Date: Tue, 1 Jan 2013 20:35:54 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: Re: "Duped" Chapter 8  (Gay Male Authoritarian)

DUPED
Chapter 8
The Six Waiters

I wish all my readers and group members a Happy New
Year!  I wish you all a happy, healthy and prosperous 2013.
And I offer a sincere "thank you" for your support of my
stories throughout 2012. - Chris

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): January, 2013
Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

"The characters and ideas in this story are purely fictitious and belong to
the writer. They shouldn't be used without his permission. Please respect
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add pictures."

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Chapter 8: The Six Waiters

It's been a long sleepless night spent in a slave -pen with Mustapha's six
waiter slaves. Like me all are naked and much stressed. After their arrival
in Maluchistan, they'd been brought straight from the airport to the
slave-market. Once there, they'd been stripped naked, body shaved and
placed in this pen. Now all seven of us await our ultimate fates; we are to
be sold at auction two days from now.

Around me, locked in identical pens, are another twenty-seven slaves who
are to share in our fate.

Apart from our naked, hairless bodies we have a number of things in
common. Foremost among these is that, without exception, we are all young
and perfect, physical specimens of the Caucasian race. That of course, is
the main reason for our presence in these slave-pens; this market deals
exclusively in prime, white, male slaves who are destined to become the
servants and sexual playthings of either Arab or Black African masters.

We are an eclectic lot and later, speaking to my brothers in bondage, I
will learn we are from many places. Among the six waiters are young men
from Germany, Ireland, the UK, the USA, Russia and South Africa. Unlike me,
none of them were duped into slavery by a wily and cunning Arab posing as a
friend; rather all six were "gathered up" - a euphemism used by the slavers
to describe their nefarious activities - and consigned to Malik's
slave-market in Maluchistan.

All six waiters tell me they are familiar with this place. Just twelve
months ago, they were kidnapped and consigned here and sold to
Mustapha. Once purchased, they'd been placed under the control Mustapha's
two sons, Hussein and Omar and forced to work in the kitchens of his London
restaurant. Here they worked helping to prepare the food for the specialist
chef and his two apprentices - all three of whom were Arabs - and made to
serve as general kitchen hands. The three Arabs chefs had complete mastery
over them and ruled them with rods of iron. The kitchen was equipped with a
variety of rattan canes, leathers straps and wooden paddles which were
frequently used to discipline them and to hurry them along in their duties.

They were housed on the premises in a windowless dormitory just under the
roof. Each night, they and the six waiters were stripped naked, fitted with
shackles and chained to ringbolts securely fastened into strong beams and
for bedding each had a straw filled hessian mattress and one blanket to
keep him warm.

Altogether they served for twelve months under the stern discipline of
Mustapha and his two sons. Their lives as Mustapha's slaves had consisted
of unremitting hard labour and harsh punishments. Such personal milestones
as birthdays and the main Western festivals were no longer observed. As
slaves these things served as a distraction to their main duties of working
and adding to their Master's fortunes.

At the end of the first six months, they graduated to the dining-room where
they served as waiters while newly acquired slaves took their places in the
kitchen. Now, in line with Mustapha's policy of introducing "new faces"
into his restaurant every six months, they are to be sold.

All six are anxious about their future prospects and extremely fearful of
their new owners. I am aware of their anxiety and this feeds my own
uncertainty and fear. But truthfully, I am too traumatized to be overly
concerned with their fates. My own future weighs heavily on my mind and the
changed circumstances of my life leave me feeling most vulnerable.

My new, unaccustomed nakedness feeds my sense of worthlessness and the
blistering brand on my left flank throbs with painful intensity and is a
constant reminder of yesterday's events. My feverish night had been
restless and sleep for the most part had eluded me. All around me I'd
listened to the sad sounds of my fellow slaves; I heard their snoring,
their coughing, their farting and their pitiful whimpering in their sleep
as they nostalgically dreamt of families and loved ones from whom they'd
been cruelly parted. I listened as, in their sleep, they implored absent
mothers and fathers to come and set them free.  Their sad dreams have been
replaced by hideous nightmares that now condemn them to live out their days
in vile slavery.

Eventually, I'd drifted into a fitful sleep and I only awoke as dawn's
first light pierced the gloom of my prison. I'd awoken and momentarily
thought all was well with me. At first, I imagined I was back in my London
apartment sleeping between soft, finely spun, cotton sheets in my bedroom
overlooking the Thames River. As I drowsily stretched to ease my
sleep-cramped limbs, the straw bedding prickled my nakedness and I'd been
startled into full wakefulness. Then, the full horror of my situation
returned.

Mustapha's six slaves are already awake and one is straddling the sewage
drain to relieve his overfull bladder. There's no privacy afforded him and
he pisses in full sight of his fellow slaves; I watch in dismay knowing
that I must soon join him in so public a display that will show me there is
no false modesty for a slave. My own bladder is full to capacity but before
I can empty it, I will have to wait until my usual, early morning erection
subsides.

Embarrassed by my raging "hard-on", I try to cover it, as best I can behind
my cupped hands.  But then I notice some of my cellmates also sport
erections that, at the very least rival my own and that they show no signs
of shame.

Of course, they have been slaves for far longer than me - for twelve months
whereas I have been a slave for less than twenty-four hours - and so they
are more "at ease" with their bodies than I am.  It occurs to me that I
must now adjust my mindset to that of my fellow slaves. Total slave
nakedness is to be my permanent state and I must now learn to display my
nude body with the same nonchalance as they do.

All about me, the unhappy inmates of the other pens stir into wakefulness
and begin to robotically pace around the perimeters of their cells - as
though waiting for something to happen - or to listlessly stare out through
the bars into the gloomy passageway which bisects the slave-holding pens.

It's true to say I have never felt as alone or as vulnerable as I do. My
sense of betrayal at Anwar's hands is uppermost in my thoughts and it feeds
the mounting panic that I feel.  What new horrors will today bring? Surely,
nothing can surpass yesterday's happenings?

In despair, I look at my cellmates and for the first time I get to appraise
them. Previously, I'd seen them dressed as waiters in Mustapha's London
restaurant and while their clothing hadn't completely obscured their
muscular physiques, I'm now able to see - and appreciate - them in all
their naked glory.

They are a very mixed bunch and their facial features tell me they are
representative of several races; some are thin faced with aquiline noses
while others have the broader countenances of the Slavic race. But all are
incredibly handsome and were obviously handpicked for slavery for their
masculine, good looks and strong, muscular bodies. Their cropped hair
colours also vary from lustrous black through varying shades of brown to
the silver- gold, finely spun, silky hair of the Slav. One in particular
stands out; he is the tow haired slave who'd had his ass enthusiastically
groped by Mustapha during my first ever visit to his restaurant with Anwar
some months ago.

It seems improbable that it's only three months or so since that fateful,
first night when Anwar had demonstrated chattel slavery for the very first
time by exposing me to these six young men and later taking me to his home
where I'd encountered his slave, Sven. Then, I'd been flattered by Anwar's
attention; now I recognize it as a cunning ploy to ensnare me into my own
slavery.

Improbable as that may seem, the reality is that, like them, I am now a
naked slave about to be sold at auction to the highest bidder.

My sense of awful loneliness is palpable and I am overwhelmed by
self-pity. At first, my eyes merely brim with tears of self-pity but then
the fearful reality of my situation hits home and I sit in a corner of the
pen where I draw up my knees, hug them to my chest and bury my face in my
folded arms.

As my silent sobs convulse my trembling body and with my head bowed, I
don't notice, the tow haired slave detach himself from his companions and
sit at my side. I am suddenly aware of a comforting arm being placed across
my heaving shoulders and I hear a sympathetic voice tell me.

"Hi, I'm Finbar! It's best to cry it out and get it out of your
system. Until you do, you can't move on."

Finbar speaks with a lilting Irish brogue and the feel of his arm resting
over my shoulder is cathartic. Suddenly, the floodgates of my emotions
burst open and like an incoherent torrent, my words just tumble out. I'm
not aware of what I am saying; all I know is that for the first time since
my enslavement someone is showing compassion to me.  And I am so grateful!

So great is my need for even a small measure of kindness, that I turn and
take Finbar in a firm embrace. His powerful arms encircle me and I snuggle
my head against his broad chest.  I feel the steady rise and fall of his
breathing and the strong, rhythmic beating of his heart and in both, there
is solace for me!

I'm not sure for how long we remain in this tight embrace. Probably just
minutes although it does seem much longer. The physical contact with Finbar
is therapeutic. He calms me by soothingly stroking my back much as one does
with a frightened animal and I respond to his ministrations by resting my
head against the warm hardness of his chest. I drink in the manly smell of
his body and as my tears subside I find myself being aroused by his
nearness.

He disentangles our embrace and taking my head in his strong hands, he
positions it so that we have eye to eye contact. His handsome face is
wreathed in a broad, welcoming smile and his blue eyes twinkle as I reach
out and touch his stubbled chin.  He asks my name.

"Okay, I've told you my name, now tell me yours?"

"Matthew!" I blurt out. "It's Matthew but my friends call me Matt."

"Then I'll call you Matt too. Actually, the other guys," and he
gesticulates towards the other five slaves, "find Finbar a bit of a
mouthful and so they call me Fin. You can too if you like."

"Thanks Fin, I'd like that."

And I smile for the first time since yesterday's grim happenings. But there
is something so immensely likeable about Fin that inspires my confidence
and is giving me strength.

"So Matt. Let me introduce you to the other guys."

We disentangle and climb to our feet and for the next few minutes Fin
introduces me to my brothers in misfortune. I learn that they are indeed
"multi-national". There is Andrew from Alabama, Holger from Cologne, Mark
from Manchester, Sergei from St Petersburg and Wickus an Afrikaner from
Johannesburg.

They are indeed the international face of Arab slavery and I have joined
their unhappy group.

All six of the former waiter slaves are down to earth and immensely
likeable. Their slave's nakedness doesn't trouble them as they move
unselfconsciously around our pen and my initial shame at my nakedness
dissipates as I realize they are unaffected by it. I am learning that
nudity is a slave's natural state and I need have no sense of embarrassment
at my own nakedness. And to be truthful, I find their presence to be
powerfully erotic. As I look at their hairless bodies I can, without any
guilt, appreciate their good looks, superb physiques and generous genitalia
which are on prominent display. And of course, they all have the
delightfully curvaceous asses which are much appreciated by our Arab
masters.

And strangely, I have a sense of satisfaction and pleasure in knowing that
my own body is considered by Malik, the slave-dealer, to be at least the
equal of these prime slaves. As I look at them, I realize that I am in good
company.

My companions ply me with questions about my background and how I have
become a slave. They listen sympathetically as I tell them about Anwar's
duplicity and of how he'd "befriended" then cruelly duped me and brought me
to Maluchistan under false pretences and how less than twenty-four hours
ago he'd enslaved me.

In turn, I listen to how they'd become slaves. In all instances their tales
are distressing and bitterly I reflect on the deviousness of the Arab
mind. They'd been gathered up off the streets or in clubs and found
themselves consigned to the Middle-east and Malik's slave- market.

I'd forgotten that this process isn't new to them. They'd previously been
held in these pens and just twelve months ago, they stood on the
auction-block as they were sold to Mustapha. Questions tumble through my
mind. I have so many to ask and I need answers.

My first question is how they can remain so cheerful under the heavy burden
of their slavery.

It is Andrew who answers.

"Matt, it's because we have no other choice but to accept that we are
slaves! "

His answer is direct and very succinct. I suspect he is telling me that I
must do the same and I ask.

"But, how do you adjust to becoming a slave?"

"Matt, I'll admit that, at first, it is hard." Andrew replies.  "The first
few days of my slavery were traumatic as they will be for you, Matt. But
keep in mind that you are now a slave and that you'll never be set
free. From now on you'll always be just property that belongs to
another. You have to make the most of your situation and make it work to
your advantage."

"You mean that I am Anwar's property?"

My voice reflects my bitterness and my words are more of a statement of the
reality of my situation than an answer.

"Exactly, Matt!  Today you belong to him," it is Fin who answers, "but on
Saturday, you'll have a new master just like the rest of us."

"Look guys, it's true that Matt has some adjusting to do," Mark speaks with
a pronounced Mancurian accent, "but he's got more immediate problems to
deal with, hasn't he?"

"What are they?" I ask.

"Well, you have to get through the next few days leading up to the
auction." Mark continues. "Beginning today, most likely you'll be inspected
- perhaps even taken for a test fuck by a prospective buyer - and then
there's the actual sale itself for you to deal with.  Perhaps it would be
better if we tell Matt what will happen today."

"I think you are right, Mark." Fin agrees. "It would be better if we tell
Matt what will happen today. That way, he'll be prepared."

We gather in a rough circle - and I draw strength from my new friends - as
they outline the monotonous, never-changing routine of the
slave-pens. Soon, they tell me, the overseers will feed us our morning food
ration of gruel, black bread and dates. One of them - I'm not sure who -
jokingly tells me of the laxative effects of this diet on our bowels. Then
after we have eaten, the occupants of each cell are taken to the ablution
block where they are shaved, showered before being douched out, lubricated
and made ready for any close quarter encounters with a prospective
buyer. Fin warns me that this will probably happen to me and I recall
Malik's words to my Master that I am to me inspected by two prospective
buyers today. And yet the prospect of an enema at the hands of our
overseers is daunting and I express my disquiet at the prospect.

But Holger, speaking in German, tells me.

"My friend, I can assure you after you've had a nozzle shoved up your ass
and your rectum pumped full of warm, soapy water three times, you'll be
glad when it's a real cock that' s stuffing you."

I guess to be forewarned is to be forearmed!

And it's not as though I'm unused to being fucked. Mostly, in the past, it
had been by mutual consent between two willing partners. However, yesterday
afternoon, I'd been slave raped by my Master, Anwar and common sense tells
me that is to be the pattern of my future life as a slave. Undoubtedly, I
will be bought as a sex slave and my new Master will use my body as a
receptacle for his lust; that will be my primary role to provide my Master
with pleasure.

Despite my revulsion and overall fear of slavery, I had felt a frisson of
excitement as I'd submitted to Anwar. Although a contradiction in terms, I
was both repulsed and elated as he'd fucked me. The free man in me rebelled
at the thought that I was another man's slave - his sex toy - and yet, at
the same time, I'd felt strangely liberated. It seemed to me that the
"slave within" had been finally liberated and I was being true to my real
nature.

I'd even felt gratitude to Anwar! As he thrust deeper into me, I realized
that he'd been correct about his assumption that I was at heart a slave and
that he was rendering me a great service by enslaving me. Lying on my back
and looking up into his face, I understood that all he'd said was true. I
am a slave and my true destiny is to serve a powerful Master.

Nevertheless, I remain afraid and listen very carefully to what Fin and the
other five tell me.

I understand from my fellow slaves that after we have been shaved,
showered, cleaned out and lubricated, we'll be returned to our cell to wait
until a prospective buyer might decide to test-run one of us in a
viewing-room.

Fin tells me what inevitably will happen; some privileged buyers will visit
the pens for a pre- sale viewing of the available livestock. When this
happened it is expected that all the slaves will walk to the front of their
pens and press their bodies hard up against the bars thus making them
accessible to the buyers' hands. Should a buyer show physical interest in
me by reaching through the bars to touch my body, then I must thrust my
cock and balls through the bars as an invitation to him to inspect me
further. And I am told that it is even permissible for me to plead with the
buyer to finger my genitals or to inspect my ass.

It is Holger who tells me that it is all about self-promotion; I need to
"sell myself" to a buyer by appearing eager to please him and to have him
own me. This way, I can possibly influence who finally buys me.

I find the notion of promoting myself to a buyer and virtually begging him
to buy me as distasteful. Yet, I understand that the six waiters speak from
personal experience. Their twelve months spent as slaves has given them a
cunning that has enabled them to survive.  They have learned through bitter
experience and they now share that with me. I am most grateful to them.

By now, my tumescence has subsided and I am ready to relieve my overtaxed
bladder.  Thankfully, Andrew and Wickus need to piss and I join them,
straddled legged, over the sewer drain without any sense of
embarrassment. I have overcome my initial reluctance at performing my
bodily functions so publicly and from now on I won't have any second
thoughts.

Suddenly, the Arab overseers, who'd prepared me yesterday, entered the pens
with our first meal for the day.  They are accompanied by four slave
assistants who stagger under the weight of a large metal pot and baskets
which contain our meal of a porridge-like gruel, unleavened black bread and
dried dates.

These slaves are all white but are past their prime. I estimate their ages
as somewhere in the late thirties to the mid-forties. It is hard to judge
as they are all uniform in their appearance with their naked, putty-white,
hairless bodies and shaved, bald heads. They wear heavy, metal collars
around their necks with matching ones around their cocks and balls. If I
could read Arabic, I'd see the inscriptions engraved into the collars
declare them to be the "Property of the House of Malik". And showing
vividly red against the whiteness of their asses is the ubiquitous slave
brand identical to the one I now wear.

As one, the occupants of the pens crowd to the front of their prisons; they
press up hard against the bars and hold out their arms almost in
supplication. Each is given a wooden bowl of food and they retreat back
into the sanctuary of the pen and sit quietly as they eat.

I take my lead from the six waiters and stand against the bars with my
outstretched arms silently begging for food. Suddenly, I realize how hungry
I am; my last meal was breakfast at my hotel yesterday morning and I'd not
eaten since then.  I am ravenous and my belly is rumbling from my hunger
pangs. Gratefully, I take my bowl of gruel, my ration of bread and dates
and using my fingers - for I have no eating utensils - I hungrily devour
them within minutes. It goes part way to satisfying my hunger but I want
more and hold my bowl out through the bars and plead for an extra ration.

My action infuriates an overseer who uses the handle of his whip to knock
the bowl from my hands. As it clatters noisily against the stone floor, he
abuses me in Arabic. I don't know the meaning of his words but their intent
is clear. I'm not to be given any extra food and my impertinence has
angered him.

After, we have eaten and the bowls collected from us, we are allowed a few
minutes to attend to the "calls of nature" before we are systematically
removed from our cells and taken to the ablution room.

Of course, I have an interest in watching as the slaves are ordered from
their cells, lined up one behind the other and chained together at the neck
before they are driven away under the whips to be made ready for
inspection.

Naturally, I am apprehensive and my six companions sense this. They
re-assure me that no harm will come to us. But Fin does warn me there'll be
some discomfort as I am given my enema. He tells me "not to fight the
nozzle; to relax my muscles and to allow it to enter easily into me and all
will be well."

I'm about to learn that an enema is to become routine for me; eventually,
it will become part of the daily ritual of being a pleasure slave.

Working quickly and efficiently, the occupants from each pen are taken
away, made ready and returned. All too soon, an overseer unlocks the door
to our pen and we are ordered out into the walkway between the two lines of
cells. We are made to line up one behind the other and I find myself
chained between Finbar and Andrew. The walk to the ablution block is no
more than thirty shuffling steps from our pen as the overseers shout and
crack their whips over our heads and shoulders to move us forward into the
ablution room.

I use the term ablution loosely; the room itself is utilitarian in
appearance and its walls and floor are covered in dirty, once-white - but
what are now grimy-grey tiles .The walls appear to be perpetually damp and
covered with mildew and protruding from the ceiling are a series of rust
encrusted shower heads which drip continuously. Set in the floor are a row
of sinkhole latrines which stink to high heaven. The foul-smelling air in
the room is throat- retching and only adds to my overall apprehension.

Working under the fussy direction of the Arab overseers, the slave
assistants go about their duties with astonishing proficiency and speed. It
is obvious they have performed these tasks many times before and the angry
crisscrossed pattern of stripes on their backs indicates they have been
well trained in their duties.

The slave assistants quickly use their razors to shave our beards; it's one
of Malik's prerequisites that his slaves are clean shaven before being
placed on display. Then, the razors are used to shave the stubble in our
armpits, our pubes and on our limbs. Particular attention is paid to our
ass-cracks and any spare hairs are quickly removed. Although in my case
this is unnecessary as it is less than twenty-four hours since I was
body-shaved from head to toe.

Then, still standing in our line, our finger and toe nails are examined and
trimmed if necessary. And as the slaves work on our bodies, the Arabs give
us sprigs of mint to chew to sweeten out breath so that we won't offend any
prospective buyers who wishes to examine us.  Finally, we are released from
our neck chain.

It is now time for our enemas!

Like the other six slaves, I'm ordered to bend at the waist and grab hold
of my ankles to hold me steady. Nervously, I turn my head to watch as slave
attendant retrieves a hose attached to a rubber bag and walks behind me. I
grunt as a cold nozzle is pressed hard up against my resisting anus and
then I groan loudly as it is pushed unceremoniously into my rectum. I
remember Fin's earlier advice and try to relax my anal muscles but I yelp
and begin to wriggle as I feel my guts cramp while my belly distends as
warm, soapy water jets into my innards. This earns me a sharp rebuke from
an Arab overseer.

"Stand still, slave or I'll have you strapped down to a trestle. Slaves
about to be inspected need to be clean both internally and externally.  We
need to clean out your bowels should one of Master Malik's esteemed clients
wish to fuck you. It is essential that you are properly prepared for such
an eventuality. There is no way that an important client would want to poke
his noble cock into the ass-hole of an unclean, Franj slave. Now listen and
do exactly as I say. Tightly clench the cheeks of your buttocks together
and stand up. Good!  Now, still keep them clenched together and go and
squat over one of the latrine holes."

The overseer indicates one of a row of latrine holes set in the floor.

"Keep your ass closed and don't let any of the water dribble out of your
hole until I give you permission to expel it. Now squat and position your
ass over the hole. NOW YOU CAN LET GO!"

Unclenching my buttocks, I have no control as I expel the waste and water
from my bowels.  Then, when I've finished, the Arab commands me to bend at
the waist once more so that the procedure can be repeated.

This procedure is repeated three times before the overseers are satisfied
that,

"The slave's ass is running clean".

All around me, my six fellow slaves are receiving similar treatment to
me. When, we are finished and judged to be "clean", we are paired with one
another and because there are seven of us, I am the odd man
out. Consequently, I don't know what I must do. Then, I hear an Arab give a
further order to two of the slaves assistants.

"You two get him under a shower and clean him up. And as a reward you can
play with him but make sure he doesn't cum."

The two slaves are delighted and began to giggle at this prospect of toying
with me.  With their cocks rampantly erect, they enthusiastically drag me
under a shower-head. As the cold water cascades over our bodies, one of the
two slaves places himself in front of me whilst the other takes up a
position behind me until I am sandwiched between their hard, muscular
bodies. I feel the cock of the slave behind him probing into the crack
between my buttocks whilst the cock of the slave in front presses itself
against my groin and begins to massage my own cock to a full
erection. Next, I feel the cock-head pressing against my ass- hole and
involuntarily, my body responds to this new and erotic stimulation.

As the Arab overseers watch us under the shower, their own cocks grow rock
hard and tent their trousers. Obviously, they enjoy watching as the two
slave attendants work on me. My body begins to quiver as two pairs of
soap-slicked hands roamed freely over my chest and back and soon I am
moaning softly as my sensitive nipples are pinched and my ass-cheeks
squeezed. This seems to increase the two slaves' pleasure and they are now
giggling uncontrollably.

It would seem that the Arabs have a policy of rewarding their slave helpers
by allowing them restricted access to the bodies of the slaves they are
working on. This helps to keep them in good humour and ensures their
workmanship is of the highest standard.

Now both slaves are on their knees; one vigorously sucks my cock as the
other pries my ass- cheeks apart and hungrily thrusts the tip of his hot,
moist tongue into my exposed ass-hole. I am rendered helpless under the
onslaught of their mouths and tongues; my knees buckle and I begin to moan
my appreciation at the attention I am getting. I respond by alternatively
thrusting my hips forward in an effort to force my cock further down the
slave's open throat and then pushing backwards as I try to draw the
invading tongue further into my body.  Somewhere in the background, I hear
an Arab overseer's laughing comment.

"The new slave responds well to the touch of the cock. It augurs well for
him and he has the promise of giving much pleasure to his new Master."

However, they decide it is now time to stop and return to the task at hand.

"STOP!  THAT'S ENOUGH! Now soap him up and wash him down - and make sure
you do a thorough job."

Immediately, both slaves begin to lovingly wash my body; once my head has
been washed, one slave slowly moves the soap down over my chest and belly
whilst the other uses his soap to caress my shoulders and back. My
rampantly erect cock pokes out obscenely from the flat plain of my belly
and it is evidence of my enjoyment at the attention I am receiving.  Once
more, both slaves are on their knees as they wash my genitals and my
ass. One of the slaves looks furtively to see if the overseers are watching
before using the soap as a lubricant and slyly inserting his soap-slicked
finger into my asshole. As the finger probes deep, it seeks out my prostate
and I surrender to the pleasure of the moment and thrust backwards.

"STOP THAT! Get your finger out of his ass, finish washing him and then dry
him off unless you want my whip across you asses."

The chastened slaves hasten to obey the overseer's command and soon I am
washed and dried and ready for the Arabs' inspection.

As an overseer inspects me, I'm aware of new, exhilarating sensations
sweeping through my body and I find that I am willingly submitting to his
suggestive stimulations. I whimper softly as he weighs and hefts my balls
and teases the piss-slit of my now rampantly erect cock. As he pries my
buttocks apart, I eagerly widen my stance to allow him easier access and at
the touch of an exploratory finger on my sphincter, I thrust my ass back in
an eager invitation to him to "come and explore some more".

The Arab spends several minutes deliciously exploring my body and when he
is finished it is the other Arab overseer's turn to examine me. And I find
myself submitting to this second inspection as readily as I did with the
first Arab.

My mind is a maelstrom of mixed emotions. One part of me still rebels at
the thought that I am now a slave and another man's property. But then, my
lifelong fantasies manifest themselves and the thought that I am another
man's slave excites me in ways that I never thought possible. As I am
fingered and erotically aroused, slavery seems sensuous and highly
desirous. Each moment that passes and with each new experience, I am
becoming more slave-like in my outlook. As I think on the paradox of this,
I finally understand that Anwar was correct in his original assessment of
me. I am, by my very nature, a true slave.

This morning is proving to be my epiphany! The self-realization that I was
born to be a chattel slave coupled with my desire to be owned and used by a
powerful Master excites me.

Suddenly, I better understand myself. Now there are no more ambiguities to
trouble me. A tremor of excitement ripples through me as I realize that I
am now a branded slave who'll soon be sold by my Master, Anwar to a new
owner.

I begin to tremble uncontrollably at the thought that two days hence I will
mount the auction block and seductively pose my body to attract a buyer. I
know that, in the interim, I am to be exhibited to two prospective buyers
and I am erotically aroused by the thought of submitting my body to their
close, hands-on scrutiny. This will challenge me as never before!

I look at the six waiters and wonder if any of them share my
experience. Are they happy to be slaves? Somehow I doubt it! From what they
have told me, they were kidnapped into their slavery and spirited away to
Malik's slave-market and sold. All have expressed their unhappiness at
serving as slaves and yet, of necessity, they have accepted it as their
lot. But then, they had no other choice which is the same situation I now
find myself in. Prior to their enslavement, did any of them harbour a
slave's nature that saw them embrace slavery much as I am? Again, it is
doubtful that they do, for nothing they have said to me indicates this is
so.

I guess then that my long held, fantasy slave-life makes me an aberration
and that my lifelong desire to serve as a slave makes me very different to
them.

All seven of us are now finished. We have been made ready for the day's
inspections and it is time to return us to the slave-holding pens. But two
more chores need to be performed on us before we are fastened to our neck
chain and whip driven back to our cell.

The slave attendants work swiftly to massage a perfumed unguent into our
bodies. Its purpose is twofold; it serves to mask any lingering body odour
and to highlight our musculatures. When they'd finished, I am left to
salivate at the sight of my fellow slaves as their muscles ripple and flex
under the oil sheen. I can understand why Malik does this; as a past master
at presentation, his livestock is displayed to perfection and will whet the
appetite of any prospective buyers who visit the pens.

The sight of the six waiters' naked, oiled torsos is powerfully erotic and
I find myself hoping that my own body is the equal of theirs. Somehow, I
suspect it is.

Then an Arab orders us to.

"Bend and spread! Pry those ass-cheeks apart!  Stretch them open! WIDER!"

I wait as the slave attendants move down the line lubricating all seven of
us ready for digital exploration or worse - anal penetration. The lubricant
feels cold and sticky as it is smeared onto my sphincter and worked into my
rectum.  Nevertheless, another man's touch, even that of a slave, on my
body both arouses and excites me.

An Arab overseer moves behind us parting our ass-cheeks and testing to see
that we are well- lubricated. As he finishes his inspection of each one of
us, he dismissively slaps our asses and tells to stand as the second
overseer fastens the chain to our collars.

When all seven of us are chained together, the overseers crack their whips
over our heads - taking great care not to mark our bodies - to start us
walking. Somehow, as I shuffle along in the coffle, I am reminded of farm
animals being driven back to the stables. And this is exactly what is
happening; we are indeed animals being taken back to our own stall in the
slave-pens.

When you are a slave waiting for something to happen, time has the habit of
moving slowly.  There is no clock on the wall for us to mark the passing of
the minutes and we aren't allowed to wear watches; indeed my own very
expensive, Swiss watch was confiscated and I notice one of the Arab
overseers now wears it on his wrist. Consequently, I have no idea of time
other than that it's still early morning.

Boredom rules in the slave-pens! Left to our own devices, we either sit
listlessly on the straw-strewn floor or we pace the perimeters of our cells
liked caged beasts as we wait for something - anything - to happen.

Time passes with inexorable slowness!

Then - I estimate its mid-morning - the overseers crack their whips to gain
our attention and order us to.

"Move to the front of the pens and stand facing out through the bars."

A murmur ripples through the six waiters as we quickly take up our places
at the front of our pen.  Now we wait for further developments. It seems to
me that a slave requires a great deal of patience as he waits on his
betters.

Suddenly, a door opens and Malik and two African men enter the holding
area. They walk slowly down the central walkway pausing before each pen to
study its occupants before moving to the next cell. Eventually, they stop
directly in front of our pen and I am able to see the two Africans through
the bars. Briefly, I study them before averting my eyes and lowering them
to the ground. For some inexplicable reason, this seems the right thing for
me to do. It is the natural order of things that a slave must never look
directly into the face of a free man unless he is ordered to do so. I am
learning fast.

But in those few, brief moments, I see that both Africans are expensively
dressed and supremely confident. I estimate that one is aged in his late
thirties to early forties while the second one is much younger - a teenager
of about seventeen or eighteen.

There is a marked family resemblance between the two Africans and it occurs
to me that they could be father and son. The notion that a father has
brought his son with him as he inspects a slave is a powerfully erotic
one. It far surpasses any previous slave fantasy that I have enjoyed in the
past.

I recall from yesterday's conversation between Anwar and Malik that an
African oil billionaire has asked to inspect me. Is this the man they spoke
of and has he brought his son along to help in making a decision on whether
or not to buy me?  Part of me is horrified at the prospect of this
happening and yet another side to me wants this to happen. I begin to
tremble at the thought of this black teenager helping his father make a
final selection.

Malik confirms that they are father and son as he introduces them to the
two Arab overseers as Ahmedu Hadi and his son, Abdel Hadi. Both Africans
greet the overseers and after an exchange of pleasantries the older of the
two speaks to Malik.

"And tell me Malik, which of these slaves is the one you spoke of so
glowingly yesterday? Have him come forward so that I can peruse him more
thoroughly."

Malik points directly at me and orders me to,

"Step forward, slave and press your body up against the bars so that Master
Ahmedu and Master Abdel can inspect you!"

I remember back to my earlier conversations with Fin and the other slaves
and recall how they'd told me to present my body to a prospective buyer for
examination. I grab hold of the bars for support and press my body hard
against the bars separating me from the two Africans. And then I recall
that Holger had advised me to sell myself to the buyers and I push my cock
and balls out through the bars as an invitation to examine them more
easily.

My actions meet with the approval of Ahmedu Hadi who compliments Malik.

"The slave seems eager to please Malik, and readily presents his body for
my inspection. And I believe you said he is a new slave? Is that not so?"

"Indeed he is Ahmedu! He's been a slave for less than twenty-four hours as
you can see from the rawness of the brand on his ass. This time yesterday,
he was still a highly successful, London lawyer holidaying in Maluchistan."

"And today he is just a naked slave! How cruelly the fates have conspired
to irrevocably change his life for him. I take it that he had no inkling of
the fate that was to befall him when he journeyed to Maluchistan?"

"He had none whatsoever, Ahmedu! The foolish Franj was most cunningly duped
by my old friend Anwar who feigned friendship and affection for him. These
foolish infidels; they are so self-obsessed and they never realize that we
only ever see them as white slaves."

"It is indeed fortunate that their arrogance blinds them to reality. And
everything you said about him is true. He is most pleasing to the eye. He
has the blond hair and blue eyes that I favour in my slaves and his body is
honed to perfection; I suspect it was acquired within a London gymnasium
from the look of him. But now with your permission, I will examine him and
if he interests me, I would ask that he be taken to a room for a private
viewing and appraisal."

"Indeed, Ahmedu! The slave is entirely at your disposal. Take your time and
evaluate him at your leisure. Is Abdel to assist you in your appraisal of
the slave?"

"Yes, Malik. Abdel is now of an age where it's only right that he assists
me in choosing a slave for our household.  In fact, I have told Abdel that
should he see a slave he likes then I will bid on that slave for him."

"What a generous, doting father, you are, Ahmedu! And tell me Abdel - have
you seen a slave that takes your fancy? There are many to choose from among
this lot. Do you have a preference for a particular type of slave?"

"Yes, Sir!" Abdel's reply to Malik's question is most polite. Obviously he
has great respect for his elders. And his polished accent is that of a
British Public School. "I share my Dad's liking for blond, blue eyed
slaves."

"Ah, like father like son" Malik laughs. "Then you should have a wide scope
among your father's slaves most of whom would meet those criteria if my
memory serves me correctly."

"Indeed he does, Malik! I'm afraid that Abdel has a tendency to put my
slaves to frequent, hard usage."

"Good for him, Ahmedu! After all, isn't that why we keep our slaves? They
are there to serve us and no doubt your slaves serve nobly to satisfy son's
lusty needs"

"That's true, Malik and believe me Abdel makes sure my slaves offer up
their mouths and asses and serve his needs most admirably. But it's not the
same as him having his very own slave and that's why he is with me
today. If he sees a slave he likes then we will bid for him at auction. Now
tell me, Abdel, have you seen a slave you like?"

"Yes Dad, I quite like that one second from the end."

"Which end of the line is that Abdel?" Malik asks.

"Sir, I like the look of that tow-headed slave second from the left."

Furtively, I glance sideways to see which of my companions, the teenager
has chosen.  I see that it's Finbar. My heart skips a beat. Perhaps Fin and
I will be bought by the same buyer. I hope so for to commence my slavery
with Fin will lessen my trauma.

"You have chosen well, young man! He's a fine slave and came originally
from Ireland. I sold him for the first time just twelve months ago and his
Master is absolutely delighted with him."

"If his Master is so delighted with the slave then why is he being sold?"
Abdel asks suspiciously.

"His Master buys six slaves each year to work in his London
restaurant. However, he changes his waiters every six months replacing them
with new stock. He'll be bidding for another six slaves as replacements for
these six at Saturday's auction. But let me bring the slave to the bars and
you can examine him more closely. Does he still interest you, Abdel?"

"Yes, he does very much so, Sir!"

"Step up to the bars, slave!"

Fin hurries forward to stand beside me and, eager to please, he presses his
body against the front of the pen. And like me, he positions his cock and
balls between the bars and we both wait for the father and son to inspect
us.


To be continued..................


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