A new group of "favela boys" from the slums of Rio and Sao Paulo arrive at "The Plantation" and two are singled out for special treatment in a promising new series from new author Tucker. Art by Pote.

plantation

The Plantation: Part 1 - New Arrivals
by Tucker
Series: The Plantation
Art by Pote

If new arrivals were being delivered, the truck that delivered them usually arrived on Tuesday afternoon. I’d already gotten a call from our police contact in Rio, to let me know there would definitely be a delivery this Tuesday, so around 2pm I shoved my paperwork to the side of my desk, stretched, and then wondered down to the receiving area to see what this week’s shipment would be like. The trucks arrived around 3pm. My foreman signed for the delivery and 15 sullen boys, ranging from 18 to 25, were herded into the main barn. The boys had been drugged when they had been given water during the trip, and didn’t put up much real resistance, although they were clearly upset with a day of travel in a closed truck and with finding themselves, now, in a remote, rural area. My guards were used to handling new arrivals, however, and the combination of their skills and the fact that they boys were sedated, passive and confused, made the transfer operation go smoothly enough.

If the boys hadn’t been drugged, things would have been quite a bit messier. These were favela boys – youths from the slums outside of Rio and Sao Paulo. The favela were tough, unforgiving slums, and these boys had grown up there and only survived because they too were tough and cunning. They had reached the age where they had passed from being a minor nuisance to being a serious social threat on the streets of their respective cities. All these boys had clashed with the police several times.

The favela street gangs in Brazil’s major cities were a serious problem, and the judiciary and legislature had been slow to respond. There wasn’t enough room for the boys in Brazil’s prisons, and most got sentences that let them out on the street in a year or two at the most. The police were frustrated and the public had demanded a solution. The international attention focused on Brazil when major sports events, like the Olympics, began to be held in Brazil made the whole problem explosive. That’s when I stepped in and proposed a solution to two or three individuals who were prepared to take action to clean things up. This had resulted in what was simply called the special department, which, informally, negotiated a contract with the equally informal plantation.

Whatever they had done in the past, the boys who had just been delivered to the planation had seriously pissed off the police. They had come to the attention of the special department and then been sent to the plantation for “permanent rehabilitation.” There were no real records for today’s transaction – if you looked at the police files in Rio or San Paulo, you’d find that each boy had been arrested for something, had been held overnight, and then released. In point of fact, the police had decided they wanted these guys removed from the city, so they had been put in a special holding cell after their arrest and then, yesterday night, loaded them into an unmarked truck and brought to my plantation. I had a deal with the police and some if the senior politicians of Brazil’s major cities to take unwanted boys and assure that they didn’t return to their cities of origin.

My plantation was rather large and it was located in the Mato Grosso, in about as remote a location as you could find in Brazil, far from towns and very near the border with Bolivia. I grew crops and had a constant need for labor to plant, tend, and harvest those crops. The boys who were shipped to me from the cities were, for all practical purposes, slaves for my planation, although, if pressed, I could provide documentation to show that my boys were incarcerated here and that I was running a prison for the government of Brazil. No one wanted to say much, publicly, about this arrangement, but a lot of people were happy it existed. Boys that, a few years ago, had been a major problem for the police of Brazil’s cities had stopped being a problem. They had disappeared, a few at a time, and were now controlled by means of the semi-formal arrangement that had been struck between the police, some politicians and myself.

I smiled as I thought of what came next during processing and wondered on into the barn. The boys had been taken to a large room with a concrete floor and walls, and then ordered to strip out of the mostly ragged clothing they were wearing. Most were muttering about it, but as I arrived, the foreman had just run out of patience, and ordered the guards to turn the hoses on the guys. The force of the water was enough to knock most of the boys off their feet, and even to push them across the floor toward the back wall. Meanwhile, two guards with rubber boots and cattle prods had moved in and were using the prods to encourage the boys to get out of their clothes as quickly as they could. As each boy got naked, he was pushed to the side wall where he was hosed down with a less forceful hose, soaped with a separate hose, and then washed again and hastened into the next room where, one at a time, the boys were examined. I proceeded straight to one of the secondary examination rooms, confident that the guards to handle the first phase without any problems.

There were several things we examined for, but only one exam was really of interest to me. We examined the boys to decide which would be sent to the fields, and which would be trained as sex slaves. This particular distinction wasn’t something most of the police or politicians knew anything about, but it was a major reason that I’d invested so much time and money in creating this whole operation.

To keep things moving efficiently, the initial screening was cursory and informal. Each naked boy was brought into the sorting room and asked to stand in a circle at the center of the room. There were guards present, but at this point the boys were usually so disorganized and frightened that they simply did as they were told. Two of the trainers and I walked around each boy, and then made an initial decision. Of the fifteen boys I looked at that afternoon, only two looked interesting. One was an 18 year old, small, well built, and handsome in a very Indian way, with a cute smile, beautiful eyes, and light, very clear chocolate skin. He had a modest endowment and a nicely proportioned, smooth body.

The other guy was older, probably 23 or 24, taller, much more masculine looking, with hard, well-developed muscles and a large cock. He was lighter skinned, had sharper features, and looked like he probably had a lot of Spanish blood. He also looked tough and was probably the most aggressive guy we looked at that afternoon. Either the drugs had started to wear off a bit, or he was naturally aggressive enough to ignore the sedatives. He had to be prodded, for example, to get him to stand in the circle, and demanded to know what was going on.

The two boys we found interesting were taken to the cells for sex slaves, while the other 13 boys were taken to the barracks for new field slaves. After the selection process was over, I wondered back up to the big house for dinner and some business matters that needed to be finished that day. As I worked in my office, however, my mind kept coming back to the aggressive Spanish youth that I’d selected that afternoon. It had been awhile since I’d involved myself in breaking and training any new sex slaves, but I thought I might enjoy working with this new boy. I convinced myself that I knew a Saudi buyer who would be especially happy to have such a slave, but that was probably really just an excuse to justify my taking time off from other matters to indulge myself in his training. Actually, I thought I might enjoy working with both of the boys we’d selected today. The third time I found myself musing on the idea, I picked up the phone and called down to the reception area and told the head trainer that I had decided to deal with the two new boys myself. The Spanish looking boy’s name turned out to be Paulo, and the younger boy’s name was Jose. Assured that no one had done anything to either one of them since they were processed, I told the head trainer to leave both of them alone till I got a chance to come down and deal with them myself. Meanwhile, I ordered that they both be fed and given water with a mild sedative in it, just to keep them from thrashing around and doing themselves any damage.

At the same time, I got their cell ID numbers and went ahead and connected my laptop to the video feed from their cells so I could see what Paulo and Jose were doing whenever I wanted to check up. A quick check showed a sullen Paulo curled up on his mattress staring at the wall. I called the head trainer, asked him to assign my favorite assistant trainer, Steve, to me for the next few days, and then called Steve and explained what I wanted to do the next morning. He was to get Paulo up early the next morning, wash and shave him, and have him spread for me when I arrive to view him at 9 am.

Steve was a good assistant. He was about 25 himself, well built and strong. He had worked with me on the plantation for years, and knew just how I liked to do things.

I got up early the next morning, made some necessary international phone calls, then dressed for the days work in blue jeans and a black T-shirt. I arrived at the processing center at around 9:15 and found Steve and Paulo in one of the viewing rooms. Steve was relaxing on a chair when I came in, but quickly rose to attention. He was wearing the leather harness that trainers always wear, with strong bands of black leather across the chest and around the waist and with a leather pouch that covered his genitals. It really wasn’t much more than some of the slaves wear, but the genital covering marked him off as a member of the master class. Slaves were never allowed to hide their genitals from masters.

Paulo, on the other hand, was just as I had requested. He was completely naked. He had been well washed and then all of the hair had been shaved from his body, save only the hair on top of his head. Steve had done a really fine job of it, and his body was as smooth as the day he was born. Paulo’s cock and balls looked half again as large, clean-shaven, as they had yesterday. Leather cuffs secured his wrists and ankles. Each cuff was linked by a D-ring to straps that were stretched to one of the corners of a square metal frame. His body was spread to form an X, although his feet were touching the ground. He was obviously upset and agitated, but he wasn’t making a lot of noise or struggling, which meant, I assumed, that Steve had had to give him a couple of shots early this morning to make it easier to get Paulo cleaned, stretched on the frame, and shaved.

I walked up to within 3 feet of Paulo and looked him over, enjoying seeing how the stretched muscles of his torso shifted and tensed as he was held in place by the constraints. “What the fuck is going on?” he snarled, as I approached. I smiled at that. All the slaves always asked that as soon as they got the chance. All the favela boys had been accustomed to hanging out on the streets of cities and doing pretty much as they pleased. When they caused too many problems, they were arrested by the police, given some jail time and then released again. They knew how that system worked. A few days ago Paulo had been arrested in a police action after he and five or six of his mates had robbed and then roughed up some tourists. They, in turn, had been roughed up by the police and put in a holding cell. They’d expected a trial and some jail time, but had, instead, been transferred, at night, into a closed truck and then been driven several hundred mile into the Brazilian outback. Yesterday, they’d been stripped and processed and then spent the night, still naked, in cells. Finally, early this morning, Paulo had been rousted out of his cell by Steve and two assistants, given a rough by thorough shower, then cuffed up, strapped to the square frame and all the hair on his body removed. In the process, a stranger had handled his cock and balls as he used a razor to remove the hair that had always covered his manhood.

It had all seemed even stranger to Paulo, because Steve had given him a shot when they’d first come to his cell and another one when he’d been brought here and cuffed, and the drugs had left him unfocused and uncoordinated. At the same time, Steve and his helpers knew exactly what they were doing and had handled Paulo with military precision. So now, as Paulo’s head cleared, and he found himself naked and stretched as he was, and being viewed by an older man as if he were livestock, I’m sure he really did wonder what the hell was happening to him.

I didn’t answer his initial question, but, instead, reached down and lifted his flaccid cock in my hand, turning it a bit to judge its weight and to see if handling it would elicit a response. It certainly elicited a verbal response. Paulo yelled “Get your hands off me!” and tried to somehow shift his body to no effect. I ignored that, shifted his cock aside and lifted his balls in my hand, moving them about to see how much play there was in his scrotum. With has balls freshly shaved, the sensation of having them handled would have seemed especially strange to the boy. I squeezed them gently, and pulled them to see how they moved. Paulo began yelling obscenities, which I continued to ignore. Finally, when I was done examining his cock and balls, I told him to be quiet. Yelling as he was, he probably didn’t hear me. I turned and Steve was right there, ready to hand me a cattle prod. I applied it twice to Paulo’s right thigh. After some screams, once he paused, I said again: “Be quiet.” Paulo was shaken and was trembling, but he stopped yelling and just hung there trying to recover.

I went back to my inspection. I looked at various parts of the boy. Steve forced his mouth open so I could see the tongue and his teeth, which turned out to be in excellent shape – which was really unusual for a boy raised in the slums. At the same time, Steve reported that blood tests showed that Paulo was disease free and in rather good physical shape. I spread his ass cheeks and noticed that his asshole was clean and nice and tight. It was obvious that the boy was a virgin, at least as far as his backside was concerned.

“OK,” I said as I walked back to stand in front of him, “normally you aren’t allowed to ask questions, and I certainly won’t be answering them, but just this once, I’m going to make an exception, and give you an idea about what the fuck is going on.”

“The police got tired of your causing trouble in the city. You’ve been handed over to me – in effect you are my slave – and my job is to make something out of you. This is a life sentence. You’ll never return to the city – that life is over entirely. Most of the boys who are brought here spend their lives working in the fields. You are going to be spared that, because you have a certain physical charm that I like. I’m going to make you into a sex slave – a sex toy if you prefer -- trained to obey a master who will use you however he sees fit.”

“No way!” Paulo blurted out. I touched the prod to his penis this time, and his scream filled the room as he tried to somehow jump from his restraints. “Don’t speak unless spoken to – that’s the first rule. Nod to show that you understand me,” I said, as I shifted the prod near his penis a second time. He was sobbing at this point, but nodded vigorously. “Good boy,” I said, and handed the prod back to Steve, “ I think we are going to get along just fine.”

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