By Victor Terry
Illustrated by SEAN
“Hey, Chuck, look at this.”
Chuck took the ad.
German M, muscular. 190 lbs. 6’, blond, coming to USA summer. Seeking to serve as total slave on S/M farm for two or more weeks. Desiring public humiliations, shaving, tattooing, branding. Only sincere real scenes. Write: Viktor Baum.
A postal address in Munich followed.
Chuck read it again. His eyes narrowed. “What are you thinkin’ of?”
“Well,” I said, leaning back against the davenport, my head against his shoulder, displaying the rising bulge at my crotch, “It occurred to me that there’s a lot of work around this place that needs to be done durin’ the summer, and if we can get a real live live-in slave to do it, like we talked about before… And this fucker might be the ideal choice. Unless the ad is bull-shittin’. A fuckin’ kraut, 2000 miles away from his home country, isolated on a farm he doesn’t know where, chained in the barn, workin’, gettin’ fucked, disciplined, seein’ only those men we allow him to see, and us havin’ his mouth and asshole at our command… I’m not tired of your mouth and asshole, Chuck,” I hastened to add as his brows drew closer, putting my hand on his crotch, “Lord knows I’m never goin’ to get tired of you. But a slave of our own, for two or three weeks, to do the goddam backbreakin’ chores we got to do…”
He grinned and cupped his hand over mine.
“I should hope to hell you ain’t tired of me. I ain’t tired of you. And to prove it, we’re goin’ into the bedroom right now and strip and mess around.”
Well, we did. It was good messing around with Chuck. That just seems to get better and better.
Chuck and I are partners; we usually agree on things, but when we don’t, what Chuck thinks, goes. He’s the boss; I’m not his slave, but he’s my master. We’re partners, but he’s the boss. The thing is, his decisions are usually good. But when they’re not, when they’re wrong, I never say “I told you so.” I know better. And also I don’t have to, because Chuck’s usually kicking himself around the farm.
The next day before I left to go teach my classes, Chuck said, “You thought any more about that slave?”
“No. You took my mind off him last night. My asshole is still sore.”
“So’s mine. Like always, when you put your big pole up it.” We grinned at each other. I’m the only one who fucks Chuck, and he’s the only one who fucks me. We like to fuck each other. We feel something truly personal in fucking each other, and long ago we tacitly agreed nobody else’d fuck us. But we like to fuck others, and we do, sharing them, working them over, making them crawl and beg for our big cocks. We’ve had weekend slaves and overnight slaves; we must be doing something right because they keep begging to come back. We never fuck each other in front of the slaves; that’s something personal, like I said, and we don’t share it with a fucking asshole slave.
Chuck rubbed his big hand over my sore butt. I pressed against him, not anxious to leave. He took his hand away and picked up the ad which he had clipped from the paper.
“I thought about the slave this mornin’, pickin’ up the fuckin’ paper. Should I write the krout? We could use him, for work and for fun and games. I got a couple of ideas…”
He told me one of his ideas.
“Write him,” I said. “Tell you what, you draft the letter and I’ll make suggestions tonight.”
And that’s what we did. Chuck wrote, I suggested. Chuck rewrote, and we mailed the letter. Then we fucked. Our ideas in the letter turned us both on. It was good fucking. As always.
Two weeks later we got a reply, with two color snapshots. Good looking fucking kraut, longish honey blond hair, peaches and cream complexion that looked as if he’d never shaved, solid build partially visible under the leather jacket open to the waist. That’s all the pictures showed.
Chuck replied, and the correspondence continued until one day late in July when Chuck and I drove from our place in Old Westbury on Long Island to JFK International Airport to meet the fucking kraut who was coming to spend three weeks as our slave. We’d been honest with him in our letters; now we’d see if he’d been honest with us in his.
We waited across the hall from the men’s john closest to the exit doors from customs. The kraut had orders to come out of customs and go to the john entrance to meet us.
It was a warm day, but Chuck was wearing a leather jacket open to the waist with no shirt, and I was wearing a leather vest and no shirt. We both had Levi’s and black leather boots, scarred work boots that’d take a lot of tongue work to look shiny. Heavy black belts. Motorcycle caps. Keys on the left.
We looked damn good. Chuck looked mean and sexy in everything and also in nothing—in nothing is the way I prefer him—and, he told me, I looked damn sexy, too. We are both tall, over 6’, dark hair, muscular–though Chuck has a better build than I do since his work lets him use his body more than mine does; he does construction work during the winter but during the summer he tells them to fuck it and spends his time on our place working there. I teach school during the winter and work with Chuck during the summer vacation. Chuck takes his summers off so he can be with me. We like working outdoors on our farm. Chuck has a neatly trimmed mustache and beard and I have a thick mustache. We both have gray eyes. He has hair on his chest and belly; I do not. Chuck has a patch of hair in the small of his back; it vanishes into the crack of his ass and thickly rings his asshole, and sometimes it gets between my teeth.
We leaned against the wall, shoulders back and pelvises out, crotches bulging, feet apart, waiting for the kraut, watching the folks as they began to straggle from the customs room.
The kraut was the fourth one out.
Chuck spotted the kraut first. The kraut’s only luggage was the small backpack that fit under the plane seat so he hadn’t had to wait to claim his luggage. He’d obeyed that order.
“Hey, Brad,” Chuck nodded his head, “there he is.”
“Looks like him. From here he lives up to his pictures.” The kraut came down the hall, looking for the john. He spotted us and stopped, licked his lips, then came on, making sure we were in position in front of the john before he came over, following orders.
He was wearing a plain sport shirt, German jeans, boots, the small backpack. His hair was fairly long and straight, combed straight back. He had a blond beard that washed out his face, blending into his creamy skin. Most blonds should not wear beards or mustaches, I think; it washes them out, makes them look non-descript, bland, characterless. A beard should contrast, not blend with the skin. He’d grown the beard on Chuck’s orders. His eyes shone as he looked at us, up and down, lingering at our crotches, shifting from one to the other. His shirt was tight across his muscular chest. So far he’d lived up to his description in the ad. His face was German, the face of a stereotype German. The red round cheeks, white teeth and dazzling smile, handsome and wholesome, a power that you’d expect to find in an advertisement for “The SS Wants You.” An aryan face.
His keys were on his right hip.
He swallowed, cleared his throat.
Neither Chuck nor I said anything. We just looked at him, our fingers loosely clasping our belts.
“Are you Chuck and Brad?” he asked tentatively. His speech had a light accent. He was following orders in asking the question.
“Yeah,” growled Chuck.
“Thank God!” he whispered. He shivered in the heat. “Masters, I am your fucking asshole slave kraut.” His head bowed and his shoulders slumped before us as he gave the identification we had written—ordered—him to give.
“You got the certificate?”
“Yes, Master, here.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handed it to me.
I read it, gave it to Chuck. It was a doctor’s certificate, written in English and signed by a doctor, saying that Viktor Baum was in good health with no physical defects, nothing wrong with heart, kidneys, lungs, liver, etc.
“A prime specimen,” I snarled. “Meat for us to work on.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said softly.
“Follow me,” Chuck led the way into the john. I brought up the rear. The kraut’s cheeks bounced up and down under the tight jeans.
The john was empty.
We backed him into one of the stalls.
“Drop your pants, asshole.”
He fumbled with the buckle and buttons before shoving his pants down to his knees.
“Raise your shirt.”
He obeyed, quivering with excitement.
He had followed orders; he was wearing nothing under the shirt and jeans.
His cock and balls sprang out of a thick tangle of blond hair, hair that spread up his belly and disappeared under his shirt.
His balls swung in their hairy sac about four inches below the joining of his thighs and were partly hidden by the thick cock that arched out toward us, a thick ivory piece of unclipped kraut sausage. I had the twine ready, and I stepped into the stall next to the asshole. I tied the twine tightly like a cockring and then wove it around his cock till the cock was tightly laced up with the coarse rough twine, tying the ends just under the head. He was panting and trembling when I finished, and his cock was erect, not so big as mine or Chuck’s but bigger than average.
“Pull your pants up. Stuff that thing in your right leg, the way a slave should stuff his cock and balls.”
He obeyed, the bound erect cock obscenely stretching the faded material.
“Now you listen to us and listen good. Get down on your knees, shithead.” He fell heavily to his knees, his eyes down, staring, I think, at our crotches. “You’re a slave, a goddamn fuckin’ asshole slave. Right, kraut?” Chuck sneered kraut.
“Right, Master.”
“Prove it. Prove it, asshole. Kiss our boots.”
He bent quickly and kissed our boots, Chuck’s before mine. He did not straighten up till Chuck said, “Follow us,” and moved away.
He scrambled to his feet and followed us out of the building to the parking lot and our old black van. It was twilight then, not daylight but not yet dark.
We opened the back doors to the van, Chuck on the left, me on the right. Chuck motioned for him to stand between the doors and then we moved to stand before him, so he was surrounded by the van with its gaping wide open maw, the van doors, and Chuck and me.
“The name on your passport is Viktor, but as far as we’re concerned you got no name except asshole or kraut or anything else we happen to call you. Understand, asshole? You’re just a fuckin’ asshole slave kraut, understand? You’re here to obey us, understand?”
His head bowed, he murmured, “Yes, Master.”
“Strip.”
He looked up, surprised, trembling. “Master?”
Chuck slapped his face twice. “You deaf or something’? When you get an order you obey it. You obey it or you get punished, disciplined for disobedience. Now, I said, ‘Strip,’ goddam it, dumkopf, and I meant strip. Now. Take off your goddam clothes. Either you strip or you get back on the next plane to fuckin’ Munich!”
“Yes, Master,” quickly shrugging out of his backpack and putting it on the floor of the van. “I’m sorry, Master.” His shirt followed, his boots, his jeans, socks. He stood naked in the parking Jot, hairy chested, erect, his balls crawling up to the base of his bound cock. We made him fold his clothes neatly and put them in the backpack, his tied erect cock bobbing in the air with each movement. We made him get down and kiss our boots again. In that position, on his hands and knees, his mouth against Chuck’s left boot, we made him swear he’d obey us, we made him promise he’d obey us so we’d not send him back to Munich, we made him tell us what he was, “a fucking asshole slave kraut, your fucking asshole slave kraut, Masters; thank you. Masters, thank you.”
The parking lot lights came on as we pissed on him, catching the hot yellow liquid. His head bowed forward, he shivered and the hot shower ran down his body, staining the asphalt.
“Get in the van. Face forward. Spread your legs. Hands behind you.”
His tight white buns moved smoothly as he obeyed.
I clambered in, too, and fastened the cuffs on his wrists behind his back. He tested them, then slumped in submission. Roughly I pushed him down so he was lying on his back, the cuffs and his wrists under him. I fastened leather straps around his ankles and fastened their chains to the straps so he was lying legs spreadeagled on the floor of the van. I fastened a ball stretcher around his sac, pulling the balls down tight to the bottom, and he groaned. I ran a chain from the stretcher to an eyelet in the floor, locked it in place. I covered his eyes with a leather blindfold. He was helpless, lying on the floor of the van on a dirty blanket, naked, blinded, wet with piss, hands bound beneath him, legs spread wide, ankles chained, balls chained, cock bound with rough twine and erect hard over his belly. He had been out of the airport terminal in a foreign (to him) country less than fifteen minutes and he was a helpless prisoner, a self-proclaimed slave.
I scrambled out of the back of the van, pinching his nipples as I went. He twisted upwards towards me, whimpering. We slammed the doors shut and locked them, went around to the front and climbed in. Chuck was driving. He started the engine and the kraut spoke.
“Masters?” He raised his head toward us.
“Yeah, kraut? You change your mind, want to go back to fuckin’ Munich, asshole?”
But all he said was, “Thank you, Masters, thank you, thank you.” A white clear drop fell from the piss hole of his cock. His head fell back to the floor.
I don’t know if the attendant taking money in the parking lot could see the bound figure in the van; at any rate, he said nothing to us. But he was grinning when he took the money.
Home, I pressed the button that opened the electric gate to the driveway. Chuck drove in. The gate closed. Our place is about thirty acres, mostly covered with woods, and we are building a stone wall around the perimeter. What farming we do is mostly vegetable gardening, but we’ve enough planted to keep us busy. The kraut had written to an S/M farm; well, he’d not be disappointed; he’d be doing farm work, all right, building the stone wall, pulling the plow for the garden, crouching on his hands and knees all day in the hot sun weeding, sleeping with the animals, and always naked and chained.
Chuck drove beyond our stone-faced house which is hidden from the road by the stone wall and a two-acre stretch of thick wood of bushes and trees; he parked the van inside the garage. The garage is part of a large barn we use as a storage shed, black room, and dog kennel. I freed the kraut’s legs and sac, undid the cuffs. He scrambled out and Chuck led him into the open air, undid the blindfold.
Chuck blew on the dog whistle he carries on his key chain and three dogs came running. We have four German shepherds, all male, all trained in attack school. They sleep in the barn—each one has a separate stall but they prefer to sleep in the same one—and they patrol the grounds day and night. They don’t take kindly to strangers. Chuck likes opera (and I have learned to like it) and he named the German shepherds after four favorite German opera composers: Beethoven, Hindemith, Nicolai, Weber. The dogs have their own pecking order, and Beethoven fittingly is number one. One of the dogs had met us at the gate and followed us to the garage, and the other three came bounding up when they heard the whistle. They stood, ready to attack the stranger. The kraut stood still when his first movement toward them was greeted with bared teeth and growls. They meant business. The slave stood perfectly still, only his eyes moving from Chuck to me to the dogs.
Chuck and I walked into the barn, leaving him alone with the dogs. He moved to follow, but Weber, his teeth showing, took a step toward him and the kraut froze in position. It was dark now, but by the light from the barn I could see sweat coating the naked body of the slave. His cock was still bound, still hard, but now it was pointing straight out instead of upwards. Fear did that.
I got what I needed and Chuck took a look around to make sure the barn was in readiness for its new slave; then we returned to the standing man. I tied his boots together while Chuck began his training.
Chuck spoke to the dogs. “Friend,” he said in his deep voice, standing next to the blond, one big hand on the blond’s shoulder, “friend, friend.” The dogs relaxed their stance. Chuck pushed down and the slave went to his knees, and then to his hands and knees. Chuck said, “Come,” to the dogs and they padded forward, tongues hanging out. It looked as if they were smiling as they investigated the stranger. They smelled him from head to toe, their cold noses pressing against his sac and cock and exposed asshole–Chuck had made the kraut spread his legs wide. The kraut’s head fell forward, bowed in submission, and he shiveringly accepted the dogs’ investigation. When they finished, the dogs sat and watched.
I threw the backpack on the ground and dropped the now tied boots over the kraut’s neck so one boot dangled on each side, the cord across his neck. “Pick up that backpack,” I ordered. His hand moved out but Chuck quickly stepped on it. The slave yelped in pain. “No, asshole,” I snarled, “you goddam fuckin’ asshole, don’t you know nothin’? Stupid kraut! I thought you’d had slave trainin’ in Munich, don’t they teach you nothin’ over there? When you’re on your hands and knees you’re a fuckin’ animal, a goddam fuckin’ animal, no better than a dog–hell, you’re not so good as any one of these dogs here–fuckin’ animal, and animals don’t have hands! Use your fuckin’ mouth, that’s about all your fuckin’ mouth’s good for, that and suckin’ cock and lickin’ ass. Now, pick up that backpack!”
His head bent and he picked it up between his teeth. Chuck released his hand.
“Come on, asshole kraut.”
On hands and knees, boots slung over his shoulder, backpack hanging from his mouth, the slave followed us into the lighted barn. I closed the door. The dogs watched and followed and stayed to watch a while before going back into the grounds to patrol. Every so often one or two of the dogs would return to watch what we were doing to the fucking asshole, to cock their heads inquisitively as he screamed, and then leave again. The dogs have a separate entrance to the barn so they can enter and leave as they please when the main doors are shut. From the road no one can hear the screams issuing from the barn, but Chuck keeps the doors closed when we are working over a slave; he thinks the closed room has a dungeon/captivity effect missing when the doors are open, and I guess he’s right.
Chuck led the kraut to an empty stall. On the floor was some straw and hay and dried grass and an old dirty cum-stained blanket. “This is your place. This is where you’ll stay and sleep unless we have other plans for you. Right here, out in the barn. Here, with the dogs. They sleep in any of the stalls they want, and maybe they’ll sleep here with you. You will let them; you will be glad to share your stall with the dogs, won’t you, slave?”
The slave nodded his head. “Yes, Master.”
“You’re damn lucky we’re lettin’ you sleep in the barn with the dogs. You could be chained out in the woods,” and I motioned toward the outdoors.
“Yes. Master. Thank you, Master.”
We began his training in earnest then, stringing him up, beating his ass, making him crawl on his belly, making him suck our cocks, making him lick our assholes, fucking him. His prick was hard all the time we were working him over, and he shot when I fucked him and again when Chuck fucked him, and a third time when we double-ended him. When he finished shooting the third time he crawled to us and kissed our boots and thanked us again for accepting him for training, telling us how glad he was to be with us, getting whipped and fucked, obeying all our orders.
Chuck led him outside where he raised his leg and pissed, and then I chained him in his stall; an eight-inch chain joined his sac and an eyelet in the floor. He could raise no higher without great pain on his balls. But he didn’t want to; jet lag was setting in and he was beat. And beaten.
Chuck and I pissed in his mouth. He didn’t miss a drop.
We let him sleep.
Working him over had turned me on, and Chuck, too, so we fucked before we went to sleep.
The next day began the regular routine we were to follow for the next three weeks. He worked on the stone wall. He was harnessed to the plow by his hands, shoulders, sac, and head bridle; he pulled while Chuck guided the plow and I encouraged our slave with the cattle prod when he showed signs of slowing down. He weeded the garden on his hands and knees, getting tanned all over. He ate the food we gave him from a bowl next to the dogs’ bowls. He offered his body for our pleasure whenever we “wondered what to do next,” He obeyed. He was happy.
The kraut’s ad and letters had begged for public humiliations; we didn’t keep the fucking slave isolated on our place. During the next three weeks we took him places.
The second night we took him over to a buddy’s place for a party. He was the only one naked, and naked he served the drinks and serviced the guests on his hands and knees, drinking piss and spit, sucking and getting fucked. The other guests admired the whip marks Chuck and I had given him before adding their own to his body. Chuck shaved his crotch hair, and the guests pissed on him to wash off the left-over lather. The kraut’s cock was hard the whole evening until he came while I was fucking him for the third time; his cumming was disobedience and he was punished by a bastinado on the soles of his feet. He screamed and writhed during this whipping, but his cock was hard all the time; it had not gone soft after his cum.
We lent him on several evenings to various other buddies. The fucking kraut served and serviced them and their guests. His reward was a cat laid heavily across his back and ass.
We took him to the Mine Shaft and tied him to the rail fence that bordered the stairwell, tied him bent over, head hanging down the stairwell, ass up, and draped a belt over his back, offering him to any and all who wanted to beat an ass or to fuck one. He must have taken thirty cocks up his ass. Cum oozed out of his hole and his butt was red and hot and belt-marked when Chuck and I added our loads to the slick well-fucked hole. But he was tight around our cocks, not loose as I had expected.
We took him to the docks and tied him to some beams in one of the abandoned piers; he was there for anyone to use. We walked away and left him hanging, waiting alone. He was not left alone for long. We stayed out of sight and watched while he was used and abused. And we tied him on his hands and knees to one of the abandoned toilets, his shoulders over the rim, his face in the bowl, and we pissed on him. ‘Most everyone there pissed on him, drenching his back and ass with hot yellow piss; but more piss ran over his head and dripped into the bowl, and we made him drink it, we made him lick the filthy bowl clean, and we fucked him, forcing his face into the piss in the bowl.
We took him sightseeing in New York City. Under his clothes he wore nipple clamps and a dildo up his ass.
We took him to the doctor once a week to get a shot of penicillin. He was too good a slave to allow to be damaged by some goddam infection. The doc took his payment out of the kraut’s hide, whipping and fucking him.
Each night at home we whipped him and fucked him. We fucked him in the morning, too–whenever we felt randy, which could be any time of day. Funny, but each time we worked him over or fucked him, the kraut spoke German. He spoke German only to us, to Chuck and to me, never to other Masters. And only when he was close to cumming or when he was tremendously excited. “Fuck me, fuck me, please, Master, please,” he begged and shouted, “Meister, bitte, bitte, Dufickstmich’.Ach, Mesiter, Jesu, Jesu! Du fickst mich! Jesu, Meister, bitte, bitte, ficke mich, ficke mich, ficke mich in mein Arschloch, Meister, ficke ficke ficke! Meister!” (The German may not be spelled right, but that’s what it sounded like.)
He was happy.
Three weeks after his arrival, on the last day before his plane left to return to Munich, Chuck made a few phone calls to implement the plans he and I had already laid on. That night we dressed the slave in a filthy jock strap and a leather dog collar and leash, bound his hands behind him and bundled him into the van, fastening him to the floor by his leash.
We drove to the Mine Shaft, getting there about midnight.
Chuck parked the van about a block from the entrance. We led the kraut, naked, bound, down the center of the street to the doorway and inside. We mounted the stairs to the entrance, the slave following us, his leash fastened to Chuck’s key ring. Some guys who were just leaving turned around and went back in, following us, making remarks about the lash marks and bruises on the fucking naked slave, about his fine-toned body, about his red-bruised ass cheeks and the hole hidden between them, about his erect cock which was swelling his filthy jock, tenting it out. The slave kept his head bowed, looking only at Chuck’s and my crotches and boots. We were wearing boots and Levi’s and black leather vests, keys on the left, but I doubt if many did more than glance at us. They were staring at the blond kraut, the hottest-sexiest-looking slave in the Shaft.
Inside, we stripped off his jock. He was totally naked the rest of the time we were inside, except for the collar. His cock bounced against his belly and his balls were drawn up tight against his cock base. Occasionally his balls went lower, but his cock never wavered; it was rock hard and stayed rock hard all the time.
There are three rooms on the lower floor of the Shaft. Two are public rooms: one is the piss room with the two tubs and the second has a bar and a stage where exhibitions and shows can be staged, where slaves can be worked over under spotlights. The third room is a private room: it’s kept locked except for special nights, special arrangements, special people. Chuck was one of the special people and this was a special night. The doorkeeper gave Chuck the key when we arrived and he slipped it into his pocket to wait till we’d use the inner room.
Before we led him down the stairs we paraded the fucking kraut slave through the upper rooms, making him kneel and kiss boots and ass when we’d meet one of our buddies–we’d alerted them there’d be action at the Shaft.
Downstairs, we knelt the slave next to a tub. A slave lay in the tub, his body and his Levi’s drenched in piss. We made the kraut bend over the rim and lick the piss-wet slave. The kraut got pissed on, too. His cock was hard, pointing down against the outer side of the tub. I fingered his asshole while he licked.
In his ad and letters the goddam kraut had begged for public humiliations; we had given him these, at the Shaft, with our friends, at the piers. This night was going to be his biggest public humiliation of all. He was burningly conscious of being surrounded by people, some whom he had serviced before but most who were strangers. Masters and slaves and curious sightseers from Dubuque or Nashville who he knew would go back home and tell tales about the fucking kraut slave in the Shaft; he was surrounded by people who looked at him naked and willingly degrading himself, debasing himself by licking piss, by drinking piss from the body of another slave, by willingly submitting himself to whatever his Masters Chuck and I had planned for him. He seemed to want, love, whatever we had planned, his cock hard and throbbing against his belly; he was a piece of man meat, for our pleasure. “Whatever pleases you, Masters, pleases me. What you want, I want,” the kraut had said. “I am your slave, your fucking asshole slave.” On his knees he crawled around the floor of the Shaft and drank piss and sucked cock and kissed boots, and he welcomed the spit and the rough feel of hands on his nipples and whimpered with pleasure when his balls were squeezed. Degraded, debased, humiliated, he wouldn’t have stopped it for the world.
The head of his uncut cock had poked through the protecting foreskin, and from the red piss hole dripped clear crystalline drops.
He was getting what he had begged for. In spades.
“Danke, Meister Chuck, Meister Brad, danke.”
Chuck and I were both hard under our Levi’s. My cock strained against the thin material, and a wet stain slowly spread from the juices I was leaking.
I released the slave’s hands. He started to rub his wrists where the cuffs had held him fast, but Chuck pulled on the leash and he fell forward, catching himself with his hands. On his hands and knees Chuck led him into the locked room.
The room was bare except for a rack in the center and some other equipment in one corner, equipment we had placed there the day before. Spotlights illuminated the rack, and the mirror on the ceiling reflected every inch of the floor. Chains on pulleys hung from high on the walls, but none hung from the ceiling itself.
We put the slave on the rack, face up, leather straps around his ankles and wrists, chains snapped to the D-rings and pulled tight and fastened. Chuck took off the dog collar and dropped it on the rack. Helpless, the slave saw himself in the mirror, bound tightly to the rack, arms and legs stretched and straining and wide spread, and he saw our heads and the heads of the crowded spectators watching him stretched on the rack, spectators watching and gloating over his helplessness, some wanting their slaves to be in the kraut’s place, some wanting their Masters to put them in the kraut’s place, some just curious, wondering what was going to happen, why the slave allowed himself to be paraded and pissed on and tied, was enjoying it, was welcoming it, was hard cocked and defiantly erect.
The kraut moaned in bliss.
I took a bucket from the corner and filled it half full with piss from the tub in the next room, put it on the rack where Chuck could get to it easily, next to the neat black leather pouch Chuck had slung over his shoulder, the pouch with the toys and equipment Chuck and I’d be using on the submissive bound slave. The leather pouch was open and Chuck was laying out the razor, the strop, the cream.
The kraut was going to get shaved.
My cock throbbed and I shifted it in my pants leg, finally having to open my fly and take it out, let it thrust proudly toward the mirror.
Piss on his body instead of water. Rich creamy lather. The glittering blade of the straight razor. Smooth strokes down the hairy chest, in the cups of the armpits, over the rippled belly, around the strained thighs and calves and ankles, until the kraut’s body was stripped of its hairy covering. Carefully Chuck rode the blade over the strop, sharpening it as needed. Carefully he hefted the tight balls and drew them down to the bottom of the sac, carefully he scraped the tender pink skin of the sac and the perineum and the base of the belly until the fucking genitals lay pink and bare, devoid and stripped of all hairs, exposed to the eager gaze of the crowd, for the room was packed, packed with lustfully gazing and slobbering slaves and Masters the merely curious. We released the kraut’s ankles and refastened the chains to the head of the rack, drawing his legs up and over his head, exposing his cheeks and the helpless brown puckered hole to everyone. His weight was on his shoulders and neck and head. The kraut was breathing heavily, panting, moaning, as he felt the blade move over his skin; and when Chuck slipped between his legs and shaved his cheeks and that spot on the small of his otherwise hairless back where the hair grew before it went down and vanished into the crack, the slave moaned louder. Chuck shaved the back of his legs, and lastly the brown hole and hairy crack. The slave didn’t move until he was finished, until Chuck finger-fucked him. Chuck rinsed him off with more piss, cold now and smelly, before getting off the rack and going to the kraut’s head. He took off the beard that I though was wasted and lost on the kraut, washing out his features; the kraut looked younger and vivid and more alive, the smooth creamy peachy complexion showing again. Chuck shaved all the hair from the top of the kraut’s head, balding him. The kraut protested this at first, and struggled, but one look deep into Chuck’s eyes quieted him. With a sigh he surrendered, murmured “Ja, Meister, ja, ja, bitte.”
The kraut’s skull was so finely shaped he almost looked more handsome without hair than with.
Shaved, the hairless slave lay on the rack, his bondage straining his muscles in the awkward position, staring up at himself between his legs, his skin gleaming pinkly and creamily in the light under the golden tan, a totally naked aryan. He did not have long to look in the mirror, for I motioned to two of our acquaintances. Dave stepped to the kraut’s head and unbuttoned his levi’s, pulled out his fat clipped cock and stuck it in the kraut’s mouth. “Suck, slave, goddam kraut slave, suck my cock, suck my fat cock.”
At the same time, Irwin climbed on the rack and slipped his already exposed hard clipped cock up the kraut’s asshole. “Son of a bitch, you fuckin’ hun, take my cock, take my fat thick cock.”
Chuck leaned over and spoke in the slave’s ear. “Feel those cocks, asshole, feel those fat cocks. You like those cocks, kraut, you like gettin’ stuffed with those cocks?” The kraut gurgled affirmatively around the cock plunging into his throat.
“Good, good,” said Irwin, “you goddam fuckin’ kraut asshole slave!” The fuckers plunged harder into the slave’s holes, and quickly Irwin came, shooting his sperm high up the slave’s ass. Dave came a few seconds later, and the slave swallowed eagerly the hot ropey cum Dave gave him. Both Dave and Irwin were quick cummers, we knew, one reason why Chuck chose them to fuck the kraut, for Chuck had more things planned for that night.
Dave and Irwin pulled out and Chuck and I quickly unfastened the kraut. Cum dribbled from his ass and from his mouth, his tongue trying to lick it up. I fastened the dog collar in place again and pulled him to his hands and knees on the floor. The crowd cleared a way and I led our newly shaved, fucked pet out of the private room and up the stairs to the center of that room. Chuck was right behind us.
The crowd followed, standing around us 360 degrees.
Chuck brought the Crisco.
Spotlights flooded the sling.
Fistfucking time.
Double fistfucking time.
My cock was dripping on the floor.
We secured him in the sling and greased our right arms. Center stage. I grabbed the slave’s throbbing steel-hard prick and fisted it while Chuck pointed his fingers together and slid them into the tight cum-rimmed asshole. The slave screamed when the knuckles forced their way in, and he screamed again when he felt my fingers slide next to the thick wrist Chuck was holding inside him. Now, he understood why Chuck and I had given him five enemas during the afternoon and evening, and he screamed with pain and shock. The audience murmured approvingly.
“Mein Gott! Mein Gott!” His screams were relentless, even after my hand was inside, my wrist next to Chuck’s. I made a fist and Chuck closed his hand over mine so my fist was enclosed in his fist, both inside the tight smooth hot walls of the slave’s ass channel. We pushed forward, inch by inch by inch, scream by scream by scream: “Mein Gott! Du faustfickst mich! Meister Chuck! Meister Brad! Du faustfickst mich! Ja! Ja!”
The audience was in continual moan, staring, gaping, panting. Chuck and I went in to our elbows. I released the slave’s rock hard dick; it sprang back against his belly, dripping copiously.
“Meistern! I am going to cum!” He gasped each word separately.
“Don’t cum, you fucker, don’t cum, don’t you dare cum until we tell you to cum, understand, you fuckin’ kraut, hear me, you hear me?”
He screamed, “Ja, Ja, I hear you, Meistern, Jesu, Meistern, Meistern, faustfick mich, faustfick… faustfick!”
We double fist-fucked him for ten minutes. Chuck standing next to me, his bulging crotch poking against my hard tight ass, his chest against my back, his right arm against mine inside the slave, his left hand holding mine tightly. God! I felt so close to Chuck at that moment; we were working together, turned on together, moving in unison like a well-oiled machine, like one being. He’d taken his hard cock out, too: I could feel it between my legs. I moved my legs closer together, imprisoning his prick between my thighs. I almost wished we were at home so he’d fuck me.
“Now,” shouted Chuck. “Now! Cum now, you fuckin’ goddam asshole slave, cum now!”
Shouting “Aaagggghhhh, Gott! Gott! Jesu! Gott! Ich komme! Jesu! Ich komme!” the kraut obeyed, shooting streams of hot cum over his chest and face and scalp, the cum running down his shaved skin and gathering in his mouth, in his nose, in the hollows of his throat, in the cups of his armpits, in the valley of his pecs before running down his sides and falling to the leather sling and to the floor. “Jesu! Gott! Ich komme!” he had no hairs to impede the flow of the cum over his body and he laughed and shouted as he felt the cooling streams flow over him. “Jesu! Gott. Gott! Meistern! Ich komme!”
Finally, after about ten major blasts and as many weaker ones, his cock shot no more, just dripped cum into his navel until it filled and overflowed and ran down his belly, around the base of his shaved cock and dripped from his balls to the floor.
But his cock did not soften. Not at all.
Neither did ours.
Chuck and I pulled out, one at a time, slowly, the kraut gasping and groaning as we did. We watched his stretched gaping hole slowly close.
Cum dripped from many cocks in the crowd, making the floor slick and slippery.
Dave and Jim released the kraut, who slid to his knees and kissed our boots over and over, murmuring all the while, “Danke, Meistern, danke, danke, Mein Gott, Meistern, danke!”
We made him lick the Crisco and his ass juices from our arms and hands, his knees in puddles of his own cum.
With Chuck’s permission, Wally’s slave licked the cum from the kraut’s body while he cleaned us up.
We led him back down the stairs on his hands and knees, the crowd following.
They couldn’t all fit into the third room, especially since we needed space to use the equipment that had been placed in the comer.
We chained the slave face down on the rack and pulled the winch so he was stretched as tight as possible. He screamed again, crying that he was being pulled apart, that his shoulders were going out of joint, that his hips were splitting. They weren’t. Chuck knew what he was doing.
Hairless, helpless, the slave waited. I put a gob of Crisco on his asshole and stood back.
“Anybody wanna fuck?” asked Chuck. “Anybody wanna get sucked?”
A chorus of yesses greeted the questions, and a host of randy fuckers mounted the slave at both ends. I lost count. But he was one well-fucked slave with a sore asshole and a tired mouth when finally Chuck called a halt.
We turned him face up, retightened the chains with the winch. Naked, shaved, fucked, he stared at himself in the ceiling mirror.
“OK. Tom,” I said, and stepped to one side. A slender man came to the side of the rack and put his leather case down and opened it. Chuck made the crowd step back so Tom could have room to work. A gasp went up as he took out a wicked looking instrument and fitted a needle into the end. With alcohol he sterilized the area around the kraut’s naked right nipple and put the needle against the skin. “My God, it’s a tattoo,” muttered somebody, and I just smiled. The kraut sagged in his bonds, murmuring “Meister Brad, Meister Chuck, “and his still hard dick arched over his belly button. “Danke, Meistern, danke. ” He looked only at Chuck or at me, not at Tom or at his nipple in the mirror.
It is illegal to operate a tattoo parlor in New York City, and Tom had his office/studio up in Westchester where it is legal. If you want a tattoo in New York, you go to Westchester to get it. Tom came to the Shaft as a favor to Chuck and me. Tom’s not too humpy looking, but he’s damn good in bed, and he drills a mean expert needle.
He tattooed the fucking kraut.
Tom took almost three hours. Tom is a perfectionist.
Tom tattooed a padlock hanging down from the kraut’s erect right nipple. The kraut’s nipples were centered on his pecs.
The shackle went through the nipple and curved down the aureole and the smooth skin of the shaved pec to join the lock. The lock itself was 6/8 inches wide and 7/8 inches long with the shackles in proportion. Tom made an outline of the lock and shackle deep and black. In the center of the lock, one above the other, in plain letters, Tom put three initials; B for Brad, C for Chuck, V for Viktor.
Each prick of the needle, each spurt of ink under the skin, each darkening of the design, made the slave tremble. But he never jerked, never yelled, never stopped looking from me to Chuck and murmuring, “Meistern, Meistern, danke. ”
When the padlock was finished Tom moved on. He used the alcohol to sterilize the area around the kraut’s cock and balls, deliberately spilling the alcohol on the exposed hairless cock and balls. The liquid seemed cooling at first, and then the fire set in, and the kraut writhed and moaned and cried out in pain. “Ach, Gott! Meistern! Meistern!”
Tom waited until the pain was gone and the slave was quiet. Then he did it again.
Tom was a bit of a sadist himself.
He held the slave’s hard cock in his hand, out of the way of the needle; when he needed both hands to hold the needle and smooth the skin, I held the kraut’s cock. It was hot and solid, erect.
Tom tattooed a linked chain around the base of the kraut’s cock and balls, right where a cock ring would fit. The links were oval, 1/2 inch long, 1/4 inch wide. The links were heavy and thick. The kraut–or anyone who looked–would be able to see the chain links through the thick blond hair when it grew back. The slave whimpered and made funny noises when Tom worked on the sensitive underside of the balls, but he never stopped saying “Meistern, Meistern.”
The crowd was silent, watching Tom work, appreciating the ritualistic significance of a slave being marked by his Masters so anyone who looked would know he was a slave, a goddam fucking slave.
A lot of slaves watching had glazed eyes, were licking their lips.
Tom saved the best till last.
He tattooed another padlock. The shackle of this one went through the two links directly at the top of the kraut’s cock, and the arms of the shackle and the lock itself curved on the top front of the cock itself. Supposedly the cock can’t be tattooed effectively, but a good tattooer can do it. Tom was damn good, and the kraut’s cock took the design beautifully. I had to force the hard cock down between the slave’s splayed legs so Tom could work at it. The slave bit his lips and closed his eyes while I held and Tom worked. His cock never stopped dripping and never went soft. This padlock had the same dimensions as the nipple lock and had the same initials, only this time the order was C B V.
Tom swabbed the tattoos.
Now the slave had two black padlocks with initials tattooed on him, and a permanent chain cock ring. One lock hung down his pec from his right nipple, one hung down his cock from the chain cock-ring. Chuck and I were partners; we shared equal billing on the fucking slave’s two tattoos.
“Danke, danke, Meistern, danke.”
Tom put his equipment away while we freed the kraut’s ankles.
Tom shoved the kraut’s legs wide apart, pushed them over the shaved chest, and fucked the slave. Damn good fuck, he said afterwards.
Chuck eased the winch and I released the slave and flipped him over on his belly, pulling his hard cock down between his legs so it stretched against the surface of the rack. His balls bunched on top of his cock. We fastened him in place again. The slave was facing the wall, his head now hanging over the edge of the rack. Chuck cleared a path to the corner where other equipment was placed, and the slave went pale and gasped when he saw what it was.
A branding iron.
A branding iron glowing red-white hot.
A branding iron waiting just for him.
A branding iron for his smooth golden freshly shaved ass.
He caught his breath, his head held high as he stared at the glowing iron. I think he scarcely felt it when Chuck mounted him, sliding his great slippery pole deep into the many times violated ass channel, riding on the loads of cum that had already been left inside the kraut. Chuck shoved roughly and fell solidly on the kraut’s back and ass; and then his gaze with the iron was broken and the slave began to give his Master a good ride. “Du fickst mich, Meister, Du fickst mich!” He bucked up and down, matching Chuck’s thrusts, and I could see the muscles of his cheeks contracting as he flexed them around the invading pole. “See that brandin’ iron,” grunted Chuck in his ear, “see that? That’s for you, kraut, that’s for you. You want it, kraut, fuckin’ slave, you want it?” Every time he said “kraut” was like every other time Chuck had said it all during the kraut’s visit, like a term of utmost contempt, the most vile name he could call the slave pinioned to the rack by chains and by his great cock. He sneered the word. “Kraut, look at it, look at that brandin’ iron. You’re goin’ to get that brandin’ iron just as soon’s I fuck you and as soon’s Master Brad fucks you.” The kraut went crazy under Chuck, moaning and gulping “Ficke mich, ficke mich,” and twisting and bucking until Chuck was milked to a frenzy, until Chuck could not hold back and flooded the hot channel with his cum, cum that he had been saving up all night. “Ficke mich!” Even after Chuck had finished shooting and lay still on the captive’s back, the kraut was gently bucking up and down, getting the last possible drop of his Master’s cum.
He had given Chuck the best ride he had given anybody that night. He gave an equally good one to me, too, when I climbed on board and drove my shaft deep into his oozing hole, feeling’s Chuck’s cum coating my penis, feeling the kraut’s still tight channel grasp my cock like a thousand fingers, like a red hot condom tightly sheathing it, hearing him shout, “Du fickst mich, Meister, danke, danke, Du fickst mich,” feeling his hips surge up against mine, smashing my pubic hair against his smoothly shaved cheeks, impressing into his skin. I had been hot all evening, watching the slave take cock after cock, watching him receive his padlocked-tattooed nipple and pec and the chain around his cock and balls and the padlock that marked his throbbing cock, watching the slave accept and welcome Chuck’s fist and arm and mine up to our elbows, watching the slave lose all of his body hair except his eyebrows and lashes. I was hot, and it seemed as if I had no temperature at all except what was concentrated in my cock plunging in and out, deep and deeper, in the hot tight dark slick slippery chute. That was where my life was at that moment, fucking the goddam kraut slave, and when I came–too soon, too soon, I couldn’t hold off—I felt almost as if I were dying, as if my life were shooting out of my cock with my cum. La petite morte, the little death, is what the French call it, and right then it seemed like une grande morte, like the great cums that I’ve experienced and shared only with Chuck. And all the while I was fucking and the slave was begging for more–“Ficke mich, Meister, ficke mich, ficke, ficke”–as he had while Chuck was fucking him. Chuck was kneeling at his bald head, shiny with perspiration and freshly shaved pink skin, talking about the branding iron, about putting our mark on the slave’s ass, about—I don’t remember what all he talked about, but I do remember that almost everybody in the room watching was hard and had cocks out or was naked being sucked off or was being fucked standing up while watching Chuck and me and the goddam slave. I came. And came. And fell on top of the slave, gulping for breath, dizzy with release.
Finally I clambered off, resting my arm on Chuck’s shoulder. He was grinning at me. He knew. He had felt the same way.
Chuck brought the branding iron over. We could feel the heat coming from the red-white head.
Chuck climbed on the rack between the slave’s legs and I climbed on, too, straddling the slave’s right leg. My hand closed over Chuck’s; we would both brand the slave together.
The slave whimpered as he felt the heat approach his helpless golden tanned smoothly shaved ass cheek, whimpered and twisted in his bondage, his mouth open as he gasped for air.
“You want it, kraut?” I growled. “You want this brand on your ass? You want this to show everybody you’re a goddam fuckin’ asshole slave who’s fit only to serve men, real men? You want to be branded? You want our mark burned on your ass?”
“Yes, yes,” he begged, crying aloud, shouting “yes, Master! Brand me! Meistern! Ja! Ja! Marke mich! Marke mich! Meistern! Bitte bitte bitte! Marke mich! MARKE MICH! MEISTERN! JESU GOTT! MARKE MICH, MEISTERN!”
We pressed the hot iron against his tender skin and held it there. The smell of burning flesh shot through the air and some of the spectators looked a bit green. The slave arched his back and his head came up. “ICH BIN GEMARKDT! BRANDGE- MARKDT!” he screamed and took a deep heaving breath. His mouth opened in a silent shout of pure agony, and, yes, of ecstasy, too; he did not make another sound. We kept the iron on for only a few seconds, but Tom said it seemed like hours to him that we did.
The slave, arched in joy and release and agony, silently screaming, came. His cock flat against the rack between his legs pointing toward his feet spewed forth like a volcano, his balls emptied in a long series of convulsions, his cock flopped up and down against the wood.
Chuck cooled the iron in the bucket of cool piss; the liquid sizzling as he plunged the hot metal into it. We got off the rack.
Chuck held the cool iron to the kraut’s mouth. The fucking slave kissed it and licked it, tried to swallow it, made brief love to the iron that had seared, marked, branded his ass forever.
While Chuck and I released the kraut’s chains, the spectators craned their necks to see the brand. “God!” said one. “Beautiful,” said another in an awed voice.
“Master,” said a slave on his knees, “Master, please, brand me, brand me, let me prove how much I love you.”
The kraut’s brand, an inch and a half long, consisted of our initials, C and B. Chuck and I had designed it and made it ourselves. The initials were somewhat stylized and shaped so the brand suggested an erect cock and balls. It looked like this:
We went to stand at the head of the rack.
“MEISTERN!”
The kraut scrambled off the rack and plunged at us, falling to his knees, shoving Chuck and me close together, opening his mouth and swallowing as much of our limp cocks as he could, sucking our cocks both together, sucking furiously as if he would never suck another cock again. His hands and arms were around our legs, pulling us as close to him as he could get us, and our cocks in his hot mouth rapidly hardened so all he could swallow, take in, were the great heads. He vacuumed and flicked his tongue over the cocks that had fucked his asshole just minutes before, until we came, shouting.
And all the while the skin on his branded ass burned and pained and turned an angry fiery red. The brand was even, clear, sharply outlined. Beautiful and permanent.
We came in his mouth and he swallowed and swallowed before sinking to the floor and kissing our boots, his ass raised high so everyone could see the brand. Chuck had carefully placed the brand where it would be seen by the guy fucking the slave whether he was fucking the slave on his back or on his belly; he’d see the brand and he’d know the slave had been branded by Masters.
I put a salve over the brand which cooled it somewhat and eased the pain. But the kraut would feel the brand on the plane the next day; he’d not sit comfortably during the flight. He’d remember.
We quickly packed our equipment, locked the door of the now empty third room, led the slave by his leash up the stair and out, returning the key to the doorkeeper with many thanks. Naked, the slave followed us into the center of the deserted street and down the block to the van, his face reflecting the pain in his ass.
The sun was up.
Chuck drove. The slave crouched on the floor between Chuck and me, his head buried between our thighs, one arm around Chuck’s waist, his other around mine. Only when we were on the way did he weep, great racking sobs that shook his whole body. Only when he was alone with his Masters did the slave give vent to the great pain that shook his body, fired his asscheek. He had not shamed us before the rest. Only with us was he free enough to reveal his emotions.
“Danke, Meistern, danke, danke. Ich bin gemarkdt. Ich bin gemarkdt! Thank you for branding me. Masters. Meistern!”
He gulped for air, his face wet with tears of pain and joy.
“Danke, Meistern, danke.”
For the first time since he came to us, he slept in a bed. He slept in our bed, between Chuck and me, his balls fastened by a chain to the foot of the bed. He slept on his belly. But he actually slept very little because of the pain on his ass. We slept very little, too. The kraut moved from Chuck to me and back many times, eating our armpits and sucking our nipples, sucking our cocks and tonguing our asses. He was insatiable for our bodies.
We stayed in bed till it was time to bandage his ass and take him to the plane. He crouched on the floor of the van between Chuck and me, his mouth going from cock to cock.
In the parking lot he knelt before us and kissed our boots, heedless of other people. “I cannot thank you enough,” he said. “You will always be my Masters. Danke, danke, Meistern, danke. ” His eyes were full of tears. “Every time I look at myself I will be reminded of you, Masters. Your slave thanks you.” He kissed our boots again.
Ten days later a letter arrived, thanking us for training him and taking him in charge, begging that he be allowed to be our slave again.
Another letter was enclosed with the one from Viktor. This letter began:
Masters.
My friend Viktor and I together are writing our letters to you. We are both naked and on our knees. Our hard and erect cocks between our thighs jut upwards.
Viktor to me has spoken about you and has shown me his body markings, and these thoughts have made me ejaculate many times. I am excited and envious, and my hard cock is now throbbing with excitement.
Masters, please, I am begging you on my knees, train me like you have trained my friend Viktor. Like Viktor, I am a born slave…
