Chapter 1
On our Earth during the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries, the black peoples of Africa
were ruthlessly enslaved (often by their own people) and shipped in appalling conditions
to plantations in the Americas and the Caribbean. It took decades of efforts by
liberal-minded campaigners to correct this dreadful blot on mankind’s history.
What is not widely known, however, is that there are many Earths, all existing
together in other dimensions of time and space and on these other Earths, while much is
often the same, there are sometimes glaring differences. Communication between these
dimensions has not, at least until very recently, been possible. Indeed, it is only in
the last few years that scientists even suspected the existence of these other worlds, let
alone figured out how to get to them.
I was fortunate enough to be the scientist who worked out the physics and I was
also lucky to be black for the world I landed on was dominated by the African Empire,
ruled by a man as imposing as any Roman emperor ever was.
My name is Adam Blair. I am twenty-eight years old and have been a physicist since
graduating from the University of Chicago some seven years ago. Ever since watching the
TV show “Sliders” I have been intrigued with the possibility of other dimensions in our
universe. I was lucky enough to be born to a very, very wealthy father who had long ago
set up a trust for me and this enabled me to dabble along in my own laboratory and it was
here I discovered the Math involved in moving between one dimension and another.
It was not “sliding” as in the TV show or by means of a “gate” as in the other one,
“Stargate SG1”. I am not going to detail exactly how it is achieved for indiscriminate
travel could be downright dangerous to our Earth. Suffice to say I developed the machine
and tried it out myself.
I landed on this other Earth, to find myself not in Chicago, USA, but in Zimbabwe,
Africa. The reason for this is that I directed my machine to land me at the largest
centre of population on the planet and on this world, Zimbabwe was just that. It was a
city. A huge city and one that was well ordered and very clean. I would say it was a
city that had developed to a level well past that of my own world. They had everything we
had in a technological sense – and then some.
It was populated by black citizens although there were whites and Asians there too.
These, however, were not citizens or even tourists. They were slaves. Real life slaves!
I didn’t realise this for some time, of course. It was clear they were not of the same
class as us blacks for they were all employed as streets cleaners or other menials, or as
personal servants following along behind smartly dressed black ladies whose parcels they
carried.
The street cleaners were dressed in ultra-brief skirts that came only to the upper
thighs and supported very low down on the hips. The personal servants wore smart uniforms
whose livery, I discovered, indicated his mistress’s rank. The menials were all working
under the whips of their black overseers. There seemed to be as many females as males in
this category and they were as subject to the whips as their male counterparts. They
worked very hard for when they slacked, down came the whip and they jumped and screamed –
and then got right back at it.
I prowled around a little, looking into shops and cafés and quietly
investigating whether I could survive a few days here. Gold (and of course diamonds) were
a medium of exchange and so I thought I might be able to come back with enough resources
to last a while. Language could be a problem, however. On my world, English gets you by
just about anywhere, at least in the major cities of the world. Not here, though. As I
was to discover, England was a backwater, as was Europe itself. Here, Zulu was the
language of the people. Again it was fortuitous for me that during my youth, when I had
been all fired up about my own origins, I had assiduously studied the languages of
Southern Africa and I thought if I brushed up on it, I could probably get by. As it
happens, I have a bit of a flair for language and I was able to polish my pretty rusty
Bantu well enough.
Accordingly, I returned home to prepare myself for a rather longer trip. I
acquired diamonds, ordered clothes that would blend in with what I had seen there and then
fished out my old Bantu textbooks and, while the bank was arranging the diamonds, I
studied it diligently. In a few days I was ready and now armed with clothing and my
jewels, went back to that intriguing city.
I booked into a quality hotel, passing myself off as a tourist from up north and then set
about discovering what made this place tick. The first thing I discovered was that the
blacks were supreme in everything and the Asian and white races were totally subordinate
to them. Indeed, there were no free whites or Asians here at all. Discreet conversation
with people (all blacks, of course) in bars and cafés made me understand that the
business of slavery was big business indeed, with some of the larger entrepreneurs owning
fleets of slave ships that plied the shores of Asia and Europe, including what I called
the British Isles, undertaking raids on villages or dealing with local warlords who made
it their business to enslave people of neighbouring tribes.
From all this I gathered that Europe and Asia had not developed with Africa.
Indeed, those continents were still just emerging from what we call the middle ages while
Africa (the whole continent being one country under the rule of a semi-despotic emperor
and run rather like the Roman Empire with regional viceroys and local governors
representing the emperor and his government) now led the world in the Industrial
Revolution that in my world had been led by Britain, closely followed by Germany, the US
and the rest of Europe. I am ashamed to say I felt exultant that on this world, my
people, the Negroes of Africa were the dominant people on the planet and that one of my
race was the world leader.
Having looked around the city of Zimbabwe for a few days, I was ready to explore
the rest of the continent and here I was also lucky. One of my new friends, a man I met
in the bar of the hotel, informed me he was a large-scale farmer with hundreds of white
slaves as his workers. I was intrigued with this – the very idea of a black man owning
white slaves was so contrary to everything I was used to and I asked him hundreds of
questions about how the institution of slavery worked here.
“Why don’t you come home with me and see it first hand, Adam?” he said.
I grinned back at him. “I was hoping you might ask me, Dingane,” I replied.
And so, a few days later, we boarded the train, travelling first class of course,
up to his farm in the northern part of the province. We were met at the station by his
wife, Zuella, a lady of beauty and charm and as well-educated as her university-trained
husband. Waiting at the car was their chauffeur, a slave named James who was of English
origin. Whereas we were all dressed formally in suit and collar and tie, he was dressed
as befitted his rank as a slave – in a neat facsimile of the tiny skirts worn by the
menials in the city – and nothing else. No shirt or shoes even. He was a very handsome
young man and his body was pleasingly athletic. I looked at him but I didn’t comment as
he expertly drove us in a vehicle that was ultra-modern by my standards.
The roads were wide and in wonderful condition but I was intrigued to see
everything on them from our magnificent limousine down to gigs that were small but
beautifully crafted. These were not drawn by horses – at least not of the equine variety.
No indeed. I was to learn they were being drawn by what were euphemistically described
as ‘ponies’. Human ponies – and they were naked. Stark naked. And all three sexes were
used to draw them.
Three sexes? Indeed! There were male and female slaves harnessed to these
vehicles – but there were also geldings. Males who had been castrated – and by that I
mean everything! Not only had they lost their testicles – their penile members were
absent, too. I stared, of course, but I had to be circumspect. I couldn’t let on I was a
slider (the term I used for my movement to this so-different planet) and although my cover
as being from ‘up north’ excused some of my ignorance, I still had to be careful.
“Some of them are magnificent specimens, Dingane,” I said, nodding to a team of
four Asian male slaves drawing a light four-wheel carriage in which sat a beautifully
attired black lady and gentleman while a white boy in livery sat on the driver’s box,
reins and whip in hand. Both of which he wielded expertly, the whip lashing down on the
naked back of the beautifully muscled human ponies.
“That’s N’dona, a neighbour of mine. His Asian slaves are second to none, at least
in this province.” He paused a moment, his eyes twinkling at me. “Which d’you prefer,
white or Asian, Adam?”
I was caught but responded valiantly. “I like both, Dingane, as long as they are
good-looking and athletic, I don’t much mind … although I think I prefer Asian.”
“Many of us do. I too like my slaves to be handsome and athletic although I don’t
really have any preference. Ours are all like that, aren’t they my love…?”
Zuella smiled at him and then at me. “Oh yes. You will find our slaves are fed
well but not too much, Adam, and we make sure they are exercised to the peak of their
fitness. We don’t want any overweight slaves on our property …”
“What do you actually farm?” I asked then.
“Oh, just about everything. We graze cattle and sheep but we also farm wheat and
other grains and we also market garden in a fairly big way …”
Fairly big way was an understatement and a half. Their property was enormous.
Thousands of acres and all of it in tip-top condition. The homestead was a real mansion
surrounded by acres of beautiful gardens and beyond them, the farm outbuildings which
included the slave quarters. I ached to go down and see them first off but of course I
had to be circumspect and appear nonchalant in the face of this mass of really
handsome/beautiful humanity who weren’t of course, really considered as human at all.
Once a slave, you were less than a person. Not an animal. Not quite, but not far off.
One thing I did notice, as we sped up the lane that led from the road to the
homestead, was that the slave workers on the property were universally dressed in no more
than a tiny cloth that covered, sort of, their sex – and that was all. Female as well as
male workers had a thong of leather around their hips. To the front of this was attached
a small square of cotton. It was only ten centimetres wide and fifteen deep. It covered
their sexual organs, just, but nothing else. The females’ breasts were bare as were the
buttocks of both sexes. I think it really accentuated their nakedness rather than covered
anything but I didn’t comment, of course. Hell, I was too busy admiring the physiques of
the slaves. As Zuella had said, they were all as fit as they could be, their muscles
sleek and well-defined without being overly developed. These were the muscles of workers,
not body-builders. There was not an ounce of fat on any of them, the females’ breasts
being firm and without any evidence of sagging, the males with muscles that were as
clean-cut as you could desire.
All were working under the supervision of black overseers but I saw no whips. I
was to discover all slaves on the property had implants in their bodies and the overseers
were expert at fingering the buttons on the controllers attached to the belts of their
shorts to single out a particular slave and give him or her a nasty jolt. They were not
at all loath to use them either. The slightest sign of laziness or rebellion of any kind
and down went the fingers – and then the slave screamed and doubled over in a burst of
real agony directed to the most sensitive part of his or her body but of course spreading
out all over …
But this was later. Right then, as the magnificent limousine sped up the long and
very elegant lane to the house, all I could see were the dozens of slaves working in the
fields on either side of the roadway.
The house was utterly beautiful. It was huge and double storeyed, being built of
local sandstone and tiled with bright red terra-cotta tiles. We were met by the butler,
one of only two black servants. He and his wife, the housekeeper, ran the household with
a rod of iron and every one of the many domestic slaves was careful to perform his or her
allotted tasks to the best of their ability.
It really was a beautiful house, luxurious in a quiet way but exquisitely tasteful,
the polished stone floors carpeted with oriental rugs, the stone walls either panelled or
covered with silk tapestries or bookcases; the lighting of the finest chandeliers … I’m
sure you get the picture.
The slaves were there but were unobtrusive and these didn’t have the tiny cotton
square over their genitals. They had on an even briefer covering: a metal pouch, shaped
to cover the girls’ pudenda or contain the boys’ cock and balls. It was made of brass and
was polished to a lustrous sheen. I was intrigued at what kept them in place for there
was no hip-band to hold it there. I later discovered the males’ units had a clip that
went over the root of their cocks and kept it close to their groins while the girls’
models had a dildo shaped like a baby’s dummy that went into their vaginas. They were
trained to use the internal muscles of their bodies to keep them in place.
They were beautiful items. Roughly triangular in shape with the outer surface
bearing the heraldic arms of Dingane’s family and thus marking the slave as his property,
they were real works of art and I was to find their owners valued them highly, not only
for their beauty, but because it marked them as domestic slaves – about as high as you
could go if you were a slave.
I was introduced to Jambe, the butler and he bowed and then asked if I would care
to accompany him to my rooms. They were upstairs and now I found I had not a room – but a
suite of them. There was my bedroom, dressing and bathroom and a sitting room, all
beautifully decorated.
There were also a dozen slaves, six male and six female, all young and handsome or
beautiful as the case may be and all wearing only the tiny brass pouch at their loins,
revealing bodies that had to be as athletic as the best track and field Olympic athletes
on my world.
“The master always provides his guests with a valet, sir … If you would care to
choose …?”
“My personal valet, Jambe?”
“Yes, sir. For your exclusive use during your stay with us. He or she will be
happy to provide you with every service, sir – and I mean every service …”
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