A SLAVE’S LIFE

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A SLAVE’S LIFEA SLAVE’S LIFE.There was something wrong when I woke up. I usually snap awake andgo from deep sleep to full consciousness without any interveningperiod. I know a lot of young guys like me like to just lie thereand would stay in bed all day, but I’m a morning person, I’m wideawake, and ready to go. There was something else different, too – Ididn’t have my usual morning hard-on.When I say that I don’t lie there like a lot of guys my age, thatisn’t quite true – the first thing I have to do is get rid of myerection, and I think wanking when you first wake up is one of thebest things a man can do for himself: I’m at my brightest and best,and my thoughts can run riot as I stroke my cock and fondle myballs. I rarely even have to play with my tits in the morning tokeep myself hard, so I’ve got both hands free to concentrate on mytackle as I wank.But this morning was different – I was slow and lethargic. I knew Iwas awake, but somehow my brain wasn’t functioning properly. And asI reached down for my cock, it was flaccid, just lying there betweenmy thighs like a warm, moist slug. Then other sensations started tocome to me – for one thing, I’d still got a T-shirt on, and I alwayssleep naked. I’d obviously taken my shorts off, though, as I couldfeel my cock against my thighs. What the fuck had happened to me?And there was something else curious, too – my body was starting toreport all kinds of little differences between what I was used toand “here” – the smell of the bed, for example: there wasn’t my ownman scent all around me. I moved my knees up and downexperimentally, to waft air from the bed over my face, and therewasn’t that familiar smell of sweat, dried cum and general bodyodor that I usually get. And the sheets felt differently – hell,that was it…. I usually sleep under a duvet, and now this feltlike a rough, scratchy blanked on top of me.I forced myself to try to remember what I’d been doing the nightbefore. Had I picked up a woman and gone back to her place? Ireached around, hoping to feel a warm body for a clue, but I seemedto be alone. Thank Christ for that! The last time this hadhappened I’d had way too much to drink after the match (I play inthe club’s first team), picked up a woman, gone back to her place,fucked her, fallen asleep, then couldn’t even remember her name inthe morning – in fact, I couldn’t even remember that I was with awoman, and it was only when she came in with coffee for me and Ialmost jumped out of my skin in surprise that I vaguely rememberedwhat had happened. She was really pissed off, and spread the wordaround that I was just a casual fucker, only interested in sex andnot a “proper relationship” – well, that was true, of course, but itdidn’t do me any good with most of the girls who hang around theclub and it took me a long time to get my next “date”. Actually,it’s not too bad for picking up casual dates at my club – since theybuilt the gym we’ve had a string of nubile young women joining justas gym members, and the joke is that they only spent all the moneyon the new facilities to provide us studs in the first team withsex. Well, rugby’s a man’s thing, isn’t it? I know they do playwomen’s rugby now, but, frankly, who’d fancy those women?Guys need to bond together, especially in their early twenties, andI really enjoyed the twice-weekly training sessions and the Saturdaymatches: it helped me to keep fit, as working in a boring office(even though I had excellent “prospects”) would otherwise have letme slide into sloth, like a lot of the guys I still kept in contactwith from university. And as I was on the first team, I did a lotof other training as well to maintain my fitness – I usually wentfor a long run every morning that I wasn’t training or playing.But where the fuck was I now? What had happened? I remembered thematch – we’d won – and that incredible feeling of completeexhaustion that comes over you as you finally come off the field andyou know you’ve run as hard and as fast as you can, and have put allyour force into the scrums and tackling the other team. It’s a realman’s game, not like those wimps who play soccer. And then thecommunal bath, with all the heat, and the steam, and the comradeshipof the other guys as you all lie there stark naked, drinking thefirst of the after match beers and talking about your girl friends.Of course I’d gone on to have a few more beers, too, who doesn’t?But I can take a lot – my tall, big-framed body has a big massbecause of all my muscles, and the alcohol hardly affects me (notthat I’m one of those vile body builder “muscles on muscles” types -I’m lean and athletic, and my strength comes from all the regular,different types of workout. I can’t imagine spending hours a day ina gym, and all those supplements and things, trying to get biggerbiceps, or whatever). So where the fuck was I now? What hadhappened after that?Only one way to find out – I threw aside the blanked, and pushed myfeet to the floor, then stood up and stretched all of my 6’2″ in aneffort to finally throw off sleep and wake up. As I felt lifereturning to me I saw that I had indeed only got my T shirt on – Icould kind of feel my cock and balls hanging down from under thehem, which was resting on my bum at the back. I scratched myself,as you do, and looked around. Other than the bed and a bucket inthe corner, the room was bare – just plain painted walls, andthermoplastic tiles on the floor that felt cold under my bare feet.Where the fuck were the rest of my clothes? And my watch – I nevertook that off, and I always slept with it on, but now my wrist wasbare. Fuck me, I must have been out of it last night, to have takenthat off (or let someone take it off?). Mind you, this didn’t looklike some bird’s house – where the fuck was I?I went over to the door, intending to peer out and see what could beseen, but there was no handle. It looked to be a tough door, too, notlike a domestic door in a house. Oh Christ – this was looking bad -it seemed to be some sort of cell. What the fuck had I done lastnight, to get arrested?Another problem was presenting itself now, too – I needed to piss.All guys do, when they first get up, don’t they? So I banged on thedoor, hoping to get someone to come. It sounded curiously “dead”,though, and I just got the impression there wasn’t anyone out therelistening. As I’d started to do something about it, my need to pisswas now almost unbearable, and I looked at the bucket – there wasnothing for it, was there? The sound of my big stream of goldhitting the metal was odd – we all get used to pissing in lavatoriesand urinals, don’t we, and you’re not used to hearing your pisssplash against bare metal, which is itself acting as a sort ofamplifier. Still, it was good to at least get rid of that problem,and I massaged my cock to get the last few drops of piss out – well,you need to, don’t you? Even though I didn’t have one of those verylong, droopy foreskins hanging long past the end of my cock, Iwasn’t “cut” like some of the guys on the team: you could alwayssee my piss slit as my ‘skin covered about half my cock head, buteven so it was possible for piss, sweat and the odd bit of pre-cumto get caught under it and it was just as much trouble as having afull ‘skin to keep clean. In some ways I envied the guys on theteam who were cut, as it seemed to be easier for them toremain “sweet” and fresh – you never know, after all, when theopportunity to get a good sucking off from a woman you’ve picked upwill arise, do you? We often talked about things like this in thebath after matches, but I told them they didn’t know what they weremissing -when you wank, having your ‘skin slide backwards andforwards over your cockhead is fantastic – I don’t know how thosecut guys manage!It was odd, really – usually when I’ve had a heavy night of drinkingI wake up with a raging thirst, and although there was nothing todrink, I didn’t feel all that thirsty. So I didn’t think I’d had abig drunk last night then done something to get me locked up. Andthe police took stuff like your belt, didn’t they, to stop suicides,not all your clothes? So why was I here? And where the fuckwas “here”?I tried banging n the door again, but it still sounded “dead”, sothe only other thing to do was to go and lie down again on the bed.I pulled the blanket over me and just lay there – I was worried,now, as I hate having things in my life I can’t explain. There wasabsolutely nothing to do, so I decided to have a wank – that alwayspasses the time, doesn’t it, and takes your mind off other things?So I spat big gobs onto my hand, and started to lubricate my cockwith it and gradually began to stroke myself into that special placeyou go to when your climax is near. Oh shit! I stopped suddenly,as I remembered where I was – just the blanket, and me. Somehow Ididn’t want to shoot all over the blanket or the sheet on the baseof the bed – I didn’t know who might come in and look, and thethought of having dried cum (or even worse, wet cum stains) visiblewas awful. I know some guys catch their cum and then eat it, butI’d tried that once and it almost made me sick – yes, I know itdoesn’t taste as bad as it smells, but somehow the huge, semi-fluidsemi-gelatinous pool of my spunk made me feel totally nauseated. Idon’t know how women get on with sucking a man off – I do like toshoot into their mouths as I can’t stand all the mess if I shootover their faces and over their breasts – but I suppose they getused to the taste if they really want to please their men.I was too far gone now, though, and I felt my balls contracting andmy spunk forcing itself along my cock. With a big groan and sigh Ifelt my hot cum pumping out all over me – my hand was covered, ofcourse, and my hard stomach, and as the after shocks died away and Irelaxed, I knew my pubic hair was covered in it. The blanket felldown onto me, and, oh fuck, yes, it was covered in my cum, too,where the initial big spurts had fired themselves upwards. So whatwas I going to do now? Not only had I soiled the bed, but my hand,body and pubic hair was all covered in my thick slime. Supposesomeone was to come in? Oh shit! I did the only thing I could do -I got up, pulled my T off and used it to mop over myself – but it’snever very successful, is it? Once your cum gets into your pubichair you do really need to have a good shower, or at least stand ontiptoe so you can wash yourself in a wash basin to get away allthose strands that cling to the hairs. And even though I scrubbedaway at it, I wasn’t very good at cleaning the blanked either -there was a very visible big wet damp patch still on it, even whenI’d finished.There was no possibility of wearing the T again as I’d shot a reallymonster load, even for me, so I balled it up and tossed it into thecorner by the bucket, and lay back on the bed, now totally naked. Ireally had no idea of how long ‘d been there – without my watch,even the time I’d been “awake” was a bit of a mystery as I thoughtI’d drifted in and out of a light sleep a couple of times. But whenI felt the stubble on my chin, I thought it must be about thirty sixhours since I’d last shaved on Saturday morning before going off tothe match, so it might now be late Sunday afternoon. Surely someonewould have noticed I wasn’t there by now? – but, probably not: allmy mates on the team would think I’d gone off with a bird, sowouldn’t be surprised when I hadn’t turned up at the pub for alunchtime drink. And I’d got no close family really – I only calledmy sister very occasionally. I suppose someone would noticetomorrow morning, at work, but it wasn’t that unusual for guys justnot to turn up – in the web design game, if you’re offered a betterjob over the weekend, you often just take it.I was getting really worried by now – for one thing there were therumblings of hunger, and for another I started to think about whatwould happen if I needed to crap – surely I couldn’t use thatbucket? It’s one thing to share your “cell”, as that’s how I was nowthinking about it, with a bucket of piss – but with some vile smellyturds? I was getting thirsty, too, and thought about getting up andbeating on the door again. But somehow I sensed that it would beuseless.I don’t know how long I lay there, but the deathly quiet ofmy “cell” was broken by a loud “snick”. I started upwards, and sawthat the door had half opened. Wrapping the blanket around me – I’mnot ashamed of my body, but even so, when you’re in a strange place,and you don’t know what the fuck’s happening, you tend to try tocover up, don’t you?I peered into the corridor outside the door, and all that could beseen was a row of identical doors. I walked cautiously along,trying the doors as I went, but they had no handles either andthere was nothing else to do – especially as, just as I’d left it,the door to my own “cell” had closed and was now immovable when Ipushed at it.At the end of the corridor, though, there was an open door, andinside there was a lavatory, a big shower, and a washbasin!It felt so good to be able to crap, then shower to get my bodyreally clean, and then to stand and shave off my stubble with adisposable razor – you feel so much better, don’t you, when you’refresh and smart? I looked around for deodorant but there wasn’tany, and I noticed that the shampoo and shower soap, and the shavingcream, were all unperfumed – very unusual. Best of all, though wasthat on a shelf by the side of the shower were some clothes – notwhat I would have chosen for myself, but clothes, never the less. Ipulled them on gratefully, and they seemed to be a good fit, ifthat’s the right word – the top was a plain white cotton singletthat left my shoulders exposed and had very deep, loose arm holesstretching half way to my waist. It was that sort of cotton that’svery thin, almost translucent, and even though it was not tight onme, I just knew that the shadow of my thick thatch of chest hair waseasily visible – even where it was not poking out above the lowneckline. It was too short, as well, not even coming to the top ofmy pubic thatch.The shorts were in that satin material they used to make sportsclothes out of until the Lycra stuff became fashionable, and feltsilky smooth on me. The legs were cut very high, though, so youcould see most of my big strong thighs, and they were very low-cut,barely coming over the top of my bush: I knew that if I bent downthe top of my ass crack would be exposed, and, as it was, there was avisible gap between the top of the shorts and the bottom of thesinglet. Unlike most sports shorts I’d ever owned, these didn’t haveone of those “pouch” linings, either, and had the legs not beenrelatively tight around my thighs my cock would have fallen out.As it was, it nestled snugly in the silky fabric, trapped between theshort legs and the low waist band – I just hoped I didn’t get anerection!A door on the other side of the shower room now opened, and I wentthrough. I was in a brightly-lit space, very bare, with a man in adark business suit behind a desk.”What the fuck’s going on…..””Silence, until you’re spoken to….””I will not! Now, tell me what the fuck’s….”I never got to finish the sentence, as I was howling with pain andleaping up and down trying not to let my feet touch the floor.”Now, silence, until you’re spoken to! All over this facility thefloors have embedded wires, and I can send those painful shocksthrough them, as you have just experienced. I have rubber-soledshoes, as do all the guards here. But all prisoners have barefeet. So, you see, we can control you. Either obey, or suffer theconsequences.””Anyway”, the man continued, “I know that you’re wonderingwhere you are, and why you’re here. All our prisoners want toknow that. Firstly, let me reassure you that you’re not in troublewith the police…. You didn’t drink too much, smash a place up,and get arrested. A lot of men think that. But before you start tocongratulate yourself, let me tell you that, sadly for you, theposition is far worse.””You have been taken, to order. A collector ordered a man like you,and we are supplying…””What the fuck is this? ‘A collector….’, ‘Taken to order’? Areyou mad….”I was rolling around on the floor this time, as the shock had beenmuch more intense, almost disabling.”This is for your own good”, the man continued calmly. “So listenwell, and hear me out. There are certain rich men in the world -very rich men – who have achieved everything they can. They runhuge corporations, control thousands of workers’ lives, and make asignificant difference to economic life all over the planet. Theyplay expensive sports, own houses on many continents, fly around intheir private jets. What else is there for them do? What can theyspend their wealth on? What is the ultimate pleasure for a man whois used to ordering affairs on such a scale?””I’ll tell you”, he went on. “The ultimate control that a man canexercise is to own slaves. A slave owner completely orders andcontrols the life of a slave – he can command when the slave risesand when he sleeps, what he eats and when, tuzla escort what he works at, whetherhe is allowed to breed. The owner can have his slave tattooed andbranded, whipped or otherwise punished for disobedience, and, ofcourse exercise the ultimate control over him: he can sell him,just as he would sell any household chattel.””Of course the ownership of one man by another, although a longestablished feature of human society, is now i*****l in mostcountries. But there are certain parts of the world – islands inthe Indian Ocean, deep in the Amazonian rain forests, on the vastplains of Central Asia, for example – where a truly rich man canindulge himself. In most of these places the law still prohibitsslavery, but appropriate levels of illicit payment to the localpolice and civil authorities can enable a powerful man to enjoy theultimate fruits of his efforts by owning and managing slaves.””A lot of slaves are simply the human waste from very poorcountries – blacks from Africa, where life is very cheap, some ofthe teaming billions from India where parents are only too glad tosell their teenage sons, uneducated peasants from most SouthAmerican countries… Those sorts. But the real connoisseursamongst slave owners want to own good looking, educated,Westerners. To some extent there’s no satisfaction in owning manyhundreds of the “peasant” types as to them their slavery is almost arelief – they get properly fed, enough water, access to propermedical care, and generally live a life that’s better than they wereexperiencing before. But to a well educated man from a typicalWestern country, slavery is hell: no freedom, no choice, and therequirement to obey your owner absolutely all the time, or riskpunishment.””It’s no wonder that these very rich men want slaves like this: thesatisfaction of ‘taming’ a sophisticated Westerner, used to hisfreedom, is so much more intense. And with their education, theyare able to perform so many more useful tasks.”He looked at me, and I saw that he had given me permission to speak.”You’re mad! They could never get way with it! And why enslaveme? If someone wants me to design a web site for him, he can justhire me….”The man roared with laughter! “No, you won’t be required to designa web site, I shouldn’t think! We’ve taken you to order, as yourowner specified a 23 year old, over six foot, properly muscled….Sitting at a terminal is the last thing you’re likely to do! Almostcertainly you’re destined for a life of hard physical work of sometype, and that’s what will be so appealing for your owner: he’llknow he’s chosen to squander all your education, all your training,so that he can use your body in a way that pleases him. And believeme, we’re not mad – we do this hundreds of times a year. We’re oneof the largest agencies in this field, and we routinely search outand ‘take’ young men like you. Haven’t you ever noticed thestatistics that occasionally appear about the number of young menmysteriously vanishing from home, never to be heard from again?Well some of them might be suicides – the rate is very high for menin the 20 to 30 age group – but the majority have been taken byspecialist firms like this to be shipped as slaves. It’s reallyeasy to do, once you’ve made the investment in the infrastructure,as we have: a few strong guards, a ‘chance’ meeting with the man ina pub or club, a small pill in his drink, then you ‘help’ him to thedoor.””If you doubt any of this”, he went on, “Look at this facility:escape-proof soundproof cells, the under-floor wires…. Youwouldn’t build something like this if there wasn’t a need for it,would you? What do you think was behind all those other doors onthe corridor you came along? I’ll tell you: other young men, justlike you, awaiting a time that’s convenient for us to ship them outto their new owners. The only reason you weren’t in that cell for acouple more days is that there’s a flight later this afternoon thatwe need to get you on – usually we like to leave the men locked up,silent and hungry, a bucket of stinking bodily waste in the corner,for at least two days – it starts to focus their minds on what’shappening to them.””Well, that’s you fixed, then!” I couldn’t help interrupting. “Mypassport’s with my sister as I left it there when I got back fromholiday, and ….”The man was laughing. “You are so naive, like a lot of the men whopass through here. You don’t think you’ll need a passport, do you?You won’t be going trough customs and emigration – you’ll be neatlycrated up, as cargo, traveling as all goods do around the world, inthe cargo hold. There’ll be no trace of you ever leaving thecountry, and you’ll just be one of those young men who has’disappeared’ – if anyone notices! They’ll wonder at that rugbyclub of yours when you don’t turn up for practice for a couple ofweeks, but none of the men you know there are old-time friends.Your employer will write you off as someone else who’s just foundanother job. Your sister won’t worry for a few months as you’re nota close family, and by then it will be too late as the trail will becold: one of our agents will have paid up your landlord, and movedyour stuff out of your rented flat.””Let me give you something to think about”, he went on. “You’reunusual, as your new owner has specified that you are to be shippedclothed – the majority of the stock that leaves here goes naked, asit’s so much easier to deal with human shipments when the stock isnude – fitting catheters to deal with the urine on a long journey ina crate, and so on, is so much easier. But your new owner hasspecified shipping “lightly clothed” – I expect he wants to savorthe delight for himself of making you strip for him: many of thenewly enslaved are touchingly concerned about their nudityoriginally, and I expect your new owner wants to experience thisfirst hand.””Let me warn you not to try to escape from here, or whilst you’rebeing shipped, though – as you have seen, we will punish you if youdisobey. Do not think that we would hesitate for a moment to haveyou killed if there was the slightest risk of our operation beingcompromised. You’ll be surrounded by our guards, of course, and anyattempt to break loose and ‘make a run for it’ will result in yourbeing shot.””Right!”, he finished finally. “You’ll have lots of questions, Iknow, but you may not ask any of them. Now – put your hands behindyour back.”I stood there, dumbly, and he snapped “Now – or do you want a shockthat will incapacitate you, and then I’ll just do it anyway?”So I put my hands behind my back, and he got up and came over, and Ifelt myself being handcuffed! I’ve read about it, of course -having someone cuff your wrists behind your back, and I know someguys get turned on by the thought. But it’s actually horrible – youfeel so powerless, so defenseless – if he’d tried to grab my cock, Icouldn’t have stopped him. If he’d pushed me, I couldn’t retaliate.If he’d tripped me, I wouldn’t have been able to save myself as Ifell. Somehow it seemed as if I’d let all my freedom slip away inthis act – I was no longer really able to even contemplate making abreak for freedom. It was as if I was already a captive – no, as if I’dsomehow already entered a new life where someone other than me wasalready starting to rule things for me.He went back to his desk, and returned holding a small tag – ratherlike a luggage tag – on a steel chain. This was passed around myneck and there was a “snap” from the catch. The tag was hangingdown just below my throat, and I could feel its coldness against myskin. I hate wearing jewelry, and I don’t like to see other mendoing so, whether its rings on the fingers or necklaces – there hadbeen quite a thing recently, I know, for guys to wear gold or silverchains – some quite chunky – around the neck, but in our club wedidn’t do it. Anyone wearing something like that on the rugby fieldwas likely to find it torn off in one of the rucks (and by his ownteam mates, too!).He didn’t waste any time then, and pressed a button on the desk. Aguy in neatly pressed chinos and a white polo short came in, and theman told him to “take me away to the airport.”I was led through what seemed to be a large building – evidentlythis was quite an operation – and I wanted to ask the man who wasleading the way more. But the moment I started a question, hestopped, turned, and said “You were told to shut the fuck up inthere. You saw the penalty for carrying on talking. Now, do as youwere told, before I punish you. The first rule a slave has to learnis that he is here to obey, not to question. You have no need toknow more, no need to think, no need to do anything other than obey -simple obedience to your owner’s orders, complete and absolutesubservience to his will, is all that is required of you. So…Shut the fuck up, slave boy!”It was awful being refereed to like this. I wasn’t a slave, and Iwasn’t a boy! I was a mature man, capable of living my own life,making my own decisions. Yet here I was being led, scantily clad,through this place, and the fear of punishment was actually makingme start to do exactly as I was told – I didn’t want to go on speakingin case I was in fact punished! Of course I’d taken hard knocks inmy time – as a rugby player you expect to get a bit battered andbruised, don’t you, and that ability to treat men roughly is allpart of the game. But no one had ever deliberately set out to hurtme before – no one had ever caused me so much deliberate pain that Ihad stopped what I was doing, immediately (well, not since dad lastspanked me, when I was about seven!).Ultimately the guard leading me came to an external door, and therewas another guard sitting behind glass in a littlecubicle. “Shipping a slave – permission to leave the building?” Myguard asked, and the man in the cubicle reached out with the kind ofgun thing you see at checkouts in supermarkets, and pointed it atthe tag hanging around on my neck. He consulted a screen on hisdesk, and said “OK, there’s a van outside. Door opening.”We went out into a yard, that was totally enclosed, where there wasa white van waiting with its back doors open. Even if the yardhadn’t been totally enclosed and I was worrying about the threat toshoot me, I probably wouldn’t have tried to run at this point – it’snot easy with your hands cuffed behind your back, you know,especially when the guard accompanying you looks as if he’s in goodshape and works out regularly.The guard gestured for me to get in the back of the van, thensaid “It’s an hour to the airport. The doors are locked, but wedon’t want any silly attempts to escape, now do we? You’ll see thatthe floor of the van has he same pattern of lines that we have inthe building – any noise, any commotion when we’re stopped intraffic or anything and the driver will shock you, or really turn upthe juice and stun you.”So I lay there in the back of the van, bracing myself with my legsagainst the walls as it drove through the streets. I tried toimagine where we were in relation to the geography of London, but weseemed to be taking a maze of normal city road, and I didn’t reallyrecognize any of the motorways or anything. The journey went on andon, and I realized that I probably wasn’t going to be able toescape – an organization that followed men in transit with some typeof tag, and who bothered to have special vans for transporting them,was unlikely to slip up and leave some chink in their arrangements,was it? Still, I might catch a glimpse of a policeman, or anairport security guard of some kind, and then I’d do everything Icould to scream and shout and attract his attention.When the van did finally stop and the doors were opened, my hopeswere dashed – we were way out on a big concrete space, one of thoseholding areas you see at airports, drawn up by the side of a bigexecutive jet. No policemen or any other officials in sight! Twoof the polo- shirted chino’d guards were standing there, and asthey “helped” me out of the van to stand in front of them (ratherroughly, I thought). One of them ran one of the scanner things overmy tag again, looked at a little inbuilt screen on it, and said tohis companion “Yes, this is the one. Let’s load him onto theflight.””Look, please. Enough is enough…. Why don’t you let me go, andI’ll say no….”I never got to finish the sentence, as one of the two guards slammedhis rubber-soled boot down on to my naked foot – he pushed it veryhard down, almost totally crushing my instep, and I fell to theground, shouting with pain.The two men stood there, looking down at me as I rolled around theconcrete clutching at my foot and trying to “make the pain go away”,and they laughed. “Always have one last try, don’t they?”, one saidto the other. “They’ve always led a nice, civilized life and theythink that rational argument can fix things. As usual, he’s tryingto bargain with us! As if anyone would negotiate with a slave!Still, perhaps that’s taught him that you don’t need sophisticatedelectrical stuff to really hurt a slave when he’s disobedient.””You, slave, get on your feet NOW”, the other barked. “Me and mymate are expert at giving a man’s body a good kicking, and causingreal hurt without permanent damage. There’s nothing we like morethan an unruly slave, as it allows us to practice our kicking beforewe go off to gang fights at the weekend. Now, UP!”I struggled to stand up, finding it very hard to do so without thehelp of my hands, and stood there all covered in dust from where I’drolled on the concrete. “Should we clean him up – take him over tothe hanger and hose him down a bit?””No – if they want, they can clean him on the plane – I’ve been onboard this one, and the owner’s got it fitted up as a complete suitefor himself – bedroom, bathroom with a proper big bath in it,everything. If they want the slave clean, they can give him a bathas he flies off to his new life!”I didn’t like hearing the way they spoke – all this “If they wantthe slave clean… They can give him a bath” – there was no elementof choice, no “If he wants to clean himself up…” kind ofdiscussion.They led me – still hurting – up the steps of the plane, and insideit was unbelievably luxurious – not like a commercial jet at all.It was all dark wood, deep carpets (that were so tempting to myfeet that I wanted to stop and just wriggle my toes down into thethick rich pile), and big leather furniture. On we went thoughthrough a room fitted out as an office, with PCs and stuff, thenalong a corridor (dividing a bedroom?) and finally through aheavy-looking door.Beyond this was not even a normal airplane interior – no plasticand soft lighting. Instead you could see all the construction ofthe machine as the ribs, cables, and all the other stuff wereclearly visible. Standing around on the floor, strapped down, werecrates and cartons of various kinds, and I guessed this must be somesort of cargo hold. The only unusual feature was in the far cornerwhere, against the wall there was a kind of cell, or cage – aboutfour feet square, with stainless steel bars running floor toceiling. The guards led me to this, opened the door, and told me toget inside. Once in, they closed and locked the door with a heavy-looking lock, then told me to turn around.It was a relief to get the cuffs off, as standing and lying all thattime with my arms behind my back had become very uncomfortableand I felt as if I was beginning to lose sensation in them. To the bestof my ability, as the cell was so small, I tried to spread andstretch my arms and to rub life into my cramped muscles – I got allthose “pins and needles” sensations as the blood flow returned fully.”Right, slave boy”, one of the guars said “Make yourselfcomfortable! Take off’s not for about an hour, and it’s a long,long flight for you, even in this jet.”With that, the two men turned and went back out through the door,leaving me alone there in the cell. Well, they said “getcomfortable”, but have you ever tried it in such a small space? Icould stand up, of course, but the thought of doing that for whatmight be a very long time seemed stupid. Lying down wasn’tpossible, and I tried to sit – but in the confined space my back waspressed against the bars or the metal wall of the aircraft, and mylegs had to be all hunched up. There wasn’t any padding oranything, and I was sitting on the metal floor of the aircraft. Idon’t think overweight guys with big fat asses realize how painfulit can be for a guy with real muscle only to try to sit on aperfectly hard surface – there’s nothing to really cushion you, isthere?I don’t know how long I sat there for, but after some time I saw outof one of the windows four men coming towards the plane – they werein those dark blue uniforms beloved of airlines. Two seemed veryobviously in charge, and two much younger ones were following them.End of part 1A SLAVE’S LIFE, Part 2 I stood in my cell, banging frantically at the aircraft window.Perhaps if I could attract the attention of these men – and then Istopped, and realized how stupid I’d been – if they were comingtowards the plane, pendik escort they must know about the cell, and the “cargo”they therefore carried. I began to realize that my chances ofescaping had gone – at least until this plane got to wherever it wasgoing.It was incredibly uncomfortable when the plane did take off – as itclimbed steeply I was thrown back against the bars, and they hurt asthey pressed into my body. They obviously didn’t believe allthe usual rules about being strapped in and so on applied when theywere transporting a prisoner (I still couldn’t bring myself to usethe word “slave” when I was thinking about myself). We’d beenairborne for some time when the door from the front of the planeopened and one of the two younger guys came in – he was in atypical air steward’s uniform: tight black trousers, showing off hisslim bum, short-sleeved white shirt with dark blue epaulets on theshoulders, and a dark blue tie. He had a deep tan, and his curlyblond hair was bleached almost white, and cut quite short. If I’dbeen on a normal commercial flight I’d have thought he was one ofthose typical stewards that you see everywhere, and would havesniggered at the thought that he was so obviously “queer”.”Hey!”, I shouted at him, as he rummaged around in the crates,ignoring me.He came over to the bars, and looked at me.”Hey…. Let me out of here!””Don’t be so fucking stupid!”. He had one of those East Londonaccents – not at all what you’d expect from a steward. “If I was todo that, they’d have me in there before you could say JackRobinson! You’re valuable, you know, and we have to take care ofthe cargo.””Look, I’m not cargo… I’ve been captured…. Please help me…Call the police, or something…”He just laughed! “You’re so fucking naive, mate! I work for theboss, the man that now owns you. I like my job flying with himaround the world on this private jet – beats dealing with all thosecattle-class holiday maker and their whiney k**s flying off toBenidorm, I tell you! I get to stay in the best hotels, the pay isfucking marvelous, and the Captain is drop dead gorgeous – I usedto fly backwards and forwards between Gatwick and Spain, and nevergot to stay anywhere, for pay that was peanuts. Do you think I wantto go back to that? Now, I thought you slaves knew that you aren’tallowed to speak, unless you’re spoken to. So shut the fuck up!”I could hardly believe it. Somehow, seeing someone so “normal” hadfooled me into thinking that he wouldn’t have anything to do withthis whole business, and yet he seemed to be pleased to be a part ofit.”Please….””I told you to shut up! See this switch – well, I think you knowabout electrified floors. This is extra – the whole cell is wired,and if you don’t keep that mouth shut, I’ll give you something toshout about!”I just stood there, and I kind of knew he meant it. He’d got a kindof sadistic look on his face, and it was almost as if he wanted anexcuse to press the switch he’d indicated. So I watched him,silently, as he found a case, opened it, and got out several of thestandard airline trays, and opened packets of food.”Just the crew today, so it’s easy for me”, he saidconversationally. “No wine, of course, as we’re all on duty. Sojust water.” Several bottles of cold mineral water were added tothe trays, and as I saw the moisture condense and start to roll downthe bottles, I realized I was thirsty still.”Please….””I told you to shut up!””I was just hoping you might give me some water…. Please.”He looked over at me, took one of the bottles, and brought it andgave it to me without a word. Then he went off with the trays tothe front of the aircraft, and I sat there, hunched in the cell,gratefully drinking the water. It’s amazing, isn’t it: when you’rereally thirsty even plain water tastes wonderful.He came back a long time later with the empty trays from the front,and packed them neatly back into the crate. Then he came over andheld out his hand for the water bottle.”Thank you….””Look, you’d better learn! I’ve been to the boss’s place, and theslaves there never say a word except in answer to a directquestion. I think you’ll be in a lot of trouble if you don’t learnthe system, and pretty quick!”He stood looking at me, and went on “This trip is pretty much of awash out for me, though – usually the slave in that cell is totallynaked, and they chain him to the bars, too. So I get a proper lookat his body, and don’t have to guess what delights are hidden away.Are you cut, mate?””Uh?””Cut. ‘Skinned. Still got your foreskin?””Well, yes…””Well that’s a double pity, then. I like wanking a guy who stillhas his ‘skin. I suppose I could order you to get your cock out soI can play with it, but you wouldn’t do it, and I’d have to turn onthe electricity… And you still wouldn’t do it, so I’d have toshock you some more… And then you might injure yourself.””You don’t want to just drop your shorts, do you, and have a littleplay, to pass the time?””You’re fucking right I don’t! I’m not some fucking queer, likeyou….””Steady, boy! I can punish you for rudeness, you know!”He looked at me again, and went on “Look, for some reason, in spiteof your manners and lack of co-operation, I’ve taken a liking toyou! So let me give you some advice.””First, the talking thing. They really will punish you if youinterrupt, or ask questions, or comment…. It’s strictlyfor acknowledging masters’ questions for the slaves at the boss’splace. And secondly, if you do speak, always be respectful – ifyou’d sounded off at one of the boss’s guests like you just did tome, your back would be a bloody mess within minutes when he had youwhipped.””You’re making too much of all of this – you’re very lucky, really.””Lucky? How….””SHUT UP! Don’t you listen to what I’ve said? Anyway, you’re luckyas the boss is acknowledged as one of the best and most humaneowners on ‘the circuit’ – the club of ultra rich men who can affordto indulge themselves by ordering men to be captured and enslavedfor them. Where did you meet him, by the way?”He stopped, and clearly was expecting a reply, so I thought I couldanswer. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know who your bossis, even….””Not ‘your boss’, THE boss, the man who owns the estate where you’regoing to live, the guy who owns this plane, the guy who’s paid asmall fortune to have you captured: it’s far from cheap, youknow. Arab guy, early forties, black hair, dark black eyes…Fucking gorgeous!””I’ve never met any Arabs, and certainly not anyone like that.””So are you an actor, on the stage, had a bit part in a movie….””No, I’m just an ordinary guy, work in an office, go to the Club andplay…..””Play what?””Rugby, for a really good club team….””Oh well, that’s it, probably. Do you play in public – I meananywhere big, not just some little ground somewhere?””Yes – I was in the annual Sevens competition at Twickenham a coupleof months ago….””That’ it, then. I bet he saw you play and was turned on by you,and simply ordered you to be captured and enslaved.””Look, you’re k**ding, right? People don’t do things like thatthese days….””Look at this plane. How much do you think it costs to keep this inthe air? Look at the cell you’re in – would anyone have that in aplane like this if they didn’t intend to use it? And I can tell youthey DO do things like this – about once a month we fly offsomewhere to pick up cargo like you, from all over – the States,Australia, New Zealand: it’s quite a change to go back to the UK,as most of the men the boss likes are big, brawny outdoor types andthere are many more of them in those other countries.””Anyway”, he went on “There’s nothing you can do about it now. He’shad you taken, and you now belong to him. You’ll find there’s noescape from his estate – I’ve been invited there several times, andI see the same faces – or should I say bodies – each time. Irecognise a lot of the guys from these journeys, and, of course,I’ve usually wanked most of them. I can’t think why they’reshipping you with clothes on – you won’t keep them on the estate, ofcourse.””What…..?””Well, the boss has spent all this money on having you taken andenslaved because he saw something about you he liked – I expect itwas seeing your bum in those tight shorts rugby players wear! Sowhen he’s got you on his estate, he’s going to want to see it, isn’the? So if it was your bum he liked, you can be sure it will be veryvisible, all the time – only special slaves, like chefs and waiters,get to wear clothes on the estate: all the other slaves are naked,all the time. It’s fucking marvelous, I tell you – just likeparadise: all that gorgeous male flesh just there to look at!””But, as I said”, he went on, “You’re lucky. Some of the owners arereal bastards, but the boss is known as a really good owner. He’snot sadistic, so if you’re punished it’s not for his pleasure, butbecause you’ve done wrong (not that he won’t watch you beingflogged, or whatever – he likes to see it. But he doesn’t order itjust to amuse himself, as some owners do). And he keeps all theslaves properly fed, you get the best medical attention to keep youhealthy, and unless you’ve been bought in as a sex toy – and I don’tthink you have been, as you’re too big – then you don’t even getfucked.””Sex toy..? “”Well, yes. Some of the slaves we transport are really cute -young, like you, but not so big. More ‘swimmers’ type of bodies,under six foot, lithe and not over muscled. I think of them as’extremely fuckable’. And that’s what they’re for – some of the slaveson the estate are just kept for sex – well, not entirely: theyspend a lot of time working out to keep in shape, but their primefunction is to be available for sex. When I’ve been invited to staythere, it’s fantastic – I can look through the catalogue and orderany one of them for a casual fuck, or to spend the night.””But I’m not gay…””Who cares? If they’ve taken you as a sex toy, they’d soon trainyou to take it, or give it, or both. But, as I say, I don’t thinkthat’s why you’ve been taken: you’re too big, for one thing – a lotof men are intimidated at the thought of fucking someone your size,even though they know you’re a slave and will obey them totally.And, if you were going to be a sex toy, they’d have had you strippedalready, and I’d have wanked you, or got you to suck my cock, orsomething – the more men that use a sex toy early on in histraining, the sooner he loses all his inhibitions, you know…. SoI don’t think that’s what’s in store for you – pity, really, as I’mnot intimidated by the thought of fucking a really big guy, and Icould have you the next time I’m at the estate.””Look, can I ask you if there’ anything to eat? I haven’t hadanything for a day at least, and I’m famished…””Well, they didn’t give any instructions about feeding you. And I’mnot a fucking servant, you know. I wait on passengers, and I’m nothere to feed the stock!””Please…”He gave a shrug, opened a cupboard and took out a small package. He open the plastic covering, and gave me two biscuits, each aboutthe size of my hand and pale brown in colour. I took them off him,and stood there, looking at them.”That’s standard slave chow – better get used to it. That’s whatall the slaves on the estate are fed, and we keep some on board incase the plane’s delayed and the stock needs feeding. They tell meit’s perfectly balanced, all the vitamins and minerals, all thatcrap! I’ve tried it, and it does give you the energy to work, butit’s fucking boring. Still, that’s all you’ll be getting from nowon, so now’s a good time to start.”I went to nibble at the biscuit, but it was surprisingly hard – I hadto almost gnaw at it to be able to break bits off and chew them.”See”, he said, “Just like dog biscuits! Very hard, so you have toreally chew at them – keeps your teeth in good shape, and exercisesyour jaws properly. I told you your new owner was humane – someowners feed their slaves on swill – boiled up waste from the owner’stable – as they think it’s more humiliating. But your owner buysthe proper food, well balanced, healthy: he wants you to be fit andactive, and this is a lot better for you than the stuff the crew andI have been eating. Steak and chocolate mousse tastes a lot better,but yours will do you more good.”I carried on chewing away at it, swallowing the bland stuff.”Well, it may be doing me more good, but it doesn’t taste ofanything!””Well of course not. They could add artificial flavours, butthey’re no good for you. But the real reason is to focus your mind -I was talking to one of the trainers the last time I was at theestate and he told me that the food is deliberately bland – theywant your mind to concentrate on serving your owner. That’s why youdon’t get any music to listen to, any books or videos, any of thatstuff – they say it’s just distracting. When there’s just you, yourbody, and your work, you really focus on it. And that’s what aslave should do – concentrate on delivering the ultimate in perfectwork for his owner.”As he was speaking, I was conscious that after all the water I’ddrunk the inevitable was happening – I needed to piss.”Please…. Look, you’ve got to let me out of here, just for abit…. I need to go to the gents.””Don’t be so fucking stupid! Do you think we’d let a slave loose onthis aircraft – you might try something foolish, then we’d have toshoot you.””So what do I do? Piss on the floor?””You do that and I’ll shock you into u*********sness. No…. Usethis.”He fetched one of the food containers that had been used for thecrew’s dinner, and held it out to me. I put my hand through the barto take it, but it was too big to go through.”Just piss through the bars”, he said.I’d hoped to be able to turn away from him as I pissed – I’m notpiss shy, as I’m used to peeing in public lavatories and stuff. Andat the rugby club we have one of those long communal metal troughsto piss in, with none of those silly partitions that stop youlooking at the next guy – after all, we all bath together naked,don’t we? But after he’d gone on about “sex toys” and stuff, Ididn’t really want to expose myself to this guy – especially as he’dsaid he liked sex with men himself. It’s one thing to be naked withyour mates, all good normal guys – but let a queer see me….. No!But as I stood there, the urge to let go kept getting stronger, Isaw there was nothing else I could do. As I went to get my cockout, another problem then presented itself – the tiny shorts were soskimpy and so tight that there was no way that I could just releasemy cock: I was going to have to push the shorts right down to getit out – and then, of course, with only the too-short singlet ontop, he’d be able to see all my pubes, my balls, my bum….I hated it, but I had no choice. I put the box down on the floorout side the bars, then wriggled to get the tiny shorts down over mycock, so that they were resting on my thick thighs. Then I quicklystooped to pick up the box, poked my cock through the bars, andstarted to piss.It was heaven – once it started to flow, I just stood there with myeyes half closed, pissing away and getting that marvelous feelingof relief you get when you’ve been wanting to go for some time.When finally I finished I put the box down on the floor and shookthe last drops out of my cock, then struggled to get my shorts upagain.”Very nice!”, the guy said conversationally, as if it was the mostnatural thing in the world. “Very nice – one of the best cocks I’veseen for some time, and those balls…. I really like a guy withbig, low hangers like yours. Once they’ve exposed them, they’ll bea real treat. But I don’t suppose the boss saw those – it must havebeen that bum of yours that attracted him: it’s even nicer ‘in theflesh’ than when it’s trying to burst its way out of your shorts,you know. I like a bum like that – muscular, rounded, carried highup on top of those thighs of yours… And that little patch of hairat the top of your crack… Nice, very nice!”I started to blush as he was talking. I wasn’t used to guys talkingabout my body like this – well, not to me, anyway: like all goodlooking guys I supposed that gays would look at me and whisper tothemselves about me if they saw me in the street, or wherever.Actually, I wanted to tell him to shut his obscene mouth – but whatwas the use: he could, after all, shock me into silence if hewanted to.”Yes”, he went on, “Very nice. I’ll have to look out for you nexttime I’m invited to the estate. Once you’ve been trimmed and so on,you’ll be truly amazing.”I wanted to ask him what the hell he was talking about, but hepicked up the box with my piss in it, and went and emptied it downthe sink in the corner where the food was prepared, before throwingthe empty box into a trash sack. Then he went through into thefront of the plane. I was amazed at the way a guy could treat pisslike that – I couldn’t imagine I’d ever be able to pick up a boxwith another guy’s warm piss in it, and treat it so casually. Onthe other hand, perhaps he thought that it was more like keeping ana****l clean in its cage – not like real man aydınlı escort piss at all.I sat there thinking about everything he’d said – Jesus fuckingChrist…. What sort of a place was I going to?Well, I found out after what seemed like an interminable wait. Wecame down onto what was clearly a private airstrip in the middle ofthe desert – there was no fancy terminal or anything, just the landingstrip and a small building at the side, from which I could see abig black limousine and a white Land Rover racing towards us.As I peered out of the window I saw a man in traditional Arab dressgo down the steps, and was whisked away in the limousine. Two mengot out of the Range Rover, and they looked to be identicallydressed. They came up the aircraft steps, and a few moments laterthey were led into the cargo area by the steward.Both men were in their late twenties or early thirties, and were fitlooking – they wore identical khaki shorts cut very short so thatmost of their thighs were exposed and their cocks were clearlybunched up in the short body section, and tight-fitting white poloshirts. On their feet they had black combat boots, with white socksrolled over the tops. Around their waists were thick black belts,with a variety of strange things hanging from them – although I didrecognise handcuffs as one of the items.They were chatting to the steward as they came in. “…. And washis cum thick and creamy?””Don’t know – he’s not cuffed or anything, and he’s a big strongguy. I didn’t like to put my hand in and find out!”All three of them laughed, and one of the two men in white said “Soshipping him clothed spoiled your fun, then! If you’re horny, whydon’t you give that pilot a miss tonight and come over to myquarters and see how a real man does it…? You know what theysay…. ‘Soldiers do it at attention’!”They saw me looking at them and listening, and the other man inwhite snapped at me “Hands in front of you – we’re going to cuff youfor the journey.”Defiantly I put my hands behind my back, and stood there looking athim.”Get your hands in front of you now, boy! Don’t you know thatslaves obey guards?”I just stood there, and the man casually took a small rod from aholster on his belt and pushed it through the bars and touched mewith it. My world exploded – it was as if someone had thrownscalding water all over me. I screamed, and threw myself about,trying to brush the water off me. Only gradually did the painsubside.”Now, boy, hands in front of you, so we can cuff you. Or would youlike another taste of the tickler? Good, isn’t it – adapted fromcattle prods, and re-tuned to the human nervous system. Lots ofpain, no lasting physical harm.”What was the point of arguing? I couldn’t escape fromthe ‘tickler’, confined in the cage. So I extended my hands out infront of me, and the guy took the handcuffs off his belt and snappedthem around my wrists.They told the steward to open my cell, and then ordered me to followthem. As I was going past the steward he reached out and ran hishand lightly over my backside – I could feel it plainly, trough thethin silken material of my tiny shorts. “Fuck you….” I shouted,as I felt somehow violated. Another man had never touched my bodylike that before.All that earned me was a big slap on my bum from one of the twoguards, who told the steward, laughingly, that “this is the way totreat a slave’s ass – a good hard slap, not a little grope!”. Ifelt so humiliated – no one had slapped me there before, either.They led me back through the plane and down the steps – as we leftthe air conditioned interior the heat hit me like a blow – it musthave been way up into the nineties. But I didn’t sweat – I supposethe air was so dry, as it looked as if were in desert.They opened the back door of the Land Rover and told me to get in,and as soon as I sat down a cuff was pulled out from under the backseat and snapped shut around my ankle.”You know”, said one of the guards, “We’ve had slaves try to leapfrom the moving vehicle as we make our way to the estate, eventhough they’re handcuffed, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and theyhave absolutely no idea where they are. So now we make sure youstay inside – you’ve cost too much money to allow you to injureyourself doing anything stupid. So just sit back and relax – Iwould say enjoy the view, but the scenery’s not much!”We sped through the bleak landscape, mile after mile. A blobappeared on the horizon, and it turned green as we approached – itwas one of those things I’d read about: an oasis. But this wasn’tthe traditional kind with a pool surrounded with palm trees – thereseemed to be a vast areas of green in the desert, surrounded by amesh fence about four feet high. The track curved around, and wewent through a gate, that opened as the men touched a radio controlon the dash.”See that fence, boy?” One of the guards said. “Mark it well!It’s not so high that you couldn’t jump it easily – but don’t evertry. Apart from the fact that you’d never survive walking acrossthe desert to ‘civilization’, that fence marks out the placing ofthe sensor cable for the slave collars – you’ll get one as soon aswe arrive, and it’s an update on the technology used to keep dogs ingardens – they get a mild shock when they try to cross the buriedsensor wire to make them go back. But if you cross the wire, theshock will kill you! You get a warning jolt if you go within threefeet of the fence, but don’t try any more. Understand?””Yes, I suppose so.””Look, boy, if you’re going to get on well as a slave on the estate,you’d better start learning proper manners! All guards andoverseers are addressed as ‘Sir’ by slaves, and your only reply tomy last question should have been ‘Sir, yes, sir!’. Do youunderstand?””Yes… ” and then I hesitated as I don’t like acknowledging thatmen are superior to me – I never call my boss at the office oranyone else “Sir”. But I thought I perhaps ought not antagonizethese men. So I added “….. Sir.”The guard who had been talking to me turned around in his seat toface me, and leaned over and slapped me! His open-palmed hand hitme hard, on the side of my face, and I fell over sideways with thesurprise, and the force of the blow.”Look, boy, I don’t think you understand yet what you’re in for.You’re a slave. Slaves are always polite, and always eager to obeyand acknowledge masters and guards. So it’s not ‘Yes’ and then verygrudgingly ‘Sir’. It’s ‘Sir, yes, sir!” – with vigour and gusto -you really want to acknowledge your master, and you need to showit. Guards enforce the house rules with physical punishments, andif you want to avoid them, you’d better start learning now. So doyou understand?”I was still reeling with shock from what had happened – thecompletely casual way he’d been so violent was a complete surprise.But I had the sense to know not to antagonize him further, so Isnapped “Sir, yes, Sir!”. It was like being in one of those Armyfilms, where all the recruits have to chant that as part of theirsubjugation to the communal life in the army.”That’s better, boy. Remember to answer like that and you’ll avoida lot of beatings!”Whilst all this had been going on we’d pulled up in front of a long,low building that was around the back of a bigger, slightly betterlooking one – although neither of them was particularly lavish:Whitewashed blocks, and small windows. I guessed they didn’t need alot of glass in this blinding in the hot sunlight. The guards got out,unlocked my ankle restraint, then told me to follow them.Inside it was much cooler than the furnace-like heat of the airoutside, and I could tell it must be air-conditioned. In my skimpyshorts and revealing top I even felt slightly chilly. There wasanother guard inside the door, wearing what I now saw must betheir “uniform” – the tight, short shorts, and the white polo top.Like the two who were with me, he looked fit and alert, and hereached up and pulled the “tag” that was still around my neck down,so that he could scan it with one of the instruments that had beenused before.”Right”, he told my guards, as he glanced at a PC screen on the deskin front of him. “This is the one we’ve been expecting. Take himand collar him and tattoo him, get him clean, and then take him intothe boss – he’s eagerly awaiting the arrival of this purchase.”We went down a featureless corridor into a mostly empty room – justa table with a chair next to it.”Sit down”, I was ordered, and I went and sat in the chair next tothe table. All three of us waited, until the door opened andanother guy, in the same “uniform” came in, carrying a kind of toolbox.He greeted his two companions, but ignored me – it was almost as ifI wasn’t there. The tool box was opened on the table, and a bigpair of pliers was used to cut off the tag around my neck. Then hegot some links of chain out of the box, and d****d them around myneck and experimentally pulled the ends together. They felt coldagainst my flesh, and I shivered inwardly.”It’s about right”, he told the others. “I’ve put the extra link inas although it will be a bit loose initially, it will soon tightenas he works here and his muscles fill out – generally it’s so messyto have to re-fit the collar after a couple of months. Now….”As he was speaking he got a tube of pungent-smelling stuff out fromthe box and used it to hold together the two ends of the chainaround my throat. It just hung below my Adam’s apple, and it wasone of those very chunky chains, with thick links. It felt tightalready as it lay there around me – I wasn’t used to having anythingaround my neck usually, and I could feel its dull weight on me.After a few moments he slipped a finger between the links and myneck and tugged experimentally – the chain was firmly in place.”Listen, boy”, he told me, “That’s your security collar. You’veseen the fence around this place – don’t ever try to cross it, oreven get close to it! You’re expensive stock, and we’d hate to loseyou. You’re lucky you’ve got such a considerate owner – a lot ofslaves have to wear rigid collars and then they get sores and allsorts of stuff where it rubs them – but these links do accommodatethemselves to you a bit, and there ought not to be even any chafing.”Turning to his companions he went on “It makes him look good,doesn’t it – I always think the slaves are enhanced when they’recollared – we know they can’t run for it as there’s no way ofgetting these tough collars off without special tools, all of whichare locked up, and it’s the real symbol of their servitude. Nowhe’s ‘safe’ and can’t escape, you can take him out of the cuffs…”One of the guards took the key to my handcuffs off his belt and wentto unlock me. “Now, boy, don’t do anything stupid when your handsare free! There’s no escape from this place for you as you’veheard, so there’s no point in attacking any of us – quite apart fromthe fact that three against one isn’t good odds, even if you got outof the door there you couldn’t get off the estate and we’d soon huntyou down. So just continue to be silent and co-operative, and itwill be easier for all of us.”Well, what could I do? He was right – three against one wasterrible odds, and even though I was fit and strong and used to abit of rough stuff in the ruck on the pitch, all these guys lookedas if they were used to taking care of themselves.”Elbow on the table, and brace yourself!”, the guy who had chainedme now said, and when I hesitated slightly as I didn’t know what hemeant, he impatiently pushed my left elbow on to the table and kindof flattened my hand on the area between my pecs.”Right, boy, no flinching!”, he went on. “I’m going to tattoo yourshoulder here with your inventory number, and your name, so that allthe guards on the estate know who they’re dealing with.”He got a machine that looked like one of those label makers thatusually squirt plastic tape out from his tool box, and fiddled withit, turning the dial on the top this way and that, and pressing agreen button every now and then. He pressed the flat end of themachine against the flesh right at the top of the arm, and pressed ared button on the machine. I felt a great stinging sensation in myarm, and pulled it away.The man was grinning at me. “There, that wasn’t bad, was it?That’s your inventory number done – these new rapid tattooers areclever, aren’t they – five digits all at once, and no need for aspecialist to come in.”I went to rub my shoulder as it was hurting, and saw bloodeverywhere!”Hey…””Shut the fuck up, slave!”, he snapped. “Haven’t you learned yetthat slaves only answer questions, and don’t speak unless they’redoing so? And don’t touch! That’s only blood from the needles – itwill soon dry. Just sit still, whilst I dial in your name.”He was fiddling with his machine again, and soon pressed it againstmy shoulder again.”Right, boy, you know what’s coming – just sit still as we don’twant it blurred….”There was that sharp pain again as the button was pressed, and he took themachine away.”Right, Jon, that wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re lucky your name’sonly three characters….””But I’m not Jon, I’m…..”The man looked at the two guards who’d brought me in, and the onewho had hit me in the Range Rover came up and struck me hard againacross the face, with his open hand. I fell off the chair half insurprise, and half from the sheer unexpectedness of the attack.”You haven’t learned, have you?”, he said. “Remember – you onlyspeak when you’re answering a question. Didn’t I tell you that aswe were coming here?””Yes…”He drew back his leg, and went to kick me, just stopping so that hisboot rested against my head.”And how do we answer guards? Remember? So you don’t speak, unlessspoken to, do you, slave?””NO, Sir, no.” I was terrified actually – as I say, you’re not usedto being hit, and to the casual use of force against you, are you?”Now understand, Jon”, he went on, “As that’s your name now! Wedon’t care what you were called before. The owner likes his slavesto have short, easy to use names as it makes commanding themeasier. The last Jon was sold last week so that name is availableon the estate – there’s no duplication amongst the slaves here, sothat when we guards are talking about a slave, it’s absolutely clearwhich one is being spoken of. Start thinking of yourself as Jonnow, as if someone orders ‘Jon’ to do something, and you don’t jumpto obey, you’re likely to get punished. Actually, a lot of slavesfind it easier being re-named – it makes a separation from their oldlives and their new slave lives. But for the first few days listenhard to make sure you don’t miss a command!.”They led me to a second room where there was a shower head in theceiling, told me to strip, and shower. I’m not prudish and at theClub I was used to showering when there were other guys around – inrugby clubs they don’t have those silly little individual cubicles,as you all shower together (after all, after matches, you all sharethe communal bath!), but having the two guards standing therewatching me did seem strange. The soap had absolutely no smell,but it seemed to do the job, and it felt so good to be able to washoff all the sweat (and the remaining dirt from where I’d fallen tothe ground at the airport). When I was almost done I turned aroundto face away from the two men to pull my foreskin back and washunder it.”Hey, Jon, don’t be shy….” One of the guards called out. “Turnaround, and let me make sure that cock head of yours is properlyclean…. “I ignored him, and carried on washing as that’s something you dofacing away from your team mates, isn’t it?”Slave… I told you to TURN AROUND! Do it now, or else…”I looked over my shoulder and saw the men getting their “ticklers”off their belts. I let go of my cock, and turned to face them, thewater still streaming over me.”Right… Now, let’s see that you’re properly clean. Just easethat ‘skin of yours back and show us you’ve done a proper job…”I was blushing furiously – well, you don’t do that in front of otherguys, do you? It’s all right if you’re cut to have your cock headexposed all the time, but when it’s decently hidden by your ‘skin(or mostly hidden, as in my case), well you just don’t ‘skin backand display it to other men, do you?They looked menacing, though, so I eased my ‘skin back off my head,and stood there, naked in front of them, almost holding my cock outfor display. Both men peered at it, and one said to the other “Niceone… He’s a handsome lad, isn’t he? I wonder how long before weget a chance to taste that cock? And I wonder if the boss is goingto have him ‘skinned?”Oh, fucking hell… What had I fallen into? What did they meanabout tasting my cock, and what was being ‘skinned? I went to ask,then thought better of it and kept my mouth shut.They turned off the water, gave me a small towel to dry myself with,and then a fresh set of the skimpy satin shorts and loose-fittingsinglet.”Right – off to the boss!”, the chief one said. “Now, remember,when you see him: he owns you! He can order anything he likes tohappen to you! So be VERY respectful, wait until you’re spoken to,and do as he tells you, unquestioningly. Personally, I quite liketo see a new slave writhing on the floor in pain if we have to ‘tickle’him, but it’s not really sensible and it’s so unnecessary. So keepquiet, and do absolutely as you’re told!”

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