Galley Slaves

by Mark Andrews

  Each minute of that four hours was a nightmare. Each step a supreme effort and every muscle in my body (still stark naked) screamed at me for a rest; but no rest was allowed. Not even when a small boy darted in with a can of water and fed the pair of us every half-hour or so. Zanda prowled along just behind one of us, his cane ready to lash down on our straining butt cheeks, but then, when he decided we had proved ourselves sufficiently, he told us we might stop. We did, enormously grateful for the respite as he unlocked the manacles locking us to the two shafts - but then he led us over to another of the machines in that room.

  This one was used to strengthen our belly, back and thigh muscles. It was only a small table fixed to the floor. It was about a foot wide, one and a half long and stood three feet up from the floor. At the bottom corners were two brackets into which our feet could be slipped. When we each sat up on it and placed our feet into these brackets, our buttocks protruded off the other ends.

  The exercise used here was for us first to lie right down over our thighs, thus stretching the hamstrings perfectly. We had to stay in that position to the count of five and then, very, very slowly, raise our bodies up, back and then down so that our torsos were now bent back in a tight arch, our backs now lying right down against the legs at the top end of the table, our hands right down on the floor. And here we had to stay for another count of five then, again very slowly, raise our bodies up until we were again lying right down along our thighs and legs.

  Then we had to turn over and after lying with our upper bodies bent down with our hands clasped behind our heads, slowly raise our torsos up and stretch our back muscles. This was even harder, especially holding our chests and heads up for the required five seconds before repeating the exercise.

  It was a perfect exercise for those parts of our bodies and later, when we were actually taken down to the galley to begin our training I realised how effective it was to develop and condition the all-important belly, thigh and back muscles for the slogging effort of pulling the oars.

  Zanda made us each perform on a pair of these machines for an hour after which we were really exhausted...

  And now it was time for us to meet our fellow galley slaves.

  Up to this time, we had been kept isolated from them, either in the clinic or recovery area but now we were taken to the part of the cellars used to house us slaves when not at exercise or galley training.

  Here, in straw-filled stalls, just like in the stables of an expensive racing stud farm, we were kept chained to the side walls - the others, by their nose rings, Andy and I by manacles to our wrists since we hadn’t yet been ringed.

  As we entered the large room, I stared in at the pairs of slaves tethered in each stall, a male and female in each one but tethered so they couldn’t even touch their partner with a toe. They could look - and drool over each other’s naked beauty, but they couldn’t touch.

  Further, as well as the iron rings in their noses, the males were also infibulated with a padlock over the foreskins of their penises while the girls had two such devices locking the outer lips of their vaginas closed. The males could therefore not erect and the girls’ clits and the other inner parts of their love tunnels were barred from their touch.

  I was appalled but I was also struck by the sheer beauty of these young men and women. Each was model material ... Racially, they came from every part of the world: black, Asian and white and everything in-between but each was a vision of sheer loveliness (if female) and handsome virility, if male.

  Each was about our age, I guessed - late teens or early twenties and every single one of them had a body as athletic as you could imagine. No doubt they had been fine athletes when kidnapped but I had already guessed Zanda and his men were experts at physical training, remembering of course that here there were no restraints. If it was deemed appropriate to work a slave’s body for twenty-four hours non-stop, then, no matter what he or she thought about it, that was what would be done. They didn’t, but not because of any concern for the slaves.

  None were hugely muscled. Rather, they were the epitome of the archetype Olympic athlete, their muscles obviously strong, fluid and quite extraordinary in definition. I grinned to myself as I thought of that terrible belly exercise machine upstairs - now I could see the fruits of its use before my eyes ...

  They didn’t bother to introduce us to the others by name and in fact, Zanda told us curtly that conversation except with our own partner was strictly forbidden and even to them, it had to be circumspect. I got the distinct impression they had the latest in listening devices and any disobedience of this rule meant the tongue would be pierced and yet another padlock inserted in the hole, thus preventing all speech for the period of the punishment.

  This was actually shown to us. We were taken along to one of the stalls and stared in at the pair of slaves there in more horror. Sure enough, they had holes in their tongues and the large padlock gracing them prevented any coherent speech.

  They fed us well. By that I mean the food was healthy and nourishing. It was hardly haute cuisine however, nor was it served in such a manner. No indeed. We were fed as pigs - from a trough and we had to get our heads down into it and lap it up just like pigs did.

  And after feeding, we passed our wastes in the same demeaning manner; into another trough over which we had to squat down in a long line, each urinating and defecating down into it and able to see the boy or girl in front doing the same thing right before our eyes. In their eyes we were truly animals and were treated as such, even to their feeling our muscles and remarking to each other how good or not we were today ...

  The next day we began our training. We had thought they might have ringed us first but no. Apparently that little act of barbarism was going to be put off for a day or so. And so we went to the gym in the morning, Zanda and his men taking us for an hour of callisthenics after which we all got stuck into the real work. Both Andy and I were exhausted after an hour of it - and we had both been real fitness fanatics - or so we had thought. Zanda proved to us in very short order that we didn’t even know what the word meant.

  Around us, the others worked on the various weight and other machines. And work was definitely the operative term. Never before had I ever punished my body as they made me. If asked, I would have denied it was possible for a human being to work so hard for so long but the results began to show within a few days.

  As I said, Andy and me were both exhausted after the first hour but they whipped us on to further and harder effort until we really did collapse and only then did they drag or carry us back to our stall and lock us in for we woke up there much, much later.

  The next day we lasted longer; and after that, our bodies rapidly adjusted to the so strenuous workload in the gym, on the track and later at the oars themselves.

  The work always began in the gym. Then it was a few hours on the track where we either pulled individual training gigs round and round it or struggled at the bars of a huge cart loaded with heavy stones - this last to aid the capstan in the gym in strengthening our thigh, back and shoulder muscles.

  I wondered at this for surely the thighs would play only a very small part in pulling on an oar blade. Zanda explained it to us: “Winning races is certainly the aim but there are also competitions for the overall beauty of a crew and so appearance of you slaves is very important. Your muscles are therefore individually assessed and your training tailored to achieving the very best we can out of your bodies.”

  I shuddered. We were animals all right. Show ponies as well as galley slaves.

  Over the next few weeks Andy and I took part in the first two stages of this training. We attended at the morning gym sessions and then were taken out to the track on certain days to practise on the gigs and carts. Afterwards, and on the days we didn’t go to the track, the others went down to the pier and took the galley out for a training run while we were returned to the house and l
ocked into our stall. It seemed that rest for our developing muscles was also a big part of their development and while it was fine to work the others most of the day, we were not yet at that stage so we didn’t actually experience the galley for some weeks after our incarceration in that hell-hole.

  The track was located at one end of the village and was shared by each of the owners of the palatial houses there. Our sessions were a three hour stint in the afternoons of Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Others used the other part of the afternoon, the two morning sessions on those days and equivalent sessions on the alternate days of Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.

  Pulling the gigs was hard work. We had to grip the handles and hurtle at full tilt round and round the tanbark track for hours at a time - or instead, work at pushing one of the crossbars of the cart - there were six of them and space for two slaves either side of the central pole and so two dozen of us could work at the cart at a time. I don’t know which was worse, dragging the gigs around while our backs were lashed by the riders who sat on the seats behind us, or struggling to push the heavy cross-poles of the cart.

  One thing was certain. Both exercises worked very well to strengthen our muscles and the work in the gym then toned them so that they were not ugly, striated lumps of brute muscle (as you sometimes see on bodybuilders) but were smooth, fluid, rippling examples of human physical beauty.

  None of us; not one, was over-developed. Zanda was a master at his craft - of perfecting the human physical frame into a thing of real athletic magnificence. Each perfectly proportioned according to his or her stature and bone structure so that none appeared gross. Strong, yes. Incredibly strong, as it happened and with a stamina that I wouldn’t have dreamed possible. If running had been our aim here, I suspect we might have been able to run a Marathon several times over, without even showing a sign of strain.

  But we weren’t being trained as runners. As perfect human beings who were on show, yes - and perfect human beings who could pull on the oars of their master’s galley for hours or even days without tiring, certainly.

  Every minute of our waking hours was devoted to this one - or rather two aims: create utter physical perfection in us - all of whom had been chosen for his or her already fine physique and good looks; and second to make us over into supreme athletes capable of racing our master’s galley to a win - to dozens of wins.

  That made me think... Our tenure as galley slaves must surely be limited. What happened to us after it was over? They surely couldn’t release us, it would be far too dangerous. I wondered how long the island had existed as a galley racing venue. It must have been some time for the buildings weren’t new and they were certainly purpose-built to house us and when they were in residence, our masters.

  This then was the way we spent our first weeks: exercise in the gym (especially on the weight machines and that diabolical belly exercising table), followed by sessions out on the track or resting in our stall.

  At these times we mourned our loss of freedom and the apparent end to our marriage, our careers and the future we had planned for ourselves. But then, as Andy said, “we are learning new things, Chris. Just look at our bodies. In all of our study thus far, not a single one of our lecturers has ever even hinted that they could be trained as we are. Not only do we look stupendous but our physical strength, endurance and ability has already far surpassed even the best Olympic athletes ...”

  I stared at him. “Good God, Andy. You’re right, of course ... But that doesn’t alter the fact we are slaves - apparently for the rest of our lives for even when we are passed our prime, they couldn’t possibly release us. Just imagine what the press would make of this story ...?”

  He grinned back at me. “True, and there’s also the fact that I feel so frustrated. Your body is now better than it ever was and yet I can’t even reach you with my big toe. As I stare at you, my cock is always hard...”

  “So I noticed,” I said dryly, “but I’m the same, even if it doesn’t show quite as much as with you. I want your beautiful body next to me all the time and yet they tease us in this terrible way ... Still, it’s better than if they separated us, don’t you think?”

  “Of course. But we always want what we can’t have and I want you desperately.”

  That conversation and others like it obsessed us. We wondered at our futures, at the galleys, at our up-coming ringing and branding so that we too would wear the iron rings in our noses, the others on our genitals and the gleaming green brands on our bellies.

  These had us intrigued. We couldn’t ask the others for conversation between us was totally forbidden on pain of having our tongues pierced and padlocked and Zanda wasn’t telling either. We stared at the images, trying to understand how a brand could end up with that bright green enamel appearance and yet still move with their skin.

  The device itself - by that I mean its shape, was two palm trees swaying in towards each other and in between them, two crossed scimitars. It was about two inches high and across and was situated exactly half way between the navel and the top of the vaginal slit or, in the case of the males the top of the root of the penis.

  The scars were indented into the flesh a couple of millimetres and the green enamel or whatever it was filled this recess but even then the final image was still below the surface of the surrounding skin.

  I had been horrified when I had first seen them and then realised what they were - a real modern day brand on the flesh of a human being, but as the days and the weeks passed, I began to appreciate the beauty of the mark. For they really were beautiful. Sharp and clean, the image easily recognisable and distinguishing our group from each of the others, all of whom had their own mark, different colours and of course different designs, but each implanted in exactly the same place on the lower bellies so that we knew instantly who owned each slave on the island.

  But even though I now thought they looked beautiful, if startling on the bellies of my companions, I couldn’t get out of my mind the dreadful pain that must accompany the actual branding: the searing, agonising pain as the red-hot iron pressed into the flesh of my belly and the agony of the burn that would go on for days afterwards ...

  Of course I wondered too how they achieved the colour - the gleaming bright green that looked like the enamel that is baked onto club badges and retains its colour and gloss for years. And yet that was, I knew very well, as hard as the metal onto which it was baked; these brands moved with the skin and muscle onto which they had been seared and were quite flexible as well. It didn’t make sense and so I ceased to wonder, especially as Andy, who likes to get to the bottom of such things was also stumped.

  But first we were ringed.

  To create the holes for these they also used hot metal. I suppose it made sense. If they had punched the holes, there would be the risk of infection. Burning them through with red-hot needles was much more hygienic, if infinitely more painful.

  They did Andy first and so I was secured against the back wall in the usual manner while he was spreadeagled as before. First the nose hole. It was simple - as I suppose was the other one he would soon be wearing. To bore the hole through the septum of his nose, Dr Musad merely waited until the electrically heated needle he would use was hot enough, grabbed at the septum with a pair of forceps (while one of Zanda’s so muscular guards held his head still in an iron grip), and then simply pushed the glowing needle in and out of the gristle.

  Andy screamed but I don’t think he could have helped it. The pain, as I was shortly to find out, was excruciating. Of course the heat of the red-hot metal cauterised the wound as it bored the hole and it was now a simple matter to take one of the large rings, insert its open end into the hole and then snap it shut.

  These rings were works of art. They were crafted of titanium steel and had a hinge and catch that, when closed, were quite invisible. The catch was also a one-off affair. Once closed, it could not be opened. Only
an extremely high-grade hack saw or diamond tipped angle grinder would remove it and this operation would be very painful ...

  Having ringed his nose in less than a minute, the doctor turned his attention to my husband’s penis. I mourned as I watched him grasp the tip of his foreskin with the forceps, draw it out from the tip of his penis, burn another hole through it and then slip another large ring through the holes. This ring was removable - necessary, as will become apparent as my story unfolds.

  Now it was my turn.

  They let Andy down and he was able to walk over to my position. I stared at him in horror. All right, I had seen the other two dozen slaves every day with rings in their noses and at their genitals but this was my husband. The man I loved. He now looked like a slave. A very handsome and wonderfully athletic slave with muscles that were quite perfect, but with his new rings adorning his nose (and hanging down to below his chin) and his dangling cock, he looked like I imagined a slave of old might.

  I was released and he was put in my place and then they led me over to the frame.

  I too was now ringed. The nose part was just the same as in Andy’s case. It hurt of course and I screamed just as Andy had, and then screamed again as he inserted the humiliating nose ring through the hole; but down at my now slit-like vagina I had to have two holes, one for each lip.

  Dr Musad grabbed a fold of flesh on the left side and drew it up into a little hillock of flesh - and then simply pushed the glowing rod of metal through the flesh then quickly drew it out again. The pain here was much worse than at my nose. The nerves down there are much more sensitive (or is it that there are many more of them); whatever the reason, I really strained at my bonds now as the red-hot needle burned a hold right through my left labium.