Date: Fri, 24 Jun 2005 10:07:32 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Cop To Slave

Here's the only part of a short story, that I''d be
grateful if you'd please post in
gay/male/authoritarian.

Thanks, Pete.

COP TO SLAVE   by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

I was really proud to be a cop.  Society runs by
rules, that's what distinguishes us from animals.  And
someone has to make sure the rules are obeyed, or else
there's anarchy.  So I guess that all my life  I'd
always wanted to be a cop, and I'd never had any other
ideas about a career.  As soon as I left college I
applied to join, and after doing the year's training,
I was in the Highway Patrol - it was great, actually:
I had a smart uniform, the hours were really great as
there was no need to work in some stuffy office doing
overtime every day, and I got to ride a bike!  Well,
I've always liked biking, and I've got a big Kawasaki
of my own.  And after work I had plenty of time to
work out in the local gym, and the force even
encouraged it, subsidising my subscription as they
like to have their men really fit..

Some of the other patrolmen were "soft" on the
big-time criminals - it wasn't that they accepted
bribes or anything, but that it was just too much
effort to get cases to stick - they'd have their fancy
expensive lawyers, and a lot of the time they'd pick
ridiculous holes in the evidence, and even accuse the
cops themselves of things like bias and racism!  But
I'm not like that - if the law has been broken, then
the people ought to be brought to justice, that's what
I say.

Drug smuggling obviously isn't my thing - as a near
rookie I was expected to mostly just do "highways"
stuff.  But I got suspicious of the regular convoys of
trucks I saw on my "patch", as they seemed to be going
"nowhere" and the out of state plates just looked
well, kind of "wrong".   I tried to speak to some of
the detectives about it, but they at first seemed not
to be interested, and then, when I persisted, became
actively unhelpful, telling me to keep my nose out of
their affairs.  It seemed to me that they might be
turning a blind eye to this activity, because they
didn't want the work, or, worse, they might be getting
bribed.  Full of youthful enthusiasm I therefore
decided to do a little investigation of my own.

It was kind of exciting, actually.  Obviously it was
no good trying to follow them on my "work" machine in
my uniform, so I took to hanging out in the side roads
on my Kawasaki in my jeans and leather riding jacket.
I started to note the details of all their journeys,
the times, and the licence plates, and I really
thought I was getting somewhere.  I tried again to get
the detectives division interested, but they were now
really hostile to me, and one even warned me to "take
care" as I was dealing with dangerous guys!

I guess I should have listened.  They knew what they
were talking about, as about a week later, as I was
sitting in the side road with my engine idling,
waiting to follow the next convoy, there was a
"click" next to my ear, and a quiet voice said "Be
still, very still.  You know what this is, don't you?"

I did, of course.  The sound of a gun cocking is
absolutely unmistakable.  So I just sat there without
moving.  That's what they teach you on the training
courses, actually - if it's hopeless, don't try to
fight it, in the hope that you'll get a chance later.
I knew that if I made any kind of sudden move it was
all too easy to get my brains blown all over the
woods.  So I just sat there astride my machine, as the
quiet voice  went on "Good, that's sensible.  Now,
turn off your motor, and put your hands behind your
back...."

I did as he said, and felt the coldness of steel as
cuffs were slipped around my wrists and secured.  My
heart was racing, and I could feel all the muscles in
my belly tightening as my body got ready for "fight or
flight", but the next moment I knew there was no
chance -  my assailant reached around and undid my
helmet from under my chin, tossed it casually into the
bushes, and then slipped a soft leather hood down
right over me, completely cutting off my vision.  I
could breathe, though, but my breath felt all hot and
confined in the close stillness of the leather.  I
knew that I now had almost no chance of escape, that
I'd lost the opportunity.

I just sat there, completely helpless, and listened to
the guy calling to someone on his cell, and then we
waited.  "Look", I tried to say, my voice muffled by
the hood, "Just let me go.  I'm a cop, and if you
carry on like this, there'll be real trouble.
Kidnapping a cop, or harming him, is a capital offence
in this state.  But if you undo the cuffs and slip
away as quietly as you sneaked up on me, that will be
the end of it..."

"Shut up, fucker!", he snapped.  "I know you're a cop.
 We factored that in.  But a cop who's doing a bit of
extracurricular activity!  You're not on duty now, you
haven't got your radio and location devices, and no
one at your station knows where you are.  So shut the
fuck up, until  the truck gets here."

I went to try to reason with him again, and almost
yelped in alarm - he still had the gun pressed against
my head, but with his other hand he'd reached down and
grabbed my balls through my Jeans!  "Shut the fuck
up!", he snapped.  "I don't want to hear one more word
from you.  It won't do you a bit of good - it's too
late for all of that."

__________________________________________

I was lying there in the truck.  In the back, still
cuffed.  When it arrived and there were more of them,
they'd crammed a ball gag in my mouth and it was
securely strapped around my head.  I could hear other
guys in there with me as the thing rolled on at high
speed through the night, and I began to realise with a
sick horror that I'd fallen into the hands of slavers!
 Look, I know I've told you that I believe in the rule
of law and all that stuff, but some laws are just
plain unjust and I really never understood how the
southern states managed to get the reintroduction of
slavery through Congress.  But they did, and I was
just glad that I didn't live in one of the "slave"
states - I'd have hated to have to pursue criminals
and take them in, knowing that they'd end up on the
auction block.

We all knew about it, of course - there were lots of
popular TV shows on slavery themes, with comic black
slaves and cruel white masters in a whole new genre of
comedy slots.  And from time to time there'd be some
scandal, when an owner would be fined for killing a
slave.  But in our state none of this existed, and for
my friends, family and me life was just as it always
had been - indeed, we were seen as kind of backward,
and the folks in the South always referred to us as
"still living at the start of the twenty first
century" rather than being modern and forward looking,
as they were.  Mind you, perhaps they had a point,  as
unlike theirs our prisons were full, and it was
getting harder and harder to control the gangs of
young tearaways who rampaged around the malls, whereas
I understand that in the South all was peaceful and
harmonious - not that I'd ever been there:  my friends
and I considered it too risky.  You never knew if you
got drunk or something whether you might get a term of
a few months  "involuntary servitude", as slavery was
politely called.

But now here I was, in the hands of slavers, I felt
certain.  Why else would all these trussed-up bodies
be in this truck?  The newspapers and TV news was full
of stories about how the shortage of slaves -
particularly young guys, capable of hard manual toil,
was driving up prices and slowing the economy of the
South.  And there were always hints of illegal
slaving, but nothing was ever proven.  Perhaps,
though, it was deliberate -  the statistics for
"missing persons" in our state had continued to
rocket, and it was mostly men who went missing,
unattached men, without relatives.  The more I lay
there, the more I felt certain that the "rumours" of
illegal slaving were not that, but fact.  And perhaps
the reason why these people were never caught was that
it was convenient for my colleagues in the police to
be able to dispose of "trouble makers" without all the
hassle of marshalling the evidence to get a conviction
in court.  And once they'd started down that slippery
road, what easier way of getting rid of a troublesome
colleague, too, a colleague who might turn up
embarrassing and incriminating evidence of collusion
between the police and drug runners?

I tried to communicate with some of the bodies around
me, but it was no use - the ball gag stopped me.   So
there was nothing to do but just lie there, and try to
get as comfortable as I could with my cuffed hands.  I
needed to piss, but I forced myself to hold it, and
you know how it is - the moment you start thinking
about things like that, it becomes almost obsessive!
I don't really know how long I lay there, though, as
there was just no way of telling the time.   Still,
when I felt the truck slowing, and then reversing, I
felt really relieved - at some point I'd get to see
someone responsible, I'd be able to tell them I was a
cop, and then, when I was back home, I could really
start to look into who might have betrayed me to these
people.

I knew the doors on the truck must have been opened as
I could feel the fresh air flow in, and then there
were hands grappling at my body, and pulling me out.
I was still hooded, and they told me to put my hand on
the shoulder of a guy standing in front of me.   I
felt a hand on my shoulder in turn, and then we were
led off, slowly, and stumbling every now and then when
there was a step or something.

We were evidently in some kind of big echoey room, as
even through the hood it  "sounded" different, and I
just stood there, waiting my chance.  "Foot up!", a
voice next to me barked, and I felt a hand tugging at
my ankle, so I lifted my foot off the ground.  My
sneaker and sock was ripped off, and then the same
thing happened to my other foot, so I was standing
there bare footed.
They cut my clothes off me!  As I stood there,
helplessly cuffed and hooded, I heard a kind of
"swish" noise, and the next moment my biker jacket,
and then my T, was pulled away from me.  I could feel
the air on my bare chest, and I tried to protest,
saying that the jacket had cost me hundreds of
dollars, but no intelligible sound came out.  They did
my jeans next, and as they sliced through my boxer
shorts and tugged the cotton away from me, I knew I
was totally naked standing there.

I was half pushed, half guided across the room, then
my hood was whipped off and the next moment, as I
stood there blinking, I was deluged with water.  I
could see other hooded naked guys just standing there
across the room, but as the water sluiced down over me
a naked man - to my horror  I realised he must be a
slave, as he wore an iron collar - began to wash me.
And there was nothing I could do about it, with my
hands still cuffed behind me:  he massaged shampoo
into my hair, then soaped me all over and pushed me
gently back under the falling water to wash it all
off.  He didn't skimp the job at all - no part of me
was unwashed, and his warm hands even did my dick and
balls, and slid down my ass crack!  There was no use
struggling, though, as I knew I was powerless to stop
him - and anyway, he was probably just doing as he was
ordered:  I knew enough about slaves to know that they
could be punished at the slightest sign of failure to
carry out their owners' instructions, and if his guy
had been told to wash me, and wash me most intimately,
he certainly would do so.

The slave just towelled my hair roughly dry, and that
was that - the hood was pulled over my head again, and
still dripping wet, I was led away.  There was a lot
of standing around after that, I got the impression  I
was waiting for someone, or something, and I just knew
from the shuffling noises and the way that I could
hear a door that kept opening and closing that the
other hooded men I'd seen were joining me.  Finally,
after what seemed like hours, but was probably no more
than an hour or so in total, my hood was pulled off
again.

I blinked my eyes, and saw there were around twenty of
us standing there, all cuffed, and gagged, and as I
watched the same slave who had washed me in the shower
came along and helped us into shorts - I had to step
forward into them as he held them in front of me, then
he pulled them up and tied the tie-waist thing around
me.  I felt better almost at once -  I wasn't out of
the woods yet, but at least in these loose grey cotton
shorts, that were not unlike the exercise shorts I
wore at the gym, I felt a bit more respectable!  Not
that I've got anything to be ashamed of you
understand:  I exercise a lot, so my body's in great
shape, and there have never bee any complaints from
the women I've been with about my dick or balls.  But
being naked makes you feel completely helpless, and
even with just a pair of shorts, it's better.

As soon as he'd finished, the slave just stood there,
head bowed and with his hands clasped behind his back.
 The door opened and a guy came in who looked as if he
was in charge - he just had that air or authority
about him.  He looked at us all standing there in
front of him, and said "Listen up, as I'm only going
to say this once.  You're here to be sold, all of you.
 Sold as slaves.  The auction will begin shortly. I
want no misbehaviour from any of you, or else you'll
feel the slave stunner - perhaps you don't know what
this is....."

He held up a metal thing about a foot long in front of
him, and waved it in the air.  I did know what it was,
actually - it was a riot control stunner that I'd
learned about in the Academy:  our force didn't use
them normally, but if there was a riot or something,
then the Commissioner could give special approval for
them to be issued.  A powerful electric charge stored
in the thing could really jolt a criminal, and easily
subdue even the most vicious rioter.

"...and, believe me, you won't want that", he
continued.  "So just do as you're told, and you won't
come to any harm.  You'll go up onto the auction block
one after the other, they'll bid on you, and then
you'll leave quietly, and that's that."

He lowered his voice then, took out a piece of paper,
and read what was obviously some special form of
words.  As far as I can remember them, it went like
this "You are here at a 'marché ouvert'.  Under a
legal tradition that goes back to Norman times in
England, goods sold at a marché ouvert cannot be
recovered.  The auction you are about to attend is the
surviving such market in the State, and you should be
aware of the rules that surround it.  Goods purchased
at a marché ouvert become the instant property of the
purchaser, even if acquired illegally, and there is no
redress from their original owners should the goods be
traced.  If you do not want to take part in an auction
held under such rules, State law requires you to
announce this openly and clearly, by objecting
publicly to the auctioneer as he begins the auction.
Failure to make a public declaration of this type
means that the auction can proceed lawfully and the
goods can be sold to their new owner, who assumes
absolute title to them immediately the auctioneer's
gavel signals the conclusion of the lot."

His face broke into a half-twisted smile.  "So, you
men have been warned!  Behave during the auction, or
you will feel the stunner.  Object as you come up for
sale, or your auction will proceed and at the end the
buyer will assume absolute title to you.  If you are
an escaped or stolen slave, or a free man, it makes no
difference:  a slave bought here becomes the absolute
property of the buyer, with no possibility of
redress."

I could see other guys like me shaking their heads in
frustration as we tried to say something through the
ball gags, but it was no use - nothing intelligible
came out!  Two guards, waving their stunners,
marshalled us into a ragged line, and we were marched
out and into a corridor where we were "placed" against
one wall, and waited. We shuffled along every three
minutes or so, and as I got to the head of the line,
the guard undid my cuffs so that my hands were free,
then said to me "OK, boy, in you go.  Now, up the
steps, right into the middle of the auction block,
then do exactly as the auctioneer tells you.  Any
trouble, and you'll be punished, remember!"

He opened the door and pushed me in.  I was so
surprised at having my hands free that I didn't have
time to react initially, and then I clawed at my gag,
in a hopeless effort to get it out of my mouth - the
straps holding it seemed to be locked in place and
immovable.  As  I mounted the steps onto what was a
small stage, I knew that this was probably the last
action I'd take as a free man - I'd be sold, and under
their crazy rules, when I came down off this stage I'd
have become a slave.  I stood there, desperately
trying to protest, trying futilely to mouth the words
about objecting to being sold, to tell them that I was
a cop, not a slave....  But it was all no use.  Unless
you've had one in you, you've got no idea how
effective a ball gag can be in completely stifling
intelligible words.

I stood there under the bright lights, and could just
see the audience looking at me - fat, well-fed looking
men, with a scattering of women.  Most of them were
flamboyantly dressed as I understood slavers often
were from seeing the TV shows.  The auctioneer, as
that was what I assumed him to be, was not behind a
desk but stood by the side of a small table on which
were some papers, and his gavel and a small block to
bang it on.  He must have had a radio mike, as I heard
his voice boom out "The next lot, ladies and
gentlemen... A white buck, probably aged twenty four
or twenty five.   Six foot, two hundred pounds or
thereabouts.... And, as I'm sure you can see, a most
attractive proposition.  Not only is he not pre-owned,
so you are acquiring fresh meat that you can mould to
your own particular requirements, but he's well
proportioned, nicely muscled, there's a pleasing
thatch of fur on him - although that can of course be
removed - and many would say he's even handsome!  Now,
who'll open the bidding at two hundred?"

I could hardly believe my ears, as I listened to all
of this.  They were auctioning me as if I was some
prize piece of stock, not a man!  I'd been to a cattle
auction once where they sold off breeding stock, and
it was just like this.  It wasn't right.  If only I
could speak, I could finish this immediately.

There was silence in the hall, and the auctioneer took
a cane from behind the desk and ran it lightly down
over my pecs and belly.  "Oh come on, ladies and
gentlemen!  Look at the muscles here.  Look at the
condition.  And this light smattering of fur:  it's
the fashion currently to have nicely hairy slaves, you
know:  and if you buy a smooth boy, you can't add fur.
 But if the fashion changes and smooth slaves become
the norm, then you can always have him plucked, or
just shaved!  So two hundred's a steal... Come on,
ladies and gentlemen... It's not often we have prime
property like this on the block - young, virile,
muscled... And, as I said, not pre-owned:  this is his
first appearance at an auction. We suspect he's a
virgin  - although this is not warranted."

I hated it.   I stood there, listening to myself being
described just as if I was some sort of animal, a mere
object.  I wanted to scream at him that I wasn't going
to be sold like this, I was a man, a free man, a man
with rights.... But nothing came out.  I flexed my
arms impotently, wanting to hit out at him, but I
dared not, knowing that the guards who were standing
smartly at attention on either side of the stage would
use their stunners on me.

"Let's see him properly, and then I might bid!", a
voice in the audience called out, and there was a lot
of raucous laughter, and some cries of "Yes, strip
him!".

"Shuck those shorts, boy!", the auctioneer snapped at
me.  I just stood there, frozen in shock.  I could
hardly believe what I'd heard.  Surely he couldn't
want me to stand there naked in front of all those men
and women?  The next moment I would have howled in
pain, if I could have through the fucking gag.  The
auctioneer had viciously sliced his cane across my
butt, really hard.  There was a tingling, stinging
sensation in my muscles, that really hurt.  "Drop 'em,
boy, unless you want to feel more of the cane...", he
muttered, with the radio off now so that only I heard.


I still hesitated, though, and he slashed at me again,
causing me to jerk forward with the shock of the harsh
blow.  Well, what was I supposed to do?  I undid the
tie holding the shorts, and let the loose things fall
to the floor so that I stood there nude.  There was an
appreciative mutter from the audience, and the
auctioneer hissed at me to turn around, which I did,
and then to turn back again to face the front.

"So, ladies and gentlemen", the voice boomed out
again.  "Now you see him properly.  Don't be put off
by that big white area all over his ass and thighs -
it does spoil the total picture, I know, against the
dark tan of his upper body and legs, but they just
serve to point out what an attractive proposition this
boy would be once you've had him fully exposed to the
sun for a couple of days!"

I almost died of embarrassment then as he began to
probe at my dick with his cane, managing to get it
behind it and raise it in the air.  "And look at this,
ladies and gentlemen, beautifully proportioned, not
too fat, and certainly not too thin!  It makes a most
harmonious whole, I'm sure you'll agree.  And again,
notice that you have the choice:  if you prefer your
slaves 'skinned, then a quick visit to the
veterinarian and it can be done.  How much more
sensible than buying your men pre-cut, as you can't
restore a 'skin if you want."

To my acute shame the action of the cane rubbing
gently at my dick was making me bone up.  You know how
it is, when you're young, anything touching your dick
makes it bone.  And as the audience chuckled, with a
couple of people even making polite clapping, not too
loudly, I heard "And he's enthusiastic, as you can
see!  A young buck in his prime, just ready for you."

The cane was probing around in my balls now, and again
he managed somehow to get it in behind and gently push
upwards and forwards my low-hangers.  I shuffled a
bit, as you're always worried when something touches
your balls, aren't you, and he whispered "Easy....",
and then to the audience at large "And look at these,
ladies and gentlemen:  really hung low down, and the
perfect size for him.  And with a sac like this, your
possibilities are endless:  leave him 'au naturel', or
you could have a cinch band at the top, to push the
eggs right down and make a nice, tightly-stretched sac
that would really swing!  The choice is yours...."

"The hole, the hole...."  It was almost a chant from
the hall.

"Turn around and bend over, boy!", again to me,
privately.  And then when I just stood there, almost
doubting what I'd heard, there was another swipe at my
now-bare ass and I almost shot forwards off the edge
of the stage with the shock. It stung even more than
when my butt had been covered with the thin shorts.
"Turn around  you young fucker!", he snapped.  "You're
not doing yourself any favours by being seen to be
disobedient by the potential buyers.  A slave with
spirit is all right for some, but most buyers want a
slave who's properly compliant."

Reluctantly I did as he said, turning my back to the
audience and remaining standing there for a few
moments as the voice boomed out once more.  "Look at
this muscular development, ladies and gentlemen.
Never mind the three stripes across it - make
allowances for the fact that he's not yet properly
trained.  And imagine the additional excitement in
actually doing the training....  But just observe the
power in that ass and those thighs!  No doubt you'll
soon tame him so that all these marks are unnecessary,
but just imagine having that superb musculature at
your disposal.  And, whilst we're here, notice the
classical shape:  broad shoulders, tapering in the
classic triangle down to the butt which flares rather
sensuously:  we usually only find this in blacks, or
in those models in the gay magazines, but here it's
available for you to buy today, ladies and gentlemen."

"The hole, the hole...",  from the audience.

"Bend over, boy, and spread your cheeks".  I could see
him holding the cane menacingly, and knew it was
useless to refuse.

I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I flushed
with embarrassment as I bent from the waist, then
reached back and pulled my ass apart.  I'd never done
anything like this before, not even to someone I'd
been having sex with.  And now there were all those
eyes boring in to me.

"There, ladies and gentlemen!  Rather a lot of fur as
you'd expect from a man whose general body type tends
towards the rugged, but as we all know, that can
easily be shaved off.  Not much to see, though - I'm
closer, and I'd say that this is a virgin hole,
although as I mentioned we're not warranting that.
But it has none of the signs of hard, regular use....
Or should I say 'yet'!"

He chuckled slightly as he made these disgusting
remarks, and I wanted to scream at him that I was no
pervert fag  No dick had ever bee anywhere near my
ass, and it wasn't going to, either!

He allowed me to stand upright then, told me to turn
around to face the audience once more, and sporting my
bone, I had to listen as he started at a hundred and
fifty, then the bidding on me rose swiftly to finish
at two, two,  three.  Less than a quarter of a million
bucks - that was what I was worth.

He pushed me off the stage dismissively, just using
the cane to guide me away, not even allowing me to
stop and pick up my shorts.  My dick, still boned,
bobbed up and down as I went down the steps and out
through the door, where two guards tossed me a pair of
the same shorts, watched impassively as I pulled them
up over my boned dick, blushing furiously, and then
cuffed me again.

There was no time wasted.  They pushed me into another
room where they marked me:  you know, the standard
slave ID that all slaves have.  Even if you don't live
in a slave state, there's enough of it on TV so that
you know that those big, heavy numbers across the
inside of the right wrist, right over the pulse point,
and again on the left shoulder, mark a man indelibly
as a slave.   It didn't even take any time or skill -
they looked at a PC screen to get the number, dialled
it into one of those things that's a bit like a Dymo
marker, held it against my skin, and that was that.
They'd strapped my hand and forearm to a frame to hold
me perfectly motionless as they did my wrist, but one
of the guards held me firmly in an arm lock around my
neck when they did my shoulder.  I'd done some desktop
publishing for the College magazine, and I knew that
the numbers were in 30 point bold type, so they were
big - I'd never seen them on the skin in real life
before, only on TV, and as I stood there looking down
at my wrist I just couldn't believe that I'd been
mutilated in this way, totally against my will.  It's
horrible when other men so totally physically
overpower you that they can do something like that to
you - it takes away all your feeling of being a man,
to know that you're utterly unable to prevent these
goons mutilating you like that.

The same two also collared me.  Again, you all know
what it's like:  an inch of hard steel quite tight
around the throat.  What you don't know is how it
changes you as they use the big moulding pincers to
bend the thing into shape around your neck and to hold
it there as they glue it closed.  I'd begun to realise
I was a slave when I was inked, but the feeling of the
steel around my neck, absolutely immovable without
something capable of cutting through case-hardened
steel, really brought it home.  This was no fancy
ornament that some guys wear, but a mark of servitude,
something that said "slave" in a way that was
permanent.  And physically it makes a difference, too
- I was suddenly conscious of this additional weight
on my neck, a weight that pressed me down just as much
as the system was pushing me down towards life at the
very bottom of society.

I had to wait in a cell for about an hour for my owner
to appear.  All around me the other men who had been
sold were similarly waiting, and then, one by one,
were let out and taken away.  When I saw this big guy
approaching down the row of cells with a guard at his
side, somehow I just knew he was looking for me:  the
purposeful way he scanned the cells, then locked his
eyes onto mine as he saw me standing helplessly there.

The guard opened my cell, and stood there looking
relaxed, gently slapping his slave prod in his hand.
I knew I had to be careful.

"Uncuff him and take that gag out", my owner said.
His voice was deep and powerful.  Indeed, his whole
persona screamed "power", from the big, heavily boned
body that looked as if he was in good shape
physically, to the very expensive jacket, slacks and
leather loafers he was wearing.

As soon as my tongue was free, I blurted out "Look,
I've been captured and brought here illegally. My
name's...."

"Shut the fuck up!", he boomed, and to emphasise the
man's point, the guard pushed his prod towards me.
"Your name's Steve.  That's a good name for a slave.
That's what I'm going to call you. I call all my
personal slaves 'Steve', as it saves me remembering
who they are when I change them.  And I don't give a
fuck about whether you were captured, or indeed
anything about your past life.  I've bought you here,
in this 'marché ouvert', and that means that you're
legally a slave.  Look at you - inked and collared:
you're clearly a slave."

"But I'm a cop, I...."  I never got any further, as
the guard pushed the prod at me, and I was writhing
and screaming on the floor.  Both of them just stood
there, until I recovered and struggled to my feet.

"You're my slave, Steve.  Life will be a lot easier if
you remember that", the man who I now knew was my
owner said.  It wasn't a threat, it wasn't said in a
kindly way to help me.  He just stated it as a fact,
and that was somehow very chilling.  "Now, drop those
shorts and let me have a proper look at you - it's
hard to really get the measure of a man, even when he
so obligingly bones up as you did, when he's up there
on that stage."

This must be another way that you know you're a slave,
I thought to myself.  I no longer even had my own
name, and I was to be known by the name that my owner
found convenient!  The guard was twitching his prod
towards me, though, so reluctantly I undid the string
holding up the shorts, and let them drop to the floor.

I could actually feel the heat radiating from my face
as I flushed with the embarrassment of having my owner
cup my balls, separating them in the palm of his hands
with his thumb.  And then when he moved on to hold my
dick, I was totally unable to stop myself from getting
hard.  I could see him smiling, and he said to me
casually "I like an enthusiastic slave, Steve.  You
and I are going to get on well."

When he skinned me back, though, I' never felt so
naked before in my whole life.  I'd never exposed my
dick head to another guy before, and certainly never
had anyone else - not even a girl friend - skin me
back!  You cut guys won't understand, but when you're
used to being nicely covered by your 'skin, having to
expose yourself like that is just the most terrible
thing.

As we stood there, a clerk hurried up, and apologised
for keeping my owner waiting.  "Are you going to have
additional work done on the slave, sir?", he asked
politely.

"Probably", my owner said, as if musing on the point.
"I've not had a foreskin on any of my personal slaves
before, and I'm not sure about it.  But this one's not
too bad - even when he's flaccid, there's not that
unpleasant flap hanging over the end, as it just
neatly overs his piss slit.  So I think I'll see how
we get on - he looks like the kind of man who keeps
himself neat and clean, and I can always have him
'skinned later if I find there's any unpleasant smell,
or build up of smeg.  It's only a quick trip to the
doctor, after all."

"Certainly, sir.  And a brand?"

I almost went rigid with shock when I heard this, and
his reply sent a chill through me. "Oh yes, I have all
my property indelibly marked with my logo.  The slave
ID is OK, but when they see him in the street, no one
knows he's mine without a brand.  I usually have them
done on the shoulder under the slave number, and of
course on the butt - it adds that little extra
something, I find, when I'm fucking him, to be able to
caress the branding scar.  It reminds me, and him,
that  his flesh is mine totally.  But there's no need
to do it here - one of the more interesting aspects of
slave ownership is to do these kind of things for
oneself, I find:  holding the hot iron into his flesh
when there's just the two of us together - with him
suitably restrained, of course - helps him to bond
properly, I find."

The clerk and he exchanged a few more remarks, then he
looked me straight in the eye.  "Now, Steve, we're
going home.  You're my new personal slave - I like to
work out, and I like to run, and I like someone to do
it with.  And you'll keep all my clothes in order.
And the apartment clean.  Now, are you a virgin?"

"Hell, no.... I'm quite a stud...."

"Steve, rule number one.  Be respectful - always.  I
am your owner, and you call me 'master'.  I think what
you mean is 'Yes, master'."

I could see the guard twitching his prod, so I blushed
a bit and muttered "No, actually, master.  I'm not
married, but I've had a lot of girls..."

"But no men?"

"NO!"  I saw the guard twitching, and added
"...master."

My owner chuckled.  "So you are a virgin, Steve, in
the slave sense.  I'm glad - although I didn't pay a
premium price for you, you were quite expensive, so
having a virgin ass is a real bonus.  I'm looking
forward to training you to give me pleasure."

I almost shuddered.  I'd heard, of course, that men
bought slaves for sex, but I couldn't have believed
that this was going to happen to me.

He turned. "Follow me", he said quietly.  I went to
pull the shorts back on.

"Leave them.  They belong to the auctioneers."

"But I'm naked.... Master."

"No you're not, Steve.  A slave is never naked.  You
are wearing your collar, and that is sufficient."

"But master..."

"No arguing, Steve!  I agree that you're not as good
looking as you will be when we've had that mop of hair
cropped, and your sac neatly shaved ,and your pubes
trimmed so that we can get a proper look at your dick.
 And you will look a whole lot better when you're a
nice even brown all over.  But there's nothing to be
ashamed of - you've got a good body, but even if you
hadn't, that's no concern of yours.  I own you,
remember?  And if I choose to exhibit you naked, then
if you are less that perfect, that reflects on me, not
on you."

He walked off, and all I could do was follow him along
the corridors and out of the building.  I could feel
my dick bobbing up and down, and was acutely conscious
of my nudity, but it didn't seem to concern the others
we passed who were presumably used to the sight of
owners and their naked slaves in that place.

His huge Mercedes SUV with the darkly tined windows
lowered menacingly in the parking lot.  I could feel
the hot sun on my naked body, and the tar was almost
scorching my bare feet.  He gain looked me over, his
eyes seeming to leave me no shred of privacy in the
bright light.  "I'm glad you're being sensible, Steve.
 Some of the newly-enslaved try to make a run for it.
But we're a long way from the border.  And with your
inking and collar, you'd soon be caught.  The
mandatory punishment for an escaped slave is
castration, and that's such a waste of my money as a
gelding just isn't as valuable as a proper stud.  Now,
get in... I'll let you ride up front as we're alone,
but in future you go in the luggage compartment when
I'm travelling with guests."

As the hot leather of the seat burned into my naked
ass, and my owner rested his hand first on my thigh,
then moved it to gently fondle my balls as he headed
out on to the highway, I knew that I had a new life.
I was no longer a cop.  I was a slave.

THE END