Date: Tue, 10 Nov 2015 17:32:55 +0000 (UTC)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: PASSING - Part One

PASSING
A story by Pete Brown  (petebrownuk@yahoo.com)
Part One - A journey to work, a surprise, a deal, and a party.

It was already going to be a good day I knew as I stood waiting for the
early morning tube to the office. The big deal I'd had my people working on
for some days was going to happen today, as my client assured me in a
"secret" conversation last night (we're not supposed to talk to clients
other than using the company phones and company computers because of the
requirements of the Financial Authority to be able to trace everything to
do with high value transactions).  But George and I had known each other
for some years, and in various jobs with different employers as we both
clawed our way up the ladder I'd worked for him, and he'd worked for me,
and we both knew that honest conversation between friends was exceedingly
helpful in making goods deals happen!

Not only that, though, but it was one of those glorious autumn mornings
that are possible even in London: the sun was shining and there was that
wonderful "nip" in the air that says the heat and humidity of summer was at
last over. Not so cold that I needed an overcoat, but cool enough to be
bracing.

The tube sighed to a stop with the doors right in front of me (I know where
to stand on the platform to get in at the right place which also positions
me for the exit at Canary Wharf). I was first in as I usually am, so could
take my choice of a number of empty seats, which is one of the reasons that
I always travel in early (that and being in the office before my people, so
I can get ahead of them by knowing what's been going on overnight). I'm a
"morning person" at my brightest and best first thing, although I do admit
that my abilities for dynamism and creativity fall off from about mid
afternoon.  When I was starting out I had to endure going to meetings that
went on late into the evening, but now I'm in charge all meetings finish
before 18:00, and I say we'll resume at 07:00 the next morning.  I know
that's then a huge advantage for me!

My day got even better as I sat down.  Normally the tubes at this time in
the morning are filled with what I think of as the "Ds and Es", an old
expression I learned years ago when we still thought of social classes
going down to D and E. No more, of course. But it's still a convenient
shorthand for me for the assorted collection of the remaining "blue collar"
workers, the poor amongst the most recent wave of immigrants (although some
of the young east Europeans, Turks, and south Americans can be visually
quite exciting), and students going off to a morning shift at a coffee bar
or somewhere before going on to lectures.

There, right opposite me, a confident half-smile on his face, was a simply
stunning male. Early twenties, white, very self-confident looking, deeply
tanned as if he had just come back from vacation, with a thatch of dark
blond hair that looked just "scruffy" enough to declare that it had been
artfully (and expensively) cut by a high-class barber.  He must have been
just over six foot tall, I thought, and there didn't seem to be a trace of
fat on his body; and his legs, casually sprawled out so that they
obstructed half the gangway, were lean and muscled.  He was evidently one
of those men who like to go for a workout before turning up at the office,
and who save time by travelling in to the city in their gym gear and change
into their suits at the gym. His stuff was from one of those very expensive
designer sports labels in that kind of shiny satin material that I find
appealing.  As I looked, I saw that his bronzed bare legs were covered in
that same dark blond hair that was on his head, except that they had been
bleached by the sun and so formed a kind of sheen of pale straw over the
skin.

Realising that I was doing more than give a casual glance at this beauty I
opened my paper as if to read (even after all these years I can't get used
to reading the newspapers electronically). I started to flip through the
articles but my brain wouldn't focus on them, but as I turned the pages I
was able to get glimpses of him without my interest being too obvious.  And
the more I saw, the more he turned me on.

There was a very prominent bulge in the front of his shorts that suggested
his cock was on an appropriate scale to the rest of him, and I sat there
for a few moments speculating whether he'd be `skinned (if he was an
American he probably would be as I know most men there are still
circumcised); but if he still had his `skin, was it one of those wonderful
ones that generally only just covers the cock head leaving the piss slit
partially revealed? Or would it dribble off into what I consider to be an
ugly appendage hanging all shrivelled when not erect?  And as I mused on I
thought about his balls - would they hang low in his sac, so that they
ended well below the tip of his cock, or would they be a tight fit in his
sac held high up, so that his cock rested on the top and caused it to look
half erect even when he wasn't aroused?  Either way I wouldn't care if I
ever had him naked in front of me!

My speculation continued.  His shorts were really quite short - unusual
these days when men do not want to be mistaken for slaves - and I could see
that therefore his tan must have come from wearing "proper" swimming gear
for serious swimmers, and he was not one of those spoilsports who goes on
the beach wearing shorts down to the knees!  I could feel my own cock
stiffening as I wondered if he might even be one of those men who is so
keen on swimming that he still used tiny Speedos!  Or perhaps at some
private beach or a rich friend's swimming pool he might even swim and sun
himself naked.  It was almost uncomfortable as my cock firmed up so much
that I really wanted to grab my crotch and try to make a bit more room for
it in my underwear, and it got worse as I thought of that glorious hard
bronzed flesh covered in sun oil, glistening in the heat and with, perhaps,
sweat dripping from his armpits! And that kind of confident man would
surely not be concerned to have a slave rub the oil into him.... all over.
And probably a male slave, too, as he'd have nothing to be concerned about
with his magnificent body almost certainly being vastly superior to that of
the slave.

Given the very short shorts it was a bit surprising that his shirt had long
sleeves - a T, or even better a singlet exposing his shoulders, would have
been good.  But it was at least made from the same stretchy-clingy material
as his shorts so I could see his biceps flexing as he moved slightly. And
there seemed to be quite big prominent nipples, something I like as I think
they really make a man exciting, especially when set in big, dark
aureoles. Surely he had the classic "six pack", too - something you don't
see a lot of these days as so many men now only do office work and do not
have the time to spend developing them. Ideally of course they'd come from
hard manual labour, but in our society that kind of work is now almost
always done by slaves.

All too soon the tube was racing along in the long tunnel before Canary
Wharf and I began to fold my newspaper as he stood up - simply, no strain,
just the power of his legs pushing him upwards.  He hefted his haversack on
to his back effortlessly, and I just couldn't help wondering what kind of
suit he wore, and, more importantly, about his underwear that must be in
there too.  An Adonis like that surely would not have a T or a vest under
his shirt as he'd want people to see his body under a tight shirt. And he
might even favour very low-cut briefs with those short legs that give your
cock plenty of room, rather than tight boxers.

I simply couldn't help but notice that he had the classic body shape -
broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist in that delightful "V" some
men have, and from there the flaring of his buttocks that seemed to be
tightly clenched together before his powerful thighs began.  What a ride
all that promised - but I knew I had no chance, as a man like that would
almost certainly spend his time fucking a string of beautiful, young,
big-breasted women. And even if he did go with other men, they would be the
same type as him - tall, confident, handsome, young "gym rats".....

He almost ran up the escalator, as you'd expect, even though they are very
long at that station, and as I'd managed to get myself behind him as we
left the train as I also ran (I'm not in bad condition!)  so that I could
watch the interplay of his legs, buttocks and body as he surged upwards.  I
knew I'd lose him at the barriers as I had to go to the office and could
not spare the time to follow him to whatever gym he used in the complex (or
perhaps it was a private one in the tower where he probably worked).

He fumbled for his travel pass at the barrier - I do hate it when people
are not ready and impede the smooth flow - and I almost bumped in to him I
was so close.  But as he swung his haversack around having reached back in
to it for the pass, his sleeve dropped slightly - and there, to my
amazement, on the underside of his wrist was tattooed the set of eight
numbers that could only be a SIN!

I was now almost beside myself with lust!  I'd been thinking, unconsciously
I suppose, as one does, that this expensively-dressed confident stallion
must be a free man.  But no - he was a slave.  Someone's property.  Someone
perhaps like me actually owned all this handsome flesh and could order it
to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.  Some men have all the luck!
It was a bit surprising therefore that when he got to the bottom of the
next set of escalators running up to the street that he did not defer to
the other passengers, as slaves are supposed to, but instead strode on to
carry on upwards as if the other passengers did not matter and he was as
good as them.

Still, I had no time to waste and made my way to our office tower, and took
the express lift up to the executive floor.  I called George then on the
"official" office phone to make sure the deal was still going ahead and
there had been no flaws detected overnight, before getting out my private
phone and pressing the buttons that triggered a number of private deals for
me.  George and I have secret codes for this, and we both think we deserve
an additional bonus after all the work we put in setting these things up
for our investors.  It really doesn't harm anyone as the stock prices only
move very little as our private trades go through early (and we anyway
limit their size to avoid detection), and when the deal does go public
there's a much larger effect that benefits everyone.

There was of course much excitement for the rest of the day amongst my
staff, I was interviewed for the lunchtime news magazine on the BBC, and
conducted a couple of press interviews for tomorrow's Financial
Times. During the morning my PA suggested that there should be an
"informal" get-together for all our staff who had been working so hard, and
I told him to fix it for that evening to make maximum impact, and to
contact George and invite those working on the deal over there, too.  My
PA's good like that - personally I can't be bothered with all these social
things, but the younger workers seem to like it and it's good for morale -
and so I rely on him to remind me.  And he knows without bothering me with
the details about how much to spend - I assumed that this deal would
certainly warrant champagne and canapés and he'd manage to get one of
the better bars around the place cleared for our private party.

I really wanted to go home at 18:00, but my PA had the executive car
waiting to take me the few hundred yards to the luxury hotel whose "sky
top" room had been reserved for us, he told me.  I could easily have
walked, but the car had apparently been ordered as there were press
photographers waiting at the hotel to take one of those "atmosphere" shots
of me turning up, for tomorrow's papers.

It wasn't too bad - George and I only had to endure a couple of photographs
of us shaking hands in the lobby, and in the lift up to the top we
exchanged a few private - very private - words about how our own personal
fortunes had increased that days from our early dealings.  Then of course
it was all applause from the staff, and that endless, loud, incessant,
meaningless "chatter" of a party were there are many young, confident
"climbers" working the room, and plenty of alcohol to fuel it all.  I'd
been doing my "senior management" bit, congratulating my key people and
hinting at large bonuses, when George broke in and said "...and I'd like
you to meet Jason, who's one of my brightest young hopefuls, who thought of
all this initially and who badgered management to make it happen.  He's got
a bright future with us, so no poaching him!"

There, to my astonishment, was the young man from the tube that morning,
but now in one of those very, very fashionable (and very expensive) suits
from one of the new designers - very slim legs, the waistband cut low so it
looked to ride almost on top of the cock, and the jacked shaped to the
torso, one button barely holding it closed. Only a super-confident
perfectly honed man could possibly wear a suit like that, and I guess the
tailors cut them for those privileged few as an advertisement, making their
money from the other customers who vainly imagine they too look the
perfection of manhood. There was a nod to convention in that the shirt was
snowy white (and it was clear he did not wear anything underneath it) and
he had an expensive Hermes tie that I recognised as I had a similar one in
the "animals" range, but with a different background colour.

He stuck his hand out, saying "I've always wanted to meet you, sir..."  I
was struck dumb for a moment as it was so unexpected to see him like that,
acting like a free man. I tore my eyes away from his crotch and chest and
couldn't help but glance at his wrist as his hand was in front of me,
looking for the tattooed SIN. But there was no sign of it, as his cuffs
were fashionably long, up to the base of his hand, the better to display
his elegant but expensive gold cuff links!

I managed to make the normal polite conversation asking him about his
career, and telling him that if George ceased to treat him well he should
consider asking me for a job, and all three of us laughed, as you do.  Then
the swirl of the party engulfed me again and I carried on touring the room,
accepting congratulations, and so on.  In a quiet moment at some point I
asked George about Jason, asking for more details about his background.
George told me that he'd applied to them, and they'd taken him on in a
relatively low position a couple of years before, but he'd fought his way
upwards, and taken all the right exams for the mandatory financial
certifications, and so on, and so he assumed all the right checks had been
done.  "And, of course, he's got a real way with the ladies, and that
always helps", he added.  "He's got some glossy girl friend, I believe. But
there are persistent rumours he's slept with some of the clients along the
way, particularly the older, divorced ones who are looking for a handsome
stud to amuse themselves with."

I left as early as was socially permissible, knowing the younger employees
would probably enjoy it more anyway without senior management present,
especially as I told my PA that the champagne could continue to flow.  When
I got back to my apartment Greg was of course waiting for me, looking
anxious as I was so much later than usual.  I like to think he's genuinely
concerned for me, but, being just a little cynical, I suspect his concern
is somewhat tinged with a worry about his own future.  I'd bought him at a
bargain price as the dealer claimed he was violent and unattainable, being
returned from a previous owner as being dangerous. But I saw something in
him and bothered to take the time to ask him a few questions..  It turned
out that his three previous owners had all been rather cruel and unsuited
to slave owning really, and all Greg had been trying to do was defend
himself from their whips and other control instruments... and of course
once the first owner had returned him he had a "reputation" and the next
owner was watching for it, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, found it....

As he'd stood there in front of me at the dealer, naked, but somehow
proudly defiant, I could see the marks of harsh usage on his belly,
shoulders, and particularly his buttocks.  Not only were there the welts
and marks from the whip and the cane, but a hell of a lot of bruising,
suggesting he'd been tied up and beaten with fists also.  He was older than
me by a few years, and some would say too old for a personal slave as he
was then in his late thirties and the fashion is of course very much for
young slaves.  But there was something in the way he held his body that
suggested a military background, and when I asked him, it seems he had been
in the marines, but had been court-martialled for fucking an officer's
wife, such an act being "not conducive for orderly relationships between
officers and men".  He'd not taken well to being enslaved for what he
regarded as behaving normally, and indeed had been a little violent when
his first buyer had attempted to use him sexually "but only enough to stop
him ramming his cock up me", he added. "I didn't really give him the
beating perverts like that deserve".

As I inspected him, I was being very careful because of all the damage, and
as I ran my hands over his hard, flat belly and felt the power in his
strong buttocks, I felt rather sorry for him, I suppose. They'd never
taught him that being "straight" was something no longer applicable in his
new life, and so he had reacted as many such so-called straight men would.
"You understand what will happen to you if I don't buy you?", I asked him,
and he shook his head.

"You're such a low price because of your reputation that they can only sell
you for labouring down the mines, and you'll never come to the surface
again. And with your history, they'll geld you first, to calm you down.
And they'll get a whole group of guards to fuck you when you're no longer a
full male, to get you used to it."

I could see all his muscles tense up as I said this, and went on, calmly
and quietly, "On the other hand, you've got the good, hard body of a man
who knows how to look after himself. And you're used to obeying orders as
you were a marine.  I am very busy building my career, and need a slave to
look after the house, the garden, the car, all the stuff like that so I'm
not bothered with it and have to spend no time on it.  And I've got no time
to spend chasing women, and all that entails. So I need a slave for sex,
too."

"So you'll fuck me..?"

"Not very often.  But I do like a warm, wet mouth around my cock. And if
I`m excited, you can expect to gag and choke as I thrust deep down your
throat."

He glared at me, and I gave a shrug "Well if you're not interested... I'll
never force a slave to have sex.  You have to ask me if you can be my
slave, if I will buy you.  Otherwise I guess it's down to the local
hospital to have those balls off."

He stood there, immobile now, and I could almost see him thinking (he's
bright enough, not as clever as me, of course, but aversely intelligent).
"Please....", he stopped, and swallowed.

I waited, looking expectantly.  "Please will you buy me?".

"That's not the kind of respect I'm after from a slave.  How did you speak
to officers? I'd have thought you would be respectful and obedient to your
officers and betters."

"Please will you buy me... Sir?"

I shrugged.  "I don't bargain with slaves. You know how I will use you.
You have to ask for it all. Let's hear it again."

"Please, will you buy me, sir?  And you can fuck me, sir?  Please."

"Of course I can fuck you if I buy you.  You'll be my slave. There's no
permission from you required.  Again....."

"Please will you buy me, sir.  And will you fuck me, please, sir...?"

I could see it was a real effort for him to say that, but I felt that I had
established the ground rules at least.  I reached down and wrapped my
fingers around his cock, and used my thumb to tease back his foreskin.  He
backed away, but did not swear or otherwise abuse me, although I could
sense that if he hadn't been cuffed he would have reached out and stopped
me.  I stared into his eyes as I stroked him gently and the inevitable
happened - he started to go hard, and soon his very pleasingly long, thick
cock was lying across the palm of my hand.

"Properly fertile, are you?  Plenty of cum?"

"I've never had any complaints from the women."

"Nor will you ever have them in the future.  I expect my slave to stay away
from sex with women as it causes to many problems. But I will let you wank
yourself - I won't keep you in enforced chastity, as I think it's bad for a
man."

I reached down and cupped his testicles with my other hand.  He's "low
slung", with the balls in a long sac with the end below the tip of his
cock.  They felt pleasingly heavy, and I could see him tense as my fingers
separated them and squeezed each one in turn - I didn't after all want to
buy a slave who might have testicular cancer, and I know a lot of men are
too stupid not to do this simple test on themselves frequently.

There was only one think left to do, and calmly and quietly - although my
heart was racing - I ordered him to turn round and bend from the waist.
Was he resisting as I pulled his buttocks apart?  He certainly was sweating
heavily as I ran the tip of my finger along his crack, then teased his
asshole.  When my finger probed it his whole body tensed, and there was a
delightful totally involuntary clenching of his buttocks. I sensed he was
an anal virgin.

Anyway, forgetting that old history, five years on he's now worried I
suppose that I might sell him. Or perhaps I might be assigned overseas,
where slaves are not allowed. Or die.  He recognises that his future health
and happiness is totally dependent on mine as his owner, and so worries
when things are not following my usual routine.

So there he was, holding the door open for me as he'd heard the lift door
ping - there's a private direct lift up to the penthouse.  He was dressed
in his "house" clothes, that is to say a small pair of slave shorts, the
kind I like, with those tiny legs that emphasise the thighs, and the waist
cut so low that as well as his treasure trail there's a suggestion of his
shaved pubes poking out, and at the rear the very top of his crack; and a
tight sleeveless T that only just reaches down so that there are delicious
glimpses of his belly when he moves, and where the arm holes are cut low so
his pit hair can be glimpsed.  He's barefoot around the house which kind of
adds to the interest, as there's nothing to obstruct me seeing the hairs on
the top of his long, thin toes.

He broke out into a smile as he saw I was in a good mood, and fussed around
taking my coat, hat, gloves and stick to hang neatly in the coat cupboard.
I also let him take off my suit jacket, but as it was late and almost time
for bed, I kepi my trousers, shirt and shoes on, but did pull off my tie.

"Dinner, sir?"

I'd had two glasses of champagne and several of the canapés and do not
eat to excess to keep my figure trim.  "No, nothing".

His face fell, as he normally sits at the dining table with me and tells me
odd snippets of what's going on in the building and the neighbourhood - he
spends time with the building concierge I know but I don't particularly
mind as it stops him getting bored, and provided the place is kept to my
exacting standards, that's allowed.  My own meals are delivered by one of
the private gourmet caterers each day, but he mostly eats slave rations (or
"chow" as it's familiarly known). And when I've had enough I usually allow
him to finish the remains on my plate as a treat - I know they say you
shouldn't feed dogs at the table, but he is after all a man not an animal
in most respects, and it's a shame to waste food.

He looked so crestfallen and the champagne was getting to me so and making
me feel generous, so I added "You can fetch me a glass of the Chateau
Palmer, and you may as well eat the food yourself", which immediately
cheered him up.

As he ate - he's learned to do so politely, however hungry he is - I
outlined my plan for the morning and told him I would be leaving earlier
than usual and that he was to accompany me.  He actually looked pleased, as
he likes any change from his rather dull routine, and I like to think he
also enjoys doing additional special things for me.

I was tired, and had no intention of fucking him that night And after two
glasses of champagne and a glass of excellent Bordeaux I really didn't feel
like having an erection and getting Greg to do something about it.  Yes, I
know that's terrible - he's five years older than me, in his early forties
now, and yet I bet the moment he fell into his bed in the small slave room
adjoining the master bedroom he'd be wanking himself stupid!

END OF PART ONE