Pet Slaves

by Mark Andrews

  I doubt there is a human being alive who doesn’t enjoy watching others work. And when those others are slaves, stark naked slaves, who can be made to toil non-stop for hour after hour, the pleasure is increased tenfold. With us, as we now displayed our nude, totally hairless bodies in this outlandish labour, our muscles would be on perfect exhibition. So would our sex, of course.

  We were still being fed the aphrodisiac but in addition, as we had begun to pull on the oar handles, the dildos up our rectums had started to tingle with that delicious sensation that brought on instant lust - for those that weren’t already inflamed by the sight of the other slaves toiling in this bizarre fashion, that is.

  The result was that each of the boys now sported a rampant erection while the vulvas of the girls were visibly pulsing, our nipples were hard and elongated and our clits also fully erect. For those of us who had had them modified, they now stood up out of our vaginas like tiny erect penises and I felt yet another wash of shame as I looked down my body at it.

  It didn’t last long. The shame, I mean. Looking around me as I pulled back hard on the big oar handle, I could see fully half of the other girls were also sporting their own swollen grotesque organs of pleasure but even those on the girls that hadn’t had them lengthened, were now visible.

  For two solid hours we toiled on that diabolical machine.

  During that time, Masoud and his father came in to stroll up and down the corridor above our benches, staring with eyes bright with lust at our naked sweating flesh. Masoud spent most of that time at my spot, staring down at Morinaga and me as the pair of us strained every muscle in our bodies to keep up the pressure on the oar and so obviate Chuki’s whip. I had no idea then how he knew when we had taken a breather. I didn’t learn that until after we were freed. What I did learn - and very quickly - was that he did know and even a few seconds was enough to have him stride up the aisle and lash our backs - both of us.

  In my new role as a mother - and one now anxious for her progeny’s welfare, I worried about the damage this extreme effort might be doing to the tiny foetuses in my womb. I shouldn’t have. As I said, the Arabs know a lot more about human reproduction than we in the West do and all this effort was only strengthening those muscles I was going to be using to bear the brood of little puppies in a few weeks time.

  The effort exhausted me. Indeed it exhausted each of us. This may surprise you for I have already said we were fit. Perhaps fitter than any other group of people in the world, even including the Royal Marines or an Olympic squad in a dictatorship. We already performed a remarkable workload of exercise in the gymnasium and on the track, training endlessly for faster and faster times and a cardio-vascular endurance that would allow us to race as fast as our muscles would carry us for the whole length of the race.

  But this was just mindless toil of the hardest nature and I wondered as I strained, cycle after cycle, if real galley-slaves had had it this hard. I suspected they did, especially when called up for the supreme effort of ‘rowing to quarters’ whatever that meant. I had seen it in films of the old Roman Empire, when the centurion or general had ordered such a beat and then sat down and watched as his semi-naked slaves were lashed into rowing at the increased speed, perhaps to ram another vessel.

  I think we were rowing at that pace or its equivalent for the whole two hours. Certainly, some of us collapsed over our oar handles and their bodies were then dragged back and forth by the others. This of course placed an even greater strain on those remaining, and eventually, just before our two hour session was over, Chuki called a halt and each one of us now slumped over his or her oar handle while he and his assistant moved down into the wells on either side of the aisle to release us from the chains and belts and then hoist us up and off the ninepins, depositing us on our hands and rear paws onto the deck of the aisle.

  We were then allowed a most unusual hour’s rest before resuming our normal training.

  We spent two hours on that horrible machine every second day and while I hated it for the first few times, I could feel it strengthening my muscles and for that at least I was glad for it made my racing as a legless human dog that much easier.

  Over this time, I watched with sadness and a great deal of horror as Tunza’s genitals slowly withered. He was the black boy who had been elastrated a few days earlier. You may remember I reported that both his penis and his scrotal sac swelled up at first but then they began to die from lack of blood circulating in them and while we all watched the process with revulsion and shock, we knew there was not a thing we could do help the so handsome young man.

  Each day his organs got smaller, withered, blackened (well, you know what I mean) and shrivelled a bit more until after ten days or so, what was left of them and the steel catheter, just fell off and with them, the rubber ring, leaving him with a small hole that looked more like another navel than anything else, to wee out of.

  As I stared at it, I began to think he actually looked very appealing.

  As I’ve said before, he was an ultra-handsome young man with a body any girl would die for. His belly muscles especially were quite remarkable, marching as an eight-pack right down from under his broad and sharply defined pectoral muscles to his groin, or at least to with an inch or so of it. Now that his genitals were gone, our eyes were no longer drawn to them but to his overall physique and particularly those rather splendid abdominal muscles.

  I didn’t dare speak to him, although I desperately wanted to, to tell him how much better he looked without those ugly genital organs and so I just grinned at him, stared down at his now sexless groin and then back up to his face, hoping he would get the message and understand that he was still a beautiful human being.

  I think he did for he put himself back into his training with an effort that surprised even me, who worked at it as hard as I knew how. Alas, his times began to improve almost immediately and as a result, others of the boys were also scheduled to suffer this inhuman castration process.

  Not all of them. Some of our owners liked to see their male dog-slaves sporting a full set of outsize male genital organs and to watch them urinate like real dogs against a post or whatever, but three more of the males were duly elastrated and had to go through the painful and so final loss of their reproductive organs. I was glad Morinaga was not one of them for by now, I had taken a real shine to this so handsome Japanese lad and indeed, wanted him as my partner for life - my husband, if that was possible.

  I didn’t dwell on it, though. At that time I had no illusions that we might ever get free of the kennels or of our masters’ control and I well knew it was no good dreaming of what can never be ...

  One thing I did notice though, was that Melanie, the black Amazon I now thought of as my friend in that awful place, tended to gravitate to Tunza whenever circumstances permitted it. I could see the uncertainty in his eyes at first, but when she persisted, that doubt changed to relief - and then to genuine pleasure as he recognised he was still acceptable to a beautiful woman. I felt a great wash of love towards the pair of them as I watched this development and I think it was then that I knew that if, somehow, we were ever freed from the kennels, I wanted to be with Morinaga and that pair of beauties.

  The days passed in like manner. We either spent two hours at the oars or worked out in the gym and the rest of the time practised racing as dogs. That was our existence and I despaired for my future. I wanted to work my brain. I wanted to finish my degree and become an anthropologist. As it was, my brain was going into decline despite my efforts to rehearse everything I had thus far learned at Cambridge.

  And as the days passed, so my growing brood of puppies continue to develop inside my body. By now I loved them as a mother loves her unseen baby inside her. It sounds weird, I know but that is the way of things.

  Our gym work, the sessions on the oars and the track work had turned my body, as well as those of all of the rest of us, into
paragons of athletic perfection. I stress none of us were muscle freaks; not us girls certainly, but not the boys, either. We girls were very, very feminine in our appearance. We were just athletic as well. I know there are men who like a girl to have a softer body, more rounded curves and even a modicum of fat on their flesh but I don’t like that on a girl. I suppose it is my love of sports and things physical that makes me gravitate to an appreciation of athleticism in a girl and I really hate to see a fat girl.

  What I didn’t realise, though, was that this fitness and particularly the superb muscle tone had prepared me for childbirth as few Western mothers are. When the two months were up and I was ready to drop them, it happened as easily as pie.

  Of course the Vet, Dr Ragheb, knew to the hour when I was due and he carefully monitored my progress just as he did all of us slaves. He was a good doctor, I’ll give him that, despite his penchant for fondling our bodies every time he examined us and when he judged I was ready to give birth, he had them take me to the room they used for such births.

  The act of childbirth in that part of the world is conducted very differently from ours.

  We have the mother in a bed, lying flat while the obstetrician works at her side or between her open thighs. There, at least in the kennels, I had to kneel over a straw-lined basket, my thighs spread either side of it, waiting for the puppies to drop out, one by one.

  There was no pain. None at all. Each little Afghan puppy popped out into the straw and lay there stretching its tiny limbs as it coped with its new environment.

  I stared down under my breasts at the little animals, loving them all and sad at the same time that I would soon be losing them. It was not a long-drawn-out process. Perhaps only half an hour from start to finish and then they were wiping me (and the puppies) down and I was allowed to return to my kennel where the puppies were ensconced with me.

  And now I learned to suckle them, each tiny mouth having a few minutes on my breasts. You are appalled? Don’t be. Remember I had been trained and conditioned by horrible pain into behaving as a bitch in everything, even to carrying and birthing those beautiful little puppies. They were mine. I loved them dearly. To suckle and nurture them now was as natural for me as if they had been my real human babies.

  I lay there in my kennel and the tiny puppies crawled all over me, learning that I was their birth mother and that my breasts were their source of nourishment. I adored the feel of their tiny furry bodies scrambling over my smooth one and I even put up with Masoud’s sneering remarks about how much of a bitch I really was. A slut-bitch, he added, to emphasise the point.

  I didn’t care. I was in my seventh Heaven as those puppies nestled into my body.

  The three weeks I was allowed to keep them went by in a flash.

  Oh I still had to exercise and do my track work but it was on the basis of an hour on, followed by a return to the kennels so my puppies could suckle against my breasts for the next hour. Those times were wonderful and the tiny little animals quickly grew, opened their eyes and actually recognised me as their ‘mother’.

  I can’t begin to describe my anguish when they were taken away from me, even though I knew it was coming. I think it might even have been as bad as if they had been real human babies, yes, truly. But they didn’t let me mourn. It was then right back into full training, and at full pace.

  I was again entered in races and they expected me to win!

  I did, but only because I ruthlessly expunged from my mind the torment I felt at the loss of my babies. I soon began to win races again as my body was restored to its full athletic capability and I could see Masoud was pleased with me.

  By now, months after being converted into a human dog, I was inured to what I thought was going to be my permanent role in life. What would happen to me when my body was no longer capable of winning him trophies or I became less attractive and therefore no longer a suitable candidate for the kennels, I tried not to think about at all.

  I was legless. Yes, I knew they did wonders with prosthetics these days, but they were expensive and Masoud certainly wouldn’t be bothering with legs for a slave. What could I do, I wondered?

  Not much, I well knew. I had been conditioned to remain on all fours at all times and to stand erect on my rear paws felt really weird - probably as strange as for a real canine to try to stand up on its back legs, I imagine.

  But I did notice that there were comings and goings amongst we slave-dogs. One would be taken away, perhaps for a veterinary examination, but then wouldn’t be returned to his or her kennel. And then, a day or so later, a new slave would appear, have his or her legs removed and be accoutred with paws and a tail, to begin its life as a human dog.

  What happened to those who disappeared, we never knew and I had a gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach that perhaps they would be ‘put down’ just as old or useless dogs were, and buried in some unmarked and forgotten grave.

  Morbid thoughts, I know but can you blame me?

  Most of the time I spent watching my three friends.

  Yes, I know none of the four of us had even spoken a single word to the others, but I knew in my deepest of hearts that we were all of like mind. We just knew that we were meant for each other and that when - if - we were ever free, we would be spending the rest of our lives as one. Yes, I know it’s as weird a thought as everything else I have described in this bizarre story, but as it turned out, I was right on the knocker.

  The two males, Morinaga and Tunza, were about as handsome in the looks department as you could want. Both would have made instant matinee idol status, I was sure. And Melanie, even though she was Amazonian in stature and build, was quite definitely of top international model status. She hailed from London and although I knew nothing about her then, I sensed she was a highly intelligent girl.

  I know I keep referring to my fellow dog-slaves as ‘girls’ and ‘boys’, rather than as women and men. That’s because we were all either in our late teens or very early twenties. I was nineteen and I later discovered Melanie was a year younger. Tunza was just twenty-one and Morinaga, the same, so we were still young enough to be considered boys and girls. Anyway, that’s how I thought of us, all of us, not just the four I have named.

  As Tunza’s body recovered from his castration, he began to really excel in his races. Don’t ask if it was really true that a gelding is swifter than a whole male when it comes to humans - I just don’t know. I have since asked some eminent physiologists at Cambridge but they just stared at me as if I was mad (or kinky) and muttered something about mad anthropologists, so I am still none the wiser. I believe it is true of equines but whether indeed that carries forward into other animals, I really have no idea.

  Of course, our trainers continued to treat us as real dogs, talking to us as we do to our pets, but if one of us was foolish enough to reply, whapppp! Down came the cane or worse, the prodder was thrust into our sensitive areas or if it was a repeat offence, the Vet, Dr Ragheb was very happy to remove the offender’s larynx so that he could never make proper sounds again. Whispering was still possible of course but if the slave was stupid enough to do that after his voice-box was taken out, then his tongue was removed as well and speech of any kind was impossible.

  I saw two slaves’ larynxes removed but only one of them then had his tongue cut out as well. While I felt sorrow for the pair of them, I also thought them foolish in the extreme. The rules were clearly laid out and while I certainly didn’t agree with them, our masters had the whip hand and to flout them was utterly insane. I’m not saying they got what they deserved for no-one deserves to lose his organs of speech, but the rest of us were able to keep silent and they should have been also.

  By this time, I calculated I had been in that place around five or six months - yes, I did eventually find out where it was and what its name is but I am not going to mention it here. In the end, its government did the right thing
by us - all of us - and since it had nothing to do with the depraved actions of a few of its wealthier citizens (and some who were part-time residents there), I don’t wish to bring down any flak on the small state and perhaps damage its fledgling tourist industry.

  Waleed and his son Masoud numbered among these part-time residents of course for I knew from my date with Masoud that he was actually a citizen of an obscure emirate in the Gulf. Anyway, after nearly half a year as a human dog, I had actually come to think of myself in that way and when Masoud came to tell me he was going to breed from me again, I was actually quite pleased about the whole thing.

  I remembered fondly those beautiful little puppies I had birthed the last time, was it really two months earlier, and thrilled as I thought of a new litter snuggling up to my naked body once more.

  Chapter 7

  It wasn’t to be, however.

  Something I haven’t mentioned yet is that my older brother Richard is a major in one of Britain’s special regiments. You will forgive me if I don’t mention its name. He never accepted my disappearance from that train and sought (and obtained) leave to pursue the trail.

  He moved Heaven and earth to discover what had happened to me and even discovered that two men named John Smith and Robert Green had booked seats in my compartment; aliases of course. He tracked down the booking clerk who remembered that the man who had bought the tickets had a swarthy complexion. “Like an Arab, he was, sir.”

  He then tried to follow their trail, that being the most logical course. Without going into all the boring details of his investigations, he found out they had boarded the train without luggage, but left it carrying what seemed to be a heavy suitcase. Coming from the regiment he belonged to, he put two and two together and surmised I had been kidnapped for the white slave trade.