They’d been warned, they knew of the risks. Below decks sharing tales they’d heard. Or relaxing in the tavern with a beer .. hearing stories from sailors on other ships. In their cups .. noisily told stories .. getting gorier with each swig. What those evil pirates did with their poor captives.
Infidels. White-men. God-fearing Christians — they loved nothing more. Pigs, scum, filth. Moslems hated pigs. Right-thinking Americans .. for Moslems, nothing worse. Unbelievers. Didn’t deserve to live.
And how they died! Tales of bestial cruelty .. washed down with another jug of beer. Brave American sailors worked to death .. starved .. worked till they dropped. Like madness those evil Moslems whipped them for laziness. Foaming like mad dogs, they thrashed decent American souls like animals. Unbelievers. Filthier than the pigs.
Tales of sodomy .. calling for another jug of strong ale at his audience’s expense. Damned heathens they laughed out loud as a fine Christian soul had himself ripped apart .. pirate after pirate forced on him. Laughing at his terrors .. mocking his manly shame. Slicing off his balls. Shutting off his prayers as they force-fed them down his Christian throat.
Whatever happens .. the drunken tales got loud and boisterous .. whatever befalls .. at sea or in a fight on land .. NEVER …… The story-teller paused .. studiously eyeing his drunken audience for dramatic effect .. eyeing his empty jug. In a fight with the Barbary brutes .. NEVER get taken alive.
He was a country-boy, brought up on a farm. From early on in life he’d helped out when his father had castrated a bullock. He’d handled the tackle, he’d used the tools. But never had he thought that it would be happening to him. Men feeling him in his most intimate parts. Touching, taking his balls in the palms of their hands, playfully swishing his cock around. First time, he’d protested. He’d pulled his hips back .. he’d denied this “client” had the right. Instinct. Not thinking. He’d seen how the handlers had gone for Sarge. He just didn’t think
A club stuck a warning up under his chin .. a stern menacing look from a slave-handler .. reminding Mitchell of the example made of his sarge. Telling him to get used to the idea. Mitchell saw the sense in that. Better than his time at the mast. Not willingly .. his blood still boiled at every groping touch. But what the hell was he supposed to do about it? His feet spread like this .. hands trapped in the back of his neck. How was he going to stop it happening? Best save his strength for when he could do something that ‘d make a difference.
More and more customers had joined. There must have been a good dozen of them doing the rounds. Rich men, fine clothes. Safely prodding, poking, touching up. A few had their muscle-men with them. Sleeveless tops and open fronts warning these stinking infidels not to try anything on. Hardly a moment passed when Mitchell himself was not being “evaluated”. Annoying, Mitchell could not let go the image of a cattle market back home.
One “client” in particular took a shine to him ….. he seemed to be coming back. Himself more of a rough sort than the rest. Beefy torso on him. Younger he’d have shown off an impressive physique. And he still held himself like a man who know his body did the talking for him.
Mitchell reckoned every single muscle on him had been squeezed by this client. He’d groped every source of strength in his body. And still the bastard was back for more. Like-as-not, Mitchell reckoned, this was the man who was going to be making a bid on him.
Market-days, back home, he’d ride the waggon to town with his old man. Grain to sell, chickens for sale. That had been the life as a youngster he had known. And in one corner of the market-place, a section to auction off slaves. Men to help work the fields, woman to do the washing and the rest. Mitchell had never given that a thought .. a place where human beings were sold .. that was how things were, the life he had known.
And here HE was .. up for sale. Pawed and felt-up .. like those man slaves back home. Seeing how much work could be squeezed out of his muscular shoulders. Like those black slaves at home. Evaluated for how many hours under the sun could they bend their strong backs?
Ironic. Here he was .. stood naked as the day he was born. Positioned so he could not fend off a groping hand. Legs pinned apart, letting mauling hands have their way. His arms trapped by his wrists tied to the back of his collar. Pinning up his bunched muscled arms, pinning down any resistance. His muscle-defined torso .. no defence .. free to be mauled. Pressed. Prodded. Pawed.
He’d never given it a thought. Those negroes .. men just like him .. with feelings, with anger bursting in his guts ….. He’d never given it a thought. Where he lived, that was the way things were. Now he was here .. and THIS was the way things were …….