Date: Mon, 13 Dec 2004 13:11:03 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Pleasure Slave, Part 2

PLEASURE SLAVE, By Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


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

Part 2

I caught sight of myself after the barber had finished
with me. I suppose they put a full length mirror there
at the exit of the initial processing facility so that
you know that you've been changed. And changed I had
been - I'd gone in as a regular guy, just looking as
if he was in the changing rooms at the gym or
something, and now I was something else - the thing
that stared back at me in amazement in the mirror
actually looked like a slave: my cropped hair, the way
that they'd trimmed the nice thatch on my pecs down to
a stubble, and, most of all, the way that my dick now
stood out so prominently, as they'd mostly cut away my
pubes. Yes - instead of the usual dense patch
stretching from hip to hip, I now only had a tiny
patch just around my tackle, and that, too, had been
reduced in length. And without any hair on them at
all, my balls looked strangely bare and alone, as they
swung there.

I suppose they keep you naked in the overnight holding
cage so that you get used to being nude. I can't think
of any other reason - after all, a simple T and a pair
of shorts wouldn't cost much, would it? But no, I was
pushed into the holding cage along with the other
slaves waiting for their lab test results, and at once
I realised I was the "odd one out". Look, I may not
have a lot of money, but I do have a college
education! And, just looking at the other guys in
there, you could tell that they were mostly the Ds and
Es of our society - a lot of blacks, of course, and a
lot of Hispanics, too. And the white guys all seemed
to have a lot of tattoos - not the kind you sometimes
see at a sports club: the discrete little thing on the
shoulder, or even those that ex-marines seem to
favour, with big gothic-looking letters saying USMC or
semper fi, or whatever. No, there were real "trash"
tattoos - "L O V E" and "H A T E" done very
unskilfully on the fingers of each hand, or a gross
fat woman on the forearm, or something. I guessed that
they'd all mostly been in trouble before, but that
this was the first time that they'd done something so
stupid that it resulted in a sentence to social
servitude.

None of us spoke much, or did anything, really - we
just all sat there on the benches along the wall,
mostly with our heads in our hands, almost as if, that
way, we could shut out the reality of where we were.
There was a problem for me, though, as I desperately
needed to crap, and the only way of doing it was in
the one crapper, that stood there, forlorn and alone,
against the back wall. There was absolutely no privacy
at all, but then, I supposed that was intentional, to
further break down our view of our own "worth". I
guess some of the other guys, who may have been in
prison before, were used to this idea of an open
crapper in the cell, but I wasn't. I mean, you don't
mind pissing in a a communal row of urinals, do you -
actually, a lot of guys like this, as it lets them
show off their dicks to the people next to them. But
everywhere you go the lavatory bowls are always in
cubicles, aren't they - somehow, crapping is one of
those human activities that people need to do in
private. Thinking about it, you often see pictures of
guys and women fucking and stuff, but you almost never
see pictures of communal crapping.

So here I was, my stomach cramping in agony, and I
just knew that I had to break one of the biggest
taboos of all. There was nothing I could do about it -
I just had to squat down there, with the possibility
of all the other guys looking at me if they raised
their eyes.  And what was worse, the guard, patrolling
up and down in the corridor, kept looking in, and
couldn't help but see me sitting there. Still, there
was nothing to be done, and I eased myself down onto
the metal rim of the bowl (no seat - another way of
dehumanising men?), and let go.  Somehow having to
clean myself afterwards was even worse than the crap
itself. I mean, you're not actually at your most
elegant at the best of times when you're doing that,
are you? And now I was trying to kind of conceal
myself, trying not to let the others see the toilet
tissue after I'd used it. But you have to look at it
yourself, don't you? I mean, how else do you know when
to stop, recognise that you're properly clean? I hated
the whole thing, and was really glad when I could go
and sit down against the wall gain.

The time seemed to drag on - not made worse by the
fact that there was no way of knowing what time it
actually was. I suppose that, quite unconsciously, you
look at your watch many, many times a day. But now -
no watch! And no visible clock, either. And absolutely
nothing at all to do, other than sit there and stare
at the wall, and try to avoid looking at the other
guys (hey, it's not that I have a problem with looking
at another guy's body - I mean, we all sneak a look at
the other guys at the gym, don't we? But I thought
that some of these guys might object, and they were a
pretty mean looking bunch: I'd heard about fights and
stuff in holding cells, and I didn't want to end up in
one).

We were fed at some point, and this was my first
introduction to slave chow. I suppose that, like most
of you, I'd seen the adverts on TV - you know, those
advertising the "all in one solution for a happy
healthy slave"; the ones that showed a few healthy
looking guys and women tucking into a bowl of
something or other? Well now, it had never occurred to
me before that owners would feed slaves that way
really - I mean, if you're cooking, it's easy enough
to do another portion for your slave, isn't it? Or if
you're sending out for stuff, you can order him
another pizza or whatever. But it seems that in our
great country all this is much too much trouble for Mr
and Mrs Joe Public, and the moment they acquire a
social servant they also get a great big sack of slave
chow delivered to feed him off, in the same way that
they'd get in sacks of dog chow for their pets.

Let me tell you, I don't know why all those people on
the TV were laughing, as it tastes pretty disgusting.
Well, no, that's an exaggeration - not so much
disgusting, as just plain bland and boring, but with a
faintly nauseous meaty overtone that makes it sickly
and disgusting. And you can't laugh at all as you eat
it, as you have to chomp really had to break up the
hard biscuit-like things, and turn them into something
that will go down your throat. After one mouthful I
just gave up and sat there in despair, but the guard
saw me, banged his stick on the bars to attract my
attention, and told me that I had to eat - slaves had
to keep themselves in good condition, and that meant
eating a proper diet. It wasn't up to me any longer to
determine whether I would eat or not, as I was just an
object, something that my owner would need to keep in
good condition to protect his investment in me.

So, reluctantly, I started to chomp at the vile stuff
again, but one of the blacks sitting next to me half
whispered to me that I should keep drinking as I did
so, as the water that they gave us at the same time
helped to turn the stuff into a mush, which was easier
to get down. Up until then I hadn't realised that we
were not supposed to talk - I'd assumed that all the
other guys were silent as, like me, they were in
despair about what was happening to them - but the
moment he heard the black guy, the guard banged the
bars again and shouted that we'd both be prodded if we
didn't shut the fuck up!

An indeterminate time later - again, it probably
seemed much longer as I had no means of knowing the
real time, and had absolutely nothing to do - the
guards banged on the bars and told us to piss and
crap, as the night time lock-down was about to begin.
It was vile in the cage then, as several of the guys
had to crap, and the smell assailed all of us. The
guards then told us to line up in the middle of the
cage, and id something outside, and the wall we'd been
sitting against kind of split apart to form four tiers
of bunks - very narrow bunks.  They shouted at us to
get into a bunk, and I got one on the bottom - it was
so narrow that when I lay there on my back I almost
overlapped the edge, and the bunk above me was just a
couple of inches above my face. It was hard, too -
these were not designed for comfort.

"Right, you slaves", the guard called out "That's it
for tonight. You stay in your bunks, and don't get
out. And weight on the floor now and the alarm will go
off, and you'll all be punished. We don't want you men
getting up to any tricks during the night, do we? So
now you're all in your bunks, fucking well stay
there!"

I have to tell you that I breathed a sigh of relief
when I heard this. It might be really uncomfortable to
have to lie there on the hard, narrow bunk, but you
hear so many stories, don't you, about prisoners
locked in cells with criminals who then rape them or
force them into humiliating sexual service? I'd been
terrified that some of the guys who were obviously
ex-cons might try something like that during the
night.

It wasn't exactly cold in our cage, but there weren't
any blankets or anything and we had to lie there
naked. If you're not used to tying to sleep without
even a sheet over you it's hard at first as your body
is used to being covered at night. And, of course,
after a day when it had had to behave properly as I
was totally naked with lots of people around, once the
lights dimmed and no one could see, it was only
natural for my dick to make up for lost time and
sprout a huge, almost painful, erection.  I lay there
with that kind of dull ache in my dick that means it's
telling you that it needs relief, and wondered what to
do. After a long time, when the ache was getting
worse, I gently started to slide my foreskin up and
down, and that great feeling you get when you begin to
jerk off swept over me. I got a bit faster, and
squeezed harder, and my breathing got a bit more
ragged.... and then I stopped. I was terrified that
the other guys would hear me, in the confines of our
tiny cage!

Look, all guys jerk off, don't they? We all know we
all do it. But it's not the same, to "know" another
guy jerks off, to lying right close to him and
actually hearing him do it, is it? I just couldn't
bring myself to carry on, knowing the other guys might
all be listening. But on the other hand the ache in my
cock was now even worse, as it wanted me to finish
what I'd started.  In the relative silence of the tiny
space around me, once my breathing had slackened, my
ears picked up something, though. I strained my
hearing, and then I knew what it was - that
unmistakable kind of rubbing sound as someone else was
jerking off. I just knew that all the other slaves
were listening, as I was, and we heard the guy get
faster and faster; and we could hear him breathing
hard, too, and then there was a half-muffled cry, and
silence!

Once one of us had done it, the others all seemed to
follow, and the sounds of hands pleasuring dicks that
went around the cage were soon joined by me - I was so
turned on by the rustling and sighing around me that
it only took four or five strokes before I felt my
balls contract and I too gave that little cry that you
do when you shoot. It was somehow like one of those
male bonding things - all the other guys were doing
it, and I needed to do it, too, so as not to be left
out.

At once I realised another problem, though - I could
feel my hot cum all up my belly and on my pecs as I'd
angled my dick that way as I started to shoot - what
was I to do now? I mean, most of us jerk off into
yesterday's T, or toilet tissue, or something, don't
we? Or there's always the sheets on the bed to absorb
it. But now I was covered in my own cum and there was
absolutely nothing to wipe it off my body with: I
moved my hand onto my belly, and could feel my cum
there, all warm and slimy. Of course I'd know what to
do now, but then I was really innocent - it just never
occurred to me to scrape it up with my fingers and eat
it; so I had to lie there, with it drying on me,
terrified that everyone would see the dried cum on my
skin in the morning.

I suppose I must have slept, in spite of the very
uncomfortable conditions. It seemed to take for ever
to fall asleep, and thought I was awake a lot during
the night, but I also remember having a lot of very
vivid dreams. And the banging of the guards on the
cage bars did wake me from a very deep sleep, as I
shot upright and banged my head on the bunk above me.
We had to line up in the middle of the cage again and
the bunks folded back into the wall. It had all
happened so suddenly that I hadn't noticed that I'd
got my morning hard on until I suddenly realised my
dick was swinging in front of me, really hard. And
then I remembered the dried cum, and I started to
blush furiously.

I mean, you just don't have erections in front of
other guys, do you? But then I saw I wasn't alone - as
us naked slaves stood there, trying to wake up
properly, most of us had erect dicks, and no one
seemed to be looking at me in particular.
Fortunately, like all the other guys, my dick went
down, and we were allowed to sit down against the wall
as we crunched our way through a ration of slave chow
- actually, even if I hadn't been told the trick of
eating it with lots of water I'd have persevered this
time as I was actually very hungry, and my stomach was
making rumbling noises.

I'd never been very interested in slave management, so
used to skip over the pages in the Sunday papers that
went on and on about how to keep your slaves happy and
subservient, but those of you with slaves of your own
probably know that the modern theory is that you keep
them just on the wrong side of hunger: you need to
feed them enough to keep their bodies in good shape
and to enable them to do the work you assign to them,
but not so much that they ever put on any fat. Indeed,
it's generally thought that a hungry slave is an
attentive slave, more responsive to his owner's
orders. So the amount of slave chow they gave us was
probably based on this theory.

I thought that we were just going to get shower after
we'd eaten, but the guards separated us into two
groups - most of us went one way, but a couple of the
blacks and a Hispanic and one of the white guys were
pushed another. It seems that they'd detected
something that needed further looking at after their
tests, and they were being sent back to the doctor. In
our group we didn't just get a shower, though - they
gave us an enema first to clean us out!

Like everything else there it was all organised - you
had to bend over a bar at around waist height, then
they came down the line of us, snarled at us to reach
back and pull our ass cheeks apart, then, as we waited
there they inserted a nozzle up our asses - I'd never
had anything like that up my ass, of course, and as
the cold metal of the nozzle made contact with my
delicate membranes I couldn't help but moan with the
shock, and wriggle to try to get myself comfortable.

"Keep still, fucker!", the guard snapped, "Else you'll
feel my prod up there, too."

Turning around as best I could standing there bent
double, I could see that we were all hitched up to one
pipe - the pipe coming out of my ass joined this
thicker pipe, and there was some sort of valve at the
junction. We looked like a row of pot plants, waiting
to be watered by one of those automatic watering
systems! As I watched, the guard came along opening
all the valves, and I could feel something starting to
fill up my bowels. It didn't take long before I was
very uncomfortable, then very uncomfortable indeed as
it carried on filling me up, and the other guys must
have been the same, too, as several of them started to
shout out. The guard came along again, and in turn we
were allowed to stand up, still with the nozzle up us,
whilst he massaged our bellies. If he was satisfied we
were full enough, he turned off the valve and you
stood there, but if not, you went back to being
filled.  Then of course they told us we could pull the
nozzles out of ourselves, and by this time my stomach
was really cramping with pain.

The moment I did I had this absolutely unbearable need
to crap, and crap now - it felt like the worse case of
diarrhoea I'd ever had. But the place seemed designed
for this, as we were in fact standing on a sort of
meshed floor, and the guards told us to squat down and
let go. I was long past caring about privacy or not
crapping in front of other guys or the smell or
anything - all I wanted to do, no, all I desperately
needed to do, was to let go. I crouched there, like
the others, and just let it all drop out of my bowels.
 But then it was back over the rail, for the nozzle to
go in again....

In all, it took four flushings  before the guard was
satisfied, and then, as we stood there, with the
dreadful smell of our shit all around us, they turned
on water from overhead and we could finally clean our
bodies properly.  I though we might all get to shave
after that, but the guards went along and only some of
us were given razors - he grunted at me that I was a
"real stud" and with my body hair and generally very
masculine appearance, I would look better put up for
sale with a "manly" growth of stubble on my face.

I shuddered inwardly, as this was the first time that
anyone had mentioned the actual sale - I mean, I knew
I was going to be auctioned, obviously, but somehow
the thought of the actual process had gone right out
of my mind.  There were nine of us guys up for sale,
and we all stood there, naked and now squeaky clean,
wondering what was going to happen next.

We didn't have long to wait - a guard came along and
gave us a little kilt thing, and told us to get
dressed. Well, if that was their idea of dressing, it
was a bit odd. The kilt was in white cotton, and just
consisted of a strip of fabric no more than a foot
wide, with Velcro stitched along one edge. I tried at
first to wrap it around my waist, but it was then so
short that the end of my dick was hanging out from
underneath! So I had to try to wrap it around me lower
down - but then it was hardly long enough to reach all
the way around, and it felt rather perilous as it
clung to me below my hip bones, depending on the flare
of my ass behind to keep it up. But, at least, my dick
was now decently covered, even though I thought that
you could probably see the top of my ass crack -
still, builders and guys like that show their cracks
off all the time, don't they, when they bend down and
their jeans pull? Mind you, there wasn't enough fabric
to decently overlap, so my thigh swung into view when
I made any move.

The smaller thin guys were much better off, really, as
they could overlap the fabric to make a proper kilt.
The next step in the process was horrible, though.
They came around and gagged us! The gag was a steel
bar about five inches long with a plate about two
inches long at right angles to it in its middle. We
were ordered to kneel down, as it was more convenient
for them, then you had to open your mouth, and they
pushed the bar between your teeth so that the plate
pushed your tongue down, and then a rubber band joined
each end of the bar together, behind your head. I
realised that I couldn't push the plate and bar out,
because of the strength of the rubber, and with my
tongue pressed down to the floor of my mouth and the
bar protruding from the side of my mouth, I couldn't
now speak intelligently.

It's actually frightening - I mean, you're used to
being able to speak, aren't you? And there's always
the thought that if something's wrong, really wrong,
you can shout out and say so (even if the guards then
punish you). But without the power of speech, you
can't communicate - you're starting to become an
object, rather than a man. I felt a sweat beginning to
break out over me as I began to understand more of
what slavery might involve - suppose my new owner
wanted me gagged like this permanently - I guess he
could do it, if that was what he wanted!

If the gagging had started to make me sweat with
apprehension, the next steps in preparing for sale
really brought home how powerless we now were. As we
continued to kneel there, a guard came along the row
of us and fastened a leather collar around our necks.
It wasn't that it was very tight or even
uncomfortable, but the thought of having another man
fastening a collar around your neck is again one of
those things that makes you recognise that you're no
longer in charge of your own destiny: not only is the
collar a potent symbol of ownership, but the very way
that we were kept kneeling whilst he fixed them to us
clearly told us that we were powerless.

I could feel my heart racing and I began to feel
chilled as my nervous sweat evaporated. My body was
starting to prepare itself in the time- honoured way
for "fight or flight" - but neither was possible.  We
were ordered to stand up then, and put our arms behind
our backs. I felt the guard put cuffs around my
wrists, and I now was completely helpless - but worse
was to come: he roughly pushed my cuffed wrists high
up my back, so high that it was actually painful and I
would have cried out had I not been gagged, then there
was a couple of metallic snapping sounds, and he moved
on to the next guy. I couldn't get my hands down from
their position high up my back as evidently they were
chained to the collar - the collar was now being
pulled backwards, and was choking unless I stopped
trying to pull my hands down, and I could feel a chain
pressing into the flesh at the top of my shoulders.

Collared, cuffed and chained like this the only even
vaguely comfortable way to stand was with my head
thrown back and my chest out, and with my hips thrust
forward (so making my dick rub against the front of my
tiny kilt). I could feel all my muscles straining to
accommodate this position, but perhaps that was the
idea.

Finally, as the ultimate indignity, the guard came
along the row of us once more. He stopped in front of
me, and said "Are you Steve Masters?" All I could do
is give a muffled "Yes" noise, and he fumbled around
in a little pile of things he was holding, then
reached up and attached it to my collar.

"Can't be too careful with these", he said to no one
in particular. "There's hell to pay though if we put
the wrong label on the wrong slave. Bu there you are
now - Steve Masters, 28, college education, believed
to be a virgin. Auction number 8 in the catalogue.
What more should any prospective buyer need to know?"

I couldn't answer, of course, but he had anyway moved
on to hang the label on the next guy. I felt utterly
humiliated to be labelled in this way - I mean, surely
there's a lot more they ought to have said about me -
if they really needed to do this labelling at all! But
perhaps it was all part of making both us and the
buyers think of us as "something different", something
that did not require the same consideration that men
did.

They led us out then, shuffling along, one after the
other, down a couple of corridors and into what was
evidently the showroom - a brightly lit space with
polished wood and stainless steel everywhere to create
a look of expense and luxury. We were spaced out along
the length of the place, then they went along opening
small panels in the floor, pulling out a cuff on a
short chain, and snapping them shut around our ankles.
I was standing there then completely helpless - I
couldn't speak, I couldn't move more than a foot or so
because of the ankle chain, I couldn't bend my body
because of the collar, cuffs and chain, and I was
terrified that at any moment the perilous hold that
the little kilt had on my body would give way, and I'd
be naked.

Somehow I suppose I'd got used to being naked "out
back", but here, in these luxurious surroundings, when
I could see that the customers would soon be in to
look me over, the thought of being nude was just
awful. I twisted and turned as best I could and saw
that all my companions were as uncomfortable and
apparently worried as I was, and I could even feel
sweat trickling down my ribs where it had fallen from
under my arms: you know how it is - it feels icy cold,
doesn't it?

We stood there wondering what was going to happen
next, when the doors opened and the guards came in
with another line of slaves to be sold - but this time
the women! Like us, they too were gagged, collard,
cuffed and chained, and only had the same skimpy
loincloths to cover their nakedness - their breasts
were of course very prominent, because of the way they
had to hold themselves.  As they were manacled to the
floor in a row opposite us, I couldn't help looking at
them. Like us, they were all in good physical shape,
and as I looked at all these nearly-naked women my
dick stirred into life.

Even at a time like this when I was terrified and
ashamed - yes, I guess I was ashamed at my condition -
I couldn't help starting to throw a bone. It just
shows you, doesn't it, that the male brain always has
time to think about one thing - sex!  I fought against
it, willed my dick to go soft, and finally, to my huge
relief, I managed it and the totally embarrassing
bulge that had been thrusting the skimpy kilt away
from me subsided - fortunately just before the first
prospective customers arrived and were allowed in.

Mind you, as you might expect, the first ones there
weren't really serious - they were a group of college
guys who went along the line of women fondling their
breasts, and even reaching under the short kilts and
evidently fingering them, as there was a lot of foul
comments and general raucous noise as they smelled
their fingers, as guys do when they've been near cunt!
I felt really sorry fore the women, who writhed and
moved around as best they could to avoid the crude
investigation of the college boys, and who weren't
even able to scream or shout at them to stop it.

It was erotic, though - I mean, you don't routinely
see a load of tits being played with, do you, and in
spite of my best efforts, my bone started to push the
front of my kilt out again.

One of the college boys glanced across at me and
called out to his fellows "Hey, look at that slave
there - filthy bastard, he's getting turned on!"

To my horror they came over and stood in front of me.
One of them reached down and pulled the kilt open, and
they all pointed and laughed at my erection.

"Fuck me", one of them said "He's hung like a horse!
He'll make some guy scream when he tries to push that
up his ass!"

"No, it's not that...", another replied. "Look at his
own ass - most guys will want to ride that: I wouldn't
mind being up there myself."

"You could never afford it, Jase - this is top quality
merchandise! He'll be bought by some really old rich
guy, and he'll never get to enjoy feeling young studs
like us fuck him!"

I could feel myself blushing furiously all the time
they were doing this, as I just couldn't believe that
college boys would be looking at another guy and
talking like that - it wasn't like that in my college
days, or, at least, not with the set I moved in.
Still, if they were right, and I was to be bought by
an old guy, perhaps it wouldn't be too bad. I couldn't
even imagine what it would be like to have a group of
young guys like that fucking me.

The first "real" customers were flowing in now,
though, and from time to time someone would come up
and take a look at me, and some would even reach up to
look at the label hanging from my collar - they could
evidently cross-reference this to the auction
catalogue they were carrying. They would sometimes run
a hand over my body, or lift up my kilt to take a peek
at my dick.

At first, I hated it and blushed with embarrassment
and fury, but after a time it almost became routine -
it seemed that my dick was a major part of the
decision process for most of them, and I saw one or
two of them get out a pen and note something down in
their catalogues - did this mean that they were going
to bid on me, and was this a price they were prepared
to pay? It was worrying, actually, as all the guys who
took an interest in me were overweight, and old : none
of them under fifty, at least. What kind of life would
I have if one of those old fat guys bought me, I
wondered as I stood there, helpless to do anything
about it anyway.

The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. I mean,
you shouldn't treat a man like this, should you? A man
shouldn't be made to stand almost naked so that he can
be pawed over by college boys and fat old men.
Actually, a man shouldn't be enslaved like this - what
right did they have to take away my freedom, to treat
me like some piece of mere merchandise, rather than a
person? At lease a prisoner has his dignity left -
now, like this, I was less even than a criminal: I was
just an object, to be handled, and bought and sold, as
men wanted to.

After I'd raged inwardly about the utter indignity and
humiliation of my position, I managed to "switch off"
most of the time, fortunately, and tried to think
about other things. I kind of "came back" almost with
a start, when I heard a deep, confident voice say

"Hey, boy, what's a well educated guy like you doing
in a place like this?"

There in front of me was a guy quite unlike any of the
others who'd been looking at me - he was in a work
shirt and jeans instead of a crumpled suit, and was
astonishing because of the sheer vitality he exuded.
He must have been in his mid thirties, but was in
great shape - he was perhaps an inch shorter than me,
but at least as well muscled and his lean body wore
his clothes with a quiet arrogance. Amongst all those
old, suited fat guys, he stood out as something
totally different and exciting. He had a smile on his
face, and his piercing blue eyes were almost twinkling
with amusement.

"Never mind", he went on. "Now, I just need to do a
bit of work to check you out. You don't mind, do you?"


Again he smiled, as he knew I was in no position to
object. "If it's uncomfortable, just shout - or mumble
- and I'll stop. But I like the look of you, but I do
need to know that you're capable of hard work: too
much of the stock coming up for sale these days is
artificially puffed up, and I need a guy to really
work hard alongside me on my ranch. There's a stack of
work to be done, and I can only afford one slave to
help out, so he's got to be tough, and strong."

This was the only guy so far who'd shown me any
courtesy or consideration by even suggesting he needed
permission to examine me.  As he spoke, he started to
run his hands over my body, and unlike the fat, moist
fingers of the guys who'd touched me before, his were
firm and confident. And he didn't just run them
lightly over my pecs, as they mostly did: no, this was
a proper inspection: the fingers probed my muscles,
testing their strength and subtlety. And when he'd
done my upper body and commented favourably on my hard
belly, he knelt down and I could feel his hands
kneading first my thighs, and then my calves, as he
assessed their strength.

He couldn't really feel my shoulder muscles because of
my chained arms, but he muttered "Don't worry now...
Almost done....." As he slipped his hands up under my
kilt to probe my ass muscles for their power. He
confided himself to the big slabs of muscle there,
though, and there was no suggestion of him probing my
ass hole or anything.

Finally, he was standing in front of me again, and
said "Hey, bud, you're in good shape. You didn't get
hose muscles at the gym, did you?" I shook my head, as
I couldn't answer otherwise.

"So what's a college educated guy like you doing
working at a grunt job that gives you muscles like
that?" All I could do is shrug.

"Well, it doesn't really matter - perhaps you're like
me: can't stand being indoors, and want to really use
my body in the way that a man should, doing good,
honest work."

I nodded, vigorously.

"OK, boy. We seem to have a lot in common! Look, I
don't like doing this to you, but I'm going to be
bidding a lot of money on you and I need to be sure
they're not hiding anything in their sales statistics.
So don't worry....."

He reached down, and I felt his strong fingers curl
around my dick, just for an instant, then fumble
around to cup my balls. He squeezed, gently, I now
know, and I squirmed vigorously. It wasn't so much
that it actually hurt - although it was uncomfortable
- more the fact that I just wasn't used to a guy
touching and squeezing me like that.

"Easy, Steve, all over!", he said in that half
laughing way again. "But I had to do that: I bought a
slave once and then found he only had one ball as a
previous owner had persuaded the court to allow for a
half castration, to calm him down. And without both
balls, I just don't think a slave works as hard or as
well. Still no trouble in that department with you -
it feels as if you have a good set, and a nice dick,
too!"

He grinned as he said this, and somehow I no longer
felt quite so embarrassed by this big strong man doing
these intimate things to me.

"See you later", he said then, and headed off. "With
any luck you'll be coming back to my ranch with me
tonight."

I cheered up a lot as he said that - this was the kind
of owner I could really work for: someone I could
admire and respect, and who, from the sound of it, I
would be working alongside, rather than for. And no
mention of all that stuff about using me for sex -
hadn't he apologised, even, for having to touch my
tackle? And he hadn't done what so many before had,
which was to lift my kilt and look at me, so he
evidently wasn't that interested in even thinking
about using me for sex.

I really began to relax - perhaps this would work out
OK after all, working on a ranch for ten years, in the
good fresh air, with a guy like that, wouldn't be a
problem at all.

End Of Part Two