Date: Thu, 3 Jul 2003 00:23:57 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Harbour Master

HARBOUR MASTER, Part 1

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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


None of us spoke as we sat there in the slave
transporter.  Eight guys, all the picture of misery.
Since the new laws were passed about ten years ago
"justice", if that's what you can call it, has been
swift.  If you're arrested you're tried the next day,
and if you're found guilty, they fine you. No appeal,
nothing - guilty, and fined.  They got rid of the
prisons, as the size of the fines - and the penalty
for not paying - deters everyone.

I never thought it would happen to me.  Sure, I was
wild in my younger days, but mom and dad always
managed to pay the fines when I was found drunk, or
caught speeding (although they hated having to
re-mortgage the house).  There could be no college,
though, as all the money was gone, so I went straight
to work in construction.  I never meant to knock up
the foreman's daughter, just to fuck her for a bit of
fun, so it was no joke to be married at 20 - but the
foreman was a really mean, tough guy and he'd have
been quite capable of having me beaten up if I hadn't
done "the right thing".  And you know how it is when
you're married - with sex always available, you use
it: two screaming kids by the time I was 22, and the
prospect of a life of hard work to have to keep paying
for it all - no wonder I was pissed off.

Egged on by her dad she threw me out, saying I was no
fun any more - it wasn't me that wasn't fun, but I was
just so pissed off by her constant whining for more
money, more things.... I was doing my best, but it
isn't easy when you're in a low-paid job.  It's simple
to get a divorce, too, in our State, and, of course,
it's the father who has to pay - half my earnings were
attached at source.  And what can you do with the
remaining half of a labourer's wages?  A grungy room,
TV meals from the supermarket, and every night spent
just slumped in front of the box, that's all:  no
vacations, no drinks with the guys after work, no
tickets for a match, nothing.  Just work, TV, sleep.

Of course I shouldn't have agreed to take part in the
robbery, but the two other guys on the site ho thought
up the idea said there'd be no risk - with me to
intimidate the store keeper, it would all be easy,
they said.  Well, I suppose I am a bit intimidating at
first sight - 6'3", heavily muscled from working on
the site, 220 lbs, and really fit looking.  But I've
got a nice smile, and unlike a lot of 24 year olds, I
don't have an outrageous haircut (I keep my thick
black hair at a half inch all over), or tattoos, or
ear rings, or anything - I'd just be the conventional
hometown boy, if only I'd had the chance.  Something
went wrong, though, and the police were waiting as we
came out of the store.  It was lucky there wasn't a
gunfight or anything, so no one was hurt. But the next
day, when I heard I'd been fined 70 thousand, I knew
there was no way I was going to be able to pay it
within the seven days the law allowed, and mom and dad
couldn't help, either.

They clamped the standard "locator bracelet" around my
wrist, and told me to come back to the court a week
later, or be prepared for the automatic execution of
the remainder of the sentence.  These bracelets are
pretty neat, actually - hardened stainless steel, that
you can't easily cut without special tools.  And no
one with the right tools will help you, as they won't
risk the fines!  Those fucking satellites will always
tell the police where you are if you don't turn up, so
once you've been fined, you know there's no point in
doing anything other than collecting the money and
going back to the court.

Except, in my case, there was no money, as I've said.
So I knew what was going to happen to me even before I
went up the steps of the court house the next week -
I'd given what few things I still owned to the local
charity shop, and got a few bucks for my beat up old
car at the dealer down the street, that I just gave to
a panhandler on the court steps - I knew there was no
point in having anything of my own any more.

That's the other change that's taken place - justice
is not only swift, it's sure.  No paroles, no reducing
of sentences, no favours for anyone:  if you can't pay
the fine, you take the consequences.  You know that if
you're guilty, you're going to pay - either the money,
or with your labour for the rest of your life.  So I
was expecting the inevitable, and it only took a
couple of minutes for the judge to confirm that, as I
hadn't paid up within the time limit, I was now a
slave.  They don't call us "slaves", of course - it
has too many unpleasant memories from the history of
our country, and the blacks anyway said it was
demeaning to have a lot of criminals sullying the
proud history of their people.  So we're known as
permanently indentured prisoners - the ideas is that
you're effectively in prison for life, but as the
prisons have all been abolished, the state "sells" you
(it says it sells your labour contract, to avoid
problems in the human rights courts) to whoever will
pay.  In legal terms you may be a permanently
indentured prisoner, but to the mass of the
population, you're a slave.  That's what everyone
calls you, and that's how you're treated - you have no
rights, none at all, and the master who's bought your
"contract" can do pretty much as he likes with you.

In the first years, before it became clear that they
were really going to enforce the law, with absolutely
no exceptions, there were quite a few slaves, but the
numbers have fallen of rapidly.  The whole country is
much more law-abiding now, as the potential penalties
are so severe, and so sure.  Even young guys don't
dare to speed any more, no one jumps the lights, and
there's almost no drunkenness - let alone burglary,
rape, murder... It's almost all gone.  So it was only
the idiots like me that now got enslaved, and only the
poor - almost everyone else took out "sentence
insurance" against the big fines, just as they (or
their employers, rather, if you worked for a big
company), gave them health insurance.

Anyway, here I was, in the slave transporter (there is
some fancy official name for it, like "indentured
prisoner transport", but I'll just use the everyday
words from now on, just as everyone does).  There were
eight of us in all, and it was only a small van.  We
sat opposite each other in two rows of four, and as it
was so narrow they'd made us put our knees between the
knees of the guys opposite,.  The alternation of our
knees along the rows did at least mean that my face
was not pushed directly into that of the guys opposite
me, but I was still so close I could hear them
breathing, and smell their breath, just as they could
mine.  As the police loaded us into the transporter at
the exit from the court they told us we'd better get
used to being close to other slaves - that's why, they
said, our hand were cuffed to the bar right above our
heads that ran down the middle of the van:   we'd have
to be physically close to the guy opposite, and
couldn't move.

It was hot in there, too - "no need of air
conditioning for slaves" - and even though I'd got rid
of everything except my T-shirt and jeans before I'd
gone back to the Court, I was hot and sweating.  Those
little rivulets of sweat that form and trickle down
the side of your body from your pits had been doing
so, and, underneath my jeans, I could feel my cotton
boxer were all clammy.  All of the eight of us were
the same, though, and being pushed so close to the
guys on either side of me only meant that their hot
bodies added to my discomfort.  I'd never been in
close contact with other men before - who has, unless
you're a footballer?  I'm not used to feeling another
guy's thighs against mine, of having his pits so close
to my face, of having my knee almost touching his
crotch.

We drove on and on - after a couple of hours, I needed
to piss, even though I'd done so before going into the
Court.  And judging from the bulges in some of the
other guys' pants, and the way they were shuffling, or
trying to shuffle, uncomfortably around, so did they.
Fortunately we stopped at a rest area, and through the
windows of the van we could see the guards going into
the rest rooms.  When they came back, though, they
just started the engine again.  One of the guys called
out that he needed to pee, too:  the driver turned
around and opened a panel in the glass separating us
from him and the guard, and said  "If you slaves want
to piss, just go ahead.  There are holes in the floor
of the van and it will drain away.  We don't have keys
to those cuffs holding you to the bar, so we can't let
you out, and I'm not going to hold your dicks into an
empty beer can for you!  So piss away if you want to -
we've got a couple of hours more to go."

I wasn't the first.  It was a guy on the end, who
finally muttered "Jesus Christ, I can't hold it any
more" as we went over a bumpy stretch where the
Interstate was being repaired.  I saw the wet patch
forming on the front of his pants, and soon there was
a little pool of water on the van floor that started
to run along its length as we sped onwards.  You could
smell it, of course, but I guess it was no worse that
a badly cleaned rest-room.  It was as if a dam had
burst, though - once one of us had broken the taboo
against pissing in your pants there were soon eight
wet patches, and the floor was running with male piss.
 I hated it, but I had no choice - my bladder was
absolutely bursting, and it didn't matter how hard my
dick had got, there was no way it could stretch to
accommodate the piss that was straining to come out.

If we hadn't been inclined to talk much before, the
shame of pissing in our pants in front of the others
meant that we were even less inclined to do so now,
and we passed the rest of the journey in stony
silence.  Although it was hot in the van, it was so
humid that the piss didn't really dry out, either -
although we were all so covered in sweat generally - I
had big wet patches on the front and back of my T, as
well as huge rings under my pits - that I don't
suppose you'd really notice.

Have you ever tried holding your arms above your head
for any length of time?  Even though our bodies were
wedged together tightly so that the swaying of the van
was not too much of a problem, after all that time my
arms were really aching. You had to keep your arms in
tension, and hold them up there, and you couldn't
really afford to let them hang loose, even though you
were cuffed to the bar in the centre - the cuffs then
started to cut into your wrists, and it hurt.  It
would have been easy to have arranged some other way
of moving us, but, as I came to realise later, when I
knew more about "the system", this was probably just
one of the ways of starting to get us used to our new
status - we could be treated any way they wanted,
provided no permanent physical harm came to us.  The
discomfort of holding our arms up, the packing of us
so close together, the heat, and the pissing, were all
designed to get us used to thinking of ourselves as
less than men:  we no longer had even the minimum
rights that you expect in a free society.

I thought the journey was never going to end.  My
muscles were screaming, and I'm a tough guy - some of
the others were, I could see, in real difficulties and
one young guy ( he can't have been more than
seventeen) was quietly sobbing to himself.  I didn't
have much sympathy with him, actually - at 17, I'd
never have cried in public, it didn't matter what they
did to me:  a man is supposed to be a man by then, and
guys don't cry and sob in public - no, they don't cry
and sob at all.  There was no way that I was going to
show I had a problem, and I mentally told my 24-year
old muscles to stop bleating and hang in there.  But
it was hard, and I had a problem with my big frame and
long legs - I was getting cramps in my thighs, and
wanted to shift and stretch.  But if I did, it caused
problems for the guys on either side of me.  And if I
stretched my legs too much, my knee would go into the
crotch of the guy opposite (and, I guess, the knees of
the guy opposite would go into my crotch, too!).  So I
just sat there, in grim silence, and prayed it would
end soon.

We drew up at one of those standard kinds of
industrial "sheds" you see on the outskirts of every
town and city - no windows, a couple of air
conditioners on the roof, a parking lot out the front,
and undistinguished glass doors in the middle.  Only
the sign on the front made it any different from all
the other buildings on the industrial complex -
"Slaves For You - Slaves Bought, Sold And Rented."
The driver got out and went in, then came out a few
minutes later and re-started the van.  We drove around
to the back, where there was a loading bay, and he
finally turned off the engine.

We sat in the stifling humidity and the stench of our
own bodies for what must have been a quarter of an
hour (none of us had watches now, of course, as we'd
all given  or thrown hem away to stop the courts
having them).  Then the doors to the loading bay
opened, and five men came out.  The leader opened the
back door of our van, and a welcome blast of fresh air
came in.

"Listen up, and listen up well, you slaves, as I'm
only going to say this once.", he began.  "I'm the
owner of this dealership, and I've bought your
contracts from the court, so you're all now
effectively mine.  My only interest in you is to turn
a profit - I process you here to make sure you're all
fit and healthy, clean you up generally, and put you
into my next sale.  I only want a quiet, untroubled
life, and to make an honest buck, and, if you're
sensible, you'll just go along with the system and
co-operate.  Under the law, we can take 'any
reasonable measures' to make you comply with our
orders, and here this is quite simple: we use a
modified cattle prod on you if you give us any
trouble.  We don't use whips in this establishment as
it's too difficult to avoid damaging the flesh, and
the last thing we want is for you to appear in our
sale with any damage - and it anyway puts the buyers
off, if they think you're unruly, or don't accept your
new status properly.  So just do as you're told, and
it will be easy for all of us."

"And remember", he went on, "There is no appeal, no
possibility of rescue, no way any of you are going to
get out of this.  You're slaves for life now, and the
sooner you get to accept it, the easier it will make
your life.  We try to be humane here, because that's
the best way to make a profit. But if a few prods with
the cattle prod don't work, we will consider other
measures - we can, you know, have particularly
troublesome bucks gelded, to calm you down.  My advice
would be 'don't try it!'.  Buckle down and accept your
new status.  Take your time here in my dealership as a
learning experience for your new life."

"What....", one of the guys started to ask.

"Silence!  One of the rules you have to learn is that
slaves don't ask questions.  They obey, and they only
speak when they're answering a question from their
masters. You need to learn that you don't have
opinions, you don't have things you want - you're just
here to obey.  So shut the fuck up - the next one f
you that speaks without having been asked a direct
question will be used as an example to the rest of you
- he'll be prodded!"

The other four men - guards, I suppose you'd call them
- they were all wearing the same dark green polo
shirts, dark blue jeans and tan work boots, then
approached.  They undid the cuffs holding the guy at
the end, and half helped, half dragged him out of the
van.   The rest of us were able to shuffle along a
bit, and it was good not to have the hot, clammy
presence of the other guys' bodies and thighs against
my own.

"OK, strip!", the guy was commanded by the guards.

He just stood there, looking dazed, generally
stretching his cramped body, and trying to massage
some life into his arms and ease the discomfort in his
wrists.

"I said 'strip!'", the guard snapped again, and when
the guy still carried on stretching, he moved forward
and touched the guy's forearm with a small stainless
steel rod he was holding.

There was s great scream, and the guy fell to the
ground, writhing in agony and shouting and moaning.
The chief honcho stood there, impassively, watching,
then came to us slaves still in the van and remarked

"So that's the demonstration of the prod.  I'd advise
you to pay more attention to our orders in the future
if you want to avoid the fate of your companion there.
 It does no permanent damage, but, as you can see,
it's pretty uncomfortable!"

The guards had now pulled the guy to his feet, and he
was again told to strip.  Reluctantly, he undid his
shirt, pulled it out of his pants, and took it off.
With all of us watching he bent down and slipped off
his shoes and socks, and then kind of hopped around
awkwardly as his bare feet were on the hot concrete of
the loading area.  The guards didn't say a word, but
you could tell they were getting impatient, and with a
sort of shrug the guy unbuckled his belt, and slipped
his pants down, stepping out of them. He was quite a
slim guy, and he wore those bikini briefs - the bright
red of them made a vivid flash of colour against the
concrete of the buildings and his own very white skin.
 Then he just stood there, shuffling awkwardly.

"When we say 'Strip!', we mean 'Strip naked!'", the
guards said.  "We don't want your stinking clothes
coming into our nice clean facility.  You disgusting
slaves always arrive here soaked in sweat and piss, so
we get you naked outside.  Now, lose those things...
Or take the consequences".   As he said this, the
guard waved his stainless steel "prod" menacingly in
the guy's direction.

The poor guy looked so embarrassed, but he could see
he had no choice with five of them, and the prods,
around him.  He pushed his bikinis down, and stood
there, naked, in front of them.  He was in quite good
shape, actually - I guess you'd say he had one of
those "twink'" bodies, with not a lot of muscle, but
no fat either - slight, and looking very vulnerable he
was so white and slender standing there in the hot sun
surrounded by the big burly guards.

One of the guards advanced and did something we
couldn't quite see - until he stepped back and we saw
that he's put a collar around the neck of the guy, and
that his arms had been raised and folded behind his
head.  We could see from the way that the guy was
moving that he couldn't lower his arms, and we guessed
that his wrists must have been attached to the back of
the collar.

"Right - next!", the guard spoke, and pulled the next
man from the back of the van.  He, too, stretched, but
on the command to strip, just did so - I think we'd
all learned a powerful lesson from seeing what had
happened to the first guy.

Having watched all this, I was ready as I was the next
one nearest the doors, and as soon as I was released
from the bar I started to rub my wrists to get some
life back into them, and to flex my arm muscles.  I
didn't like taking my clothes off, of course - no one
does, in the open air, in front of a whole lot of
other guys, do they?  And I stopped when I was down to
my boxers - I don't know why: perhaps it was jut some
shred of modesty in me.  I've never really been one
for team sports, so I wasn't even used to stripping
off in a changing room, and in our house, mom, dad and
me always went around decently clothed:  I know some
young guys go around in their boxers at home, but mom
and dad always insisted I wore at least shorts and a T
in the house.  I suppose the only person I'd appeared
naked before in a long time, since I was a tiny kid,
was that bitch of a wife of mine - and she didn't
really like me being totally naked really: she was
always trying to buy me those "leisure wear" things
that the big stores are tying to push, and then
telling me it was only "decent" to wear them, even in
bed.

So it was a real effort for me to have to finally hook
my thumbs under the elastic of my waistband and push
my cotton boxers down.  Don't get me wrong - along
with my big, muscular body, I've got a good-sized
dick, properly in proportion (well, actually, I guess
it's over sized if anything), and my low-hanging balls
never cause any problems when it comes to shooting a
huge load.  I've got absolutely nothing to be ashamed
of - most guys would actually pay thousands for tackle
like mine, I suppose - it's just that I'm not used to
exposing myself in front of a whole lot of other guys,
and especially not outside!

One of the guards approached me, and told me to bend
my head - he needed me to lower myself so that it was
easy for him to fit the steel collar around my neck.
It had a kind of ratchet mechanism at the ends, and he
pushed it so that it was quite tight, but not
uncomfortably so - he slipped a finger in between the
steel and my neck, and ran it around a bit to make
sure there was enough room.  Somehow, having a man do
that to me made me start to feel different about
myself - the only person that normally touches my neck
is me, when I occasionally wear a formal shirt with a
closed collar, and I try to stretch it a bit to make
it more comfortable! He used a small key to lock the
ratchet in place when he was satisfied, and then
curtly told me to put my arms behind my neck.

He fumbled around a bit, and I felt his hands pushing
my wrists into cuffs at the back of the collar - a
couple of "snaps", and I was secure.

I thought he'd finished with me, but he reached down
and grabbed my dick!  I went to jerk backwards, and
shouted "Fucker... Let go....", but he didn't.  When
your wrists are cuffed behind your neck and a guy's
holding your dick, there are not a lot of places you
can go!  I couldn't move backwards, and I thought
about head-butting him - but he was holding one of the
prods in his other hand.

"Easy, stud!", he snapped at me.  "Take it easy!  I'm
just going to fluff your dick out  - it was sticking
to your balls a bit, and we like to see guys swinging
free and easy.  This isn't the last time you're going
to get your dick handled, you know - you're a slave
now!"

Well, what could I do?  It might not be the last time
I'd have my dick handled, but it was certainly the
first - no guy has ever put his hand on my dick
before, and I could hardly believe what was happening
to me - the sweaty, hot palm of the guy fondling my
dick like that! I just had to stand there, though, and
the guy soon let go of my dick.  He had a look of
quiet satisfaction in his eyes, and said to me

"That's right.... Good boy.  Learn to take it.  With a
body like yours, you're almost certainly going to be
sold as a sex toy, so there'll be a lot of handling of
that dick of yours."

Up until that moment I hadn't really thought on about
what was going to happen to me.  I suppose, if I
thought about it at all, that slaves were sold as
labourers or workers - companies would just buy them
to replace workers paid wages.  I guessed I'd end up
labouring on a construction site somewhere, or perhaps
down one of the deep mines, or something like that.
But the papers were full of stories about 'sex
slaves', and how disgusting old men, and women, had
bought young girls and men for their sexual
gratification.  It wasn't until the guard said about
"sex toys" that it had even occurred to me that I
might be like this, but the more I thought about it,
the more worried I became - after all, at 24, with a
hard body and good looks, what woman wouldn't want to
sleep with me?  But could I get it up, and keep it up,
if I had to fuck some really old bitch with sagging
tits, or some gross fat slag, however young she was?
And then I felt sick inside with another thought -
that guard had handled my dick so casually - I'd heard
about fags, of course, but I'd never really thought
that guys would want to  feel other guys:  it just
shows how naive I was!  Suppose I was bought by some
sick old pervert who wanted to jerk me off... Or, even
worse, wanted me to jerk him off....  I felt so bad as
these thoughts struck me that I started to break out
in a sweat all over.

"Easy, boy", the guard said, seeing my distress.
"Don't fret.  Just stay calm, and go and stand by the
others over there whilst we finish unloading."

Well, I managed to do it somehow, and eventually all
eight of us were standing there, totally naked except
for our collars, and all helpless.   We watched as the
guards went around collecting up all our discarded
clothes and shoes, and casually tossed them into a
dumpster - somehow that act of throwing away our
clothes also made me realise that my old life was
finally over.

As we were standing there, a big SUV drew up and a guy
got out dressed in smart casual clothes, and pulled a
big bag out of the seat.  He went and spoke to the
chief honcho, and they obviously knew each otter well
as they shook hands and slapped each other on the
shoulder in greeting.

Right, slaves", the chief honcho addressed us again.
"That shows you what a tight ship we run here.  The
doc has just come, and so there will be no delay in
your processing.  We're a responsible dealer, and we
sell each of you with a clean bill of health - in
fact, we guarantee each of you for six months, except
for stuff like colds, of course!  I know you've all
had a long day, but it takes some time to get you all
examined, but it's best we do it today so the samples
can be processed overnight. The sooner you all get a
clean bill of health, the sooner we can sell you, and
the sooner you can start to settle into your new life.
 Don't worry, though, we will make sure you get fed
today - we like our slaves to be in first class
condition, and we won't let you starve.... At least,
we won't starve you very much:  one or two of you
could do with losing a pound or two to be in peak sale
condition."

So it had started - all this stuff about "a clean bill
of health":  we were going to be examined whether we
liked it or not, and analysed.  And "first class
condition" - I didn't think I was one of the guys who
needed to lose a pound or two, but the very thought
that someone was looking at our bodies from the point
of view that we needed to do to be presented in the
best possible condition for sale make my stomach
churn.

I could feel the dun burning on my ass - my body is
well tanned, of course as I usually take off my T in
the summer when I'm labouring, and my legs are pretty
tanned.  But obviously from my waist down to my knees,
where my work shorts cover me, I'm pure white. Even
those minutes standing there under the blazing sun had
started to make me think I was going pink!  When I was
about fourteen I'd once gone "skinny dipping" when it
was so hot and I had no swim shorts with me - it was
way out in the countryside, when I was walking home
from a neighbours, and I didn't think it would matter.
 But after I'd lain in the sun to dry, my ass felt
distinctly uncomfortable for a few day afterwards.  I
read somewhere that pure white flesh, that has never
been exposed to the sun, can start to burn within ten
minutes of exposure, and this seemed to be happening
now!  I was glad, therefore, when the guards opened a
door of the loading bay and gestured at us with their
prods to get inside.

The shock of the air conditioning brought all my skin
up in goose bumps - it had been so hot and humid in
the van, and the period in the blazing sun had not
helped at all.  I don't suppose it was really cold -
just the usual seventy-something that offices are kept
at.  But in the nude, it always feels colder, I guess.
 I'm not  one of those guys whose dick shrivels when
it's cold, and the contrast between the heat outside
and the coolness now started to have an effect on me -
to my horror, I could feel my dick start to stir and
begin to go erect.  What could I do?  With my wrists
cuffed I couldn't cover myself in any way.  I tried to
think calming thoughts, but it was no good - you know
how it is, when your dick seems as if it almost has a
life of its own - the blood just continued to pump
down there, and I could feel my skin start to stretch
as soon I was half hard.

I think I would have been completely, humiliatingly
erect in front of all the others if a blast of water
had not then hit us all.  We all shouted, and tried to
duck away and cover ourselves as best we could, as the
guards had a hose and were spraying us with a fierce
jet of cold water.  I saw that the area we were in,
just inside the loading bay, was tiled on the floor
and that the water was running away down a drain in
the centre.  A big sign on the wall said "Notice to
all loading bay employees - all slaves MUST be
properly hosed down and cleaned before any shipment in
OR out takes place.  This means YOU!"

They continued to spray us with the water, then, one
by one, we were washed.  Yes, they washed us!  One of
the guards had put on one of those plastic suits you
can get for cleaning your car and so on, and rubber
boots, and was scrubbing each of us down with a big
mop on a short stick that he kept dipping into a
bucket of suds.  Actually, although it was foaming,
there was also that antiseptic smell of disinfectant,
just like you get in hospitals.  When it was my turn
he ran the loose mop all down my chest, in my pits
(this made me wriggle!), then down my back and legs.
My face didn't escape - he didn't even say "close your
eyes" or anything as the mop was thrust at me,  But
worst of all was when he came to do my ass and my
pubes - I had to bend over so that he could shove the
mop right up my ass crack.  And when I turned around
so he could do my pubes, he wasn't at all gentle and I
got several of those awful twinges you get from your
balls.

"Oh, another one with a 'skin" he said to the others,
then came up to me and reached for my dick with his
rubber-gloved hand.   I moved back, getting away from
him.

"Steady, boy - a prod when your body is all wet will
be even worse!", he snapped, so I had to stand there
whilst he took my cock in his hand and pulled back my
foreskin.  He was really rough - or, rather, I guess
he was like all guys without 'skins - they don't know
just how sensitive your dick head is when it's used to
being covered!  I squirmed as his rubber-coated thumb
ran around inside my 'skin to clean it thoroughly.  It
was hateful - no guy has ever touched me like that
before, and even that bitch of a wife knew she could
look, but not touch, me in that way.  Was it always
going to be like this, I wondered?

A final sluice from the cold hose, and I was
pronounced done, and told to go over and stand by the
others.  We all stood there, shivering slightly,
waiting for all eight of us to go through this washing
process, and then the guards lined us up and led us
off down a corridor inside the building into a room
that said "Doctor" on the door.

It looked like a pretty conventional doctor's office,
except that there wasn't that place in the corner with
a screen around it where you can take off your clothes
- I guess that was totally superfluous for the
patients here, who were naked already.  The guards
told us to sit down along one wall, and we sank down
with some difficulty - you try sitting down when your
hands are cuffed behind your head.  The smooth
thermoplastic tiles on the floor felt cold against my
naked ass, and the guards made us pull our legs in, so
our knees were up by our faces, to not take up so much
floor space.  I knew that my dick and balls must be
hanging down between my thighs, where everyone could
see, and I hated the idea.

As it so happens, I was first.  The guards gestured to
me to get up, and to go and stand in front of the
doctor.  He undid the cuffs at the back of my neck, so
I could stand there with my arms at my side.  I
resisted the temptation to try to cover my tackle with
my hands - after all, I suppose the guy was a doctor.

"Name?"

"Steve Jones."

"Slave, get used to it.... All free men, real men, are
'master', 'boss', or 'sir'.  You call me 'Sir'."

"Now, again, name?"

Fuck him, I thought.  I just stood there.  The doctor
gestured at the guard, and the next moment I was
writhing on the floor, howling in pain.  It was as if
every part of me had been hit with a hammer or
something - you know how it is, when your thumb gets
in the way when you're fixing something.  Like that,
only all over.

The guard pulled me to my feet after a few moments,
and the doctor said, perfectly calmly,
"It's good you get prodded early on - it makes you
more respectful, and helps you to understand who's in
charge.  I always like one of you slaves to be
disrespectful up front, as it's more humane - it saves
a whole lot of trouble with the others later on.  Us
doctors are bound by the Hippocratic oath not to cause
unnecessary suffering, you know, so thank you! Now,
let's try again.  Name?"

"Steve Jones..... Sir."

"Age?"

"24, Sir."

"Any serious illnesses in your past, taking any
medication now?"

The questioning went on for a bit - I told him I'd had
my tonsils out, and had all the usual childhood stuff,
but nothing else.  Then he asked me about sex, and I
told him I'd had two kids.

"Good.  Properly fertile men are always in demand.
We'll still have to test you, of course, for the
formal sales dossier.  Now, go and lie on the
examination table...."

The leather of the table was cold against my back and
ass, but I lay there whilst the doctor attached all
those little electrode things to my chest so that he
could do an ECG on me.  I was expecting a rectal exam,
like you get when doctors are giving you an annual
check-up, and I wasn't surprised therefore to be told
to bend over the table afterwards.  The only
difference was that the doctor didn't snap a rubber
glove on first - it was his raw finger that probed up
my ass hole!  And, unlike any exam I'd ever had
before, it went on and on, until suddenly I gave a
gasp of pleasure - one of those waves of sensation you
feel when you are about to cum swept over me, and I
thought I was going to shoot all over the doctor's
office.

"Good.  Proper reaction to the prostate.  Now....
Let's examine those balls of yours whilst you're bent
over - not enough of you young guys check for
cancer....."

His hands, warm and moist, gripped my balls as I lay
there and I felt him massaging them around between his
thumb and forefinger.  I suppose it was all right that
he should be handling me like this as, after all, he
was a doctor. But I'm used to doctors doing intimate
things like this with gloves on.  He pronounced me OK,
though.

 There was a portable X-ray machine in the corner, and
I also had my chest X-rayed, and then I was told to
stand in front of the doctor's desk again.

"Right.  Now all that's left is the samples.  Put your
hand on the desk."

I put my hand down, and saw him fussing with those
little test tubes they have when you give a blood
sample.  I hate the it where they stab the back of
your finger - I guess it's the thought of it, rather
than the actual pain - but I just had to hold my hand
there whilst he stabbed at it with his scalpel, and
squeezed.

He pushed another of the tubes towards me.  "Urine,
please.  Not too much, just half full."

I went to take the tube and go off to the men's room,
as you do, but he stopped me.  "No, here!  Don't be so
fucking shy - you're a slave, and I'm a doctor.
What's there to be shy about?  Get pissing!"

It's hard, isn't it?  However much you want to piss,
if you have to, you can't.  I stood there, straining,
trying to force some out.  And, of course, when it did
come, I couldn't stop - it hurts, as we all know, to
have to cut yourself off in mid flow and I did all the
things you have to - clenching my ass together, and
desperately trying to stop.  I did, but only before
the little cylinder was completely full, and some had
flowed over onto the doctor's desk.

He had to mop it up with a clinical wipe whilst I
watched.  He shouted at me, saying "You fucking
slaves, you're just like animals!  No wonder you've
come to a bad end, if you were brought up to go around
pissing on the furniture at home.  You slaves just
don't have any self control.  But, what do you expect
- if you could behave properly, you probably would not
have got into trouble in the first place.  You'd
better hope that it hasn't damaged the polish, slave,
else I'll order a whipping for you, even though this
place doesn't usually like to damage the stock before
it's sold."

He calmed down a bit eventually, and pushed the third
tube towards me.  "Right - last sample.  A big load of
semen, please, and, this time, make sure it doesn't go
on my desk or that whipping will be ordered."

I've never jerked off in front of anyone else in my
life!  Not even in front of that slut of an ex-wife -
but then, I didn't have to, as I was always ready to
ram her.  I went hot all over, and could feel the red
glow of a blush spreading all over me.

"Please, sir, not this.... Not here..... Please, I
can't jerk off with all these guys watching.... Can I
at least go to the bathroom?"

"You idiot!  As I said before, you're a slave. So
what's there to be embarrassed about?  Suppose you're
sold to a sex show - do you think they'd let you go to
the bathroom to jerk off?  Stop pratting around, get
that magnificent dick of yours hard, and start
beating!"

"But sir, you know I'm virile - I've fathered two
kids...."

"Yes, and a lot of young guys like you then get
themselves tied off once they've fathered 'the heir
and the spare'.  We need a current sperm count in your
sale particulars, so that if anyone is going to buy
you as a stud, so they can sell semen to childless
women, they know you're not shooting blanks.  So get
on with it!"

Well, try as I could, I just couldn't make it happen.
The more I tried to jerk myself off, the more my dick
seemed to shrivel up.  I just couldn't get it erect,
with the seven other slaves, the doctor, and the
guards all watching me.

After a couple of futile minutes, the doctor snapped
"OK. That's enough.  Back on to the examination table,
on your back."

With the guard pointing his prod at me, I did as he
said and lay there.

"Right - spread your legs apart, and raise your
knees."

I did as the doctor ordered, and he came and stood by
me.  I saw him rub something from a tube all over his
middle finger, and the next instant he was probing for
my ass hole again.  I grunted and tried to hold my
hole closed, but his slippery finger - I guess the
stuff must have been some kind of grease that he'd
used - forced its way in.  Then there was that
explosion of sensation again, as he got to my
prostate.  I gasped and moaned with the pleasure it
was causing me.

"Good, isn't it slave?  Now, we'll soon have you
erect."

Turning to the guard, he said "Do you want to jerk him
off, or shall he do it himself?"

"Yes, sir!  I'd love a feel of that prick of his.
I'll do it."

The guard came and stood next to the doctor, then spat
all over his hand - big gobs of his spit went all over
the fingers and the palm.  The doctor started his
infernal probing again and I was soon moaning and even
started to writhe around a bit, trying to make the
incessant pleasure his finger was causing me to kind
of go away - you know how it is, you half want
something to stop because you know it's wrong, but the
other half of you wants it to go on, and on.

OH fuck!  I then felt the guard's hot, moist hand on
my dick.  He started to tease it gently up and down,
then to slide my foreskin backwards and forwards so
that my cock head was exposed and covered.  Coupled
with the sensation flooding me from the doctor's
massage, I felt myself starting to go erect!  Oh
Christ - having a hard-on in front of a room full of
other guys, with some guy jerking me - I'd never been
so humiliated in my life.  In between my moans I
begged them to stop..  "Oh, please, don't...   Don't
do this to me.... Oh....."

I was fully erect now, and the guard was banging my
sensitive cock head into the palm of his hand as he
jerked at me.  I could feel that amazing sensation
building inside of me as I started to cum, and it
seemed to take only an instant before I was pumping
big streams of my creamy white cum out of the end of
my dick.  As he sensed it starting to happen, the
guard had pushed my dick down towards my belly, and
the cum shot up towards my chest, liberally coating my
belly and pecs as it did.

"Excellent!", the doctor commented as he pulled his
finger out.  "Enjoy that?", he asked the guard.

"Yes, sir!  I like to get a good feel of these big
studs - nothing like a hard, hot dick in your hand, is
there, unless it's up your ass?"

I was appalled that two men could be discussing dicks
and asses like this.  Where I come from, you don't
talk about sex much.  And you certainly don't talk
about dicks, or putting them up asses, at all!  Well,
I suppose that's not strictly true - a couple of guys
at school who were regarded as pretty wild did say
that they'd taken their girl friends up the ass, but
no one really believed them - they thought they were
just bragging.  But to hear a guy say he liked a dick
up
 his ass - well, it was disgusting.  Men didn't do
things like that where I came from - it only went on
in San Francisco, and New York, if the papers were to
be believed.

The doctor got one of those little spatula things and
scraped some of my cum off my belly into one of the
tubes.  "Nice muscle tone you've got there", he
commented as the spatula slid across the ridges and
valleys of my belly muscles.  "Work out a lot?"

"No... Sir.  It's just from working on a construction
site.  I don't have the time, or the money, to go to a
fancy gym."

"Well, that should serve you well - some connoisseurs
of slave flesh believe they can differentiate between
'proper' muscle, like yours, from hard work, and 'gym
muscle'.  And the 'proper' muscle fetches much higher
prices.  And if a master has paid top dollar for you,
he's more inclined to take good care of you, and less
likely to order whippings."

"Now, get back over there and sit down again, whilst I
do the others."

I went to pick up one of the medical wipes from the
box he'd used to wipe up my piss, but he snapped "No!
Let your cum dry on you.  It will remind you that we
have total power over you, and that if you don't do as
you're told, it will happen to you anyway."

"Hands behind your neck", the guard snapped, and I
could only do as he said, watching the prod nervously.

I hate sitting there watching all the other seven -
not only did it take a long time, but I could keep
smelling my cum as it dried in the thatch of hair on
my chest.  I knew the guys sitting next to me must be
able to smell it as well, and although they obviously
knew what it smelled like - well, who doesn't, after
all - I'd never smelled another guy's cum before and I
didn't want them smelling mine!

When we were all done we were led off, getting fed on
the way - our arms were still cuffed behind our heads,
so they put a thick pipe into our mouths and pumped
some sort of thick paste, with a faint taste of meat,
in.  You really had to swallow hard as the stuff
forced its way into your mouth, and the guards stood
there laughing as they pumped away at the handle of
the container containing the paste - they said that it
looked as if we were eating shit, and kept asking us
if the turds tasted nice.

Our beds for the night turned out to be a set of
plastic covered pads in a completely bare room - we
were led in by the guards, told to find a pad, and to
lie down.  They pointed to a hole in the corner where
we could pee or crap, and to a kind of spigot thing on
the wall where we could get water if we pressed it
with our tongue.  After the "meal", we were all
thirsty, and that scene was one I shall remember for a
long time as showing how far we'd come from being men
and becoming slaves - the eight naked men, kneeling in
front of the tap on the wall in turn to get mouthfuls
of water, with their hands cuffed behind their necks.
Then going to try to piss down the hole in the floor -
have you ever tried to direct the stream of piss from
your dick when you can't hold it?  The only good way,
we found, was to kneel so that you were sort of
astride the hole, and let your dick point straight
down.  But then you got the smell coming up from the
sewer at you, and I could feel the dampness on my
knees where some of the earlier guys had kind of
mis-aimed.  It was just as well that none of us needed
to crap - I can't imagine doing it in front of other
guys, and how would we clean ourselves afterwards,
unable to use our hands?

It had been a long day, though, and even though it's
really difficult to sleep when there's absolutely
nothing on top of you, I did manage it sooner than I
expected.  I suppose I woke up once or twice during
the night and heard the sounds of other men sleeping
around me - the snores, sighs, and little farts that
all guys make as they sleep.  It was really strange,
as I'd never slept in a room with seven other guys
before (and especially not seven other totally naked
ones).

End Of Part 1