Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 01:40:20 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Enslaved, Part 3

ENSLAVED, By Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 3

I didn't even have strength to struggle as the two
goons half carried me back to my cage. I was in
absolute agony, not helped by the cramped condition in
the cage, which made it extremely difficult not to
cause further hurt from my brand. I just half-lay
there, groaning faintly and wondering how the hell I
had got into this dreadful state.  I wasn't allowed to
rest all that long, though. Some hours later the two
goons came and got me out of the cage, and half led,
half pushed me along the corridors into another room,
where some of the other guys from the cages were
already working out on a variety of machines that you
see in any gym - the only difference being that all
the guys were naked, and they were chained to the
machine! They led me to a running machine, slipped a
chain around my waist and locked it to the machine.

"Please....", I begged, "Please, sirs, don't make me
do this... The pain from the brand... I can't run..."


"Nonsense!", the one called Julian said. "It will hurt
like hell at first, but the stretching and pulling on
the brand as you run along will do it good, and you'll
find the pain subsides, at least a little. Mind you,
be prepared for shocks: we've modified the electronics
in this machine so that if you don't go fast enough
you'll be 'encouraged' by a little voltage, rather
like you experienced in the cages last night when you
were foolish enough to start talking. Now, off we
go..."

He pressed a button, and the moving walkway began to
slide. I started walking, then jogging, and all the
time I was in agony from my brand. But as the exercise
went on, and the machine got faster and faster, I
almost forgot the problem with my brand as I started
to need to breathe more and more deeply to be able to
keep moving. Look, I was always pretty fit, and I went
to the gym frequently, but I soon found that there's a
real difference between exercising at a pace you
choose, and exercising when you're being "driven".
And, sure enough, from time to time I was jerked
almost off my feet as a stinging shock ran through me
as the machine sensed that I might be lagging behind.
When they finally did come and let me free, I was
soaked in sweat, my chest was heaving, my heart was
racing, and I felt absolutely exhausted. And,
actually, I did notice the pain from my brand rather
less.

I was so worn out that I wasn't able to offer any
resistance at all as they took me back to my cage.
When the janitor came along with the bowls that
evening and opened the small "window" on the front of
my cage, like the other guys I stuck my head out and
stated to snaffle up the slave chow. I was hungry, but
I knew that I didn't want another session with the
"feeder" - oh, fuck me, was this how slave training
was done? You made the alternative so unpleasant that
the slave was glad to do something that he was
ordered? Had I really given up resisting because I
"knew" it was useless, or because I feared the
alternative? Was I being slowly and insidiously sucked
into slavedom, with my resolve to remain a "free man"
gradually being sapped away by my fears? And how, I
wondered now, had all those obedient slaves on the
plantation been trained? I'd always assumed they were
just "naturally" slaves - but not I began to have my
doubts.  The whole way this place was organised - the
keeping of us naked in tiny cages, the pissing and
crapping on the floor, the feeding just as if we were
animals in kennels, all seemed designed to say to us
that we were no longer men, but something else,
something less than men and more like animals.

What could I do to keep my sense of self, to remain
Jon, rather than be turned into Steve? Although I'd
done some basic psychology stuff, there wasn't
anything I could think of that I could do at all. I
slipped into sleep, deeply troubled, and tossed and
turned all night.  They exercised me all morning the
next day, sometimes on the running machine, and
sometimes on a rowing machine to tone my belly and
build my upper body. I was exhausted, and didn't know
how I was going to last out the rest of the day. But
there was salvation - of a kind: they took me off back
to the room with the chief honcho, and I noticed that
they no longer bothered to cuff my wrists to a collar:
could it be they knew I was being broken, that I was
losing the will to fight and to remain "free"?

"Ah, Steve", he said, looking at me across his desk,
as I was made to stand in front of him. "We've done
the brand, now, what else do we need to do.... The
hair, I think: no one looking at you could possibly
imagine you're a slave, with hair like that. So
Julian, Wayne, take him away and do the standard trim,
please, then bring him back."

I felt like crying as my lovely hair was shorn off my
head: I'd never had it particularly long, but it was
always well kept, and now I just had a half inch
stubble there, a stubble that was razored sharply at
the back of the neck and the sides, so that it made me
look "hard". But they didn't finish there, though - I
was made to lie on a table whilst they bent over me
and shaved my pubes mostly away, trimming what was
left just to an inch or so. No one had ever handled my
balls before, and I was almost in terror of being
seriously hurt as they stretched my sac this way and
that to be able to clean it totally of my dark blond
hairs: but they obviously knew what they were doing,
as apart from the sheer humiliation of it all, they
didn't hurt me, and there were no cuts or even
scratches.  Surely that was all - but no: I was told
to rest my body on the table and spread my legs, and I
felt the smooth slickness of the razor sliding up and
down my crack as one of them pulled my cheeks apart
and the other worked away.

It was all so fucking humiliating - I mean, you just
don't show the inside of your crack to other men, do
you? But then I realised that you did: all my uncle's
slaves were trimmed and shaved like this, and I'd
spent hours just looking at their bodies as they
toiled away without even considering the effect on
them! We did it because it was judged "hygienic" -
totally denuding all the waiters and cooks - or
because it was "the thing to do" - the slaves like
Jason the pool boy, when everyone considered it was
"nicer" to look at him like that. I'd even had Blackie
trimmed and shaved, of course, as that was the way
ponies were "presented". I almost groaned as I thought
of the humiliation that those slaves suffered every
day from being exposed like that, and now this was to
be my fate, too.

When they had finished and were taking me back to the
chief honcho, I caught sight of myself in a
full-length mirror on the wall. I was astonished -
gone was the confident, easygoing free man with his
expensive clothes and designer haircut, and there was
a slave: my whole face looked different with my hair
so cropped, and I looked somehow "harder" and
"meaner", a look I'd noticed in many slaves at the
plantation. And of course my body was different, too:
my dick and balls were now extremely prominent,
instead of nestling in their cosy cluster of dark
blond hair, they were now so totally prominent. I just
knew that what they'd said to me was true: any one
taking a look at me, especially if I was in a slave
dealer's showroom, would just say to themselves
"slave", and think no more about it. People judge on
appearances, so often, I knew, and now my appearance
shrieked "slave", even without the giant "S" on my
butt!

Standing in front of the chief a few minutes later, he
kept glancing at the slave dossier again and saying
"remarkable!" To himself. But then he looked at me and
said "Do you like your new look, Steve? It makes you
much more of a man, and much less of a soft
non-worker. But do you think there are other
differences between you and all the other slaves you
have seen?"

"No, master." Was it my imagination, or did I find it
easier to say the dreaded word today, now I was so
much more looking like a slave?

"Come, come, Steve! When did you last see a slave with
a foreskin?"

I stood there, considering, and I realised he was
right. To a man, all the slaves on the plantation had
been 'skinned, and I suppose I'd assumed, if I'd
thought about it at all, that it was how they'd been
born - after all, a very high proportion of US males
are cut at birth, aren't they? But then, quite a lot
of slaves were Hispanics and men from other countries
- was that true there also? Probably not, my brain
told me - so there must be a programme to actually
'skin slaves!

"Master, they were all 'skinned. But how can that be?
They're not all 'lifers', so they couldn't be
'skinned, surely?"

"You ask too many questions, Steve! Of course they can
be 'skinned - that's not considered to be true
modification of the slave's body, so anyone enslaved
can automatically be cut if their owners want it, and
almost a hundred percent of owners do: after all, you
don't want your slave hiding parts of your property
from you, do you? Keeping his dick head covered up,
away from the gaze of the man who owns it? So, Steve,
I'm afraid that your 'skin is going to have to go: no
one would think you were a credible slave with that
hanging there on the end of your dick! Now, come here,
though - before I send you off for 'skinning, I just
need to check...."

He beckoned me to come closer to him, and I shuffled
forward. He took my dick in the palm of his hand, and
I shuddered slightly at this further invasion of my
manhood.

"Easy, Steve", he murmured, looking deep into my eyes.
"A master owns you totally, you know that by now, and
there's no harm in him handling his property...."

As he spoke, his thumb was toying with my 'skin,
trying to push it back. His hand felt hot and moist
against my dick, and I hated it: only my girl friends
had ever been this intimate with me before. But to my
horror I felt myself stiffening, and I saw the guy
smiling at me as he recognised this, too. Look, I
couldn't help it. Even though it was totally
humiliating, once a guy is actually stimulating your
dick, there's not much you can do about it, is there?
Any of you who think I liked it, or are saying to
yourselves that I was gay really, should try it: find
another man and put your dick in his outstretched
hand, and then get him to play with it!

I remembered how, as soon as I was sixteen and allowed
in, my buddies from school and I would go to the local
slave auctions and play at inspecting the slaves, as
if we wanted to buy them: we used to bet (only a few
dollars - we were clean-living guys!) to see if we
could get any of them to cum without actually going as
far as properly jerking them off. Now I knew how
totally humiliating this must have been for the slaves
concerned - not only to have your dick handled like
that in public, but to have a crowd of sniggering
sixteen year olds doing it! I blushed with shame - not
for what was being done to me now, but from thinking
of the embarrassment I must have caused those poor
guys.

The chief now had my 'skin totally off my head as my
dick continued to swell as it lay there, and
mercifully, he let it drop before my erection got any
worse. "Good, fine", he told me. "There are some men
who have a decent enough thick shaft, but where the
head is smaller. I think that looks absurd, and in
those cases I think it's better to leave it decently
covered by the 'skin. But you're fine - perfect,
almost: a really great dick in the first place, and a
nice meaty head with a pronounced flange: once we've
exposed that to public view, the buyers will be
queuing up for you! So it's off to the veterinarian
for you now - he's a good man, and will do a great job
on transforming you to the perfect specimen of a
slave."

"Master, please, no... I'm used to it, I've always had
it... I won't be able to jerk off properly without
it..."

"Nonsense, Steve! Millions of men jerk off perfectly
well without a 'skin. And, anyway, what makes you
think an owner will allow you to jerk off? Some owners
like to see their slaves leaking cum all the time, and
specifically forbid any self stimulation. So don't be
stupid - it's not your choice, anyway: do start to
think like a slave, will you?"

"Take him away, Wayne", he said, and one of the big
guys came over and fitted a restraint collar to me,
and cuffed my wrists to it.

"I know you've been behaving", he told me, "But we're
going out of here, across town to the veterinarian's
office, and we can't trust you - yet!".

It was that "Yet" that sounded so ominous - did they
get to the point where slaves wouldn't try to escape?
Wayne ordered me to kneel as soon as we were out of
the room, and then to open my mouth. I went to
disobey, and he didn't hesitate to slap my face in the
way I'd kind of understood they did when they wanted
to get a slave's attention - very, hard, open-handed,
so that my ears were ringing and my cheek was
stinging. I would have gone for him, fought back, but
with your hands cuffed there's no hope, is there?

I didn't want to be hit again so I opened my jaws. He
grunted with satisfaction at having me obey him, and
slipped a ball gag into my mouth, fastening its strap
tightly behind my head so that even though I thrust at
it with my tongue, it wouldn't budge.

"We probably can't trust you - yet!", he snapped. "But
this will keep you quiet at the veterinarian. Now...."


>From his pocket he bought out a chain with a handle at
one end and a clip at the other, and snapped the clip
onto my restraint collar. "Up, boy, off we go...
Walkies....", he said.

I'd never imagined that I'd be led naked through the
streets. Wayne walked ahead of me, holding the handle
on the chain just as if it was a dog leash, and unless
I wanted to have unpleasant tugs all the time at me,
all I could do was follow. I was acutely conscious of
being naked - it's bad enough to be stripped and nude
in the "training centre", but out on the streets of
the town, it was just awful. I'd have tried to cover
myself if I could, but with my hands cuffed there was
absolutely no possibility of preventing the passers by
from staring at me if they wanted to. And my feet hurt
- it was a hot day, and the tarmac burned into my
soles as I walked along.

I'd made slaves appear naked in towns before, of
course, as you know I ran my pony, Blackie, totally
naked, and now I began to understand how he must have
felt in those first few days when I made him jog along
the main street (although he would have got used to
it, I consoled myself with thinking, so perhaps it
wasn't too bad for him really). Mind you, I know he
had a lot of trouble initially with his feet, and I
had to "encourage" him a lot in the first weeks to not
lower his pace as he went over gravel and even flints
- I hadn't realised how bad running in bare feet over
uneven surfaces could be, as when I was without shoes
at home, it was always on the cool tiles of the pool
area, or the luxurious carpets of the plantation's
rooms.

I was heartily glad when we arrived - the five or six
blocks had been one of the most humiliating
experiences in my life; But new horrors waited for me
- the reception area had several people waiting to see
the veterinarian - in that hick town it seemed there
wasn't enough pure 'slave' business to justify him
working on it full time, and so he had a small animal
practice as well, and there were two owners there, one
with a dog on a leash (as I was!), and the other with
a cat in a basket.

Wayne went to the reception desk as I stood there
flushing with embarrassment as the man and the woman
with their pets stared at me, then he came back,
slapped me hard on the butt, and snapped "Turn around
and face the wall! Don't make decent folk stare at
your body like that!", then, turning to the man and
the woman went on, "I hope you don't me mind me
disciplining the slave like that - I can see that
you'd never need to do that to your pets, but this one
is more like a puppy who isn't properly trained, and
the only thing he really understands is corporal
punishment!"

I'd stood there in amazement as he said this, and my
anger rose when he started to compare me with those
pets (but, thinking rationally, he had as many right
over me as they did over their animals, I suppose). As
I was so cross, I hesitated, and Wayne slapped me on
the butt again, the pistol-like crack of his hand
meeting my flesh echoing around the waiting room.

"Fucking slave!", he snapped "Turn around NOW, unless
you want me to take you outside for a whipping. And I
want your toes and nose right against the wall... Now,
move!"

Well, what was I supposed to do? I'm sure he would
have dragged me out and whipped me if I'd done
nothing, so I faced the wall, and heard him growl
"toes and nose....", so I shuffled forward until my
toes were hard against the wall, and leaned my head
forward so my nose was, too.

It's a problem, though - you try it! If you're a
really thin, slender guy it might be OK, but if you're
packing any beef, the thickness of your body means
that this position is really uncomfortable after a
short period of time. I was acutely aware, too, that
Wayne's hand prints would be clearly outlined on my
naked skin and that instead of staring at my dick, the
other customers must now be observing my butt.

By the time I got into the veterinarian my muscles
were almost shaking from the strain at holding the
position against the wall. "So, this is the 'skinning
- another one, I see, Wayne! We must be getting very
lawless around here, or these young guys must be
fucking lazy, refusing to work, and getting into debt,
the number of them you bring through here."

"Well, you know how it is... We have a sharp eye for a
business opportunity, and when the courts order a male
enslavement, we leap in...."

This was too much. This was probably my last chance to
escape - surely, here in a professional office, once
my plight was known all would be OK - the veterinarian
would call the cops, and I'd be free by tonight.

"I'm not a slave... Please call the cops... They've
abducted me and are trying to enslave me...", I
shouted out, trying to give the veterinarian a sense
of the urgency of the thing by thrusting myself at
him. Of course, all he got was a load of totally
inarticulate mumbling through the ball gag, and I saw
him look almost aghast at me as I was so close to him.


If anything, the veterinarian's blow to my face was
even harder than Wayne's had been earlier. I staggered
with the force of it.

"Quiet, slave! I won't tolerate unruly slaves here..."


"But I'm not a slave...", I almost was screaming it
now, uselessly, through the gag, of course, and the
second blow from the veterinarian was so viciously
hard that I did fall over, and lay there, glaring up
at him.

"I told you, slave, that I won't tolerate unruly
behaviour here! It disturbs the animals to have slaves
shouting and gesticulating. Now there's nothing to be
worried about - it's a perfectly simple operation, and
it will be all over in a few minutes: I haven't had a
patient die on me yet as I 'skinned him! You'll feel
some discomfort, of course, but you look like a strong
healthy guy, so there's no risk of the whole thing
giving you a heart attack or anything."

"Please... Please don't do this.... I'm not a
slave...." I was almost whimpering it now, hoping that
my humble approach might work when anger hadn't. But
it was equally inaudible, I guess.

The veterinarian looked as if he was going to strike
me again, but just shrugged. "These slaves", he said
to Wayne, ignoring me. "They're really pathetic,
aren't they? No stamina! No spunk. Look at him
crouching there now - still, what do you expect: if he
was a proper man, he'd have had the character and
stamina not to get involved with the law, or would
work properly, or whatever. Incidentally, why is he a
new slave - I assume he is newly enslaved, as he's
still got his 'skin?"

"Oh, I don't really know...", Wayne said.

"Well, even though you're excellent customers, and I
hate upsetting clients, suppose I'd better check his
enslavement order before operating... The American
Veterinary College send out a warning letter last
month saying that there had been a number of instances
of frat boy pranks that had gone wrong and where the
practitioner was being sued for millions of dollars -
you know the type of thing: they get one of their frat
brothers hopelessly drunk, strip him naked, gag him,
then take him to an unsuspecting veterinarian to be
'skinned. When the guy discovers what's happened, he
doesn't sue his frat brothers - no, he takes the
veterinarian to court and there's hell to pay from the
insurance companies who have to fork out for the
damages. Now of course I'm not suggesting that this is
anything like that - I mean, just looking at him you
can tell he's a slave from the way his hair is cropped
and that mean look on his face, and he's tanned all
over. No, he certainly doesn't look like a frat boy at
all - in fact, he doesn't look as if he's got the
intelligence to even graduate from High School, which
is probably where he went wrong..."

I was so pissed off, that I thought of kicking out at
him. And how could he be so wrong? Of course I'd got
the intelligence to graduate from High School - I'd
graduated form Yale! But I realised with a sick horror
that what I'd been told was true - make a guy look
like a slave, and people start to think of him as a
slave, and just assume he is one.

"I'll go back to the training centre and get it if you
wish", Wayne responded, smiling with confidence. "But
I think if you check his butt...."

He hauled on the chain on my collar to drag me to my
feet, and the veterinarian ran his hand over my left
ass cheek.

"Ah yes, the 'S'", he said. "So he's a 'lifer'. No
need to get the documentation - only a slave would be
branded there like that. What a stupid fucker he must
be to have got in so deep that he was given life... I
don't suppose you want anything else done at the same
time, do you? I mean, looking at the way he was
behaving, I'd probably normally recommend that you
have him calmed - I could take his balls whilst you're
here..."

No! How could this idiot be so wrong! Couldn't he see
that a slave brand might be false, too? But then I
realised that his attitude was just what I might
expect - no free man would willingly submit to having
that "S" seared into his flesh, so therefore, with the
brand, I "must" be a slave! And no all this talk of
castrating me - he'd do it, too, no doubt: an owner
had total control over a 'lifer', as I knew.

"No", Wayne said, "He was enslaved for some sort of
sex thing, I think, and as you can see he's got nice
tackle. A slave who's very sexually experienced can be
sold off to the brothels and places at a higher price
than ordinary stock, so we'd better keep him intact."


"Well he doesn't have to lose both balls - I could
simply slit up the back of his sac and take one out,
which would almost certainly calm him without
destroying his sexual potency. Then if we slipped on a
prosthetic ball - either in stainless steel, if you
want him to look even more spectacular, or one of the
plastic prosthetics that are so lifelike that most
people handling the slave can't tell they're fake -
and I sew him up neatly, so there's no scarring, his
value wouldn't be affected at all."

"Well, I think not, doc. I'll suggest it to my boss,
though, and we can always bring him around again. But
tell me - these prosthetic balls, can you really not
tell?"

"Not by the usual method of simply handling them. The
plastic they use has just the same sort of weight, and
resilience, as the real thing."

"So I might buy a slave without balls, or with only
one, in spite of examining him at the dealer?"

"Well not if you are aware of it, and use a more
stringent test. I'm afraid that the old method of
standing there and feeling them just won't do - it's
agreeable, I know, but unscientific. You really need
to pinch each balls separately through the sac.... If
the ball is real, the slave will be, shall we say,
'discomforted' and you'll be able to tell from his
reaction."

"Well thanks, doc - we live and learn!" As he said
this, Wayne reached down and cupped my balls in his
big hand. The next minute I screamed and almost
vomited as that awful sick sensation ran through me
that you get when your balls hurt. I was doubled over
with the automatic reaction of my body.

Wayne and the veterinarian were both chuckling.
"Man^Å",  Wayne said, "Well, I guess he's got two live
ones! But I guess we might have known that from the
way he's misbehaving! Still, perhaps that will serve
as a punishment for his actions earlier - and a
warning to him of what might happen if he doesn't
improve his attitude!".

He looked meaningfully at me as he said this, and it
was a clear warning of what they might do to me.
"Now, boy, start behaving, or we'll go with the doc's
suggestion and have you 'calmed'. Now, up on to the
table...", Wayne snapped.

It was the normal kind of stainless-steel table that
veterinarians have, where they examine cats and dogs.
As I sat on it, it was cold to my naked skin. "Now,
boy", Wayne told me, glaring at me as he did so, "We
can do this two ways - either you can co-operate and
I'll let you sit there and see what's going on, or if
you think you're not man enough for this, or just want
to be plain troublesome, you can lie back and I'll tie
your chain to the leg to hold you down. Now, do you
want to be chained down?"

Of course I didn't. I didn't want any of it! But what
could I do? I just shook my head, and Wayne snarled
"OK then, boy. But if you move as the doc operates, I
will chain you down and then I'll beat the shit out of
you when we get back to the training centre."

I sat there and watched as the veterinarian got a
gleaming "one use" scalpel out of a plastic pack, then
came and stood in front of me as I sat there. "Now,
steady, boy", he said, almost kindly, in the tone I
supposed he regularly used to keep small animals calm.
"I've just got to loosen your 'skin all around - just
don't move, if you want to keep your dick whole!".

As he said this a sharp, acid, searing pain went
through me, and I winced and wanted to twitch my whole
body. "Good boy.... Now, hold still...."

More pain. "See", he commented to Wayne, "You have to
cut the skin away all around. Now, whilst I'm doing
this, do you want him to keep this....?"

I could see he was pointing to something underneath my
dick. "His dick's a whole lot less sensitive after the
'skin is gone, but this little triangular bit here,
right at the bottom, is responsible for most of the
remaining sensation. Snip it out, and he will be able
to stud for hours as he'll need a real lot of
stimulation to reach a climax; leave it in, and hell
still get a lot of fun from fucking...."

Wayne looked at me, straight into my eyes. I'm sure he
must have responded to my pleading look, as he
muttered "Oh, leave it in. He'll have little enough
fun as a slave, I guess. May as well let him still
enjoy sex - he is a guy, after all, and we all need
our dicks exercised."

"Right, then. Now, how do you want him left? It's
becoming fashionable to leave enough of the 'skin on
so that he cock head is partially exposed when he's
flaccid, but so that it peels back when he erects.
'Modern Slave Owner' says that slaves like that will
attract higher prices as they're a novelty, I was
reading the other day."

"No, doc. 'High and Tight' as usual - call me old
fashioned if you will, but I still think that an owner
has the right to see all of the slave all of the time
- there's something bit odd about the slav'e's dick
head being concealed, even if only partially so. And
fashions change.... That 'Modern Slave Owner' is a bit
of a rag, anyway - last month they were saying that it
was unfashionable for an owner to fuck his slave
boy.... Well, we all know that one didn't catch on!"

Both men laughed, and I thought about how they were
discussing my body, my 'skin like this! I was a man, a
man has a right to choose whether he keeps his 'skin
or not - but no, as a slave, I had no freedom, no
choice: my owner decided. And then another of those
recurring references to owners fucking slaves - and it
was quite clear they didn't mean the owner's dick
going up some poor female! I could have screamed with
the injustice of it all, but what would have been the
point? They wouldn't understand what I was screaming,
and Wayne assuredly would carry out his threat to beat
me when we got back, and there'd be nothing I could do
to stop him with my hands cuffed as they were - and no
authorities to intervene afterwards, even if he half-
killed me and caused me to be hospitalised: he was my
owner, and he could do what he wanted to my body and
the police and courts knew he had that right.

It was all so wrong - men shouldn't treat other men
like this. But then I thought of the hundreds of
'skinned slaves on my uncle's plantation, a plantation
that I'd looked forward to inheriting - at least some
of them must have had 'skins when they were enslaved,
and would have had to suffer this indignity, as I was
now doing.

"Almost over, boy... Stay calm....", the doc went on
again, just as if I was an animal. "...I just need to
sew up the cut ends.... And then there we are, all
done! That didn't hurt, did it?"

Fucking idiot! It had hurt like hell. Physically, and,
what's more, it had hurt my spirit. They'd used their
power to modify my body again, against my will, and
take me one more step towards looking like a slave.
And as I was now beginning to realise with a sort of
sick worry, once I looked like a slave completely, the
world would 'know' I was a slave, and I would be a
slave.

The doc was speaking to Wayne now, though. "We'll add
it to your normal monthly account, as usual. I've used
self-dissolving stitches so there'll be no need to
bring him back, and put on some antiseptic and
coagulant to stop the blood flow - although dicks heal
quickly, as there's so much blood flow through there.
I'd advise you to keep it totally uncovered for a
couple of days to assist the healing process, and
don't let the boy masturbate or fuck for about a week
to allow everything to settle down properly - I expect
that will be difficult, as this one looks as if he's a
pretty regular fucker: has he been at your other
slaves' asses?"

"Oh, we don't give them a chance at that!", Wayne
chuckled. "We like the slaves to have a certain sexual
tension during training, as it helps keep them
focussed, so fucking is forbidden. We could stop them
jerking off, I suppose, as it's easy enough to tie
their hands at night, but what's the point - I
suppose, underneath it all, they are guys, just like
us, and we all have our basic needs as animals, don't
we?"

I just sat there as Wayne signed to say he was happy
with the operation, then he tugged at my chain, and
snapped "Come on, boy, back to base...." and led me
out.

He did, in spite of what he'd said, tie my hands that
night - my vilely uncomfortable cage was made even
worse when I had to put my hands trough the mesh of
which it was made so they could be cuffed there. "It's
for your own good, Steve", I was told. "If you start
playing with your dick, and all you slaves do that all
the time, it will slow down the healing process and
cost us money".

For a whole week, therefore, all I did was spend every
night uncomfortably in my cage, every day at hard
exercise (really hard exercise), the whole only
punctuated by my two meals of slave chow. I watched
the cages empty as slaves left after their "training",
and re-fill as new, protesting guys were brought in. I
could see that they were wasting their time, as I had
been. There would be nothing they could say or do to
make these men change their minds and let them go.

Finally, I was led into the chief honcho's office
again, and he really looked pleased. "Well, Steve
Masters!", he exclaimed, "In the flesh! Now, when I
look at you, I see a slave, a real slave. Neatly
cropped, nicely tanned and toned, 'skinned,
branded.... And when I take a closer look at Steve
Masters' dossier, I can see it's 'you'. So we not only
have a slave who looks properly like one, but one with
proper 'provenance' , and a Slave Identification
Number. It's time for you to move on, Steve.... We'll
have your SIN tattooed into you tomorrow, then the day
after that one of the travelling dealers is coming and
you can move on to the rest of your life!"

"Look, please... Give me one more chance... I swear
I'll never mention it to anyone, forget all about this
place...."

"Oh, Steve - we've still failed a bit, haven't we. You
don't understand that you're a slave! I'll get Wayne
to give you six strokes of the cane after this, but
I'm still going to sell you on to the dealer - we need
the space, as one of our itinerant 'scouts' came
across a group of four young guys on a hunting trip,
so he took them all! Of course we can't let you go -
there's too much at stake here - I make a very good
living from converting young man flesh into useful
slaves. And you're hardly being sensible, are you - I
do sometimes wonder about that supposed education of
yours - you can't forget us, as we've left our mark on
you!"

He laughed cruelly, and I saw Wayne and Julian moving
forward to take me away, and punish me.

End Of Part 3