Date: Mon, 29 May 2006 15:02:25 GMT
From: "anonymous4371@juno.com" <anonymous4371@juno.com>
Subject: DISAPPEARANCES - Case No. 6 (Authoritarian)

DISAPPEARANCES

by Bill Smith

[If you are new to the DISAPPEARANCES series, the story below story needs
to be read in the context of the introduction which was previously posted
with Case. No. 1.  As usual, I would appreciate your comments on this story
at anonymous4371@juno.com.  Thanks.  Bill Smith]

Case No. 6:

     The large walled compound that had housed newly captured slaves from
the time it was first built in 1231 by the Arabs until it was closed down
in 1920 by a League of Nations mandate was ideally located for its purpose
- close to the Atlantic shoreline, but hidden deep in the jungles of the
isolationist Guinea-Bissau.  Now the clinking of chains echoing off the
ancient stone walls revealed the huge prison fortress was once again
serving the purpose for which it had been built.  As in its past, the human
stock it housed now were primarily the beautiful brown bodies of the Malis
and the Senegalese, the regal Mandingos, the prized sturdy Wolofs, and the
sleek blue-black Nigers. Like before, the fortress held several thousand of
them - all in chains, all striped of all clothing, all fairly young, and
about half male and half female.

     A new batch of several hundred were only now arriving in the crowded
five-ton diesel closed trucks typically used in the trade now, any sounds
inside them drowned out by the roar of the diesel engines.  Once inside,
the doors were opened by the handlers equipped with both automatic rifles
and unfurled bull whips held in readiness. The handlers, all large male
slaves themselves, were totally nude except for the heavy iron collars
welded around their necks and the metal bands fitted around each wrist and
ankle as well as around their manhood.

     "Females to the left; males to the right," was the blunt command given
with a crack of the whips over their heads, "and hurry it up," as a whip
slashed across a man's back to emphasize the last command followed by the
recipients scream as the whip tore open his back.

     "Remember, Zantu, to pick out the best of the lot and shuttle them
over to the shaded arcade where I can look them over more carefully," a
heavy black man in a long red robe addressed his chief handler.

     "Yes, Master," the handler said with a low bow.  "Especially those
nice Mandingos," he giggled as he nodded to one group being unloaded who
were sort of a reddish brown with prominent cheek bones.

     Turning back to those emerging out of the trunks, he ordered them to
strip all their clothing off and drop it in a huge bin nearby and then,
once naked, made sure all males, embarrassed in their total exposure, were
on one side staring at the even more embarrassed now naked females opposite
them.  A squadron of handlers quickly shackled each new arrival's ankles
and fastened them together with a short chain so they were effectively
hobbled.  Another squad shackled each wrist and fastened them together
behind each arrival's back. Zentu, the slave in charge of all the handlers,
then formed them into long lines where they could slowly shuffle by him one
by one so he could study what the trucks had brought in that day.

     About one in ten of both sexes were ordered over to stand in the sun
next to the shaded arcade including almost all of the Mandingos. They were
indeed the prizes of this lot!

      The rest were sent to a blacksmith who had set up shop about 100 feet
away where they had a thick iron collar welded around their neck with a
link on either side of it.  Once this batch was done, a chain was passed
through each of the collar links, fastening them together in one huge gang
- one gang made up of males; the other of females. That done, a series of
whips cracking saw these groups shuffling their way to the huge underground
holding cells beneath them where they would stay until customers could be
found for them - in their case, customers looking for gang laborers who
would need few guards being confined by their collar chains to each
other. Thus, with a nod from Zantu's head in this initial sceening, their
future life was destined for the plantations, construction sites,
warehouses, and manufacturing plants were slaves could be worked close
together under a single whip and where escape was essentially impossible.
That 90 percent would be sold so cheap no hired labor could possibly
compete and the goods they produced could markedly undersell any produced
anywhere in the world that utilized more orthodox means of hired labor.
There was an insatiable market for them if the buyers could keep them
hidden from the prying eyes of various international human-rights groups.

     Zantu nodded with satisfaction at his master as this group was marched
away.  Most of them were young enough to have decades of good hard labor
left in them, had good sturdy bodies that looked like they could ward off
the diseases that plagued the slave industry from time to time, and seemed
beaten down enough already to be fairly complaisant as to their eventual
fate. He knew the never-removed restraints, the constant nakedness, the
fear caused by the wrenching pain of the omnipresent whips, their isolation
from family and lifelong friends, the constant humiliations and
subservience demanded, and the constant hunger from a diet designed to keep
them healthy but never feeling full would finish the job of turning them
into full-fledged slaves that soon would just do whatever they were told
without question or hesitation. Zantu looked upon them as mere animals
simply because that's what they were now in reality - just human chattel.

     "Zantu, over here!" his owner commanded, a sharp reminder that to the
person who owned him, he too was just an naked animal, there to do his
master's bidding.  But, he smiled as he quickly ran over to his master - he
was well fed and had the envy and respect of the squadrons of handlers
under him.

     "Yes, master," he dropped to his knees before the large black who had
owned him for years now.

     "Help me pick and choose those we'll want to place in our 'special
reserve' cages," he ordered.  "We got some orders already on the books
we've not been able to completely fill.  Surely, with the crop today, we
can round out the inventory."

     "Yes, master," Zantu answered, well aware of exactly what his master
was referring to.  They needed five more browns and four more pure blacks
for the French firm's order - all males who had to be exceptionally well
hung, muscular, and handsome; five brown females who were well-tittied and
good looking for the Las Vegas order; another four dark brown boys with
bubble butts and super huge dicks along with three medium brown gals with
straight hair - the lot of them very good looking - for that brothel in
London; and 30 more males of any shade of brown or black as long as they
were young, strikingly handsome, well built with muscular pecs and abs, and
sexual equipment that was "phenomenal" for a newly opened gay resort on a
private island off the western coast of Mexico.

     Zantu quickly got the new transients to present themselves as summoned
before his master seated, for an impressive effect, on the broad back of
one of the lesser slave handlers, a handsome muscular man looking to be in
his late twenties, who was obviously used to being used as a piece of
furniture.  Both the 'chair' and its occupant as well as Zantu all took
advantage of the shade of the large colorful tent erected over them for
just this purpose.

     One by one the chained slaves presented themselves where they were
subjected to the most minute inspections of their bodies: every hole,
including their asshole, was explored by probing fingers, every muscle was
squeezed to test for firmness, teeth and eyes were examined in detail,
their balls were hefted and weighted in the inspector's palms, and finally,
in front of all the others, they were stroked to a full erection, measured,
and then the stroking continued until they shot a full load into a small
paper cup held by Zantu in front of their erupting dick.  Zantu's owner
then dipped his finger in each slave's offering and slowly churned the warm
cum around in his mouth before finally swallowing it with a comment which,
like the slave's measurements, were recorded into a notebook computer by
yet another naked slave handler.  The paper cup and its contents was then
put in front of the mouth of the handler serving as a chair who quickly
slurped its content down with a smacking of his lips and a "Thank you,
master," to his owner.  The 'chair' understood all those cups of fresh cum
would be all he would get to eat that day and so knew better than to waste
a drop.

     The effect of this evaluation was not lost on those slaves waiting
their turn. They all thought back to their lives where only a week ago they
were free men and women back in their home village.  Then they had the
respect of their fellow villagers, took pride in their families, enjoyed
dressing up in their most colorful clothes for festivals, and struggled to
feed their families and themselves from the parched fields that were more
and more common nowadays. Then, out of the blue like a cloud of locusts,
came the slavers with their tranquilizer guns , their nets, their
frightening whips, their quickly installed plastic restraints, and their
unmerciful slaughter of all those not worth hauling to the compound with
their automatic rifles. Every one of them had watched in horror as their
parents, their small children, their older brothers and sisters, were
simply and brutally mowed down in a wave of fire from the machine guns the
slavers favored for this purpose.  As they left the village, shackled in
the slaver's trucks, they watched as the vultures and hyaenas were already
partaking of their banquet as the entire village, set alight by the
slaver's flamethrowers, burned to the ground and simply disappeared.  It
was just like the tales their grandfathers had told them as children,
relating how white-robed Arabs once raided the small villages of what was
now Guinea-Bissau when the price for slaves was high and the most
marketable of a whole village found themselves enslaved while everyone else
was slaughtered.  The story was told mainly to explain why peoples looking
like ourselves were now scattered throughout the world, not as a warning it
would ever happen again.  We reflected the irony of the elders' tale now.

     Soon all the men had been evaluated and about one of very two of this
group was held back while the others were collared and sent to the cages
below to join those already there destined for the labor gangs.  The women
were evaluated next with about the same ratio of rejection.  Those
remaining, both men and women now tiring from their long wait in the sun
and all the fondling they had received by the inspectors, were finally
fitted with a very light stainless steel collar which fastened in place
with a small internal lock and they had a tiny incision made under their
left arm where a tiny GPS locating device was permanently installed.
Finally, a unique slave identity barcode and number was tattooed in white
ink on their right forearm and the arch of their left foot.  Now, for the
rest of their lives, they could be traced wherever they were and have their
slave status instantly validated by the barcode that was now part of
them. Collared and marked as property, they were ready to market once they
were thoroughly cleaned inside and out, shaved of any body hair they might
have, and ringed anywhere the marketing experts thought it might improve
their sales price.

     Zantu identified for his master which of the remaining slaves would be
best to fill the remaining orders.  This master disagreed with him on two
of his choices so a few of the selected slaves were switched around until
the master was completely satisfied his customers would be happy when the
orders were delivered at the agreed upon price. One destined for London was
now going to be shipped to the Mexican resort; one destined for Vegas was
now going to London and visa-versa.  Others filled in the gaps.  Each slave
had a plastic destination tag clipped to his or her collar which couldn't
be removed without a special instrument and with that, their fate was
sealed.

     That night, each slave was fed a good meal with lots of cool clean
water available, allowed to shower, and shown to a clean pallet in an
individual cell far away from the huge pens holding the labor slaves.  In
the corner of each cell was a jar for their wastes and a jug of fresh
water.  Most of those so caged, exhausted and depressed, cried a while in
despair, but were so tired they quickly fell into a deep sleep.

     The next morning, they heard a great commotion at the other end of the
underground chambers and realized all of the slaves chained together by
their necks were being marched out under a steady whip to a nearby airstrip
where, planeload by planeload, packed in like sardines, they were off to
their new lives of unremitting labor with a ready whip or an electric prod
never far away. For the trip, we noticed, they had been issued a pair of
striped prisoner outfits used throughout the world so wherever they were
being taken may place them before a public.  That public would simply be
told a group of state prisoners were being transferred to a new location
under maximum security.  Once at their new private work site, the prison
overalls would be removed and shipped back for the next planeload and they
would once again be completely naked like all the slaves they would be
joining at their new home.

     After they were gone, we were fed again, fastened belly down over a
high bench, and had a tube forced up our rear ends which gave us the first
of three enemas we had before we were allowed to shower. Following that
humiliating episode (the first enema for almost all of us), we were
strapped to a rotating frame that allowed access to all sides of our
bodies.  Then the handlers shaved every hair off of our bodies below our
eyes and trimmed our head hair to a 1" 'flat top'."  Next we were all oiled
and, placed on the high bench again, had a large plastic artificial penis
they called a 'dildo' rammed unceremoniously up our holes until we were
completely filled and the device was locked in place. Many of us screamed
as the dildo went up us and, once released from the bench, found it
difficult to even walk at first - you felt like you were torn in half with
each step - but they assured us we simply needed to be 'stretched' and our
body would soon adjust to the intrusion.

     Next, the most brutal looking were fitted with a nose ring which
involved a lot of blood as the incision was made in the nose septum and the
heavy ring was permanently installed.  Others with large puffy pecs and
prominent nipples were fitted with tit rings which highlighted their
muscular chests and appealing nipples. That installation too involved some
blood and screams of pain.  Those whose pricks didn't naturally protrude
forward, but simply hung down between their legs, were fitted with thick
'genital cinches' which forced the balls upward so the prick resting on
them was thrust forward.  Once fitted with the device, the sexual equipment
was well displayed and did indeed thrust itself out at all times making it
show itself prominently but also making it very easy for any one to grab
onto and manipulate the big organs if that's what they wanted.  Fortunately
with the African stock involved, few needed this device - most of us drawn
from the tribes we were, were born with the traits they were looking for:
large organs that naturally thrust themselves out for easy handling and
visual prominence. A few had large heavy ear rings installed to highlight
some facial feature or another. Finally, a small electric branding iron was
produced and, held tight by restraints, a small brand was carefully burnt
into our upper right pec - a slave's mark of ownership that our eventual
owners all enjoyed we were told as our screams of agony echoed off the
preparation center's walls.  We were told we were lucky in that we could
skip the next step in our preparation for a new life.  All of us were
already circumcised due to our village's religious beliefs so we could all
skip being 'trimmed' - we already were they announced happily since they
said male slaves often put up a lot of unnecessary fuss about a relatively
simple procedure.  Some antiseptic cream was applied to any bodily
incisions made for ringing as well as on the recent deep burn and again we
were sorted out for shipment by our neck tags.

     That night were weren't fed since our butt plugs were in place for the
long trip ahead and each of us was given a plastic water bottle, another
empty plastic bottle to catch our piss in, and jammed into the hold of
whichever cargo plane was taking us to whoever had bought us sight
unseen. Thus, all night long, planes were taking off for Las Vegas, London,
a remote Mexican island, and to the French Riviera where the French firm
ran their auctions for individual millionaires willing to spend big bucks
to actually own African stock that they could do anything with they
wanted. For each of us in those planes, it was the longest journey of our
lives.  As the butt plugs churned painfully deep inside us with every
little movement.  We pondered what our new lives in some strange land would
be like now that we were truly just slave properties to new owner.

*****

     Another plane, considerably larger, had already landed at its
destination and the gangs of naked chained Africans were being marched from
the plane to the concrete bunkers where they would be housed from now on.
The air was scorching hot and so dry their mouths felt like sandpaper.

     "Welcome to Western Australia if you wondered where you were now," a
sunburned white man dressed in a cotton shirt and pants, work boots, and
the traditional Australian rancher's hat said in a strange accent of their
own language.  A pistol was ready in a hoister fastened to his belt next to
a small stun gun.  In his hand, he held a curled bull whip that looked
vicious and well-used.  "Red Diamonds bought the lot of you on low bid.
You blacks are dirt cheap nowadays, cheaper than anything else on the
market, but your transportation costs run high.  Still, the Japanese that
own this company figured you were worth buying in that you're bigger
generally and hold up better to the job demands here. Those Asian slaves
don't cost much to get here, but they just don't hold up too well in
mining, it seems - especially in this awful heat.  I'm going to be your
chief bossman from now on in that the Jap hired me on because I speak that
gibberish you call a language and get you to understand what we bought you
to do.  But the Japs that own the mine are the ones that actually own you -
but it's me you've got to please from now on.  That means you call me
"Bossman, sir," from now on, you call the Japs, if you ever see them,
"master," and we just call you "slave" or "boy" since no one's interested
in any name you might have had. You're going to be running the shovels,
driving those 26-ton trunks you'll soon see, loading up the sorters, and
working in the sorting mill as soon as we teach you how to run the
equipment and understand what we call working hard."

     "We'll feed you all you want to eat - a protein mush mainly that's
good for you - and give you a place to sleep out of the weather in those
concrete bunkers we'll take you to shortly.  All that concrete means it a
little cooler than out in the sun and each building has a cold-water shower
in it and some decent flush toilets so it won't smell too bad.  We'll give
you a chance to cut each other's hair once a month and oil your bodies
after every shower in that the sun really drys those black hides out over
time. If you get the cramps or can't stop throwing up or get the runs or
feel like you're burning up for more than a day, you tell me and I'll get
you to the company doctor.  The company doesn't want to loose valuable
merchandise that can be avoided.  Some of the slaves go blind because of
the glare after a while.  If that's happening, you tell me and I'll issue
you a pair of strap-on sun glasses, but the sweat on them is a bother and
they are hot as hell, so I know you won't ask for them as long as you
can. If you're assigned to a lot of lifting or have to run a lot, your
balls might start hurting since you're all just hanging loose.  If that
happens, ask me for a cinch - that will keep your balls up tight to your
prick and helps support you, especially you boys that are really hung
heavy. I'm proud the company takes such good care of its property, even you
cheap black slaves.

     "You will get up at 5 AM, get a good meal in your belly, and by 5:30
you'll be at your work site or you'll feel the whip on your back.  Late to
work the second time and you'll have my little electric shocker on your
balls. After that, we find we don't have slaves late for their work a third
time," he laughed.  You work steady until 12 noon and when the whistle
blows you can stop work, get out of the sun anyway you can - under the
trucks or a loader is a favorite spot - and a runt slave - that's a slave
not full grown yet - will deliver some cold food for lunch - generally some
raw vegetables, a loaf of course bread, and a pint of ale to wash it down
with - you can take a piss if it hasn't been sweated out of you by then -
and at 12:30 that whistle blows again and you better get right back with it
full speed or my bull whip will entertain itself on your back and rump and
if it happens again, you'll get your balls fried with my little electric
shocker here. By 6:30 that night, we've found we can't get more out of you
no matter how much we slice up your backs or tickle your balls with our
shocker, so when that whistle blows at 6:30, you head to your bunker and
get all that sweat and dirt off your black bodies.  By that time," he
laughed, "you're as white as me with all the dust caked to your body.  Then
you'll get a hot supper - all you can eat - mainly mush with a lot of beans
and mutton for flavoring.  You'll learn to like it once you get use to it
and then it's off to bed for you to rest up for the next day.  You'll work
every single day - we don't have 'off-day' here, except for we bossmen, but
don't you worry, when I'm gone another takes my place whose just as eager
to get the work out of you - we're paid based on your work output so you
remember that if you ever even think of slowing down just because you're
tired.  If we have to, we'll kill you if we think you're slacking - you're
so damn cheap anymore, losing a few of you to the whip isn't that big a
loss.  In fact, your Jap owners keep telling us we're too soft on you boys
and should use the whip and prod on you a lot heavier than we are so they
could get more work out of you.  Of course," he chuckled," they're not the
one exhausting themselves whipping you guys or having to hold that prod to
close to your balls."

     "Just three more things and I'll shut up.  If we get tired whipping
your asses, we can starve you for a while, or, a hell of lot quicker, cut
off all your water.  That shapes even the most stubborn slave we've got
into a new attitude about his work real quick.  If you ever get rebellious
like talking back to an overseer, mumbling behind our backs, or
complaining, or refusing a command, or, God forbid, try to hit an overseer
or even another slave, we simply cut off your balls and that invariably
calms you down and gets you a lot more cooperative real fast. . Now I know
you're all wondering about who you're going to hump around here to empty
your balls.  Well, there's no women within 100 miles of this God forsaken
place and the only place you'll ever be going is to your bunker and your
work site.  So you might as well start finding a likely partner in your own
gang to fuck because it's that or nothing.  You'll soon find out anything
is better than nothing and most of you are fine looking animals so once
you're in the bunkers a night or two, don't be surprised if you feel a big
leaking dick trying to get into your ass or a wet mouth taking you down
their throat. There's a lot of give and take within your gang and you'll
soon learn to sort it all out.  Your owners are real lenient - they
understand you black boys have strong drives and so they don't mind if you
fuck each other if it doesn't affect your work in any way.  That means you
can't fuck around all night though or you can't work properly the next day,
so limit yourself to just playing around until you've emptied your balls
good.  Lots of owners don't let their slaves ever get off - they think it
takes energy away from your work, so those poor slaves about die of
frustration over time.  Your damn lucky the Japs bought you - they don't
subscribe to that particular theory of slave management."

     For that planeload of slaves, that's exactly how it played out.  Each
day they worked to near dropping in the unrelenting sun invariably feeling
the whip on their backs and rumps before the day was over no matter how
hard they toiled.  Many hardly went a day without also experiencing the
jolting unforgettable pain of the electric prod on their balls. They ate
huge amounts of the horrible mush despite its taste and texture to quell
their ravishing hunger.  Their bodies became even more muscular and
well-defined over time and their skin got darker and darker in the constant
sun, but the oil supplied kept it shiny and sleek.  Working while chained
to the other slave's neck collars took some getting used to but soon
everything was done together in perfect coordination, but those collars and
chains were always in the way and reminded them constantly of what they
were - chained animals. Most nights they got fucked by the person chained
next to them or felt his prick sliding down their throat in return for
getting to fuck them or enjoy them sucking you off.  As their bossman said,
it was better than nothing and gave them relief.

     After a chain gang had lost a good quarter of its number due to death
or disablement, another group of black slaves soon replaced them and it was
interesting to hear their stories of life back in Africa before they had
been enslaved.

     Most of these African slaves lasted a good 30 years before their
bodies wore out and the whip and prod could no longer get them back on
their feet.  That's when they were written off the books as a company asset
and their broken bodies wee thrown into the company's compost pile where
eventually they would fertilize the magnificent floral display in front of
company headquarters.

*****

     "Jesus, that's mighty pretty meat if you're into black stuff," one of
the handlers commented as he led those slaves just unloading off the plane
on their private airstrip into a delivery van.  The slaves waddled as best
they could to the waiting vehicle within the confines of their hobble
connecting their ankles and the butt plug still deep within them.

     "What's first for these boys, Jake?"

     "The usual - unplug them, flush them out three times each, a complete
body shave although few of them needs much more than a little trim it looks
like, a soaking bath followed by getting them to oil all their hide until
it gleams, get their teeth bleached, get plenty of anti- per spirant under
those shaved arm pits and lube them up good, George." The resort used a
special oil on their slave's hides - a special blend of banana oil and
fresh squeezed limes that gave each slave a delightful "fresh scent" and
bleached every slave's teeth until they were pearly white.

     "Then strap them to the fucking bench belly down for 'Virgin's Night?"
George chortled.

     "You've got it, George," Jake replied.  "They're already sold out with
a long waiting list.  Each one of these black bodies has ten customers
paying big bucks to go up their tight, unspoiled ass holes," he laughed.
"Let's hope for their sake, those plugs up their butt on the trip over have
stretched them some. Otherwise, they're not going to be able to take a
single step in the morning without a whip on their back."

     "Well, at least they'll be properly broken in," George commented.
"But," he laughed, "we can't very well bill their butt holes as 'virgin'
anymore."

     "Nope, one long night and it's all over around this place," Jake
said. "But that's when they settle down and really start earning their
keep," he added.  "I could never understand, myself, why so many guests are
willing to pay five times our regular fee to fuck a virgin.  Other than
practically guaranteeing the slave's nice and tight, what's the big deal?
We've got slave boys around who've been on full duty since we opened this
place six years ago who still are reasonably tight - at least, they've not
all loose and sloppy yet - so why pay the big premium?"

     "A lot of guys just like the idea of it.  Besides, those slaves squeal
likes a pig and buck like a horse when something besides a dildo is pumping
into them for the first time. Some fellows get off best when a slave's
really putting up a fuss like that," George answered.

     "Hell, we trainers should be in hog heaven then!" Jake exclaimed.  "We
get the squealing and bucking around every time we shove it in them - at
least until they get used to it!"

     I could understand none of this conversation of course, since it was
entirely in English.  But that night, despite my fresh brand still
unhealed, and a sore ass from the plug in it over the past 20 hours, I
learned what they were talking about.  Strapped tightly to a special
leather-topped bench I learned later was called a "fucking bench," my legs
forced wide apart so my hole was fully exposed, and my body perfectly
positioned for the "guests" convenience, I was fucked by a series of ten
men - one every 45 minutes so they wouldn't be hurried.  Those "guests"
were whites, Asians, blacks, Polynesians, you name it, from every country
in the world apparently and every age from a spoiled 18-year-old to a man
looking to be about 70.  They were well built and muscular, fat and slobby,
thin and willowy, and had dicks ranging from those like a small child to
absolute monsters. In between each one, I was flushed out in position,
relubed, given some water through a straw and had my sweating body rubbed
down by a resort attendant, himself a slave judging from his thick collar,
his ringed tits, and his complete nakedness despite the fact this slave was
a handsome young blond boy, the first white man I had ever seen enslaved.
After I started bleeding a little after an especially rough fuck by a
American black man with the biggest dick I had ever seen, the white slave
gently inserted some soothing cream up my hole with two of his fingers and
whispered soft encouragements in my ear as he softly patted my butt and
stroked by shoulders lovingly.  It was one slave encouraging another in his
hour of need, and I never forgot that slaveboy's kindness that night.

     Jake tried to explain what was going to happen the next morning as he
jammed fresh plugs up our sore holes which, he explained, where covered in
a healing cream so we'll heal up about as fast as our ass chutes got used
to be fucked regularly.  The resort had bought us blacks from the
Guinea-Bissau market to round out the stock they already had available for
their customers: loads of white slaves from the old East Germany, Poland,
and Romania primarily; some nice blonds from Russia; some olive-skinned
boys from the markets specializing in Mediterranean stock, some pretty
Polynesians primarily from Tongo these days where they were selling cheap,
some mulatto boys from the American markets; and some beautiful Arab boys
recently in from Afghanistan along with some muscular Malays and
Vietnamese; all of whom were real bargains in current markets.

     "You boys come in about as cheap as they get, but its all a case of
supply and demand.  Supply is what keeps your price down, boys," Jake
continued his explanation. "There's just too damn many of you to ever allow
much increase in your value.  That's the problem with all the African
markets if you ask me - they find something to sell and then they just gut
the market with it.  It's not fair to you boys, but it sure makes you a
high-profit item for the resort, let me tell you."
     "Well, anyway, you're here with all the others to help us meet the
resort's promise: 'Anything you want whenever you want.'  The resort is
owned by a consortium of Americans and Hong Kong businessmen called
'Five-Star Fantasies' who actually own you now and caters exclusively to
gays from all over the world who have the means to fulfill their own
personal fantasies. Your purpose is to make all that happen as smoothly and
problem free as possible with a smile on your face and a willing eager
attitude about their use of you, whatever they might have in mind.  Now
that your virginity has been sold off to the highest bidders, we'll get
serious teaching you how to take a good fucking and enjoy it; how to take
even the biggest dicks down your throats without gagging or choking, how to
fuck them long and hard if that's what they want - you'll be surprised how
many pay big bucks for just that, especially from you black studs - and
everything in between.  You'll have a customer scheduled about every hour,
but it depends on what they want to do with you, so you're not overworked
and you have plenty of time to rest up in between customers once you get
used to the routine.  Frankly, the white and mulatto slaves probably have
the biggest workload right now.  That's because so many of our current
guests are rich blacks and Arab sheiks who prefer them - that and the
blonds from Russia. But American and Oriental guests seem to prefer you
black slaves so you're kept busy almost at much.  You'll have English
lessons starting tomorrow so you can talk with the customers and understand
what any handler other than me is telling you.  We'll start with the basic
commands you need to know but you may pick up other words later from some
of the guests using your services."

     "Any questions?" Jake asked, who was in charge of us mainly because he
had mastered our language well enough to initially instruct us until, as he
said, we learned the basic English commands: "Suck," "Position," "On your
knees," "Present your ass," "Fuck me," etc.

     "Food, sir?"

     "You're fed a good diet three times a day as long as you behave and do
everything you're told.  But any hesitancy or resistance on your part and
we'll starve you until you learn to do what you're told without any
trouble.  All the food you want as long as you keep your body in shape and
do what you're told instantly."

     "Sir, I don't really like sex with other men," one handsome man said.
"Could you find a use for me in a resort catering to women guests?" he
asked politely.

     Jake reared back in a robust laugh.  "Nice try, slave boy, but no way.
Slaves do what they're told without question and what you like or don't
like has nothing to do with it when you're a bought piece of property.  You
don't like sex with men?  Tough cookie.  You learn to like it and learn it
fast or you're going to end up shark meat, black boy."

     "Yes, sir," the slave replied, trembling at the mention of sharks and
the certainty he had no choice in the matter now that he was a slave.

THREE MONTHS LATER:

     I found it amazing how we proud African men would be so quickly molded
to anything desired.  Within three months, we no longer had to be strapped
down to anything to do what the resort expected us to do: down on our knees
sucking anything put before us; bending over in every position possible to
offer our well stretched holes to anything anyone wanted to put up them;
offering any and all parts of our bodies to others just to play with,
especially our tits and balls; standing with our pelvis thrust out as far
as possible while various customers enjoyed milking us; and humping into
someone's butt when they wanted to be fucked. Sometimes we had to put on
exhibitions where we sucked and fucked each other while the customers
enjoyed the show; sometimes we were given as prizes by the resort
management in various contests; occasionally a customer bought one of us
from the resort to take home as his very own - whatever, the resort made
sure we kept out bodies in great shape through rigorous exercises often
under a ready whip, a carefully controlled diet of dried stuff they called
"slave chow" washed down with lots of water; and good bodily hygiene which
include regular body shaving, hair grooming, skin oiling, and regular
dental and medical checks.  Since every slave in the place was doing just
what we African boys were doing, we never thought of what we were doing as
unusual - we were slaves and this was what slaves did as far as we knew.

     This was verified by the fact that slaves from all over the world also
stocked the resort - actually we were just a small part of the total number
of resort-owned slaves.  The largest group were white slaves, the first
whites most of us had ever seen outside of the customers, and, other than
the language, they looked and acted just like we did - big muscular bodies,
hefty sex organs usually showing hard, beautiful shaved hides, and pretty
faces, for whites that is.  Of course, they often had blue or gray or green
eyes and some of them had blond or even red hair, but outside of that and
their milky tanned skin, there really wasn't much difference between us.
If anything, they were kept busy even more than we were.  Once we learned
some English, the "official" language of the resort, we could talk to them
and quickly discovered their backgrounds weren't all that different from
our own, other than they had been captured individually more than having a
whole village just disappear all at once.  One by one they had just
disappeared off the streets of the places they had once lived in and had
been delivered to this Mexican resort as slaves.

     All the resort slaves tended to get along well with each other
regardless of color.  We had a lot in common: we were all now slaves for
life; we all were there to serve the customer's needs; most of us were in
almost constant sexual usage of one type or another; and none of us saw any
alternative to what we were doing or any point in fighting the system that
wouldn't worsen our condition. We'll even got used to smelling like fresh
limes all the time, having our bodies gleaming with scented oil at all
times, and having teeth so white they were dazzling!  Although the majority
would probably prefer to be stationed at a resort catering to women, all of
us knew we had no choice in the matter, and some seemed to actually
preferred working at an all-male resort.

     Regardless of our preferences or desires, without exception we all did
what we were told to do without too much fuss - only occasionally did the
owners schedule a public whipping for disobedience.  That spectacle left a
slave in a bloody heap that took weeks for him to get back on his feet;
badly damaged goods for the resort owners; but was terribly popular with
some sadists who came to the resort only when such an event was scheduled,
finding the usual offerings rather boring (since house rules forbade
serious damage of resort property).  But the disciplinary sessions, as they
were called, did keep us from every questioning a command, kept us eager to
hop to it to do whatever was asked of us, and made sure we were always
cooperative and polite to our handlers as well, of course, to the resort's
guests.  One peep out of them to the people in charge and we all knew we
would be dead meat.

TWO YEARS LATER:

     "You and you," one of the handlers pointed to me and a well-built
white Polish slave with sandy hair, "come with me."

     That was the last we ever saw of that particular resort or our fellow
slaves there.  Within ten minutes, we were caged and placed in the cargo
hold of a small yacht which promptly started up once our cages were
strapped down.  The ride was rough but not very long.  When we were uncaged
and marched to the slave facilities, it looked very similar to the
buildings we were used to at the place we had just come from.  The only
difference the Polish slave and I could see was that the scent of the body
oil provided in the showers was now an herbal scent rather than the lime
scent we were used to and the head hair on the slaves seemed to be longer
and more elaborately coiffured.

     "You guys have lucked out," a handler commented as he assigned us a
bunk in the slaves' quarters.  "This place is owned by the same people that
own the other place, so you haven't changed hands but you'll be serving the
ladies from now on - this is the women's resort.  You two are filling a
couple of vacancies here - two of the boys were bought by a very wealthy
bitch who took a fancy to them," he laughed.  "Wanted those pretty boys
around-the- clock back in her estate back in the Seychilles - one black
stud from Brazil and a blue-eyed Kurd from Turkey originally.  You two are
their replacements."

     "We're going to be fucking women?" I asked timorously.

     "Yep!  Over and over and over until your pricks are sore most of the
time.  That and licking them 'till they juice good and letting them play
with your balls until they ache. But, don't worry, boys, your asses will
still get fucked - it always amazes me how many of the ladies like to fuck
a big stud with a huge dildo strapped on.  It's your squealing that turns
'um on, I think, so my advice is to thrash around a lot squealing if you
want the bitches to give you a good rating.  Yeah, they rate your
'services' at this place the minute they're through with you - the ladies
really like to rate a stud.  Don't ask me why, but it may be they don't get
to do it much if they're not buying their love life.  It won't take long to
teach you slaveboys new to it how to lick pussy and give them a tongue bath
down there.  You're already trained in displaying yourself and letting
people play with you all over your body, but it takes a while to learn
never to shoot off unless you're given permission - sort of frustrating,
they tell me, to fuck all day long sometimes without ever getting to shoot
off.  But we can't have slaves around not able to get it up and fuck
properly just because they hadn't learned how to control themselves, now
can we?"

     "No, sir" seemed to be the only answer possible in that we knew we
were expected to respond to a direct question and we both gave it promptly
and without hesitation.

     "I knew you'd agree with me," he said satisfied, "but this resort
isn't the slave heaven you may have thought it was back when you were over
at the men's resort.  Once you get a chance to talk to the veterans around
here, you'll find a lot of them wish they were where you just came from.
They'll tell you the women are insatiable and you get tired of just fucking
and licking pussy all day long - they all want to go where someone just
fucks them and they don't have to do all the work.  Then they complain
about how the women want them to romance them all the time - telling them
how much they turn the slave on and that sort of stuff - a fellow gets
tired of mouthing all that garbage about loving them and being turned on by
them, and that sort of stuff. At least with men, they claim, they would
just use their bodies however they wanted and that would be the end of it.
Of course, they don't know a damn thing about what they're talking about
because most of them have never been a slave anywhere but right here so its
just wishful thinking on their part.  Slaves are never happy no matter
where they're at - always bitching and wishing they were somewhere else.
You think you'll end up bitching like them?"

     "No, sir," the Polish slave said.  "Fucking is what I'm good at - at
least that's what all the women told me before I was made a slave and sent
to that men's resort. Once I'm given a chance to bed these women guests
down, those ratings you were talking about are going to go off the scale,"
he bragged.

     "You going to get those high ratings too, black boy?  You sure have
the equipment for it," he questioned me directly lifting up my large penis
and stroking it to a full erection.

     "I hope so, sir," I answered cautiously.  "But, sir, I don't know
about keeping from shooting off while I'm fucking, sir."

     "That's the hard part, alright, boy," he answered, his hands still
wrapped around my prick.  "Your last handler told me on the phone you had
settled in real well over there at the men's place.  He said you were even
shooting off regularly when they fucked you - that's always a good sign of
settling in."

     "Yes, sir," I responded, but was too scared to add that I didn't like
drinking quarts of cum down every day when I was sucking the men guests off
- I didn't mind the taste of it but the fact it stuck together in gobs made
it hard for me to swallow.

     The handler was right - most of the other slaves there really wished
they could be transferred to the men's resort or sold off as a houseboy or
even to a manufacturing or agriculture outfit. They said fucking pussy
became real old fast, especially when most of the customers were old, fat,
and ugly - they had to buy their pleasure anymore.  And the older the
customer, the more demanding they were and the longer you had to fuck them
until they were finally satisfied.  They also said young pussy wasn't bad
to eat, but with the older ones it was sour and smelly and until you got
used to licking them and giving them a tongue bath, you practically retched
at first.  Their worst fear was that one of the old bags would buy them
outright in which case they'd be denied the relief of a good looking, young
customer now and then.

     "That's what happened to the two slaveboys you replaced," a very
striking Latino stud told me.  "You should see who bought them - no one but
a slave would go near them, and a slave wouldn't if he could figure out
anyway not to without a whip cutting his back to shreds."

     Within a year, the Polish slave and I were just like the other slaves
stationed at the women's resort - complaining among ourselves about who we
had to fuck all the time and sick with frustration at having to hold a
pending orgasm under control hour after hour after hour as we fucked our
pricks into raw abrasions and the smell of pussy practically turned our
stomachs anymore.  Like the other slaves, we longed to go back to the men's
resort or be sold off to a different job.

TEN YEARS LATER:

     Slaves don't' determine their lives and we humped and licked our way
through the next ten years, hating it a good half of the time.  I despised
having to tell some old bag she turned me on, or that she was sexy, or all
the other lies I knew I had to say each and every day before I did exactly
what they said to bring them the satisfaction they paid big fees to get.
Those who didn't play the game got beaten with whips that left no scars,
shocked with electric prods that didn't burn the hide, and went around
hungry when their rations of slave chow were cut in half. I had learned to
hate even the smell of a woman and looked back with envy at my life at the
men's resort where, certainly in hindsight, life was good for a slave.  It
was a hell of a lot easier to get fucked eight or nine times a day, whether
it was up your ass or down your throat, that having to hump all day long
without ever being allowed to discharge yourself or having your body parts,
especially your ringed tits which women seemed to fascinated with, played
with until they were swollen, sore, and sometimes bleeding from
overuse. And the dildos they fucked us with, another peculiar fascination
of the ladies, were bigger and thicker than anything an actual man was
equipped with, and you couldn't help but moan in agony when they forced
them up you - it was the tortured look on our faces as they forced them up
our holes deeper and deeper that they seemed to enjoy the most.  Why was it
the women frequenting these places seemed to be real man-haters? That's one
thing we all agreed the women had in common that we were assigned to -
products of bad marriages, child abuse, frustrated widows, and those so
ugly and unappealing no man who wasn't a helpless slave would look at them
twice.

     Even of the best of us lose our appeal over time and each year a
number of the slaves were weeded out and sold off for whatever the resort
could get.  Luckily, my Polish friend and I didn't get bought by any of the
female customers over the years - what was viewed as one of the worst fates
possible with rare exceptions - and found ourselves in the batch to be sold
off.  The lot of us were added to an even larger group from the men's
resort and shipped to a underground dealer in nearby Acapulco who auctioned
us off one by one to his discrete buyers.

     The Pole and I were looked over thoroughly and were bought off the
auction podium by a large waste disposal firm operating throughout the
United States.  We had our slave collars and tit rings removed so we
wouldn't stand out, were re-branded on our backs with the company logo so
there was no question of who owned us now, and issued the company's bright
orange overalls without underwear and a pair of sturdy work boots to wear
from then on, along with a fake 'green card' and a federal I.D. card
required for our entry into the U.S. .  About 15 of us, all in our
thirities by now, were escorted to the nearby airport, and shipped to Las
Vegas where 15 unskilled laborers would never be noticed.  Those who once
always had bands around their balls or rings through their noses were still
trying to get use to their absence.  Now we ride the garbage trucks seven
days a week, dumping the heavy cans into the trucks 12 hours a day, or work
in the landfills out of Vegas where the trucks dump their contents. The job
stinks, but then so do we without our fancy anti-perspirants and sweet-
smelling body lotions, and our body hair has all grown out again, including
the strange sensation of once again having some hair around our genitals
and a little hair up our ass crack.  My Polish friend turned out to be
quite hairy and I marveled at the thick coating of hair all over his chest
and back and most everywhere else.  The garbage company fed us well - slave
chow wasn't used here in Las Vegas it seemed - we could purchase new
overalls as needed, had access to a laundromat, and we got paid $15 a week
for clothing, laundry cost, incidentals like toothpaste, a beer once in a
while (we were limited to one a day maximum), and a magazine if any of us
could read (most couldn't).  That way, they could claim we were now
employees and not slaves.  If the immigration people ever checked up on
things (they never did), the company claimed we weren't subject to minimum
wages or social security or medicare taxes since we weren't citizens and
could never claim benefits, and the company logos branded into our back
(along with our original ownership brands on our upper pecs) were of our
own choosing and were simply volitional symbols of our pride in being
employed by a company that was so good in taking care of them in an alien
country.

     The work was hard, even backbreaking.  The constant stench you got use
to, but there weren't any sexual duties imposed on any of us.  The company
didn't care who we had sex with or when - or even if we had any sex at all
anymore. Personally, the Pole and I were always turned on by each other but
never had the chance before to do anything about it, so we took care of
each other now and both of us were certainly skilled at pleasing a partner
by this time.  I especially liked vigorously fucking the Pole's nice white
bubble butt and he liked having me suck him off with what he called my
"velvet lips."

     Since almost all of the waste management company's new 'employees'
were from situations similar to the ones my Polish friend and I had been at
since our enslavement, the hard work involved certainly beat the daily
forced exercises we always had experienced before designed simply to keep
our bodies attractive.  We liked being fed real food after all those years
on slave chow, and it was great now to not have a collar welded around your
neck or a thick metal band gripping your genitals all the time.

     We worked there in Las Vegas up until, when we were around 65, we
weren't able to climb on the trucks anymore.  Then they switched us to
running the bulldozers at the landfills until we were so decrepit we
couldn't even do that anymore at around our mid-seventies.

     We knew what was coming when you couldn't earn your keep any more.
The company simply shot you, plowed you under into the landfill right there
in front of us, and carefully filled out the paperwork for the authorities
claiming you had died of a heart attack or pneumonia or kidney failure -
whatever suited their fancy at the time.  At the age listed, no one
questioned any of those causes, of course, and so no one ever bothered to
check it out.

     When you think about it, our death was a lot more humane and merciful
than what happens to most others into advanced old age. When I saw the
company supervisors pull out their pistols for our final goodbye, I knew a
lot of older people in the states probably were envious.  I closed my eyes
and just let it happen without a word of protest.

[This ends "The Disappearances" series until I get some fresh interesting
ideas from readers.  Thanks.  Bill Smith at anonymous4371@juno.com]