The Garden Slave

 Kurt licked his hand where the rose thorn had caught him. He wondered if he dared to go to the kitchen to get a plaster, but he would probably be whipped if he was found in there again with the housekeeper. 

His owner seemed to delight in setting little traps for him round the garden, the rambling rose that had just snagged him had the most vicious thorns he had ever seen. He was not allowed to wear clothes whilst working with the borders which left him exposed to all manner of insects, nettles, brambles and other thorny shrubs which had been allowed to invade the plot following the unexplained disappearance of his predecessor. The sole concession to his comfort and safety were his skimpy trunks which were made of a tough, shiny fabric. That sufficed to keep the plants away from his manhood, but the garment had the reverse effect on his master's hand which was forever reaching out to cup his pouch while he was giving him instructions.

Many other slaves, condemned to endless hard labour in the fields would envy him this position in a rich man's household. He even got time off for weight training to maintain his muscular physique, for goodness sake. It was a physique which would normally have landed him a debilitating, heavy lifting job in a factory or building site. But he had been acquired for decorative purposes, a garden adornment, like a living statue. He was a centre of attraction at the master's garden parties. He had his own special plinths in the garden where he would pose in the classical manner for the amusement of guests, sometimes for hours at a time and long into the night, even after the guests had retired inside out of the evening chill. Dramatic lighting would be switched on so they could still admire him from the windows. 

His gardening job was just something to keep him occupied doing something useful and out of the way between those public duties. It didn't matter that he knew nothing of plants and horticulture when he had started, his master was always at hand to instruct him, correct him and give him punishment when he earned it for his mistakes. His master was an imaginative punisher so he had become a fast learner. 

When he was a free man, Kurt had been a cop and had delighted in working out and casually displaying his muscular bulk in a specially tailored, tight-fitting uniform. He was not afraid to use it either. Criminals quailed when he stopped them for interrogation - and not without cause. He'd been instrumental in rolling up Rocky Stefano's mob after befriending his chief hit-man at the gym. But that career had come to an abrupt end when he had booked an influential politician for drink-driving. A hastily convened disciplinary hearing at the Police Station had seen the damaging ticket cancelled and him despatched to a 'retraining centre'. 

This destination had turned out to be a slave auction at the other end of the country. He'd not even been able to say goodbye to his family. He was in peak condition at that time, competition fit, and the auctioneers had prepared him for sale so artfully that the bidders had almost literally fought over who should aquire him. The farmers and factory owners had soon dropped out leaving a small group of rich 'fanciers'. They had chased the price to a level that had astonished the whole room, including Kurt himself.

Kurt was no dummy, he was flattered by the money men were prepared to pay to own him, but fully realised that the winner would want his moneysworth in return. More than just inferior gardening skills and the capacity to amuse at parties. That morning his had master showed him his latest display plinth, acquired for a very special birthday celebration. It had been installed in the central hall of his grand house, inside the curve of the majestic staircase. It was shaped like a large rock and fetters and chains had been set into it. On the night of the party Kurt would be chained there so that all the guests could admire him.

Kurt had no choice about this of course and on the evening of the party, while the frantic last minute preparations were in progress, he reported to the hall in his normal 'party' thong, ascended the plinth and was put into the chains by two of the servants. It left him stretched over a projection of the rock with arms stetched out in a diagonal line which canted his body to one side and created a splendid view of his anatomy, if only he could have seen it. The master came to inspecf him and ordered him to shift his feet which improved the pose further, but was more uncomfortable for Kurt. Satisfied, the master signalled his flunkies to apply a dressing of oil to Kurt's body.

Soon guests began to arrive cooing with admiration at Kurt's dramatic tableau and understandably eager to touch to make sure it was all real. But as the festivities gathered pace Kurt was soon forgotten and left to the increasing torture of his artificial pose. Meanwhile, all the talk of the guests turned to wondering who the mystery Guest of Honour would be, a man of considerable importance it was said. 

At 11pm a grand limousine pulled up outside the house and Kurt's master hurried to greet his guest and led him into the hallway. A cold wind accompanied him into the house, it gusted across Kurt's strainng torso. The new arrival could not fail to see him displayed on his rock. He wandered over taking off his dark glasses to get a better view. 

"Well, well, well" said Rocky Stefano, newly released from jail on appeal, "if it isn't my old cop friend, Kurt". He was carrying a short cane and tapped it thoughtfully against his leg. "I've been looking forward to this reunion, Kurt. Stay right where you are. I'll be back later, then we can go somewhere private to talk about the old times".

He saluted and walked off laughing to enjoy the party.

Kurt tugged fearfully at his chains. The rock he was spread on wasn't real but it was solid enough to retain the fetters and they certainly were.