Date: Tue, 18 Jul 2006 23:24:15 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Falsely Enslaved, Part One

FALSELY ENSLAVED

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

A story in two parts.  Part one.


If those fucking enslavers hadn't taken me, I wouldn't
be where I am now!

When I graduated from college my life was a bit of a
mess.  The girl I'd been living with on campus for the
last two years dumped me, saying that although I was a
good fuck she didn't think I was a very good long term
prospect, as with playing so much sport I hadn't got a
good degree and so my career opportunities were
limited.  Mom and dad were pissed off at me, too, and
dad kept saying that these days without a good degree
all I had to look forward was a life of toil at some
admin stuff in a big glass tower, and that I'd wasted
my life.

Frankly, I was fed up with the lot of them, and mom
and dad were even crosser when I told them I was going
to go off and see the country, before I did anything
else.  I reckoned that a good long coast-to-coast trip
would help me "find myself", too.  They didn't want me
to go, and dad refused to lend me any more money in
the hope of stopping me, but I said I'd get casual
jobs and wash dishes if I had to.  They then begged
and pleaded with me not to go into the South, as they
thought the whole slavery thing was totally immoral,
and they didn't want me supporting it in any way by
staying at motels down there or eating in restaurants
and stuff like that.  Well, that was pretty stupid, I
thought, as I really wanted to see "the South" as
there's so much interesting stuff down there.  So I
told a little white lie, promised not to go south, and
set off.

I wasn't breaking the speed limit or anything, so I
didn't understand it at all when I saw the cops lights
flashing in my mirror.  But I'm a law abiding kind of
guy, and although my bike could probably have outrun
their cruiser, I pulled into the side.  They were
typical southern "good ole boys" in their tight pants,
dark blue shirts and sunhats, and I couldn't see their
eyes at all because of their shades.  They took my
licence, then asked me what the fuck I was doing out
there in the boonies, and seemed interested when I
told them I was just touring.  They asked me how long
I'd been gone for (three months by now), and where I'd
come from (some little hick town way out in the
country last night), then went into a kind of huddle,
talking to each other a bit secretively, and sort of
looking at me every now and then as I stood there.
Finally, they came back over to me and before I could
do anything, the younger of the two whipped out his
cuffs and cuffed my wrists behind my back.

They simply ignored my protests. They refused to tell
me why I was being arrested. I was bundled into the
back of their cruiser, and the old one drove, with the
younger one following, on my bike!  I kept asking what
I was supposed to have done, but the cop kept on
driving and if he spoke at all, it was only to tell me
to shut the fuck up, if I knew what was good for me.

It was surprising we didn't head for the next town, I
thought, and kept turning off onto even smaller and
smaller roads.  Then we pulled to a halt in front of a
building mostly hidden by the trees.  It was kind of
quiet, there, though, and there didn't seem to be any
windows or anything in it.   I asked if this was the
sheriff's office or something, but was told to shut up
again.

The two cops led me in, and we were in a sort of
vestibule, with a door opposite, and not much else.
Eventually a big, florid man in a loud check suit came
out, and shook the cops' hands.  They evidently all
knew each other well.  The older cop told him that
they'd found me way out from anywhere, that they'd
seen I had out of state plates, and had stopped me -
and then found I was a traveller, and had been on the
road for three months.  "So we brought him here", he
finished, "as he's a good looking guy, and kind of
fit, and well sized" (I am six four, actually).

The florid guy nodded, then said "So let's see him
then, before agreeing a price."  To my utter
astonishment - I hardly had time to cry out and
protest before it was done - the young cop dropped to
his knees in front of me, undid my belt and the
buttons of my jeans, and pushed them down to my
ankles.  Then in a smooth movement he yanked my boxer
shorts down, so I was naked from the waist down, with
the hem of my T hovering somewhere just above the top
of my pubes!

"Hold him tight now", the man demanded, and the big
cop grabbed my biceps and held them tight behind my
back.  The florid man reached out and up, and began
fondling my balls as if it was the most natural thing
in the world to be doing.  I could feel the palm of
his hand all hot and sweaty against my skin, and then
he began to probe at my balls, separating them with
his thumb.

"He's OK", he told the cops.  "I always check now, as
I had a young guy in here last year and he was found
to have testicular cancer - it's a problem for young
men.  His value was halved when we had to have his
balls removed.  But same as usual, OK?  A thousand new
dollars?"

I could hardly believe it!  This man was buying me
from the cops!  I shouted out, telling him he couldn't
do that, and the next minute I was writhing on the
ground - the young cop had simply swung a blow at me,
right into the solar plexus.  I lay there, scrabbling
feebly and coughing and groaning.  No one had ever
deliberately hit me before, and I began to understand
the power that one man has over another, when one of
them is cuffed and can't retaliate.

"Listen, boy", the florid man told me. "You're my
property now, and I don't like to be told what I can,
and cannot do."

The cops hauled me to my feet, and the older one said
"Get your men in to take him, then - we need  our
cuffs back, as we can't go back to the station missing
another set - the sergeant is getting a bit suspicious
as to why we keep losing them."

"Look, please", I started.  "Call my dad, he'll pay
you more to let me go.... We've got money...."  This
time it was the big cop who hit me, a staggering blow
across the side of my face and once more I was lying
on the floor.  "I kept telling you in the cruiser to
shut the fuck up, and maybe now you'll learn", he told
me with a sneer. "You'd better get into the habit of
keeping quiet, boy - owners don't like their slaveboys
chattering away."

"I'm not a slave!"

"You are now, boy!  Jed here specialises in turning
men like you we find out of the road into properly
documented slaves.  He has a nice little business in
producing strong, fit, young men that the market likes
- there's a real shortage of men like you since
criminals have realised that there's no percentage in
it:  jail was easy, but enslavement is for life.  The
crime figures have plummeted, but it makes for a real
shortage of young slaves, and so you'll fetch a good
price and a nice profit for Jed."

I listened with a sick horror, as of course I knew
that in the South the law was totally different, and
the reintroduction of slavery had made huge
differences to the social context of the north and
south.  I really wished I'd listened to mom and dad
now, and had never ventured down here.

The door opened and the florid man, Jed, reappeared
with two others who I can only describe as "guards" -
big, tough-looking, and kind of stupid looking in that
way that many men who do jobs like that are:  they
only know how to obey orders, but that's enough.

Well, I don't want to bore you with the horrors I
experienced that day.  I was uncuffed and the two
goons grabbed me, and half dragged me through the
door.  They stripped the remains of my clothes off me,
and my watch and the gold chain I wore around my neck
that had been a present from my ex-girlfriend, and it
was almost as if they wanted me to protest and
struggle, as then  their fists and boots could go in
to "discipline" me.  They also showed me a kind of
cattle prod thing, and threatened to shock me into
submission if necessary. They almost threw me under a
cold shower, and then, when I was  standing there
shivering, they used clippers and then a razor to take
all the hair off me below the eyebrows - and I do mean
all!  I could hardly believe it at first as the
clippers sliced through my pubes, and by the time
they'd finished all that and had started with the
razor over my chest and arms and legs, I was  no
longer in a mood to protest - I was terrified that
something dreadful would happen as the razor scraped
over the surface of my ball sac.  And it was so
fucking humiliating to have to lie there, pulling my
butt cheeks apart, so they could shave all down there,
too!

It had never occurred to me that slave collars
actually weight a lot - well, on the TV series we get,
even in the north, the slaves all just carry on as if
they weigh almost nothing.  But I reckon the heavy,
iron collar they put around me must have weighed about
three pounds, and I felt physically bowed down by it
as well as feeling the mental oppression it gave.  And
in my dreams sometimes I can still hear the terrible
clanging sound as the rivet holding it closed was
flattened so it could not come apart - the striking of
the hammer so close to my ear was almost like the
tolling of a bell for the loss of my freedom.

I caught sight of myself in a mirror as they were
leading me across the room then - perhaps it was in
there deliberately, to show men how they had now
changed.  I couldn't believe the sight I saw:  instead
of the thick matt of manly hair on my chest and the
luxuriant trail across my belly leading to the thick
forest of my pubes, I was now completely bare and
exposed.  I looked like some kind of overgrown school
kid - I mean, there's no disguising the fact that I'm
physically tall and well muscled, and my dick and
balls are all "in proportion", but without all my body
hair I was now somehow younger looking and vulnerable.
  The goons laughed, and told me they reckoned that
any man buying someone with a body like mine would
keep me totally nude, except for my collar, as it was
good to look at such nice muscle.

Even now I can remember the searing agony as they
pressed the electric branding iron into my left butt
cheek.  They knew I'd struggle, of course, and didn't
just rely on their own physical strength to hold me -
unlike when being  shaved, I was strapped down to a
"horse", with leather straps around my waist and
thighs to make sure my butt was totally unable to
move.  One of them even stabbed at me with a thin
screwdriver, enough to cause blood to flow, to make
sure I really was absolutely immobile.  I couldn't
believe the sheer cruelty of that act, to hurt a man
just to test his bindings, but it was only indicative
of what was about to happen.  They never show it to
you in detail on the TV, but to do the "S" brand on
the butt properly the branding iron has to be at the
right temperature, but then it actually has to be held
against the skin for exactly the right amount of time
to sear through the upper layers of the epidermis.
It's easy to test if the iron is at the right
temperature - they just touched it onto the back of my
hand to see if it instantly caused a burn mark.  The
scream I gave then was as nothing to the tortured
cries that came a few seconds later as the iron was
held against me:  my throat was ragged and hoarse
afterwards, so loudly and long did I cry out.  I felt
total nausea as the smell of charring meat - my body,
not some barbecue meats which is where I'd smelled it
before - came to my nose.  And I have to confess that
I lost control of my bladder, and pissed onto the
floor between my legs as I lay there totally helpless.

Jed reappeared after that, and gave them my eight
digit SIN (slave identification number, for those of
you unfamiliar with the way slaves are inducted in our
country).  He told me they'd got it off a slave who'd
died at a ranch a few miles away in a work-related
accident:  it was convenient for the owner not to
report it to the authorities and have the SIN removed
from the national database, as he could instead "sell
it on" for re-use here and simply dispose of the dead
slave in a lime pit along with dead cattle.  "What
about a name, boss", one of the goons asked, and I
managed to hold my sobs long enough to say "I'm
Mark....".

"We're doing 'S' this month, as it's easier to keep
track of the accounts that way.  We've done Sam, and
Stu, and Sean.... So this one had better be Steve, I
guess.  He looks a bit like a Steve, if you know what
I mean - I always think that Steves are big, muscular
men, like this slave."

I'd seen guys in the fancy tattoo parlours spending
hours on having designs done, and my ex-girlfriend had
even had a little rose design done on her right hip,
that  I found to be a real turn-on.  But if all you
want is a set of numbers on the left pec, and "Steve"
on the right, then a little automatic tattoo machine
can  do it all.  The goons only had to set the
characters on the in-built keyboard, and then hold the
box against my skin and press a button, and a thousand
or more steel pins inside fired down and did it all at
once.  Very unpleasant, but when your whole body is in
agony still from the brand on your butt, you hardly
notice it.

The boss man looked at the goons and said "Well done.
I've got some people stopping by tomorrow, and it will
be good to have this one to show them as well as
they're looking for a tall, strong slave, they said.
But we've run out of storage space, as I wasn't
expecting those cops to brig me fresh meat until next
week.  So double him up with that big nigga who came
in two days ago - I expect they'll want to look at
him, too, as they didn't say whether they were
interested in a nigga, or a whitey."  So that's what I
was, then - a white slave now, a "whitey", compared
with a nigga.  I wondered what they called the
Mexicans!

"You'll never get away with this!", I said, summoning
up the last reserves of my courage and fearing another
beating.  "As soon as someone has bought me, or even
when you try to sell me, I'll tell them I've been
illegally enslaved.  I know that even in this
godforsaken South there are still some laws, and you
can't do this:  only a court can order the enslavement
of a man."

The boss and the goons all laughed.  "Listen, boy, and
get real!  Anyone who buys a slave from an operation
like mine knows he's getting a real bargain, and,
frankly, it can't be totally kosher!  So it doesn't
matter - tell him all you want, providing he doesn't
fit you with a permanent gag, or even has your vocal
chords cut.  He won't care - a naked man, with a slave
collar, tattooed with a SIN, a SIN that's actually in
the national database, is a slave.  Naked, collared,
tattooed means 'slave'.  It's as simple as that.  And
after he's spent all his money on you, he's not going
to care - not going t o investigate or anything, as,
frankly, he doesn't want to know:  if you were freed,
he'd be out of pocket."

As he said this he motioned to the goons, and they
grabbed me and dragged me through into the next room,
which was evidently a "holding" area:  there were what
I can only describe as "cages" around the walls, cages
like you see in those films where people capture wild
animals in the jungle - about five feet on a cube,
made of metal bars, with a small door in one side with
a padlock on it.  There were ten cages in there, and
every one contained a naked man: they were all
sitting, or lying curled up, but when we came in some
of them tried to stand - they couldn't do it, of
course, but gripped the bars of their cages and kind
of half crouched, to get a better view.

They dragged me to one of the cages where a big black
guy was "standing".  "Back, nigga!", one of the goons
snapped as he went to undo the padlock on the door.  I
saw the black guy hesitate, but the guard prodded at
him with a the prod thing form his belt, and the man
backed away instantly, as if he didn't want the thing
anywhere near him.  "See", the goon said to me, "The
nigga here's got some sense!  He's seen the slave prod
in action, and the last thing you want is the tip of
it touching your bare skin as when I fire it, the
voltage really hurts.  And you've got lots of bare
skin to aim at, so be careful."

I had to go down on my hands and knees and actually
crawl through the cage door - it was so fucking
humiliating to have to enter like some sort of animal,
especially as I could imagine some of the other guys
watching my balls as they swung between my thighs as I
did so.  And this cage was fucking cramped - well, it
would have been just about OK for one guy, but with
two of us in there, well, it was hard to avoid
touching the nigga.  I'd never been that physically
close to another naked man before, and I did my best
to avoid his naked skin, but it was difficult.

He just half sat, half crouched there, listening to me
as I ranted on about the unfairness of it, the
illegality, how I couldn't believe they could do
things like this to another man.... And then he said
calmly "You're right, of course.  But it doesn't help
one little bit.  We're slaves now, well, as good as,
anyway, and there's not a fucking thing we can do
about it."

"Sam", as that was his name, I read from his pec, then
told me how he'd been a marine.  He'd just finished a
tour of duty, and before deciding whether to re-sign,
had decided to "go back home" and visit his folks.
They'd grabbed him as he was waiting for  a bus
connection, and "Sam" (he was actually Charlie, but
knew that in future he'd be called Sam as that was cut
into his flesh, and so he knew he'd better get used to
it) reckoned there was no hope for him - the marines
wouldn't be looking for him, well, at least not until
they tried to pay his pension in many years time - and
he'd wanted to surprise his folks and hadn't told them
he was travelling to them.  "Twenty eight, and a
fucking slave!", he finished with.  "All those years
in the marines, obeying orders, and now a fucking
slave!"

I looked at him in the dim light, and could see that
he was clearly used to taking care of himself - his
body, totally devoid of hair, like mine, showed off
his hard muscles to perfection.  There wasn't an ounce
of fat on him, and he looked like a big, strong
panther, waiting to pounce.  I couldn't help looking
at his dick - well, all guys like to compare their
dicks with another one, don't they? - and, like me, it
was in proper proportion to the rest of him and his
balls, too, were low hanging, with the sac hanging
down below the tip of the dick.  I hate to have to say
it, though, but I reckon his might even be a bit
thicker than mine - not that it matters, as when
you're erect, those little differences tend to
disappear, don't they?

We had a really uncomfortable night.  Sam was probably
used to being in close proximity to another guy, from
living in the barracks and sharing a tent on
manoeuvres and all that kind of stuff, but I wasn't
and I tried desperately not to touch him at all.  But
as you sleep and you move around, you can't help it,
can you?  And I kept waking up and finding his arm on
me, or my arm over him, or even once, horrifyingly, I
found my dick was rock hard and actually sort of
nuzzling at the top of the crack in his big muscular
butt.  I pulled away, blushing furiously, and hoping
that he really was asleep and hadn't noticed.

It wasn't easy sleeping at all, though - for one
thing, the pain from my bruises and the agony from my
brand were not conducive to sleep.  But for another,
it was the constant noise:  eleven guys sleeping in a
small room make a lot of it: not just their breathing,
which you can hear when it's quiet, but snoring, and
then those little cries and moans that some men make
when they're dreaming.   If you're used to having your
own room, like me, it takes some getting used to, I
can tell you.  And with being so close to Sam, his own
breathing - deep, and calm - was disturbing anyway,
but I suppose I must be glad he didn't snore.  Well,
rather, he doesn't snore if he's sleeping sprawled
across the corner of a cage, half sitting up.  Get him
in a bed, on his back, and all hell breaks loose.

We all woke up when the morning sun came in through
the one tiny window, and I was immediately embarrassed
as I had my usual morning wood - it was one of my
pleasures to jerk off before getting up, but of course
I couldn't do this now, and I had to lie there, trying
to conceal it as best I could.  I noticed that several
of the other guys, particularly Sam, were in the same
condition, though, and gradually, one by one, they
subsided.   I desperately needed to piss then, as my
bladder was bursting, and I watched as Sam knelt by
the bars, pushed his dick through, and just pissed on
to the concrete floor.  He saw me looking, and
shrugged.  "There's nowhere else.  And yesterday they
came through and hosed the floor down, so I guess it's
OK."

Sam said then that they hadn't been fed the day
before, although they came through with water three
times a day, and he reckoned it was all part of our
"processing".  "I mean, Steve", he told me, "A lot of
guys they get in here, even young fit ones, could do
with losing a pound or two, so withholding the food is
probably good for them.  And, anyway, a man who's
hungry, really hungry, is probably a lot easier to
control compared to someone with a full belly ready to
fuel his fight responses in his body."

"Well I'm not fat, and I'm fucking hungry", was all I
could say, and Sam responded, much more calmly, "Look,
we're locked in this cage.  If they choose not to feed
us, there's not a fuck we can do about it.  We'd just
better hope they haven't deserted the place totally,
got arrested, or something, or died in a pile-up on
the Interstate - after a few weeks all they'd find is
skeletons in here. There's no way naked men can break
through these bars, however desperate we were."

I began to realise how totally at another man's
command I was, and there was just no way  I could get
a snack, or a soda, or anything, unless they brought
it to me.  It was really scary, and totally worrying.


The goons hauled both Sam and me out of the cages
quite soon, though.  One of them held one of the prod
things as the other cuffed our hands behind our backs
- that does really make you feel out of control, as
you have so few ways of retaliating, whatever they do
to you.  Then, as we stood there, they used a hose of
cold water to roughly wash us down, and led us out
into the first room I'd been in, on arrival.  A tall,
lean man was standing there in a tan business suit
with a bright yellow tie:  something was clearly not
right about him, as the suit was too flamboyant, or
the leather boots peeping out from the cuffs of the
pants should not have had heels on them, or he ought
not to have worn a big diamond stud earring, or
something.  Clearly he was not a proper businessman,
but someone who was dressed up like he imagined
businessmen dressed, perhaps to fool the public.

The florid boss man, Jed,  was there, and he was
explaining that as he'd been asked to locate a tall
muscular slave, preferably handsome, between twenty
and thirty, and as he had in fact got two such, he was
pleased to present them both, so that a choice could
be made.

Mr tan suit inspected us both.  I'd never had another
man "handle" me before, not like that.  Well, I mean,
sometimes a doctor feels a swelling or something, and
at those yearly exams he may do a rectal thing.  But
Mr tan suit was thorough - his hands were probing my
neck ,then my shoulders, then on down my back, his
fingers pressing and prying at the ribs.  He cupped my
butt in his hands, and then stuck his thumbs in my
crack and sort of "kneaded" them to feel the power, he
said.  I hated it, hated having to stand there as if I
was an animal at a cattle show.  And then when he
started on my front, it as even worse:  I had to open
my mouth, so he could run a finger around inside,
stroking my teeth looking for cavities.  I've never
had anyone play with my nips - not even my girlfriend
- and I squirmed as he teased them, to make them
erect, before remarking to Jed "Nice big, dark
aureoles.  Always a good feature.  Sells better than
those tiny pink patches on some men.  Was there much
hair?"  When he was told there had been quite a thatch
shaved off ,he nodded "Always a good plan.  The public
likes to 'see' a slave's muscles."   He probed my
navel, commenting on how nicely I'd been "tied" and
calling it "another good feature", an then went to
work on my dick and balls.

I hated it.  Hated his sweaty hands touching my
intimate parts.  Hated being touched at all, actually.
  Only the presence of the goons and their prods
stopped me from kicking out at him, or spitting in his
face.  But he sensed my hate, I think, as he said
casually "Easy, boy - you've got to get used to this,
you know.  My buyers will all be doing this to you....
Now, soon over...."  As he said this, his hand cupped
my dick and his thumb teased by 'skin back, to expose
my dick head.  I just couldn't help it - I went hard,
and, simultaneously began to blush:  it felt like all
over!  Men without 'skins just can't imagine what a
"private" thing the dick head is - no one but you, and
your girl friend, ever see it.  At school, in the gym,
all those kind of places, it's always decently
covered, and now here was this other man, this perfect
stranger, rolling back my 'skin so he could take a
closer look.

At last, though, my humiliation was over - or so I
thought!  They pushed me over towards a table, and
told me to lie down on my belly on it with my feet on
the floor.  I felt my butt being prised apart, heard
the "snap" of a plastic glove being pulled on, and
then Mr tan suit's finger began to force its way into
my hole.  I moaned, and tried to get away, and all I
got was a resounding slap across my bare butt and a
command to "Keep still, fucker".  But then it really
was over, as Jed was asked "Is he a virgin?  He's
really tight...."

"Could be.  We've done some checking from his driver's
licence, and it seems he was shacked up with some
woman for the past two years.  Before that, of course,
at school... Who can say?"  Well, I could have, I
suppose.  But it was disgusting, them even thinking
that I might have taken a  dick up my ass, so I
remained silent.

They went through the whole thing with Sam then, as I
watched, and afterwards Jed asked "Which one, then?"

"It's a tough choice, but I've got a big sale coming
up, and I think these two might be interesting
publicity- they're very alike, except for the colour,
of course, and it might make a nice contrast for the
public to see a nigga and a whitey together.  So how
about I pay you for one, but take the two, and pay
you for the other one as soon as either of them is
sold?"

The dickering began then, and I was amazed at the
"mark up" Jed had on us over the thousand new dollars
he'd paid the cops - the "processing" he'd had done
hadn't cost that much, and this was a pretty cheap
building:  he must be making a fortune at this,  I
thought.

Still cuffed, Sam and I were taken outside and loaded
into the rear compartment of a big SUV - now we were
really cramped, and we just couldn't help being in
close contact with each other.  But Sam told me to
calm down, and soon Mr tan suit appeared and drove us
off.  I tried to tell him that we were illegally
enslaved, but he just laughed.  "That's why I got such
a good price", he told us.  "And why I'll make so much
money when I sell you on, as coming from a reputable
dealer, you'll start to have 'provenance'.  I'll
probably gag you, though, as we don't want the public
scared off, do we?"

The local town was some sort of market centre, as
there were more stores than you generally expect,
along what was still, recognisably, a "main street".
Tan suit pulled his SUV into a yard at the back of the
street, and soon his own guards - much the same
pattern as before, with those slave prod things at the
ready, were unloading us.  We did get fed then, though
- my first taste of slave chow, but I was so hungry I
ate it anyway (as was to become the norm, actually!  I
was always hungry from all the exercise, and all I was
ever fed was slave chow).  And after that, Sam and I
were immersed in a kind of big whirlpool bath, and had
to lie there soaking, as one of the guards told us
that it was understood that this got us cleaner than
showering.  It was good to shave off the stubble on my
chin, too (I've got a strongly-growing beard), and
then they tossed us a couple of plastic squeeze
bottles and said "oil up".  Of course I got used to
this later, but this was the first time I'd ever had
slave oil ("specially formulated to make the pelt
glisten and gleam") rubbed in, and realised that the
bits of myself I couldn't reach were going to be done
by Sam, and that I was in turn going to have to rub my
hands all over his shoulders.  I'd never touched
anyone like this before - well, my girlfriend, at the
beach - and I must confess it was rather erotic, and I
had to keep willing myself not to spring a wood.  I
could see afterwards why we were totally body shaved
then:  under the lights, our bodies looked fantastic
as every movement of our muscles caused a shift in the
light, and the eye was drawn over and over again to
the solid planes, interesting valleys, and generally
desirable features of our bodies.

I hated being in the window display!  The store was on
a corner site, on main street and the prime cross
street, and two big plate glass windows (strengthened,
and unbreakable) looked out to both streets.  Making a
square inside the showroom, the two other walls were
the conventional "bars", and Sam and I were pushed
through the door and the door was locked.
There we were, stark naked, with the world going by
outside and absolutely no way of hiding ourselves.
Even worse, we could read the reverse of a big banner
that ran across the top of each window saying "Prime
stock sale.  Every single slave 20% off this week
only."

People kept stopping and peering in at us, shading
their eyes against the glare of the sun so they could
get a better view.  Women seemed to like to take a
really long look at us, and once school was out,  we
could even hear the comments of some of the kids
through the glass.  At first, Sam and I tried to hide,
sitting in opposite corners and pulling our knees up
to our chins to conceal as much of our body as
possible.  The dealer had though of this, though, as
the floor was actually electrified - a pattern of fine
wires criss-crossed it.  After we'd been "stung" once
or twice, and realised that there was one of those
motion sensors high up in the corner that turned on
the current if there was no movement for a minute, we
never sat down again that day.  In only a bit over
twenty four hours I'd gone from being a free spirit,
riding my bike of a voyage of adventure and discovery,
to being an oiled, naked slave, prancing around and
totally unable to control my life, to act as some sort
of advertisement for a dealer's stock clearance.

The dealer's strategy of having both of us on display
like that seemed to work, though, as we saw several
potential buyers come in inquire about us - they all
went away, though, and Sam and I wondered what on
earth the tan-suited guy was asking for us!  In a way
it was kind of flattering to reckon we were worth a
lot of money, but, equally, I hated the thought of
being up for sale, with a price on me, just as if I
was some sort of animal.

We were fervently hoping it was nearing closing time
as both Sam and I were really tired out from having to
keep moving, when we saw a distinguished looking man,
accompanied by a much younger one, engaging the tan
suit in discussion.  After some time, the goons were
summoned and Sam and I were cuffed and taken out of
the cage and led over to where the three men were
standing.  I could sense "money" at once, as the
distinguished looking man was wearing an elegant silk
shirt that perfectly toned with his hand-tailored
linen jacket and slacks, and his brown loafers were of
that soft, subtle leather that costs an absolute
fortune.  There was a slim, very slim, and therefore
excessively expensive, gold wrist watch on his wrist,
and he seemed to be surrounded by an aura of expensive
cologne.  The younger man wasn't properly a man, I
thought:  but he too was expensively dressed, in
"designer" jeans and a shirt, and casually clipped to
the leather belt there was the very latest mobile
phone, the one I'd lusted after, as it had "all the
bells and whistles", at a correspondingly high price.

Some discussion was  going on, as the elder man was
saying "No, Brett, now that I've seen them close to,
they are definitely unsuitable.  And they're not
trained."

"You're wrong, dad!  They're fantastic!  You promised
me a slave of my own if I graduated in the top five of
my class, and I did.  You know I want to take a slave
to college with me, and this is exactly the type of
slave I'm looking for - big and strong....."

"But they're not trained, Brett..."

"Which is why they're so cheap, dad!  If we were
looking in a city dealer's for a fully-trained slave
anything like one of these, the price would be at
least four times as much.  And, anyway, I'll enjoy
training them.  It will give me something to do for
the summer.  And we've got all the facilities we need
at the ranch, before you raise that as an objection...
Mr Stryker trains slaves for you all the time, and he
can help me out if I have problems."

"No, Brett, I think you need a younger, smaller slave,
one who's more 'biddable' than either of these two
look.  They're rough, and unmanageable....  And
they're too old."

The dealer cut in "Not old at all, sir.  The whitey's
twenty three, and the nigga twenty eight."

"As I said", the distinguished man went on.  "Too old
for a lad of seventeen.  He needs someone more his own
age, or a bit younger.  Haven't you got any sixteen
year olds, who can be trained for personal service?"

"Dad, no!"  The kid blurted out. "You don't listen, do
you?  I'm guaranteed a place in the frat house ,with
both you and uncle George being alumni and making all
those donations, and they have their own staff of
slaves to look after the brothers.  But the rules
forbid students taking cars with them, because of all
the traffic around the campus.  So I need a pony, to
get around - or else I'll have to take a push bike!
It's not smart, dad - all the guys in our frat are
rich, and they all have ponies, and I'll look like the
poor relation if I have to bike everywhere....  And
these slaves are perfect - long legs, big frames, so
we can develop their lung capacity for endurance,
lovely muscular butts for real power...."

The distinguished man kind of peered at Sam and me, as
if verifying what his son had said.  "I can see what
you mean.  But these slaves are new, not bred to
it....."

"....all the more interesting to train them, dad!  And
think of the value-add:   you're always telling me
that's what business is about, taking one thing,
adding value, and selling it on at a higher price.
Once I've finished at college, there'll be huge
profits from a fully trained pony."

"I'm suspicious that they're so cheap", the father
said to the dealer.  "There must be some snag - a
heart murmur, collapsed kidneys, a diagnosis of
cancer....?"

"No, not at all", the dealer smiled , then put his arm
around the man's shoulders (to a faint shudder of
disgust from the man as the dealer touched his
exquisite jacket).  I could see him talking,
whispering, and could see that he was probably telling
about our origin.  "....so you see", he concluded,
"They're properly registered, they've got a valid
SIN.... But at those prices you just have to be a
little careful about them speaking out, at least for
the first six months or so, and after that, it's
usually not a problem as the slave has adapted."

Well, I didn't think I'd ever give up on trying to
tell people I'd been illegally enslaved, so perhaps
there was hope for me.  But I could see the
distinguished man was now in a quite different mood.
He turned to his son.  "Brett, I  think there is a
profit to be made here, and a mighty big one, too, now
I understand the origins of these slaves.  Providing
you guarantee that you'll train him, and look after
him at college...."

"Of course, dad!  And Mr Stryker will help with the
training."

"I don't want Stryker distracted, Brett!  He has the
place to run for me, as I'm away on business so much.
Now, do you want the black one, or the white one?"

I went to say something, and the goon nearest to me
stabbed at me menacingly with a prod.  I hated the
idea of being sold, but what could I do?   It's not
right to sell a man as if he's an object.  Some kid
shouldn't be able to pick me, or Sam, as if he was
choosing a new mobile phone or something.

"Dad, if it's profitable to train one, why not take
both?  I can have a pair, then.  And think of how good
it will be when you come up at weekends - I'll be the
only guy on campus with a pair.... And you'll be the
only dad who everyone can see can afford to give me
such a present...."

The man smiled.  "You're a chip of the old block,
Brett!  You've convinced me."  He turned to the
dealer, and said "Now, let's talk a discounted price
for the pair of them....."

I was sold!  Free man to sold object, so terrifyingly
quickly.  I looked at Sam, and he just shrugged.  I
remembered my own high school graduation gift - my
watch, now lying somewhere back in that place in the
boonies.  That Brett seemed to have it made.

End Of Part One