Date: Thu, 9 Dec 2004 06:01:35 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Pleasure Slave, Part 1

PLEASURE SLAVE, By Pete Brown.

petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 1

I suppose I knew I would be sold as a slave the moment
the judge handed down the sentence - after all, anyone
convicted and sentenced for more than five years
imprisonment has been sent straight off to the
auctioneers ever since they passed that law about ten
years ago, to save money on the prison service. But in
my case it was fucking unfair - I didn't take part in
the robbery or anything, and I was only guilty, if I
was guilty of anything, of being fucking stupid in
agreeing to let my old college buddy hole up in my
apartment when he came there one night with his
companions.  He told me they were just "passing
through" and were tired and didn't want to drive on,
and it didn't even seem strange when I turned on the
TV he next morning and heard about the armed gang that
had raided the security van for the local plant's
wages - after all, we'd been roomies in college, and
you don't think guys you know could be robbers, do
you?

The police shot and killed all three of them when they
left later that day, but there had been a considerable
man-hunt and they traced their tracks back to my
apartment and me. I told the officers I had no idea
they were criminals, but they just laughed: how could
they have picked my place to hide out in at random?
And didn't I know the leader from college?  So there I
was, tried and convicted as an accessory, with a
sentence of ten years with no remission.

My lawyer told me that they'd stopped giving "time off
for good behaviour" as it was no longer necessary -
all long-term prisoners were sold as indentured
servants now, and a prospective owner needed to know
how long he had the guy for. "And", he pointed out,
"All indentured servants behave well anyway, so giving
time off for it would be pointless. We used to have to
give time off to keep prisoners in overcrowded jails
under control, but an owner has more of a one-on-one
relationship with an indentured servant and so
discipline isn't usually a problem: especially since
the Supreme Court ruled that it wasn't a 'cruel and
unusual punishment' to use paddles, tawses and whips
on indentured servants who were not performing
properly".

No appeal, of course - my lawyer said it just wasn't
worth while, in view of the evidence against me. And
the higher courts now had the policy of increasing
sentences when they thought that the appeal had been
bought frivolously, as my case would appear. "Let me
give you some advice, Steve", he said at our last
meeting. "Just accept it. Shit happens. Sometimes an
innocent guy may get convicted, but we have a much
more stable society now that we ever did before. Just
think of yourself as helping to keep our great country
great. And it probably won't be so bad - a fit young
healthy guy like you can survive this, and you'll
still only be 38 when you're free - still lots of time
to build a life, get married, settle down...."

So that was that. I was going to be sold as an
indentured servant. But there's something different
about "knowing" something like that intellectually,
and actually having it happen to you. The sense of
unreality is heightened by the fact that they give you
five days to sort your life out before you have to
report to the auctioneer's place. Five days to sell
your stuff or get it put into storage, five days to
say goodbye to your family and friends. Five days
to... Well, to do whatever you want. Some guys try to
escape, of course, but in our society that's not easy:
without a driver's licence or anything you can't work
or get credit or buy food, and the moment you have to
produce ID or use a credit card, the alarms go off as
everything's on-line. You can't get a plane out for
the same reason, and there's no real advantage in
trying to cross into Canada or Mexico on foot, as
those countries no longer offer any asylum at all for
fleeing felons as they value their relationship with
our country too highly - indeed, they send you back,
and then your sentence is automatically doubled.

So I sold most of my stuff, gave some of it to my
buddies for safe keeping, and was surprised to find
that there were even special kinds of bank accounts
that I could open so that the tiny bit of money I had
would be kept safe until my release - the banker
explained that there was no way it could be touched at
all until my sentence was complete, so that there was
no risk that my owner would be able to force me to
withdraw it and give it to him. "It's one of the many
ways the Government has tried to make it humane for
you guys", he told me. "They don't want you to be
destitute when you're freed, as you might go off and
commit other crimes. So this way you have your current
capital, plus the interest, plus the yearly payment
from your owner: the thousand dollars a year an owner
has to pay each indentured servant, so that he has a
little nest egg when he's free."

Well, that was that, then. And on my last night of
freedom I went to a bar with some of my buddies, and
we got fairly smashed. Some of them even thought about
getting together and buying my contract, but, like me
most of them were pretty broke and the law didn't
allow for loans to be raised for the purpose of buying
indentured servant contracts.  With my apartment gone,
I slept that last night on the couch at my old buddy
Rob's place, and in the morning I was in a pretty bad
way - those "few beers" had turned into a lot of
beers! As he pulled the blanket off me, I groaned as
the light stabbed through my eyelids and I sat there
with my head in my hands, not so much from despair, as
the fact that several little men with hammers seemed
to have taken up residence in my skull.

Rob commiserated with me, and insisted I drank some
coffee and ate some toast, as he pointed out that it
might be a long time before I was fed. The way he said
that started to strike home to me that everything was
about to change - I mean, when you're hungry you grab
a sandwich, or call for a takeaway, don't you? Now Rob
was indicating that I'd need to wait until someone
decided to feed me... And then, after I'd showered,
Rob tossed a pair of thin old Jeans and a threadbare T
into the bathroom. "Look, Steve, I know you had a
reputation for being a bit of a fancy dresser, but
there's no point in going down to the auction house in
anything expensive, as they won't keep it for you.
I'll have your kit cleaned and stored with the rest of
your stuff, and when you come back to us, it will be
waiting... Except that I expect the fashions will have
changed a bit! But leave your watch, old buddy, and
your class ring.... I don't think most owners let
indentured servants have things like that."

We had to drive thirty miles to the next town, as our
town didn't warrant an auction house of its own. We
drove along almost in silence. I mean, what was there
to say, really? It all seemed so inevitable. I was
still pretty pissed off by the way I'd been
"processed" by the system for something that wasn't my
fault, but, equally, I could see no way out if it. Rob
said he'd come in with me in case there were any last
minute things he could help with, and we went through
the doors of the place.  I'd never been in an auction
house before. Not only did I not have enough money to
buy an indentured servant, but, I suppose, somewhere,
deep down, it didn't seem to me that the concept of
virtual slavery fitted well with the basic ideas of
our Constitution for life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness!

Some guys I knew at college used to go along to look
at the young women slaves - there I've done it. I
guess I've been avoiding using that term and sticking
to the formally accurate "indentured servant". But
everyone really calls an indentured servant a slave,
as in fact that's what he is - a purchaser of an
indentured servant contract has all the rights that an
old-time slave owner had over the guy, to make him
work, punish him.... About the only thing he can't do
is cause permanent mutilation, or death (although a
contract owner could apply to the Court for both of
these, if the indentured servant is persistently
disobedient, or tries to escape too often).

Anyway, as I was saying, some of my buddies used to go
along to look at the young women offered for sale, and
would come back sniffing their fingers and laughing
about the "inspections" they'd done on them. It seemed
pretty feeble to me - I mean, who needs to go and
humiliate some poor young woman, and finger them, when
there was so much real, proper sex on offer?
Personally, I'd never had any problem in getting a
woman into bed, and so I suppose I had no need of
these pathetic games.

So I had no idea what an official indentured servant
auctioneer was like, and as we went through the
imposing entrance into the marble reception area, I
looked around with interest - it was like the
glossiest, plushest corporate offices I'd ever seen.
Judging from how she was dressed - or only
half-dressed, I suppose - the woman behind the
reception desk must have been a slave herself.  "Good
morning, gentlemen.... If you've come for the sale,
I'm afraid you're a little early as it doesn't begin
until noon. But of course you're very welcome to go
and inspect the stock coming up for auction later -
would you like a catalogue?"

"No, thank you", Rob replied before I had a chance to
say anything. "I'm just here with my buddy, who's got
to report here to be auctioned himself...."

Her attitude changed at once. "This is the buyers'
entrance, sir. All stock must enter through the goods
entrance, around the back.". She lowered her voice,
and went on in a quieter tone "Your friend had better
get out of here quickly, sir. If any of the managers
see a servant in this place, both he and I will be
punished.... Please, take him around the back....
Quickly."

She was so evidently terrified about what might happen
that Rob turned and gestured for me to follow him. As
we walked along the outside of the building I started
to feel a chill creep over me - I mean, I knew slaves
could be punished, but that woman had seemed genuinely
terrified of it. I talked about this to Rob, and he
tried to reassure me. "Look, Steve, if you read the
papers you know that sla... servants... can be
punished. There are always those picture spreads of
when really disobedient ones have been taken to the
public punishment officer and whipped in the town
square. And I guess some owners use the paddle or
tawse in private if a sla.... servant really doesn't
obey. I mean, standards have to be maintained, don't
they? And what else can an owner do when a guy's
disobedient? But I don't think you have to worry about
that sort of thing, do you? I mean, it must be
obvious, even to you, that keeping your head down,
obeying your owner, working hard..."

"What do you mean, Rob? 'Even for me...'?"

"Look, Steve, we all know you can be a bit of a hot
head, and you've got a rebellious streak... Always
testing the limits. But you're also bright. Surely you
can see that you're going to have to curb all of that
and just knuckle down and really work hard and
obediently, and not attempt to 'cross' your owner in
any way. If you just do as you're told, work hard...
There won't be any need for any punishment at all,
will there?"

I'm not sure any of this was really helpful. He was
right - I hate taking orders, and I always argue if
someone says something stupid. But there was no time
to talk further, as we were at the much more
utilitarian "goods entrance" - a plain door, and
inside, a counter behind which was a tough-looking guy
in a security guard's uniform.

"Strip off", he snapped, without even waiting to hear
what we wanted.

"Hey, bud!", Rob almost shouted back. "Keep a civil
tongue in your head. I'm just here to escort my buddy
Steve...."

"Sorry, sir. It's just that I'm expecting several new
servants today, and most guys come in alone."

"Well, I'm helping my old buddy Steve out. So a little
more civility, please."

"Sorry, sir", the guard grinned. He scanned down a
list on the desk, and said "Is this Steve Masters,
then?"

"Yes, that's me...."

"Shut the fuck up, boy! You'd better learn that slaves
like you only speak when they're spoken to."

Turning to Rob he went on "Now, sir, as I was saying,
this is Steve Masters, then?"

"Yes, he is." As he said this, I felt like punching
the guard out. He was totally ignoring me, as if I was
no longer a man but some sort of object. And now Rob
was going along with it.

"Hey, Rob, I can speak for myself.....", I was saying,
as the guard came around from behind his desk, and
just touched me with a stick he was carrying. Even as
I fell to the floor, screaming, I knew I'd been
"prodded" - there had been a lot of stories about the
use of cattle prods on indentured servants a few years
ago, when the American Society For The Prevention Of
Cruelty To Slaves had taken a case all the way up to
the Supreme Court. But they'd failed, as you might
expect, as the bastards who introduced the Indentured
Servant provisions into the law had specifically
legislated that during the period of indenture a man
was no longer a man, and thus the provisions of the
Constitution could not be applied to him. There was
only one dissenting Justice in the opinion, and now I
had felt the effects of this.

"As I said, boy, keep your mouth shut unless you're
spoken to!", the guard growled. "This here is only set
on half power, as I get a lot of slaves coming through
who need an initial lesson in proper behaviour. Now,
unless you want another taste, get up and stand
quietly!".

Turning to Rob, he carried on in that kind of
exaggeratedly polite voice that all those in service
industries have been trained to use with customers "Do
you want to stay with him until he's properly entered,
sir? If you've come all this way down with him, you
could stay and take away his clothes..."

"No, we don't want those - they're pretty old."

"Very well then, let's waste no more of your time,
sir. You... Boy.... Strip off."

He looked at me as he said this, and I looked back,
wondering if I'd heard him correctly.

"Boy, I told you to strip! You'd better learn to obey
first time, else you'll be in trouble sooner, rather
than later. Do you want another taste of the prod?
Now, get out of those clothes - we process all new
servants naked."

So, as the guard and Rob watched me, I slipped off the
sandals Rob had given me, let the thin Jeans fall to
the floor, then pulled the T over my head. I stood
there in front of them both, in the white cotton
briefs I usually wore, and waited. It felt so odd - I
mean, Rob and I had know each other for a long time
and we were used to seeing each other changing for
sport, but wearing only these thin briefs when he was
fully clothed, and this guard guy was there, was
somehow really odd. I almost felt myself start to
blush, although why I should be at all embarrassed, I
don't know - I mean, unlike a lot of guys my age I
hadn't started to put on any flab or anything. I had a
pretty strenuous job in construction, and in my spare
time I did a lot of cycling, and running.

I'd nothing to be ashamed of, and I knew that most
guys envied my lean, muscular build and the way that
my thick wiry black hair fell so properly into place -
a neat 'treasure trail' across my flat belly, a nice
thatch on my chest,.... Still, it did feel odd, to be
standing there almost naked in this semi-public place
with two clothed guys, and even Rob seemed to be
looking at me differently.

"Didn't you hear me?", the guard snapped. "I ordered
you to strip. Are you stupid, or something? Get those
fucking briefs off, before I show you another one of
our little training devices, the paddle...."

Well, what was I supposed to do? I pushed my thumbs
under the elastic of the waistband, and let them fall
to the floor. Then, quite unconsciously, I gave my
dick a little "flip" to release it from where it had
been pressed into my balls - I mean, you do, don't
you? It's almost like a reflex. But then I really did
blush, as I knew that both Rob and the guard had seen
me. Well, at home, it's OK, isn't it? And in a public
changing room, you usually turn around so that your
back is to the other guys, don't you?

I stood there, one foot slightly in front of the
other, and resisted the temptation to cover my dick
and balls with my hands. I always think that looks
stupid when guys try to do it, especially when they're
with other guys. I remembered that on Rob's stag night
we'd stripped him and pushed him out from the private
room we were in to the general bar area, and he'd
pranced around clutching at his tackle as if he was
ashamed of it! Both the guard and Rob were looking at
me, though, and they just stared.

"Very nice", the guard said to Rob. "We don't often
get them in such good shape as that! You're a lucky
guy to have had that next to you! I bet you're going
to miss not having a body like that in bed...."

I thought Rob was going to hit the guy! "One more
suggestion like that, and my lawyers will be suing you
and your employers for defamation! I'm a happily
married man, and Steve here is only interested in the
ladies, too."

"Sorry, sir. No need to get upset. But it's a natural
mistake, when one guy brings another in, as you have.
Still, it's a pity he's one for the ladies.... With an
ass like that, I expect he'll be bought by an owner
with a proper appreciation of the male form, if you
see what I mean...."

"I don't do sex with guys....", I broke in.

"I told you to keep silent!", the guard snapped back.
"And, in any case, you're wrong. What you should have
said is 'I used not to do sex with guys...". In
future, you'll do whatever your owner wants. And what
do you think someone will want a guy with a hard, sexy
body like yours for, anyway?"

"Well, to work... You know.... Work."

"Boy, slaves address free men as 'sir', always....
Unless they want punishing. Try again...."

I looked at Rob as the guard said this, and all he
could do was kind of nod in agreement. I remembered
that Rob employed a firm of contractors to do his
lawns and stuff, and they were all slaves, and it then
occurred to me that Rob must be used to this idea of
the proper form of address, slaves nearly naked, and
so on.  There didn't seem to be anything for it,
thought, so, trying to keep the note of defiance out
of my voice, I muttered "I suppose they buy them to
work, SIR."

"Get real! Buying a servant at auction is really
costly. An owner will end up paying much more for a
stud like you than he'd ever have to pay in wages for
a labourer. The only reason people pay money for
good-looking indentured servants is so that they have
control... There are so many things you can get an
indentured servant to do that you can't pay an
employee for, if you see what I mean.... Now, if I had
the money, I'd jump at the chance to own your ass for
some time, to be able to fuck it whenever I
wanted...."

"Well, I don't do that...."  He glared at me, raised
his prod threateningly, and I muttered "I don't do
that, SIR".

"Oh, but you will! We offer new owners a full training
package here, and you'd be amazed how the attitudes of
the stock changes when it's been on one of our little
programmes...."

As he said this, he half laughed at Rob. "Don't you
worry about your buddy, sir. Once he's been properly
trained, he'll be a real pleasure to everyone - women
and men. When he comes back to you, you'll be
surprised at how co-operative he will have become...."


"I've told you, I'm happily married...."

"Oh yes, sir. A lot of guys say that. But most of us
want to at least experience our best buddies, don't
we? Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to
be able to play with this one's dick? Or to have him
take yours in that mouth of his - with that strong,
square jaw, I bet he'd really know how to pleasure a
guy...."

"How dare you! Now, shut the fuck up, before I
complain I've never heard of anything so
outrageous...."

Although Rob sounded angry, I couldn't help notice
that as the guard was speaking he'd been eyeing my
body up and down, as if he was speculating about what
I would be like for sex! There's never been anything
like that between us, of course - in our set, we don't
do sex with slaves; well, some of the guys do, I
think, but they don't brag about it to the rest of us,
and I'd always supposed it was with female slaves,
anyway.

Rob broke off in mid sentence, and continued "Mind
you, I can see what you mean. He really does have the
kind of body you see all the time in porno movies and
so on, doesn't he? And I suppose it's relatively
unusual for a nice looking American guy like him still
to have a foreskin - I think he is - or rather was -
probably the only guy at our sports club like that....
I suppose that increases his rarity value?"

It all seemed rather dream like. I'd listened to Rob
and the guard and I couldn't really believe what I was
hearing. I mean, guys just don't talk about fucking
other guys, or sucking their dicks, do they - well, at
least in my set they don't: after a few beers when
we're all shooting the breeze we talk about real
pussy. And being naked seemed to add to the unreality
- there I was, in this semi- public place bare-assed
naked, and with my oldest buddy and this guard
standing there and talking about my butt, and fucking
it, and discussing my dick!

As I've told you, I'm not really shy about my body,
well, I've got no reason to be, but this was all
somehow so very, very different from anything I'd ever
experienced before.  I suppose I should have said
something, should have told that guard again that he
must have it all wrong. Sure, he looked pretty
menacing when he'd told me to shut the fuck up, but
I'm not afraid of a fight, either - if he'd spoken to
me like that in a bar, he'd have been in for trouble!
But when you haven't got your clothes on, and when the
guard has a prod that can hurt you, it somehow changes
you - it's almost as if the act of making a guy strip
starts the process of making him subservient to you.
So I'd just stood there, listening in amazement. But
now they seemed to be finishing.

The guard just shrugged, finally, and said to Rob
"Well, even if you don't want that ass, sir, I'm sure
there are lots of buyers out there who will."

He pressed a button on the desk. There was a "click"
as a door opened, and he motioned me to go through it.
I walked slowly across the floor, feeling the
thermoplastic tiles cold against my bare feet. As I
went through it, into I knew not what, I saw Rob
starting to bend down to pick up my discarded clothes.


_________________________________

Nothing really prepares you for the experience of
being turned from a free man into an indentured
servant - or slave, as I might as well call myself, as
everyone else does.  Having to strip before entering
the auction house was only the start of it. As I went
through the door Rob stood up and waved goodbye, and
the guard snapped "Stand against the wall, hands
behind your neck, until a handler comes for you."

I went to argue with him, but he went on "Look, boy, I
see a lot of guys coming in here. I reckon you're one
of the type that argues about everything, and doesn't
do as he's told. Well, let me give you a bit of
advice: just accept what's happened to you, and obey!
You've already tasted the prod once, and the handlers
on this side of the barrier don't have theirs turned
down - if I were you, I'd do everything I could to
avoid upsetting them. We're used to dealing with
uppity slaves here, and you'd better understand that
it will do you no good - if you're sent off for
'special corrective training', as we call it, you'll
come back obedient, believe me!"

"I've seen a lot of young, tough guys like you come in
here, nice, decent guys, used to living their own
lives for themselves, and they kick up a big fuss and
don't behave properly as a slave should. So they have
to be sent to the special training school, and then
when they come back... Well, it isn't just the marks
of the physical beatings on their bodies, as they soon
fade away. Or even the scars that can be left if they
were bull whipped to bring them into line. No, it's
the look in their eyes - there's nothing there! They
look kind of 'vacant', as if there's no one still at
home. There's nothing left of the guy that went into
training - all we have is a perfectly trained, utterly
obedient slave, with absolutely no free will of any
kind."

"Now", he went on, "You seem a sensible kind of guy:
you wouldn't want that to happen to you, would you?
How long.'s your sentence?"

"Ten years."

"Get used to it, boy. 'Ten years, sir'. Say it!"

"Ten years, sir."

"Good. Well, after ten years you want to get on with
your life, don't you? Pick up where you left off? Get
back together with your buddies?"

"Yes, of course."  I saw him looking at me, not
exactly threateningly, but almost in exasperation. So
I added a "....sir."

"Well then, you must avoid getting sent to the
're-education' centre at any cost. If they sense that
you're always going to be 'uppity', they won't
hesitate - the guys there know how to break a man, how
to turn him into a real subservient creature with
absolutely no shred of free will left, as I've said.
But if you seem to be a 'good' slave, then you might
avoid it. Just do as you're told, without question,
and be properly respectful to everyone here - you can
seethe away inside, hate it, whatever - but don't show
it. If you do, they'll send you off for re-education,
and that will be the end of you as the man you now
know you are. Do you understand?"

"But why...."

"Look, boy, there you go! Don't question. Accept. Just
rely on my experience - I've seen a lot of nice young
guys through here, and the smart ones - and I think
you are smart - survive because they understand that
we hold all the power. Now, I've probably said too
much. Just do as you're told, get against that wall,
hands behind your neck, and wait!"

I thought about what he'd said for a moment, and I
guess I could see the sense in it - I'd seen the
occasional social servant around the place, and I'd
always wondered why they seemed so dull and lifeless.
I reckoned I probably could fool them, appear to obey,
and avoid this 're-education' - it would be hard, as
I've got a bit of a short temper, but the guard seemed
a genuine kind of guy, and what he was saying did seem
to make some kind of sense. Perhaps I could get out in
ten years still relatively "me".

So there I was. Standing there, buck naked, and
wondering what the fuck was going to happen to me. I
soon found out - a physical exam, a really thorough
physical exam. As the doctor prodded at me, took my
blood pressure, listened to my heart, took blood and
urine samples, and ran a portable X-ray machine over
me, he seemed to be quite chatty.

"We do a good job here", he told me. "We want those
taking on your contract to be sure that they have a
healthy servant - after all, they're responsible for
your medical expenses and everything in future, so
they need to know before you leave here that there are
no incipient problems with you. And it's in your
interests too, you know - after all, an owner who took
on your contract and then found you were sick all the
time would soon get really pissed off, wouldn't he?
Then he'd be tempted to 'sell you on' - but with a
poor medical record who'd want to buy you? So you'd be
sold, if a buyer could be found at all, at a very low
price. And low priced sla... social servants get all
the worst jobs - those where there's a big risk of
injury, or death... I doubt that you'd last out your
sentence. They even use particularly sickly slaves for
things like automobile safety tests, you know- it's so
much more accurate to use a real body in a simulated
crash to check new safety features than it is to use a
crash test dummy! "

"Anyway", he went on, "I don't think you've got much
to be worried about - providing there's no problem
when your samples are analysed, I'd say you were in
excellent condition. And you're pretty good looking -
handsome, even. I bet you'll be in some rich man's bed
almost as soon as you' been offered for sale"

"Look, please - I don't do things like that. I'm
straight..."

"Boy, you'd better wise up. It's not what you want,
when you're an indentured servant - it's what your
owner wants. Someone buys your contract, and then you
do what you're told! And why do you think someone
would want to buy the contract of a young, fit guy
like you? If they just wanted you to work it would be
much easier to hire a normal employee, after all - if
the economy turns down or something then, they can
just fire the guy. Whereas if they buy your contract
they're stuck with you for the ten years: he's got to
continue to feed you, clothe you (well, in as far as
you need clothes as a servant), and look after your
medical bills, as I've explained. No, the only reason
men consider taking on a contract like yours is for
the control it buys them- you're theirs twenty four
hours per day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a
year. And you have to do as you're told, in EVERY
respect. And, of course, that usually means serving
your owner sexually."

"Look, sir, there must be lots of indentured servants
- are you telling me all their owners want them for
sex? "

"Of course! Well, at least the good looking ones are
all used for that. Where have you been all your life,
boy? Look, it's natural for one man to want to
dominate and control another, isn't it? That's what
millions of years of human evolution have bred into
us, and a few centuries of so-called 'civilisation'
isn't going to completely mask it! So what better way
of utterly controlling and dominating another guy than
by owning him, totally - and then by showing that
total domination by making him serve you in every way
you can think of? Fucking you is probably the most
complexly dominating thing that another man can do to
you. And if you don't want to be fucked, or don't like
it, so much the better. Your owner is demonstrating
his total control over you even more! Look, it's
always happened - men marry because that's what
society wants them to do, but give them a chance, and
even the straightest of straight guy wants to try
pushing his dick into another guy - it's perfectly
natural, and to be expected, as I've told you. And the
whole indentured servant set-up makes it easy: your
owner is given the right in law to control you, and
society doesn't consider you to be a 'man', in the
sense of a free man, any longer. A lot of women would
object if their men folk started to fuck other men,
but it's different with an indentured servant - it's
almost expected. So you'd better get used to the idea
- a nice body like yours is just crying out to be
fucked, and you surely will be."

"Anyway, we've finished here", he continued. "Guard...
Take this one off and carry on with processing him -
I'm sure his tests are going to come out fine, and we
don't want to waste any time getting him on the
block,.."

I wanted to carry on arguing with him, but I knew
there was no point. I' kind of read all those stories
in the papers about the way some indentured servants
were treated by their owners, and it sounded as if
they were all true. What was going to happen to me?
But it was too late to do anything about it now, I
knew.

It was all very efficient - they were used to
processing guys through their system. In quick
succession they made me trim my finger nails and toe
nails (have you even bent down to trim your toe nails
with another guys watching, when you're stark naked?
Your dick and balls swing against your thighs, and you
just know they're looking at them, and at your ass).
Then a barber cut my hair - not that I had it long,
anyway, but I ended up with a really short crew cut,
with my sideburns and the back of my neck sharply
razored into a crisp line.

Then the part I found difficult to believe at first -
the barber told me to open my legs as I sat there in
this chair, and to put my feet up onto the arms. I
felt totally exposed and humiliated like that, with my
legs spread and my tackle all exposed, and when he
went to start to run his electric clippers down
there.... Well, I almost exploded. And then I felt the
full power of a prod!

End Of Part One