Novice Slaveowner

Part 1

"Here we are now". My father's business agent stopped in front of an impressive six storey redbrick building and I got out to have a look. The house sported a well-kept front garden with lawns and rosebushes and an overall very pleasant old-fashioned look. "Quite nice, isn't it? Thirty flats, six to each floor and a penthouse". "For me?" "The penthouse? Of course, but the rest as well. Your dad considers it a very good investment, so it's yours". "Mine?" "Something to get you started in business, he told me". "Not quite like him, but very generous". A teenage boy opened the door to a spacious hall decorated in marble, dropping to one knee and bowing his head as we passed by. Only a pair of grey shorts covered his deeply tanned body and a short chain hobbled his bare feet. A girl dressed in the same kind of shorts, but with the addition of a T-shirt was chained to a small reception counter by her right ankle. "Mr. Marshall. The new owner", the agent announced. She too bent a knee in front of me. "Welcome to Marsfield Gardens, Sir". Like the boy, she had a steel ring locked around her slender neck. "Thank you". "Your luggage will be brought up right away, Sir, if it may please you". "It does". She smiled shyly and lowered her eyes. "This is your private lift, John". The agent held the door open. "Coming". I sent the girl one last look and sauntered over. "Quite a pretty little thing". "Was she? I didn't notice". We rose soundlessly. "They belong to the company servicing the estate". The lift stopped and the doors opened to reveal a spacious hall. "I hope you like your temporary home". "Quite grand for a student, isn't it?"

I'd come over for a three-year post-graduate study in international politics and was of course joking. My dear parent has a wide range of interests and investments all over the world and I suppose that most people would consider me a spoiled upper class brat. Well, young man rather, I was twenty-three at the time. Perhaps I am, to some extent, at least used to a life in luxury, but the fast crowd never attracted me. I've always liked studying, have been reading voraciously ever since I could. Not that I don't like sports and I've been to all the parties I could wish for, but my real interest is the world around us. As a child it was animals and plants, later on history, and now it's politics. Luckily my father appreciates that, so we've always been on the best of terms, not least, I think, because even if I of course do enjoy the advantages of being rich, I don't overdo it.

The agent looked somewhat unnerved and hurriedly opened the door to a large sitting room, elegantly equipped with modern furniture and Oriental rugs scattered on the gleaming hardwood floor. One wall was a great window, opening to a roof garden. "Very grand, I dare say". I passed through the sliding doors to meet a superb view across town and country. The garden covered two thirds of the top of the building, with well-grown orchard trees, a little lawn, and beds of flowers, even a fairly large swimming pool. "But I like it". "Thanks, there's more". "So I expect, at least a place where one can sleep". I followed him back to the hall to look into a bright and airy bedroom, with a luxurious bath, three spare rooms, a spacious study, and a diningroom. A door opened to a well-equipped kitchen. "I don't just like it, I'm already falling in love with it". The agent lit up in a relieved smile. 'Poor guy, my father can be very demanding', I thought. "But I don't know much about housekeeping, nothing at all, to be honest, so I'll need some sort of catering, and maid and cleaning service. Perhaps that company, you mentioned, can do that for me". "Of course, but I thought you'd be more comfortable with your own staff". "Wouldn't that be overdoing it a bit? I mean, we do have servants at home, of course, but after all that's a mansion in town and a manor house in the country. Part time help can easily maintain a small place like this and I don't much care for the obligations. Servants are fine, but do give you some trouble". "Not over here, John. We use slaves". "But I know nothing about handling slaves".

I knew of them, of course, had seen them around on previous visits, even been served by some at the private homes I'd visited and at hotels and restaurants, but never had to deal with them directly. My own government had contemplated, but decided not to add slavery to the penal system. When introduced over here twenty years ago it was meant to save the cost of prisons and therefore included virtually all sorts of convicts. Soon, however, it proved much too risky to have hardcore criminals roaming around, even as slaves, and enslaving people past forty turned out to be unprofitable. So now only younger felons, males from the age of fifteen, females from eighteen, and up to thirty years of age, who'd committed minor crimes, were sentenced to slavery for periods of between five and twenty years. After that adjustment, the system worked well, and was very popular. All families, who could afford the not very high prices, kept slaves, and they were widely used in the service sector, at hotels, by cleaning companies, gardeners and at housing estates like this.

"Nothing to it, John. They come fully trained, so it's just a question of deciding how you want to be served and if not satisfied, you punish them". "Well, I don't really know". "It's the easiest thing in the world. I'm sure that you'll soon be a happy slaveowner, just like everybody else". He coughed nervously. "As a matter of fact I've already bought some for you". "Without even bothering to ask me?" I raised a questioning eyebrow. "It's so common over here that I didn't think twice about it, just like buying furniture. If you don't want to keep them, I can sell them again, easily, and without loss. But why not try them out? I'm convinced that once you've been served for a day or two, you won't want to miss it". I considered for a moment. "Very well, on your recommendation then, but please consult me first if you want to do something for me another time". "Of course and I'm sorry, but...". "It's all right. What have you bought and where are they?" "In the slaveroom. There are three of them: A well-educated male of twenty-one as head slave and general servant. A not very bright, but strong and reliable boy of seventeen for heavier task, like taking care of the garden, your car, driving you if you prefer that. And a very pretty girl of nineteen, who's a good cook and can satisfy your personal needs". "My what?" "Well, serve you in bed". He grinned and added hastily: "Most of us use our slaves for sex". "But you're married!" "I am, happily, but a slavegirl isn't a lover, just a tool when you need relief, and my wife sometimes uses our slaveboy. It's normal, actually very good for married couples. No need to be sullen if your wife, or husband, isn't in the mood when you are". "I see. Very well, please fetch them". "Right away, John". I went back to the terrace to have closer look at the surrounding grounds far below.

"Here you are now". The agent returned with my slaves; naked and collared, ankles hobbled by a short chain and wrists cuffed, or so I judged from the way they kept them rigidly behind their backs. They sank to their knees and bowed their heads submissively. "This is Fred, college graduate. Fifteen years of slavery for manslaughter". "You've bought me a murderer?" I looked astonished at the kneeling young man. "Of course not. His sentence was for reckless driving. Next, Christine, who'd just finished high school when she got ten years for shoplifting, and last Tim, mechanics apprentice, twelve years for street-fighting. None of them have served another master, but Fred and Christine have had six months of advanced training, including a special course in French cooking for her. Tim just had the obligatory three months routine training for new slaves. Get up, girl, to let the master inspect you". She rose gracefully and spread her legs as far as the chain allowed, but kept her head bowed. A thick mane of chestnut hair fell almost to her shoulders, her young breasts were firm, with prominent nipples pierced by two small steel rings, and her slender legs incredibly long, tapering down to well shaped feet. A typical teenage beauty. I went around her, appreciating her straight back and pert little arse. "Delicious, isn't she, though not a virgin, I'm afraid". The agent's eyes were gleaming. "And just how would you know that she's not?" "Few girls her age are and all female slaves are trained to serve their future masters in bed". "I see. Why are they in chains?" "Standard procedure when delivered to their master. I have the key here". "Thank you, and for your efforts. I can manage on my own now". "Happy to be of service, John Your car is in the garage. I can see myself out". We shook hands and he disappeared inside.

"Please rise, Fred and Tim, and remove the chains". I unlocked Fred's wrist-cuffs and handed him the key. He gestured the girl to turn her back to him and I looked my youngest slave over. About six feet two or three of bulging muscles under a gleaming black hide. Like Christine's, his crotch was clean-shaven and his long cock was hanging low over a heavy ballsack. He too had rings in his nipples and I noticed the same on Fred. "Member of a street gang, were you?" He raised his head. "Nah, Sir, just me and me mates. Guys like us got to stick together". "Fighting other gangs?" "Yeah, nothing serious, just a bit of fun, Sir". "Which earned you twelve years as a slave". He shrugged his broad shoulders, grinning shyly. "Yeah, that's how it is for poor guys like us, Sir, not allowed no fun". He lowered his eyes, but the grin never left his face. "And what did you steal, Christine?" "Underwear, Sir". "Ten years for a bra and a pair of panties?" "Yes, Sir". She looked briefly at me, then averted her eyes, but not before I'd caught a look of sheer terror. I shook my head. "Can you make me a vodka martini, Fred?" "At once, Sir". I sat down in a deck chair beside the pool and was a few minutes later offered a glass by the kneeling slave. "Thank you". I took a sip. "Excellent". "Thank you, Sir". He was about my height, with short-cropped fair hair, slim, but with well-defined muscles, a flat stomach, slender cock and strong legs. "What happened?" "Sir?" His calm eyes looked questioningly at me. "The manslaughter incident which made you a slave?" "My car skidded on black ice, Sir, and rammed into another vehicle. The driver was thrown out and killed". "No seatbelt?" "No, Sir". "But you were using yours?" "Yes, Sir". "Were you drunk?" "No, Sir. It was in the afternoon, I...". He swallowed hard. "I was on my way home from University, Sir". "Bad luck". "Yes, Sir". "I mean; it was just an accident, wasn't it? And you were enslaved for fifteen years!" "That's the law, Sir. I did cause the death of another man". "Hardly. Black ice was not your fault, neither that he was fool enough not to use his seatbelt". He didn't answer, but his eyes darkened.

"Be that as it may. You know how to organise my household?" "I believe so, Sir". "Then do that. My luggage will be brought up shortly. Have it unpacked". I handed him the keys to my suitcases. "Dinner at eight". "Yes, Sir". "Don't you have any clothes?" "Yes, Sir". "Get dressed then, all of you". "Yes, Sir". I waved and heard them leave. After a while, I shed jacket and tie, opened my collar and took off my shoes to be more comfortable. "It's seven thirty, Sir". I woke up with a start to see Fred on his knees beside my chair, now dressed in white shorts. "Ah, I must have dozed off". "Would you want to change before dinner, Sir?" "Well, yes". He offered me my shoes, but I shook no and padded to the bedroom. The living room seemed brighter, with vases of fresh flowers scattered on the tables. I sat down on the bed to take off my socks, but in a flash Fred was on his knees in front of me. "Allow me, Sir". He bared my feet, then rose on his knees to unbutton my shirt. "Would you want to shower, Sir?" I nodded. "Tim", he called softly and the teenager came running to bend a knee. "Shower", Fred whispered, while helping me out of my shirt and unbuckling my belt. Tim hurried to the bathroom and Fred looked up at me. "Would it please you to rise and allow me to relieve you of your trousers, Sir?" I did as asked and was soon naked. "Tim has the shower ready for you, Sir". I nodded and strode to the bathroom, where the boy was kneeling beside a fresh bathmat. I went under the pleasantly warm spray to soak myself and jumped with surprise when a hand slid down my back. Tim had dropped his shorts and was soaping me up! No one had done so since I was a baby, but it did feel nice when his hands covered me in a rich lather, massaged my neck and shoulders gently, and went between my arsecheeks. He came round to kneel and wash my feet, continued up my shins and thighs and calmly raised my cock to wash the ballsack. When he rose to do my chest, I asked: "Were you trained for this?" "Yes, Sir". He smiled broadly. "Feels good, Sir?" "Strange, but yes, very good". "Thanks, Sir". He finished by washing my hair and stepped out to let me rinse, hurriedly wiping himself with a rough cloth. When I left the shower the two slaves were ready with fluffy, heated towels to dry me, without forgetting the crack of my arse or the spaces between my toes.

"Something comfortable, Sir?" Fred had laid out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. "Yes". He knelt to help me into boxers and jeans, asked me to sit down to dress my feet in socks and loafers, and dragged the shirt over my head. "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, Sir, if it may please you". He was combing my hair. "Where would you want it served, Sir?" "In the garden, I think". "Yes, Sir". He nodded to Tim, who'd cleaned the bathroom. "A drink, Sir?" Fred followed me to the terrace, where his fellow was busy laying the table. "Sure". A couple of minutes later I was offered another vodka martini and strolled over to lean on the railing, looking out over the city lights.

When I turned and emptied my glass, Fred held a chair for me and I sat down at table, laid with china and silverware, candles and a bowl of fresh flowers. Seconds later Tim placed an ice-cold gaspacho in front of me and Fred poured a glass of chilled dry sherry. The soup was perfect and I ate slowly, savouring every mouthful. When I put down the spoon, Tim whisked the plate away and Fred placed another glass in front of me, cool Chablis. The black slaveboy returned to serve a hot plate of Dover sole and offer me small potatoes and sauce beurre blanc. The fish was as perfect as any I'd ever enjoyed. Fred stayed behind my chair, topping up the glass and offering more sauce. When I'd finished, Tim was back to remove the plate. I looked over my shoulder. "Splendid, absolutely splendid!" "Thank you, Sir". Fred looked gravely at me. "But where did you get this?" "Your slavegirl made it, Sir". "The fresh fish and the other ingredients?" "I asked Reception to buy it for you, Sir. There are several very good shops in the neighbourhood". "Why not go yourself?" "We're not allowed to leave the premises without your permission, Sir, and I didn't want to disturb you. Would you prefer cheese prior to or after dessert, Sir?" "Before, like in France". "Yes, Sir". He left to come back a moment later with a selection of fine cheeses, biscuits and another glass, this time a full-bodied Burgundy. "Excellent; a good wine merchant". "Thank you, Sir". "Or did you select them?" "Yes, Sir. I've undergone special training as a gentleman's slave, Sir". He removed plate and cheese, topped up my glass and left me to enjoy it. Ten minutes later he was back with a lemon soufflé and a glass of cool Riesling.

"Marvellous!" I leaned back and emptied my glass. "Thank you, Sir". "Call Christine". "Yes, Sir. Would you want coffee, Sir?" "And a Calvados, if we have that". "Yes, Sir". She was wearing shorts like the boys and a clean white apron, barely covering her breasts. "A very fine meal". "Thank you, Sir". She curtsied, eyes to the ground. "I didn't know your tastes, Sir". "I like almost anything, especially when it's as well prepared as this, so just go on surprising me". "Yes, Sir". She curtsied again and disappeared inside. Fred came out with a tray. "Your coffee, Sir". I moved to a deck chair beside the pool and sat down to digest the meal. He knelt beside me; head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. "I'm rather tired and suffering from jet-lag, but you seem to have everything under control, no need for me to interfere". "Thank you, Sir". "Any questions that can't wait until tomorrow?" "Just one, Sir. Would you want us locked up or just chained?" "Is that necessary?" He hesitated. "Slaves are mostly caged or chained at night, Sir, but there are no cages up here". "I asked if it is necessary. Do you run away?" "No, Sir". "Where do you actually sleep?" "There's a slaveroom behind the kitchen, Sir". "Well, put on those ankle chains when you go to bed". "Yes, Sir". "Didn't I tell you to get dressed?" "Yes, Sir". He looked surprised. "Don't you have a shirt?" "Yes, Sir, but most masters prefer their slaves in shorts only, if not naked". "I want Christine to dress decently. You and Tim put on shirts when leaving the house". "Yes, Sir". "You may go now, and retire to bed when ready". "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Good night, Sir". He rose, bowed to me and disappeared inside.

A moment later Tim came out to kneel beside my chair and top up the coffee. It was a warm evening and I dozed off again to wake up and find that it was almost midnight. The boy was still on his knees beside me and the coffee in my cup fresh and hot. "Fantastic", I mumbled. "Sir?" He looked up with a pained smile, shifting his knees. "Fantastic service you offer me". "Thanks, Sir, but it's just what we were trained for, Sir". "Still, but I've better go to bed now". "Yessir". He jumped up, grimacing with pain and followed me to the bedroom. I sat down and he dropped to his undoubtedly aching knees to relieve me of shoes and socks. "You want your feet rubbed, Sir?" "Why not?" He sent me a smile and bowed to let his tongue wash the top of my left foot. "But what are you doing?" "Lick your feet, Sir, before rubbing them; feels very nice, Sir". And it did. He sucked on my toes, raised the foot to clean the sole and rub it gently, and then changed to the other foot.

I was surprised, but very pleased, to say the least. One of my childhood friends, son of a farmhand at our country estate, introduced me to the pleasures of foot licking. Well, not just like that. It began innocently enough when we were playing hide and seek in the woods. Our games developed into cowboys and Indians, with me as the Indian, who captured and tied the poor boy to a tree and tortured him. Just tickling, at first, but later on I used a switch on his bare thighs to encourage him to tell where his fellows were hiding. I guess that he was a natural submissive because he put up with it, even if he was about a head taller than me and much stronger, but perhaps it was just because I was the squire's son and therefore in his eyes naturally superior. Yet it was he who suggested that we changed roles to allow him dressing like an Indian, in just a loincloth, a headband with a few feathers stuck in and war paint on his chest. Now he was tortured to tell where his tribe hid its treasures and we gradually went further. I strung him by the wrists from a branch and whipped his back, sometimes with stinging nettles, or hogtied him and whipped the soles of his feet. Not real torture, but it did hurt. It began when we were about eight and we only saw each other during summer when my parents moved down to the country. When turning twelve he began working at the estate after school and was supposed to spend his summer holidays supplementing his family's meagre income. I complained about the loss of a playmate and my father agreed that he could retain his pay when spending time with me. I don't know if that changed our relationship, but perhaps it did. Learning Latin at school made me grow an interest in ancient Greece and Rome and our games turned in that direction. Now I became a centurion and he a barbarian warrior, who was captured and tortured. We, or rather he, built a secret cabin at the brink of a forest pond and we spent days there, imagining that it was my villa and he a newly enslaved prisoner of war. A very reluctant and unwilling slave, who had to be kept firmly in place, chained hand and foot and often chastised with a switch. He carried heavy loads through the forest, hobbled and barefoot, served me snacks and soft drinks on his knees, was used as my footstool. It was an important part of the game that I forced him to do something unpleasant, so he could rebel against me and be punished. One such thing was licking my feet, something both of us considered gross and humiliating. But it aroused me to see him there, on his knees, restrained with chains and padlocks and near naked, reluctantly licking my sweaty feet, always under the threat of the switch. Aroused, yes, but sex never played any part of our relationship. I don't remember ever seeing his dick. It went on until we were about sixteen and grew other interests. He matured earlier than I, village boy as he was, began dating girls and go dancing, but we remained friends and still see each other, even if he's married now, with two kids. It didn't harm him either, our friendship. He's now head gardener at the estate. But I did miss our slave games and his submissiveness. His wife is a wisp of a girl and sometimes I've been wondering about their relationship when her towering hulk of a husband is jumping to meet her every wish.

"Good, Sir?" The slaveboy beamed at me. "Very good, Tim". "Thanks, Sir". He rose on his knees to draw off my shirt, opened my trousers and dragged them down. My cock sprang free, grown stiff by his ministrations and my reminiscences. "You want me to help you with that, Sir?" "I want what?" "Me sucking you off, not healthy to sleep like that, Sir, it isn't". "Do you consider me a faggot?" "Course not, Sir, but you need relief and a mouth is a mouth, isn't it? I can call Chris if you like, Sir". "She's asleep, I hope". "No problem, Sir. I fetch her?" "No, well, do it then". "Yessir". I received another beaming smile before he relieved me of jeans and underwear and began licking up and down my shaft and sucking on my balls. It did feel good and even better when the hot mouth engulfed me and his tongue worked wonders. Within seconds I was shooting a heavy load and he swallowed frantically, licked me clean, and looked up again. "Good, Sir?" Good? Damn, it was the best blowjob I'd ever had! "Are you gay?" "Nah, Sir". "But you've done this before?" "Sure, part of the standard training, Sir. Practised on each other, we did". "Why?" He shrugged. "A slave's duty, Sir. Most masters like it and mistresses too, we were told. You want a bath, Sir?" "No, just to brush my teeth". He jumped to the bathroom to stand ready with toothbrush and a glass of cool water. "What time do you want to get up, Sir?" He tugged the sheets and blankets around me and put the key to their cuffs on the bedside table. "At eight and I'd like a cup of tea in bed". "Yessir. Night, Sir".

The light was dimmed and he left me to contemplate the day's turn of events. I suddenly owned three fellow human beings, body and soul. Exciting, frightening in a way, but definitely something to explore further. I hadn't dominated anyone since my childhood friend and we stopped playing six or seven years ago. Not that I hadn't dreamt about it, but grown-ups don't do things like that, except in a special sexual relationship perhaps. Of course I'd seen magazines, surfed the net, even sneaked into a SM shop, but none of the girls, I'd bedded so far, had shown any interest in that kind of sex. They squealed if I gave them a playful slap on their bare bottoms, wriggled delightfully if I caught their wrists in a firm grasp above their heads while I was up them, but didn't seem inclined to go any further. So I pushed the dream to the back of my mind, but never abandoned it. Now I had an opportunity to live out that dream. A delicious slavegirl, wrists tied to the headboard, long legs spread and tied above her head, sex open and inviting, and, why not, with red stripes across her strained buttocks. Not a dream, but something I could just do, without any protests or accusations of rape and abuse. No one would even think it odd or depraved. Or a strong black body in the same position? Not that I'd had any experience with gay sex, but at the bondage sites it did look tempting. Perhaps make all three of them kneel and raise their bare arses for my whip, before I decided which hole to use? The possibilities seemed endless. 'But you're a decent chap, aren't you, old boy? Could you really treat a helpless teenage girl like that?' I recalled the look in her eyes, terrified, yet resigned. 'Or a boy?' It had been fun when a child back in the woods, but fun for both of us, a consensual game. It would be no game for my slaves and most certainly not consensual, but then they couldn't do anything about it, weren't supposed to, were they? 'They're convicted felons and it's your duty as their master to ensure that they're punished according to law'. If I got a bit of fun out of it, would that be more than I deserved for all my hard work? Perhaps not, but not at the price of losing my self-respect. 'You'll stay a good master, demanding, but not unfair or deliberately abusive. They'll be punished if they deserve it and you'll get your fun out of that. Some 'relief' too when needed. A slave's natural duty, as Tim told you. But you won't degrade yourself by turning into a sadistic monster, absolutely not'. With that decision I fell asleep.

Fred brought my tea. I woke up when he drew the curtains aside to let in the sun; naked and hobbled. "Good morning, Sir. I hope you slept well". He arranged the pillows behind my back and knelt to offer a tray with a cup and a plate of sweetbread. "I did, thank you". "Would you prefer a cooked breakfast, Sir?" "Sure". "In the garden, Sir? It's already pleasantly warm". I nodded and he shuffled to the door, whispering to someone outside, then returned to the bedside. I sipped my tea, looking at his bowed head, curious about this slaveboy, young man rather, just two years younger than I, but limited myself to repeating that I relied on him to run my household to perfection. He meekly promised to do his best, asked when to serve my meals and humbly advised me to acquire a slave credit card and electronic slave passes to allow them shopping for supplies. Upon my question he explained that it was a small cell phone clipped to the slave's collar. If a police officer or a shop owner wanted to ascertain that he or she was acting under orders, they just pressed the button to connect to the master's phone.

He ran my bath, soaped me up, dried and dressed me, and followed me to the roof garden. Tim was cleaning the pool and called a cheerful 'Morning, Sir', when I sat down at table. Fred poured my tea and Christine came out, naked and hobbled like the boys. Her body went rigid when she bent over to serve a hot plate and my hand slid down her arse. "Relax, girl, I won't harm you, or rape you". "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir", she whispered and held the pose. I reached for her hanging breasts, fondling the firm flesh, gently pinching a nipple. "Those rings", I looked up at Fred, "Are they standard?" "Yes, Sir". He was watching the nude girl anxiously. "Our collars and rings mark us as slaves, Sir, and can be used to control or punish us". "How?" "We can be chained or leashed by them, Sir. Weights may be hung from the nipple rings". "I see. Thank you, Christine". She breathed a sigh of relief and shuffled off. Fred remained behind my chair and she came back a little later to take away the empty plate and offer me a basket of warm buns. "Freshly baked?" "Yes, Sir". Her hand was trembling. "Look at me". The terror was still there. "Christine, please don't be so scared. I promised not to harm you and I meant that. You'll be punished, but only if you've done something to deserve it, and I won't demand that you serve me sexually. Perhaps later, when you're more comfortable with this, but I don't want a terrified girl in my bed". "Yes, Sir. No, Sir". "I'm very satisfied with your cooking". "Thank you, Sir". "Now, sit down and give me your feet". "Yes, Sir". Obviously still frightened she lowered her bare bum to the tiles and raised her legs, exposing her sex. I found the key in my pocket and unlocked the ankle cuffs. "Is that another standard for slaves, shaving your pubes?" "Yes, Sir", Fred answered. "You don't have to do that, Christine, if it makes you feel better". "Thank you, Sir, but I don't like hair down there". "As you prefer, now get dressed". "Yes, Sir". I was rewarded with a shy smile before she took her chain and fled.

Fred buttered a bun for me and refilled my cup. "Are slavegirls always that frightened?" "Most are, Sir, at least when newly enslaved. The hard training and the uncertainty about their future can be very scary for a young girl, Sir". "Understandable. I hope she'll calm down soon". "She will, Sir, but Chris is more scared than most. Her family keeps slaves and her two elder brothers can be very rough with their slavegirl, she's told us, Sir". "Expecting the same from me. And she?" "Sir?" "How did she treat the slaves?" "I don't know, Sir, but if her brothers are allowed, eh...". "To abuse the girl". "Eh...yes, Sir. I think her family treats their slaves very strictly, most people do, Sir". "You too?" "My parents have no slaves, Sir". "Why not?" "They can't afford it, Sir". "If they could?" "Yes, Sir. They would have a slave, or more. It's common and very convenient". "So you don't consider slavery wrong?" "No, Sir". "You accept your own?" "I do, Sir". "All of it?" "Sir?" "You'll happily suck my cock or take it up your arse?" "Yes, Sir". His eyes were as calm as ever. "And Tim?" "We're your slaves, Sir, the three of us, here to serve you in any way you may wish". "But won't like it?" "Slaves are not supposed to like what they have to do, Sir". "I guess not. Now take off that chain and get dressed. Tim as well". "Yes, Sir". He took the key. "And don't send Christine to serve me until told differently". "No, Sir".

I spent the next two weeks getting accustomed to my new surroundings. It took me no time at home. Even used as I was to luxury and servants, my slaves surprised me. Fred or Tim was always kneeling beside or standing behind my chair, jumping to my every wish, dressed and undressed me, bathed me, rubbed my feet and my body. Christine produced a seemingly endless series of marvellous meals and the three of them kept the penthouse in perfect order. I acted 'masterly', but was polite, and, although sorely tempted by my slavegirl's half naked body, limited my sexual use of them to letting Tim suck me off when he saw me to bed. After the first few days Christine lost her frightened look and towards the end of the first week even sent me a timid smile when I thanked her for another splendid dinner. Fred was unfailingly polite and efficient and Tim cheerful, almost cocky, but always subservient. They gave me no reason to complain and I never saw them idle, so there was nothing to justify a punishment.