A New World: Prologue

PROLOGUE

In the latter half of the 22^nd century, things began to fall apart, slowly at first, and then very quickly as the cascade of catastrophes accelerated. Climate change, concentration of wealth in the hands of a few, ignorance, hatred and violence led to poverty and disease, famine and wars. Wars begat wars.  Chaos ensued, and humanity was destroyed by the billions, by starvation, by poverty, pandemics, and by the hands of men.

A remnant did remain, however. There were people, here and there, who found a way to survive, and gradually, to thrive. Small groups banded together, and over the years their camps grew into villages and towns again, places of order and safety, commerce and plenty. People learned to live in balance with the environment, and the earth easily bore the much-reduced weight of humanity, now measured in millions instead of billions. Vast areas of the planet reverted to a near-Pleistocene past, populated only by returning wildlife, forest or jungle.

Most people no longer thought the greedy accumulation of wealth and property was a legitimate and virtuous human endeavor. One only needed enough to live in comfort and sufficient plenty to enjoy one’s life. Of course, there were those who still lusted after material wealth and property, but they were treated as one might treat a person with bad hygiene: with politeness and quiet disgust, and a desire to have as little to do with them as possible.

The vast buried cities, hidden by centuries of reforestation, provided valuable resources once they were located and could be mined or excavated. Aluminum, iron and steel, copper, glass, rubber and plastic could be found in great quantities, and recycled for new uses. The mining was a dirty and often dangerous job, but contributed to a better, more sustainable quality of life, at least for those who were not sent into the dark, crumbling and dangerous mines.

There were also other people, who did not thrive in the new world. They depended on those stronger or more favored by circumstance for safety, food and survival, and had only their own labor and obedience to offer in return. Over the decades, and eventually centuries, those workers became servants, and servants became slaves.

They are slaves because they can only be slaves, the masters told their slaves and themselves, and we are masters because we are competent and dominant; it is our right, and indeed necessary, for us to control, direct, discipline them, and therefore enjoy all the benefits of slavery as a reward for our responsibilities.  Further, slavery will not destroy the environment, as did the long-ago age of machines. The world is a better place because of it. “Slavery is a positive good,” they would say, unknowingly echoing the words of a certain man of the 19^th century, long dead and forgotten.

As the slaves descended into their degradation, so crystalized the masters’ cruelty. It was a matter of necessity not cruelty, they said, that there were whipping posts, pillories, cages, and other tools of torture and even execution. Although slaves lacked the competence to look after themselves, it was thought, they are still intelligent animals, and must be kept in their place for the well-being of all, including the slaves themselves. A master or mistress who whipped a dog would face disapproval and disgust from their peers, but if they whipped a slave, even to death, it would merit no more than a shrug. Perhaps even approval that they were conscientious and competent masters and mistresses.

And if such tasks needed to be done, why should a master or mistress not enjoy the necessary work? After all, it is a pleasure to have absolute control over other humans, if the word “humans” could be applied to slaves. It was enjoyable to have them groveling at your feet, begging to serve and please you, or for mercy, and amusing to see them writhing and sobbing in agony, suffering for some disobedience or disrespect to their betters, at one’s mere whim.

No one knew how many centuries had passed since the great convulsion. That calendar had died with the civilization that had created it and collapsed. It did not matter; it was a new world, a good world, and all was in balance.

CHAPTER ONE: THE ROAD

The driver of the wagon was a young man of pleasant and intelligent countenance. There was a thin mustache on his upper lip, trying vainly to grow in a field not yet fertile enough to support it. He was comfortably attired in light linen and cotton, suitable for this summer day, clean and cut to flatter a young man’s vanity, sturdy boots to protect his feet from an errant wagon wheel and a wide fedora of woven straw. He held the reins lightly in his hand; beside him was a carriage whip in a holder, its tail fluttering in the breeze as the wagon rolled easily along over the sandy road, cushioned with fallen needles from the pines that paralleled the path.

A dozen slaves, all males, trotted ahead of him, harnessed two by two to a long pole with six shorter crossbeams. Each slave was almost naked; they wore wide leather belts with leather straps crisscrossing their shoulders. At the rear of their belts a round metal eyebolt was secured by a sort chain to the crossbar behind them, so they would pull the wagon forward as they moved. Additionally, a short length of leather secured each one’s elbows to the belt, giving them just enough freedom of movement for a somewhat natural stride, or to grab the crossbar before them and pull it backwards to affect a braking or slowing of the wagon. Their feet, unusually for slaves, were shod in plain leather sandals. Around each one’s neck was a steel collar with a dangling tag. Between their thighs glinted the gray metal of chastity cages. The sun made their sweat shine.

Another slave, a young woman of diminutive stature, barely five feet tall, was leashed to the front corner of the wagon. She was a creature of pleasant curvature and form, clearly physically fit, round breasts bouncing as she occasionally scurried to keep up with the wagon, handicapped by her shorter stride. Her brown hair was clean but tousled by the wind. She wore only her collar, with two tags, one steel, one brass, dangling and tingling. Her face showed nothing, looking only at the road at her bare feet.

The wagon was sturdy but light, the frame made from wood, with four large aluminum wheels, spoked with metal rods and rimmed with recycled rubber. A pair of long leather reins passed through every slave’s harness and into the driver’s hands. Two bells were attached to foot pedals at the driver’s feet. A load of cargo was covered by a tarp. There was a folding canopy to protect the driver from sun or rain, not in use on this pleasant day.

The driver, whose name was Trig, was anxious to complete this journey, his first solo trip to market and back, entrusted with a week’s worth of produce from the farm, handling his boss’s slaves and his best wagon. There was a load of lumber to picked up from the market once the fruits and vegetables were unloaded, which was why he was using a slave wagon instead of a horse-drawn one; unlike horses, slaves could be put to work once the wagon arrived at its destination.

Trig, remembering the lessons he has learned from Mathias the slave manager, scrutinized the draft slaves before him. “Look at the harness at the small of their backs,” Mathias had told him. “If the slave is working, there will be a small gap between the harness and the slave’s back. If the harness is flush against the skin, it means he’s letting the slave in front of him pull him along.”

Trig was proud of himself when he noticed one slave, a new addition, was doing exactly that. What was his name? John? Jonah? Jonas? Yes, Jonas, who Mr. Kim, the farm manager, and Mathias had recently picked up from the auction house. It was Jonas’ first time in harness here, and he was clearly testing the boundaries of what his minimal effort could be. They’re all so lazy, thought Trig as he reached for the long whip.

He cracked the whip overhead and forward, aiming for Jonas’ back. But a bump in the road, or a breeze, or a lack of skill, diverted the lash so it fell across the shoulders of the slave beside Jonas. The other slave, Dingo, a middle-aged male who had been on the farm almost a full year, and was working hard to pull the wagon, cried out in pain as a red welt rose across his skin.

Trig cursed himself under his breath and felt a pang of guilt that he had lashed a slave who was working hard. He drew back the whip for a second attempt at Jonas, but then thought better of it; let the slaves think he intended to lash the other slave. Masters don’t make mistakes when it comes to discipline, Mathias often said.

Nonetheless, the crack of the whip and cry of pain had its expected effect; Trig felt the wagon jolt forward as every slave, including young Jonas, picked up the pace. The female slave, who had flinched at the sound of the whip, almost stumbled as the speed increased and her leash grew taut.

He had been on the road since before dawn, after overseeing the loading of the cargo and then harnessing the slaves. Mathias had brought the leashed woman, who was staggering under two heavy bags of slave feed and water, just before he departed. Mathias, six feet tall with muscles rippling under his black skin, could have carried them with ease. He directed her to put the two bags in the wagon, and he looked over the harnesses, checking Trig’s work. Mathias handed her leash to Trig, telling him she wasn’t needed at the farm that day, and to take her along for his pleasure and assistance. Trig began leashing her to the rear of the wagon, but Mathias suggested he secure her to the front. “Put her where you can see her. You don’t want her to trip and be strangled without you knowing. Mr. Kim will take it out of your pay if you kill one accidentally,” he said. “Also, having a slave bitch trotting along in front of you makes for a more pleasant journey.” They both laughed as he secured her long leash to an eyebolt at the front corner. The woman’s face was empty of expression.

He had indeed enjoyed watching her, having to remind himself time to time to pay attention to the road and team, not her pretty ass. There were several red welts across the tanned flesh of her buttocks, one ass cheek bearing the brunt of them. Trig was experienced enough to know that this was probably the result of an on-the-spot correction for some infraction, not a formal whipping meted out at the end of the work day with all the other slaves kneeling and watching, as was the usual practice.

From the position of the sun in the sky, Trig judged it to be late morning. It was probably a good time to take a mid-day break, and feed and water the slaves, although he wasn’t very hungry himself. He had enjoyed a breakfast of bacon and eggs, potatoes and blueberry muffins prepared by Ms. Janice, who oversaw the kitchen, preparing meals for the staff and feed for the slaves.

Seeing a shaded grassy area along the road, he steered the team towards it, and twice pressed the pedal at his foot attached to a cowbell. The low-pitched gongs signaled the team to slow and stop under the shade of the trees. He complimented himself on his humane and practical management of the slaves.

Trig set the brakes and hopped down from the driver’s bench. He walked up and down both sides of the team, looking at their harnesses and their feet, checking for any problems or injuries. The slave he had whipped accidentally lowered his eyes as Trig approached, careful to show nothing. Trig saw the angry red welt across his shoulders; the lash had been inaccurate, but powerful.  Like the slave he had whipped, Trig hid any thoughts he might have. Seeing nothing of concern, he called out “Rest!” and the slaves sprawled on the ground as best they could in their harnesses.

As he walked back to the wagon the woman fell to her knees, as slaves do when a master approaches and they are not engaged in active labor. Trig unlocked her collar from the leash.

“Give them their feed and water, and then yours,” he instructed her.

 “Yes master”, she replied, barely audible as she scurried away.

Trig reached for the lunch Ms. Janice had packed for him. Opening the bag, he found a sandwich as long as his forearm, thick with meat, cheese, pickles, onions and peppers, oil and vinegar. The aroma itself was delightful. There was also an apple, several large oatmeal cookies, and a corked bottle of mild mead, still chill from the icebox.

After pissing in the woods, he settled against a shaded tree trunk to enjoy his lunch, watching the female slave distribute slave cakes from a heavy canvas bag. Each was about the size of a half loaf of bread, and provided a condensed portion of vegetable protein, carbohydrates and a little salt and beet sugar. It was standard fare for slaves performing heavy labor, and preferred to the mush that other slaves lived on.

After the woman had emptied the sack, she hefted the heavy water bag and went from slave to slave, squirting water from a nozzle into their open mouths. Trig chuckled as the slaves pawed at the woman, trying to caress a thigh or flank as she passed, limited by their arm bindings. The woman slapped their hands away with a look of annoyance. Mathias was right, Trig thought; they are always thinking about sex. They really do need to be kept in chastity.

Completing her tasks, the woman returned to Trig and knelt, eyes lowered. “Suck me,” he said between bites, opening his legs wide. The woman undid his pants and carefully freed his cock, bending forwards to kiss and lick it along the length before taking it in her mouth. He noted the two tags on her collar, the steel one with her slave registration number, the brass one showing that she was currently unable to conceive, and the date the device had been implanted in her uterus.

Trig ate most of his sandwich, the apple, and all the oatmeal cookies while the woman sucked, licked and kissed his hard cock. Her eyes were pools of dark brown, and she maintained eye contact as well-trained slaves of either gender do with a master’s penis in their mouth.  She was skilled enough to know when to take his cock out of her mouth, just kissing the length of it when he was too close to orgasm, caressing it with her fingers, letting him relax before taking it in her lips again. He was impressed; this slave had never sucked his cock before, and could not be expected to “know” it well. Several of the harnessed slaves watched intently as the woman’s head bobbed on his cock, glistening with drool and precum.  Trig paid them no attention. Others seemed to gaze off into the distance, or at an insect going about its day, or a blade of grass fluttering in the breeze, their faces blank.

After about fifteen minutes of Trig eating and the slave sucking, he put one hand on the woman’s head and forced her down onto his cock. The woman gagged a little, as he erupted in her mouth and she gulped down his semen.

The woman held his twitching cock in her lips as he came down from his orgasm. Above him, sunlit clouds sailed across a brilliant blue sky; below him, a naked woman held his dick in her mouth, and he had just finished a good lunch. Trig was as happy as a man could be.

He gently pushed her head off his cock and put himself back together. “That was very nice. What’s your name?”

“Daisy, if it pleases you master,” she said with her eyes lowered.

Trig searched his memory, but couldn’t recall any previous interactions with this particular slave. They all sort of looked alike to him. She had certainly never given him a blow job before. He would have remembered if she did. “How long have you been Mr. Kim’s property?” he asked.

“Master Kim purchased me two months ago, master,” she said, her eyes on the dirt, lowered respectfully. That would make sense, Trig thought, he’d been away visiting his family when Mr. Kim and Mathias made their monthly trip to the slave market to return slaves and lease new ones.

Trig regarded her a moment, then broke off a piece of his sandwich, holding it out to her. She nibbled it from his fingers. “Thank you master,” she said quietly.

Trig stood up and tossed the remains of his lunch among the harnessed slaves. The sandwich broke open on the ground and the slaves who were nearby scrambled to reach it, frustrated by their bound arms and harnesses. Nonetheless, it was gone in seconds.

Trig leashed Daisy back to the wagon, mounted his seat, cracked the whip in the air, not against any slave’s back, and shook the reins. “Up!’ he commanded as the slaves rose to their feet. He pressed his foot against another pedal; this one connected to a high-pitched bell. The wagon began to move, slowly at first, until he rang the bell again, and the speed increased. He noticed Jonas was doing his share of the work now, so Trig put the whip back in its holder.

For the rest of the afternoon Trig enjoyed watching Daisy’s ass wiggle and her breasts bounce as she scurried along.  Distant thunder rumbled and clouds moved in from the west, and there was a brief but heavy downpour, which made Daisy’s skin glisten, and her frowning face was cute, wet brown hair plastered to her head. The harnessed slaves slowed as the rain beat down, but a few cracks of the whip brought them back to pace, though using the whip with the driver’s awning up was somewhat awkward. It would be fun to give Daisy a few lashes to see her jump and yelp, but he decided not to; she had done a good job sucking his cock and he didn’t want her sullen and hostile. Using a slave like that was only marginally better than using your hand; you had to really hurt them to get some response. And he definitely was going to fuck her tonight.

After an hour of rain, the summer storm passed, the sky cleared and the sun shone, birds in the forest chirped and fluttered their wings to dry themselves, as the thirteen slaves plodded onward through the mud, their feet and calves splashed and dirty. Puddles on the road steamed in the sun. Mathias had assigned him a good team for his first market trip, perhaps except for Jonas. He did not need to use the whip anymore after the rain cleared.