Date: Tue, 18 May 2004 12:41:44 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Caryatid

CARYATID

A Short Story By Pete Brown  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at
grous.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

(I was inspired to write this short story when I took
time out from meetings to sneak a quick visit to the
Acropolis on a business trip to Athens.  Apologies to
readers of "You Can't Be friends with A Slave - I will
return to this now, having written this short story
out of my system.  Sometimes the glimpse of something
excites me to write a whole story, and when the
inspiration strikes, I need to follow it up. Pete.
Athens, May 2004)

They masturbate us every day at exactly 8:45 pm.
That's when we come "on duty".  We've been unloaded
from the carrier, brought here to the entrance and our
ankles are manacled into the positions we have for the
next few hours.  We've been made to pick up the roof,
so we're just standing there helpless, with the tiny
loin cloths that are our only protection just covering
our genitals.  The young guy who masturbates us never
speaks, just moves along the two lines of the four of
us on each side of the entrance way, lifting our loin
cloths, bringing us to climax, blotting the ends of
our dicks dry with a cloth, then lowering the
loincloth again so that we're "decent".  They don't
like the idea that we might get sexually aroused
during the early part of the evening when "ordinary"
visitors are entering the casino, and this is the way
they fix it.

It's a terrible job.  We have to stand there, our feet
neatly apart and shackled to the floor, holding up
this roof that covers the entrance walkway from the
street up to the front doors of the Akropolis.  It
seems to be a really fancy place.  Most of the men and
women who stroll up and down the entrance way are in
tuxes and evening gowns, and there's a lot of
jewellery.  I have no idea where it is, as they speak
all sorts of languages as they stroll along, but it
must be somewhere that's a business or tourist centre
as there are quite a lot of guests.  And it's hot -
we're on duty until three in the morning, and it's not
at all cold, even when you're then totally naked.

Look, the roof isn't heavy.  It's made of some sort of
plastic stuff on a light aluminium framework.  It's
not the weight that's the problem, but the immobility.
 As I've said, we're shackled to the concrete of the
walkway in our assigned positions, four a side, evenly
spaced.  We carry the aluminium side members that
support the vaulted plastic roof on our heads, and
there are kind of small "caps" at the right places on
the beam  for our heads to go in - hardly visible at
all from below.  We have to grip the members on either
side of our heads to give greater stability - and keep
the switches there held down at all times with our
fingers.  If we loosen our grip, or, worse, let go,
the switches open a circuit and we all get electric
shocks via our ankle manacles.  So we stand there,
legs apart, bodies upright, hands above our shoulders,
for hours every night.

I'd better tell you about our day.  It begins at eight
thirty p.m. when we're made to have a final crap and
piss - there's no opportunity to do this when we're on
duty, in front of the public, so they make sure we're
empty.  Any guy whose in any doubt must tell the
guards, and then he'll be given a quick "wash out" -
an enema, I suppose it is, really.  They snap the
collars around our necks that hold us to the transit
chain, then we walk out to the transporter.  The
journey only takes five minutes as our barracks is
somewhere in the town centre and the Akropolis club
and casino is very central, too.  But I've no idea
which city it is - it looks vaguely Arabic, but the
rich shops, expensive cars, and fancy restaurants on
the streets we go through could be almost anywhere.
When we arrive we space ourselves out in position -
they don't mind where we go, in the middle or at the
ends, or on which side, and we decided that mostly for
ourselves when we get on the transit chain in the
barracks.  Then in turn each of us is uncoupled from
the chain (there's some sort of special key that holds
the collars closed), and we move into position.  They
pull our shorts off and put the tiny loin cloths on -
there's a gold chain that goes around you, under your
hip bone and above your ass crack, and then the white
silk is hung from it.  They adjust the length so that
it just hides your dick and balls, no more.  Then the
ankle manacles are snapped on, and they do this until
all eight of us are in position.

The roof is lying on the walkway in front of us, and
then we're given the order to lift it up in unison,
once concerted move.  As I said, it's not heavy.  When
that cap touches the top of your head, though, you
know you're there for the rest of the shift, as you
can't now move either forwards or backwards, or from
side to side.  Another order and you raise your arms
and grip the side bar at head level, feeling for the
switches.  Those fucking switches - its not that
they're heavily sprung or anything, it's just that you
know that you must not move your hands from now on.

As I said, they come along and masturbate us next -
they leave this as late as possible, I've been told,
to make sure we're as sexually relaxed as possible.
The guests start to stroll in around nine, and some of
them stop to pose themselves for pictures in front of
one or other of us - them in their finery, and us
nearly naked in the tiny loin cloth.  They're allowed
to touch us, of course, just as if we are the statues
we're meant to represent.  They put their arms around
our shoulders, or our waists, and some rest their
hands on our butts, as the cameras click.

Nothing much happens then until midnight.  Then it's
the unveiling ceremony.  Quite a lot of the guests,
having finished dinner in the luxurious restaurants in
the Akropolis, or who are perhaps tired of dancing,
stroll out onto the walkway and stand there
expectantly.  I once went to some hotel or other in
one of those southern cities in the USA where a whole
lot of ducks come out of the elevators at a certain
time and walk across the lobby - the guests all come
out to watch that, and I'm always reminded of this as
the Akropolis patrons line up expectantly.    Eight of
the waiters from the restaurant stand behind us, and
at a signal they whip away our loin cloths so we're
totally naked, and then they undo the gold chains and
take them away too.  There's always a round of
applause for this, and most of the guests then stroll
back indoors, although there's a lot more pictures
taken, too.

As the evening goes on the "touching" gets worse.
Either it's because the guests are drunk, or because
the sight of our total naked helplessness somehow
"inspires" them to fresh acts of degradation.  It's
not at all unusual for middle aged women to hold a
dick when she's being photographed.  And some of the
young girls, and their boyfriends, think it's
screamingly funny to try to make us erect, and even to
try to jerk us off (although one of the liveried
doormen always then politely intervenes, as they don't
want a lot of mess on the luxurious carpet that runs
along the centre of the walkway).  I hate that most of
all, though, as there's often a bead of pre-cum then
hanging off my dick, and that seems to attract even
more of the guests to come and stare.

At two a.m. The Akropolis closes, and the last guests
have staggered down the walkway back to their limos by
about two fifteen.  Then they turn off the electric
current, and we're allowed to lower the rood onto the
ground in front of us.  Man, that feels good - having
to stand there all that time, rigidly upright, really
tires you out.  And your arm and shoulder muscles give
you hell as the blood flows back properly.  You cant
help your hands and fingers swelling up as you stand
there.  They tell you to do "motionless exercises" -
squeezing and relaxing all the muscles in your arms
and legs all the time - to help prevent this, and to
stop you getting cramp. It must work, I suppose, as
none of us has yet fainted away totally as you
sometimes see soldiers doing who are made to stand at
attention on parade for long periods.

They come along and undo the ankle manacles in turn.
They throw us a pair of shorts to put on, then the
collar on the transit chain snaps around your neck.
As we're all the same size and shape they don't need
to bother about whether it's "your" shorts, and I've
long since stopped bothering about niceties like that
- I'm just glad to get my dick and balls covered.  We
walk back to the transit, and are driven back to the
barracks, and the first thing most of us need to do is
piss - we stand there and huge streams of it jet out
from us.  Then we're fed - the food's not bad, but
it's always the same -  some sort of porridge-like
mush with seeds and grains in it, and a load of fresh
fruit.  They say it's very healthy as there's no fat
or meat or chemicals or anything, and I guess that's
true, as we're all in good shape and are really fit.

There's a lot of massaging goes on - we're all stiff
from having been made to stand for so long is a
relatively uncomfortable position.  And once you're
used to massaging another guy, well, it kind of seems
natural to feel his body, doesn't  it?  Look, I'm not
gay or anything, but living with the other guys like
this you're used to being close to each other in the
showers and stuff, to working out together, then to
being chained together, and finally appearing naked
like that.  I've lost any concerns I used to have
about other men seeing me, or touching me.

We are put into our sleeping quarters then - just an
empty room with a pile of blankets.  It's pretty small
for eight of us, and you can't help but touch some of
the other guys.  And, well, it's kind of natural,
isn't it, to need to jerk off and so on?  Even though
we've all been masturbated earlier, we're mostly
young, and all horny.  When I first came here I was
amazed when one of the others wanted to jerk me off,
but, after all, that's what happens to me every night
anyway. And it's a lot more fun with one of your
buddies, as you kind of do it together, so you do to
him what's causing you a lot of fun.  And when you've
jerked off together, it's only natural to do some of
the other stuff, isn't it?  I personally don't like
sucking dick much, but if a buddy is doing it to me,
it's only fair to do it to him, right?  And it's the
same with fucking - I started fucking the others as it
seemed natural, and now, actually, I think a nice
tight ass is better than a sloppy cunt.  But I'm still
not sure I like a dick up my ass, although it does
make you very close to your buddies, both physically
and mentally.  That's what we need - emotional contact
with others.  Our lives are so regimented, so bleak,
so devoid of interest, that we have to rely on our
buddies for everything, and when you've fucked them
and they've fucked you, there's that special bond, if
you understand me.

They let us sleep until about ten a.m., then we
exercise for two hours.  The morning exercises are out
in the walled yard behind the sleeping quarters.
There's a lot of sounds come over the wall - traffic
noises, people talking, kids shrieking as they play
games - but we can't see any of it, and they can't see
us as the wall's about two or three times a man's
height.  It's odd to be there, imprisoned, living this
strange life, with the rest of the world going about
its business, unawares, outside.  In the mornings we
do general upper body stuff - push-ups (endlessly!),
trunk curls, exercises lifting weights, all that sort
of stuff.  There's a guy whose our physical training
instructor who keeps us at it - any slacking and he
has a tawse that really hurts when it catches your
bare back, or, even worse, your thighs, or your chest.
 It doesn't cut into the skin, or leave any mark, of
course, as they need us to be physically perfect for
our public display.

We get our first meal of the day after that - the same
porridge stuff and fruit - and after that we're
allowed to "relax".  Well, we're put into the swimming
pool enclosure (with the same high walls around it)
and some of us swim a bit.  But mostly it's so that we
can lie there in the sun - they take our shorts away
from us when we go into the pool as we're supposed to
be swimming, but  really they want our asses and dicks
exposed to the sun so we're all a uniform tanned
colour all over - nothing like tan lines is allowed to
spoil the perfection of our bodies.

In the afternoon it's more training - sometimes back
in the exercise yard, but often we're collared onto
the transit chain, loaded into the back of the truck
and driven out to some wide open plain.  Then they
clip the end of the chain to the truck, and drive
around, and we have to run to keep up.  It allows one
guy to exercise all eight of us a the same time, with
no risk of us escaping.  And he varies the speed of
the truck so that sometimes we're jogging, and
sometimes running hard.  It can be really tough.

When we get back to base it's time to get ready for
our evening's activities.  We have to shower and shave
and make sure we're smooth and so on.  I used to be a
really hairy guy, but since I've been here I've been
shaved like all the others - very short cropped hair
on my head, a small patch of pubic hair just above my
dick, very trimmed hair in my pits, and that's all -
everything else is shaved off so my skin is smooth,
and I look more like all my fellows.  I guess some of
us would be naturally hairy like me, and some would be
naturally smooth.  I've got jet black hair, and the
other guys range from that through to blond.  Trimming
and shaving us all like this really does make us so
much more alike.  And having just the tiny patch of
stuff above my pubes makes me look a bit like one of
those ancient Greek statues - you never see them in
museums with hairy chests, do you?

That's my whole life now.  Every day absolutely the
same.  No variation.  No variety.  Just exercise,
display, work.  We have no entertainment, no TV, no
newspapers or books, nothing. Apart from the sheer
physical difficulty of it, we have nothing to "talk"
about.  We mostly just lie around and do nothing when
we're not doing any of the above things.  I've lost
track of how long I've been here - I tried to keep
count of the days, but I lost it. And there's nothing
to write with, so no way of  recording it.  It could
have been a year, or even two - all the days are much
the same here in terms of temperature and weather and
so there's not even a way of keeping track of the
changes in the seasons.

I should have listened to my girl friend .  If I had,
I wouldn't be here now.  She used to enjoy looking at
my body and stroking it and playing with it before and
after we fucked.  She was always kissing my butt or
the inside of my thigh or my shoulders or somewhere,
and saying how  good it would be if I had a tattoo
there.  She even wanted to buy me one for my birthday,
and then she wanted me to "give" her one, by having it
done to me, as a birthday present for her.  Had I had
a nice tiger on my butt, or a band on my biceps or
some small thing on my shoulder, I definitely wouldn't
be here now.  They need all the guys to have perfect,
unadorned bodies, and with a tattoo, they would never
have considered me.  I asked one of the other guys
about it and there's a lot of "knowledge" that's built
up over the years - apparently they've been keeping
guys doing this for a long, long, time, and whenever
one of gets too old and is retired", they simply go
and get a new guy from somewhere.

Their agents go out to gyms and places like that
looking for guys all with the same physical makeup:
exactly six foot three, and a thirty seven inch inside
leg - that makes sure the ratio of body length to leg
length is the same in all of us, too - they want an
even height, but they want us "the same".  Then you
have to have a long, thick, dick, and big, low-hanging
balls.  They don't care about eye colour or hair
colour or any thing like that - we're mostly viewed at
night, so eye colour isn't important, and most of oar
hair is cropped or shaved off.  The rest of it they
can work on, developing the muscles they want and so
on.

We really are almost "clones", and that's apparently
the attraction - eight naked guys, all helpless and
immobile, and all very much the same.  It's some sort
of thrill for the customers, and some sort of power
trip for the owners.  I must just have been very
unlucky that one of their agents spotted me as I was
working out.  He'd have seen my general height and
build, and made sure my dick and balls were
satisfactory.  Then he'd have made some detailed
enquiries about my exact measurements -  I seem to
remember I went for a job interview just before I was
snatched, for a job that I was offered - I didn't even
apply.  I wonder now if the doctor who was so careful
to measure me was in on it.

Look, my name's Dan. Daniel Wilkinson.  Born Sydney,
Australia.  Living, before I was snatched, in London
as I decided to see a bit of the world before I
settled down.  I don't remember my social security
number, but my girl friend, or my parents, must have
reported me missing all that time ago.  Jon Rogers is
a fellow Aussie.  Piet Jonquers is from South Africa.
Chuck Myerson and Greg Stoner are from the USA, and
Darren White, Tony Shrien and Paul Williams are all
from the UK.  There must be records of guys with those
names going missing suddenly - I should have got all
their details like date of birth and social security
number, but I forgot.

They did terrible things to me when I got here.  I was
stripped and clipped and shaved for the first time,
and I hated it.  They did all sorts of tests - took
blood and urine, X-rayed me, listened to my heart, all
that sort of stuff. Then they broke my nose - I
couldn't believe it.  I was strapped into what looked
like a dentist's chair, and the doctor who had been
examining me came up with this small stainless steel
hammer.  I wondered what he was going to do, when he
just brought it down on the bridge of my nose.  The
pain was awful, and I was in shock from the sudden
violence of his action.  Blood was pouring out of me,
and tricking down over my now-smooth chest and running
into my clipped pubes.  I managed to gasp out a
question, asking him what the fuck he'd done that for,
and he told me it was because I was too perfect, too
"ruggedly handsome" he called it.  Apparently the
ancient Greeks used always to sculpt a small blemish
into their statues as the gods were thought not to
like human perfection, and the owners of the Akropolis
had decided to have all their slaves with a blemish,
too.  So my nose had to be broken, and then re-set
slightly wrong.  Not a lot, so you hardly notice it:
but enough to spoil my perfect features and, they say,
make me look a lot "tougher".

Whilst I was still strapped in they circumcised me,
too.  "Obviously", if you want eight near clones, and
at least one of this has a cut dick, then all the
others have to be done, too.  And once you've got
eight 'skinned guys, once one of them has to be
replaced, he has to lose his 'skin too, doesn't he?  I
suppose it makes sense in this twisted world of
theirs.  The pain as he sliced my 'skin off was
terrible  it took my mind off what was happening to my
nose.  By the next day they were just both aching with
a terribly dull throbbing ache.  Not being able to
jerk off for a week, until the scars healed, was
pretty tough, too - I was almost constantly erect, and
my balls ached all the time from not being able to
shoot.

Funnily enough I was tattooed anyway - the Akropolis
has all its property marked with a serial number for
inventory purposes.  But they don't want the public to
see this on the perfect bodies of us guys.  So I had
to lie there as one guy held my butt cheeks apart and
another tattooed my serial number inside the crack,
where it's not normally visible.  The humiliation of
being marked was worse that the physical pain I'd
suffered, and being marked like this, with my butt
being pulled apart, was even worse.

Finally, of course, they muted me just as all the
others are muted.  The doctor forced my mouth open and
put wedges between my teeth to prevent my jaw closing.
 Then a kind of pair of scissors, with very long
handles and blades that gleamed like scalpels went
down my throat and cut my vocal chords.  The screams I
made when my nose was broken and I was circumcised
without anaesthetic were the last real noises I made.
Look, I know they can't risk us talking to the
Akropolis's guests, but do they have to take away my
power of speech permanently?  I've asked the other
guys why they couldn't just gag us or something, but
they all say it's obvious:  they want us to look as
"natural" as possible as we stand there in our tiny
inadequate genital covering, or, later, stark naked.
That's why the ankle restraints are so thin, and why
they have nothing visible on our wrists at all - we
just have to stand there with our hands in position,
to hold the switches down.   I don't need to talk to
the supervisors or guards - I just have to obey, so I
don't need to talk.  But us guys like to tell each
other what little we know about things - not that
there's much new to say, as life is so much the same,
and so repetitious, as I've explained.  So we have to
"spell" out words using individual letters on the
other guy's palm, or on his chest or belly if we're
lying close in bed.  It really slows things down, but
you soon get quite fast at it.

Please help us!  We've got to be set free.  This note
is not a hoax.  If you are reading it, you've got it
from me outside the Akropolis.  I took a huge risk.
You must be one of the guests.  Please take pity on
us, and do something - take this note to the
Australian Ambassador.  He'll do the right thing for a
son of OZ who's been caught up in this terrible way
they're using men.


Dan


>From :  Personal Assistant To The Minister of Labour
and Immigration Control
To : General Manager, Akropolis Bar, Restaurant And
Casino.


The above note was taken by a worried fellow
countryman to the Australian Ambassador in our country
last night.  Fortunately he has excellent relations
with the minister, who was able to reassure him, in a
personal meeting that the Ambassador requested at very
short notice, that this was probably an elaborate
hoax, or, if it wasn't, that the Ambassador would not
want to spoil relations between our countries.  The
minister pointed out, too, that the Ambassador was a
frequent visitor to the Akropolis, and that several
photographs existed in the files of the Ambassador
stroking and fondling the entrance slaves, and that we
might even be able to find a picture taken with the
Ambassador actually handling the slave Dan himself.
No further enquiries are therefore being made.  I am
told the Ambassador was able to apply a little "scare
factor" to the person with the note, too - when asked
how it came into his possession, the man admitted he
had dislodged it from its place of concealment in the
butt crack of the slave, when he was fondling the
slave's rear quarters; this is not information that
the finder would have wanted disclosed, as he was a
"respectable" married business man, and assured the
ambassador that he did not "normally" fondle naked
male buttocks.

The Minister is however extremely concerned about the
careless way that Akropolis are handling their slaves.
 The note itself was written in blood, and a sample
analysed shows that it is primarily the blood of the
slave Daniel Wilkinson who was imported two years ago.
 However further analysis shows that the blood of all
the slaves used in the Akropolis's entrance display
was used, suggesting a widespread conspiracy amongst
the working slaves.  The Minister wishes me to point
out, however, that the note could not have been
written if the slaves had not had access to a needle
to prick themselves and produce a fine stream of blood
for writing with:  where this came from is apparently
unclear, although it might have been dropped by a
visitor on the Akropolis entrance way, and secreted by
a slave until required.

However it points to sloppy handling and inadequate
supervision of the Akropolis slaves generally, which
could have led to a major scandal affecting a number
of businesses and importers in our country if we had
not acted firmly and decisively with the Ambassador.
Accordingly the Minister has seen fit to impose a fine
of 250,000 US dollars on the Akropolis.   You will
produce this as a freely negotiable banker's draft
made out to the minister personally, and this is to be
delivered to this office marked for the personal
attention of the Minister, no later than noon on
Friday next.

In view of the involvement of all the Akropolis
display slaves in this attempt at making themselves
known to the world, the Minister has decided not to
demand the death of the slave Dan.  He is however
forfeit to the Minister, and is to be delivered, along
with the banker's draft, to the minister personally no
later than Friday next.  The slave should by then
have been properly branded, at the Akropolis's
expense, with the Minister's personal house mark, a
copy of which is enclosed.


A Moustaffa, personal assistant to the Minister.

THE END