brutality of their new Arab masters. He told us of the heavy chains that weighed them down, and of the savage whips that kept them moving.

I listened with growing sympathy as he spoke of the dehumanisation of his family and fellow villagers and of their relegation to the level of animals. He told of the shame they felt in their new nakedness and of the lack of privacy that forced them to defecate and urinate in front of each other.

But then he broke down and wept as he told us of his pain at being separated from his wife, younger son, and daughter. The last he saw of them was on their arrival at the distribution centre where they were separated as he and his son were placed in the holding pens for adult, male slaves.

Tearfully, he told us, "My son is all I have left of my old life, and I love him. Please don't separate us, Master."

I had to admit, I found his story to be heart-wrenching; his pain and suffering were all too evident. That was an aspect of slavery I was only vaguely aware of, and I'd never bothered myself with it. And why would I? In our society we had enthusiastically embraced slavery as an integral part of our culture. We were surrounded by our slaves. They were ever present, yet we didn't really see them. They lived side by side with us, and yet we ignored their pain and denied them their emotions.

And we never considered how we came by our slaves. That was a subject we never discussed. Slaves appeared in our auction-houses — we took that for granted — and we never asked how they arrived there. Perhaps we found the question as too confronting and chose to ignore it. It was much like the meat we would buy in our well-stocked supermarkets. As we dined on our roast dinners and tucked into our king-sized steaks, did we consider the fattening pens and the abattoirs? Of course we didn't!

Those two slaves intrigued me, and I wanted to inspect them. The fact that they were father and son fascinated me. Could it be that I, as a father with a son of a similar age to the young slave standing dejectedly with his father, could feel sympathy for their plight?

And as though he were reading my mind, the father fell to his knees before Richard and begged, "Please, Master, let me stay with my son. Please, Master, don't separate us."

The son took his cue from his father and likewise fell to his knees; he added his pleas to those of his father; "Please, Master! Let me stay with my dad. Please, Master! Please..."

It was at that moment that I decided I wanted those two slaves. I told myself that I had enough work for two slaves; the house and its extensive grounds would keep both slaves gainfully employed. I'd come to the market that morning to buy one slave. Then I'd decided to buy two — a father-and-son pairing.

But first, I needed to scrutinise them further. But their filth-covered bodies repulsed me, and they needed to be cleaned up before I could touch them.

I asked Richard's permission to examine them in the more salubrious surroundings of an inspection salon. He hesitateed.

"Are you sure about this, Cleavon? Remember … they are wild, untamed slaves, and I think you will have your work cut out to break them. Let me show you some of our tame whiteys. I would strongly recommend it. I'm sure one of them will suit your needs better than these two."

Richard was right. The father and son were 'unbroken and untested', and it would take much effort on my part to turn them into the docile, obedient slaves that I required them to be. They presented me with a challenge, but it was one that I wanted to meet. For some unknown reason, I was attracted to both the father and the son, and I knew that they would sorely test my patience as I broke their spirits and bent them to my will. I promised myself that I would domesticate them, and that I would have my own son, Du-Shaunt to assist me.

And the irony of the situation didn't escape me. The thought of those two slaves — father and son — serving me and my own son — excited me. My mind was made up. I wanted those two slaves.

"Richard, these two boys interest me. I know they are new to slavery and will try my patience, but there is something about them that challenges me. Richard, I need look no further. I want these two slaves."

Both father and son had been listening to our conversation, and at that moment, they knelt at my feet and begged me to buy them. As the father kissed my feet, his tears darkened the leather of my shoes.

"Please, Sir!" the father begged, "Buy us and keep us together; please, Sir. You won't be sorry! We'll both serve you faithfully, Sir!"

"Very well, Cleavon," Richard sighed, "I can see you have made up your mind. I'll have these two boys cleaned up and taken to an inspection room for you. But I'm sorry! Their preparation will be superficial; just a hosing and a scrubbing down with soap to remove the travel grime and filth. There isn't time to groom them or to cut their hair, to shave their beards and to remove their body hair."

"Their body hair doesn't concern me at all, Richard. In fact, I will allow both slaves to retain it. I think it gives them an exotic look."

I looked down at both slaves crouching at my feet. With their foreheads pressed to the ground and their asses elevated, I watched the nervous quivering of their powerful back muscles.

I wondered — how would I react if it were Du-Shaunt and I who were kneeling naked at the feet of a whitey master? Would I — like this father — beg not to be separated from my son? The answer was plainly obvious.

Yes, I would! I would beg with all my heart and with every fibre of my being. I would humble myself at his feet and tearfully plead ... just as this father was doing.

I love my son, Du-Shaunt, that much!

The End.

Posted: 11/18/11