Date: Fri, 24 Mar 2006 15:24:27 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Slave Show, Part One

THE SLAVE SHOW

By Pete Brown.   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories


Author's note:  I was watching the world's greatest
dog show - Crufts - on TV last night. Congratulations
to my Australian and American readers - the supreme
champion  was an Australian-something-or-other, who
now lives in California.  My erotic imagination was
fired as I began to speculate about how slave owners,
just like the owners of these prized dogs, would want
to put their slaves into competitions.  And there
might be financial rewards, too - the stud fees, and
the prices of puppies, for Crufts' champions
presumably rockets.... And so too for slaves?

For those of you not familiar with Crufts, there are
individual breed championships - daschund, toy poodle,
labrador, etc. - and the winners of these individual
breeds then compete to find a "group" champion from a
set of "similar" breeds:  gun dogs, terriers, hounds,
etc.   The seven group champions then finally compete
to find the "Supreme Champion", the "Best In Show".
In addition to these classes where the judging is
based on adherence to the breed standards, condition
of the dog, etc., there are other specialised
competitions and displays, for example the obedience
championships, where the dogs have to perform specific
tasks like lying still for ten minutes when their
owners are out of the ring; and the agility
championships, where the dogs run a course containing
"jumps", pipes to run through, and seesaws to run
along.

"Dray Slave" is temporarily suspended, and I will come
back to it as soon as the Show is over!

THE SLAVE SHOW

Part One


Like most people I wasn't particularly worried when
they brought in the Indentured Service Act to cope
with the overflowing prisons.  After all, I was not
only a law-abiding citizen, but I was one of those who
actually upheld the law - I'd gone into the army as
soon as I could, at sixteen, and was now into my third
four-year term.  I loved the life - it kept me really
fit, there was slots of sport and I enjoyed competing,
great companionship, and I got to see interesting
places as increasingly the army was sent by our
government to take part in "peace keeping" operations
around the world. I lived in the barracks as I wasn't
married, and I was saving money as a lot of things
were found by the army, and even though I had to pay
an accommodation charge, it was nothing like the
rentals in private apartments, or the horrendous
mortgage payments some guys get saddled with even at a
nearly age.

Around our base there just weren't any indentured
servants, as it was considered that they might be a
security risk.  I saw them of course at the weekend or
when I was on leave, but they mostly were working
sweeping the streets, collecting the rubbish, and
other "civic" tasks; and in the cheap end of the food
business, serving hamburgers and stuff like that.
Other than that, the whole thing never really touched
my consciousness, I suppose - and, if it did, like the
majority of citizens I thought it was a pretty good
idea to have these people gainfully employed  rather
than being a charge on the state stuck in some prison
or other.  It seemed to have had a good effect
generally, too, as the crime statistics had crashed as
you really didn't want to risk Indenture.

It all went wrong when those fucking UN bastards
decided to prosecute all of us who were involved for
"crimes against humanity"!  It was just politics, of
course - all those fucking third-world delegates were
pretty pissed off that we were in Africa anyway, and
the fact that we were keeping the natives from
slaughtering each other in another one of those almost
interminable revolutions that lead to massacres of one
tribe or another didn't seem to matter.  They said we
had failed to follow the "rules of engagement" when we
fired on a mob without giving them the necessary clear
warnings, and then firing blanks, and finally
resorting to live ammo.  What they failed to point out
was that this mob was about four thousand strong armed
with spears and machetes and stuff, running towards us
in a frenzy, intent on hacking us to pieces!  So what
were we supposed to do?  Just stand there and let them
overrun us?  But their leader was a real slimy bastard
who used the "massacre" (and only about fifty were
killed anyway, far fewer than in the previous day's
riots that he'd instigated) became an issue at the UN
with those factions in it who resented any
interference by the "civilised" into African affairs.
So all of us who survived were taken to The Hague and
tried, and we were all found guilty.

Twenty years seems a fucking long time when you're
only twenty six, and it didn't help that the army told
me that I'd be out before I was fifty, but that "I
should take steps to learn new skills during my
sentence as the crimes for which I had been found
guilty meant an automatic discharge, without pension
or anything, at the end of the sentence".  No mention
of the fact that I was only in that fucking country as
I was acting under orders, or anything.  And my
savings were confiscated, "to help the victims" - not
that it would get to any of the poor bastards we had
been trying to help, as the rampant corruption in
their country would snaffle it first.  The future
looked pretty grim, I can tell you.  And the prospect
of spending twenty years in the army's jail was even
worse - you don't do any real soldiering in there, as
everyone knows, as it's intended as a real
"punishment" place, more for a "short sharp shock" of
about six months, rather than twenty years.

The only thing they did do for us finally was to agree
to bring our discharges from the army to be brought
forward, to be effective immediately, provided we
agreed to spend the time in a civilian prison -
meaning, of course, that I became an indentured
servant as all long sentences like that resulted in
this.

It was a bit of a shock to have my army dog tags taken
away and then to have me ISIN (indentured servant
identification number) tattooed under my left pit and
on the underside of my right wrist:  those fuckers who
were so worried about "human rights" ought to take a
look at forcibly and permanently  marking a man like
that - I mean, it turns you from being a man, a man
with a name, into a mere object.  And when they
implanted my tracker chip, that was even worse.  It's
not that it hurt - it was all "humane" as they gave me
an injection of anaesthetic before the thing was
pushed right up under my left shoulder blade, and
afterwards when it was still sore for several days we
were all given pain killers if we asked for them.  No,
it was the thought that just like cars and stuff I
could now be tracked and located wherever I moved
around the country, and I was no longer "free"
therefore to go where I wanted and do what I wanted.

Look, like everyone else, I might as well start
talking about myself as a slave, as that's what I now
was.  I know that in law it's "indentured service",
but everyone uses the shorter "slavery" as the whole
thing is the same:  you have no rights, and you just
have to work away at whatever your current indenture
owner (or "owner") tells you, and he can punish you if
you don't please him. I suppose it's just the same as
when they introduced marriage for gays in 2006 -
strictly speaking "marriage" is only for a hetero
couple and gays have "civil partnerships", but
everyone now calls it marriage anyway as the public is
astute enough to know a thing when they see it, in
spite of what the law says formally .

There's a lot of rubbish written about how humiliating
slave auctions are, with fanciful tales of blokes
being stripped and "inspected" and such like, but it's
not like that  -  well, it wasn't like that for me,
anyway.  I guess it might be different for women, but
in my case the auction house graded us simply - mid
twenties, fit, strong -  and my contract was sold with
a batch of fifty others to a big construction company.
 None, to the best of my knowledge, from the company
even saw us.  They just bought a lot of fifty
contracts for young, fit, strong men who the "graders"
deemed suitable for heavy manual labour.  Even the
"grading" wasn't that bad as one by one we went in
front of a group of three men who looked at how old we
were, scanned our medical records, and then seemed to
decide just by looking at us which of us were capable
of heavy work - I didn't even have to take my shirt
off or anything.  And we weren't chained up or
anything like that, or kept in cages:  they knew we
couldn't run away, with those tracker hips inside us,
so what would be the point?  Whilst we were at the
auctioneers it wasn't all that different from being in
the army, except that we were not really allowed out
into the streets.

It turns out that even with all the mechanisation
there's hundreds of jobs on a big construction site
that need doing manually.  Unloading stuff from
delivery trucks, digging ditches where a machine can't
get in because of lack of space, carrying stuff from
one place to another.... This all used to be done by
labourers, but gradually it became more and more
expensive as labour rates went up and up.  The arrival
of all the Poles and Czechs and people like that
helped for a few years as they were initially prepared
to work for low wages at jobs our people didn't want
to do, but as their home countries got more and more
prosperous they too started to ask for more money, if
indeed they came to the country at all and didn't just
choose to stay at home.  So these days most of the men
you see doing "unskilled" jobs on construction sites
are in fact indentured servants - slaves, as I said.
The crane drivers, blokes who do the shuttering,
electricians, people like that, are all free men
still, but all the "grunt" work is done by blokes like
me now.

There's a lot of myth talked, too, about the life of
slaves these days, probably stemming from those
stories where they're kept naked, constantly chained
up, and whipped and caned, and even fucked by their
owners, but all  I can tell you is that it wasn't like
that for me on our site.  Sure, I had to work hard,
because if I didn't they'd simply withhold the little
"privileges" that made life bearable:  we all got
basic rations, so we were fed properly (starving men
can't output enough hard work, after all), but
anything else, like fruit, or coffee, was a
"privilege" that had to be "earned".  And once you'd
had a week of plain, basic rations, you'd do almost
anything to avoid them taking away those important
little extras.  But as for being kept naked - well, it
was against health and safety regulations to allow men
onto the site without proper protective clothing and
such like, so we had proper steel-toed work boots, and
in the winter proper jeans, shirts and thick donkey
jackets (shivering slaves don't give of their best!).
In the summer it was shorts and T-shirts, but that's
the way the free men were dressed, too, and if you
wanted to take your T off and work bare-chested, that
was OK, but it was your choice.  The living conditions
weren't all that bad, either, as we had a hut on the
site and it wasn't  so very different from our
barracks room - a neat row of single beds, communal
showers:  I suppose the only real difference was that
we didn't have lockers (we had nothing to put in them,
anyway), and that at night the doors were locked and
we were not allowed out.

Actually, I think we had a better time of it than some
of the free men did - we were at least housed right
next to the site, whereas some of them had a terrible
struggle to make it in every day from the far suburbs
where they lived (they certainly couldn't afford the
accommodation right in the centre, where we were!).
And although we didn't have any money, neither did
most of them - by the time they'd paid their mortgage,
travelling costs, and all the expenses of the kids
they seemed to be raising, they had almost nothing
left over for themselves.  In fact, there was one
young  bloke who  lived way, way out as that's the
only place he could afford a place and whose wife had
just given him another kid, who was so hard-up that
when we had our break at lunch time he could only buy
a sandwich, and was looking enviously at my plate full
of plain,  basic food.  He was a kind of apprentice
surveyor, on his first job after university, and so he
probably wasn't earning much;  but he was pretty nice
to me and the other slaves as when he was checking the
work we did he always said "please" and "thank you"
and if there was something wrong, he helped us to get
ut put right before our privileges were withdrawn.
So we got into the habit of "helping" him at break
times by going back through the servery and picking up
another plate full - at the cash register we didn't
have to pay as we turned our wrists over and once the
cashier saw the ISIN she charged the meal to a
separate account.  He was so pathetically grateful,
and wolfed it down so quickly, that I thought he must
be really short of cash and must be very hungry (he
was very, very thin).  It does make you wonder, I
suppose, whether it's better to be a well-fed slave -
but, on the other hand, he did get to go "home" at
night (albeit with a fearsomely long journey), and I
suppose he did get to fuck!

On our site we were really lucky, I suppose, in that
we were quite close to the Cathedral and so it had to
close on Sundays.  We only worked six days a week,
therefore, and after they'd marched us off to a
morning service and we'd been forced to stand there
listening to the mindless drivel about "redemption"
and "the after life" and stuff, and tried to stop
laughing as they said the wine was turned to blood or
something, we were free to do what we wanted.  Not
that there was all that much to do, without money:  no
cafes or bars, no cinema, no shopping.... But they did
allow us to be out and about and not locked in our
hut, and being "central" it didn't matter all that
much that we had no money for public transport - given
enough time (and we had lots) we could visit most
parts of the central area.  Mind you, some free men
can be real bastards - one cold, wet November day I'd
walked to the National Gallery and decided to duck in
to warm up before heading back to the site, and some
fucker complained to the attendants at the entrance
that I hadn't paid the "voluntary" admission charge.
The attendant reminded him that it was a voluntary
contribution, and I chipped in and said that I'd
gladly pay if I could but that as an indentured
servant I had no money.  That did it!  The fucker made
a most unpleasant scene about slaves being allowed to
mingle with free men and how he didn't want his wife
"corrupted" and stuff like that.  I'd have really
argued with him, and even punched him out, but it just
wasn't worth it - the name of my owners was all over
my donkey jacket, complete with an 0800 number for
public comments,  and he could easily have complained
and then I'd have lost all my privileges.  So instead
I just shuffled away, feeling vaguely guilty about not
acting like a real man.

It was March, and the weather was unseasonably mild so
I was taking advantage of the first bit of sun to work
stripped to the waist, when the foreman came up and
told me to stop what  I was doing and get straight
over to the site offices.  I wondered what it could be
about, and, for a bit, was really worried that I'd
done something very wrong and was going to be severely
punished;  but the more I thought about it, the more I
knew I was pretty blameless.  Not that that
necessarily helps - a slave can get into trouble for
stuff he hasn't done, as well as for stuff he has
done!

The receptionist told me to wait as the site manager
wanted to see me, and I stood there in my jeans, boots
and helmet looking at all the people working at their
screens - it seemed as if there were almost as many
people working in the offices as there were on the
site itself.  I became aware of the powerful scent of
my sweat as it evaporated, quite unlike the "genteel"
atmosphere in the office area, and I began to wish I'd
stopped to pull my T on, but there was nothing I could
do about it now, so I moved back against the wall, to
try to keep as much out of the way as possible. Then I
thought I might at least sit down on one of the chairs
in the tiny reception area, but the moment I moved
towards it, the receptionist bitch snapped "They're
not for slaves!  And you're filthy dirty, anyway, and
covered in sweat".  Well, I suppose she was right as
I'd been digging a drainage trench  and my jeans were
pretty disgusting - but what do you expect when you
have men working hard? Still, it felt pretty
humiliating to have this young girl order me around
like that - she was just the sort of young,
cheap-looking bitch that I used to pick up all the
time in bars for a quick casual fuck out the alley at
the back, and now she was ordering me around as if she
owned the place.

When I was allowed in to the site manager's office
eventually, he was sitting behind his desk, which was
covered in papers, and in front of him was sitting the
young surveyor guy who I've told you about.    I stood
there, as the two men looked at me, and the young guy
at once said "See, sir, this is the one I have been
telling you about -  Steve.  I think we could be in
with a real chance with this one...."

"I know you say that, but why this one?"

"There's all sorts of things 'right' about him:  over
six foot, big-boned but not too gross, beautifully
muscled:  not like those body builders, but proper
long, lean muscles that you only get from hard work.
And he's a proper 'European' type with that thatch of
hair on his pecs and belly.  And look at his face -
square tending to oblong, nicely symmetric with a good
nose, dark brown eyes....  And I've sat with him at
break time recently and he seems to have good
teeth...."

"We've got twenty slaves here, though - why not one of
the others?"

"As I said, it's all to do with the right 'type'
There's a fair-haired guy who's quite good, but he's
not 'Scandinavian' enough in his general looks.  And
some of the darker, 'Mediterranean' ones just don't
have the bodies to go with it.  One of the former
illegal immigrants from Russia has nice green eyes and
grey hair, but his disfigured with tattoos.... This
one's superb, though - he's got almost a model's body,
and, as I say, the face...."

I could hardly believe they were talking about me and
the other guys in these terms, describing us as if we
were just pieces of meat that you might or might not
find agreeable.  I thought about saying something, but
life in the army teaches you to keep quiet when you're
with "officers", until you're asked a question.

"I'm not sure we can spare him...."

"It's only four days, sir, and I'm sure we can simply
make all the others work hard enough to cover for this
one's absence.  And think of the money, if it
succeeds....."

"Yes, that would be attractive.  The prize would be
really welcome, as my wife's set on that cruise this
year....."

"I could do with the money too, sir, with the new
baby...."

"Quite, Dan. But will there be a lot of other
expenses?  What about preparing him, and so on?"

"We could go in one of the firm's trucks up to the
show.  And as for preparing him - well, there's not a
lot to do.  He's in really good condition already, and
for the normal categories, that's all there is to it:
we'll need to cut his hair, trim his nails, stuff like
that..... But my wife can do all that as she used to
be a hairdresser before we married.  It's not as if we
need all the elaborate training for the special
obedience or agility classes - all he's got to do is
stand there, walk around a bit, flex his muscles...."

"Well, if you're sure.., I'll let you go ahead,
provided you take the time out of your annual leave
entitlement..."

"Yes, sir.  And we split the prize fifty-fifty?"

"Assuming there is one, that is....."

The site manager dismissed us then, and I never got to
speak a a word, not one single word. Once we were
outside the  young guy said to me "I'm Dan.... And
this will be a bit of fun for you, Steve... get you
away from here...."

"What sort of work then, Dan?"

"Actually, Steve, I think you'd better call me 'sir'.
If you get used to it from the start,  you won't
inadvertently fall into the trap of calling me by the
wrong name when it's something important, like
judging...."

"Judging?"

"Yes, you're going to be entered into the slave Show,
at the NEC - National Exhibition Centre.  Its really
prestigious...."

"Slave Show?"

"Oh come on, didn't you keep up with things before you
were a slave?  Surely everyone's heard of it... It's
the biggest in the world.... Very famous...."

"I was in the army, and spent a lot of time abroad....
I was more into sport...."

"Well, at one time people used to show dogs.  But as
we got more and more slaves, the dogs started to go
out of fashion and it became more interesting to show
slaves instead.  Well you can see why, can't you?"

"No, actually..."

"Well dogs were all pedigrees.  They cost thousands -
sometimes tens of thousands - to buy from breeders.
And there was a a whole lot of stuff about having
exactly the right 'breed characteristics' and
stuff.... And you couldn't do much with a dog, between
shows. It was very specialised.  Now almost anyone can
afford an Indentured Service contract as a slave on a
few years need not be expensive.  And there isn't the
same requirement for adherence to an arbitrary set of
characteristics - almost everyone can say whether they
like a particular slave or not, and why.  And
in-between shows, the slaves is actually useful about
the place! So slave showing has ballooned in
popularity, and  with it, the amount of prize money."

"Buy why me?"

"Look, Steve, I need the money!  And I happened to see
you working the other day, stripped to the waist, and
thought I'd be in with a fair chance of a prize with a
slave like you..."

"You'd best get back to work, though.... But tonight,
instead of going to your barracks, you'll be coming
home with me.   The show starts tomorrow, and there's
some preparation we need to do:  you need a good
haircut, stuff like that..."

That night was actually quite exciting.  At the end of
the day Dan waited for me whilst I showered and
changed into clean underwear and socks, jeans and T,
and collected my donkey jacket.  He made me stand
there and wash the worst of the muck off my boots, and
then we set out.

The journey out to his little house in the depths of
Essex was pretty grim - crammed into the tubes, then a
slow "mainline" train out through endless depressing
suburbs, then a bus.  It took over an hour and a half
in total, and when we got there it wasn't much:  one
of those endless little boxes crammed close together
in featureless rows on a mean-looking estate of houses
a long way from anywhere.  Dan's wife seemed nice
enough, though, and his baby was cute, I suppose, if
you're into babies.    The food wasn't nearly as good
as I'd have got at the canteen on the site, though,
and there wasn't enough of it, but Dan and his wife
seemed to be trying to make an effort.

Wen we'd eaten and the baby had been put to bed,
Dan's wife was really nice when she cut my hair, and
it felt good to have a woman's fingers running through
it once again as on the site we mostly just hacked at
each others when it got too long - they didn't bother
what we looked like, really, but we weren't allowed to
have very long hair as it might be unsafe with all the
machinery and stuff around.  Now, when she'd done, I
felt like a proper soldier again:  a good half-inch
crop all over, with neatly shaved  sideboards and a
crisp line at the back of my neck.  The trouble
started then, though, as Dan said to me "OK, Steve,
pull off your T now so Julie can trim your pits and
that thatch on your body...."

"Hell, no!"

"Steve, I think you're forgetting you're a slave, and
a slave under my control, what's more!  Now, fucking
do as you're told!  You know what happens if you don't
obey on the site - loss of privileges.  Well, can you
imagine how long that might last for if I take you
straight back tomorrow morning and tell the site
manager that you've been wilfully disobedient?  He's
looking forward to sharing in the prize money, you'll
remember...."

I thought for a moment.  It's not such a terrible
thing to take your T off in front of a woman, after
all,  especially if you have a good body like mine.
I'd done it lots of times before, after all, but it
was just doing it here, in this tiny house, in such
intimate conditions:  I usually only stripped off like
that when  I was getting ready for sex.

I had to stand there as she used the clippers and
scissors to trim the hair in my pits, and she put the
highest numbered cutters on the clippers then, and
began to go over my chest!

I've got a lot of quite long curly hair there, and I
suppose that once she'd finished, it did look a lot
better - she held a mirror in front of me and  I could
see that my muscles were somehow much more "defined"
as they were no longer concealed,  and he slick layer
she'd left did look a whole lot better.  Mind you, I
was really on tenterhooks when she then took her
razor-sharp hairdressing scissors and started to snip
at the few strands that had been left by the  clippers
around my aureoles.  Not only were the scissors cold,
but I was terrified she might cut my nips - I'm really
tender there!   All this attention to them made them
stand up and go really hard, and she half whispered
"You're just like Dan!  Every time I touch him there
he goes like that.....  And Dan has something else
that goes hard in sympathy, Steve.... Have you?"

Actually, my cock was straining at my underwear, but
it didn't seem to be right to be having a conversation
like this.  So I just said "No!", rather gruffly, and
left it at that.



Dan seemed pleased with the finished effect, and said
casually "Right, Steve, on with the show..... Slip off
your jeans and stuff, so Julie can do your pubes...."

"No way!"

"Steve, let me remind you again, you're a slave!  And
you're supposed to be going to s lave show.   You've
got tot look your best, and you won't be very
attractive with a great forest of hair preventing the
judges from really seeing what you've got.... Before I
selected you for this I came and watched all the site
slaves showering one night, and although you're
impressively hung, you just don't 'show' all that well
with all that hair around you.  We'll just trim most
of it away, reduce the length of the rest..."

"I'm not going to be appearing naked, anyway, so ...."

"Well not unless you get to be a winner, I suppose.
But on the first days you display in Speedos, and it's
kind of traditional for these to be chosen to be on
the very small side - we don't want a great bush of
your pubes poking out everywhere...."

"No!  I'm not going to do it."

"Steve, just think about what your life will be like
if I take you back to the site tomorrow.  No
privileges again - ever!  And I can make sure you
always get the wettest, dirtiest, smelliest jobs that
are going... For ever.  And there's be a whole lot of
sniggering and laughing at you when the other blokes
learned you were ashamed to strip off in front of a
woman. Now, stop being so stupid - a man like you
can't be unused to letting another bloke see his
tackle... You were a soldier, weren't you?  And they
surely all live together, shower together..."

"No, but your wife..."

"Oh, come on, Steve!  She's an adult, not some prude
from the  Midwest of the USA.  She's used to seeing
me, you know.... And I don't think she'll be so
affronted by you...."

I felt myself blushing as I pushed my jeans down, and
stepped out of them.  They only gave us really
old-fashioned "underpants" rather than nice smart
slips, and it made me feel a bit like when I was a kid
in the stuff my mother used to choose for me as I
stood there then.  Dan looked at me again, a faint
smile playing in the corners of his mouth.  "Come on,
Steve....  We're waiting...."

Well, if you've got to do something you'd rather not,
but which you know you have to, there's no point in
postponing it, is there?  And anyway, what did I have
to be ashamed of? I'd got a good body, no, a great
body.  And a nice dick.  So I shrugged them down, and
then, quite unconsciously, as you do, I reached down
and kind of "flicked" my cock, to free it from where
my sweat had stuck it to my balls.

Dan had me kneel on the kitchen table then so his wife
could sit down and be at the right height to trim my
pubes!  It was at once humiliating, and bizarre, to be
there in that tiny suburban house, in a minute kitchen
with the pots and pans still piled in the sink, having
a woman snipping away at your pubes with hairdressing
scissors!    And she did that hairdresser thing when
she'd finished, too, holding a mirror up for me to be
able to see what she'd done, and asking perkily "Is
that all right, sir?"

I have to say I think I did look better - my cock
looked even bigger than usual, and was much more
visible now that thick thatch had been mostly removed
and shortened.

"OK, Steve.  Up and use the bathroom - we've got an
early start tomorrow", Dan told me.  "There's a clean
towel in there for you, and tonight you're going to
sleep on the sofa down here - we've got some blankets
and things for you."

It seemed silly to stand there and pull my ugly
underpants on then, so I thanked them for dinner and
everything and made my way upstairs to their tiny
bathroom.  It wad odd, really - so homely, with a lot
of shampoo and makeup and stuff lying around, and with
some plastic ducks and other toys that I guessed were
their kid's:  it was so long since I'd used anything
other than an institutional communal place that it
felt odd - especially as, like the rest of the house,
everything was on such a small scale that I could
hardly use the bath properly as my knees were almost
up to my chin!

I realised then that I'd left my clothes downstairs,
so I had to go down with just the towel wrapped around
my waist - that always seems kind of intimate, I
think, but Dan showed me a pile of blankets and looked
a bit embarrassed when he said "I'm sorry it's the
couch... But this is a small house and we don't have a
spare room..."

I felt sorry for him, actually, as in many ways he was
living a much worse life than I was.  I might be
indentured, and known as a "slave", but at least I had
mates around me, good food, a proper place to sleep...
Poor Dan had that dreadful commute, this tiny house,
and was clearly always worried about money.  Who was
the real "slave", I began to wonder as I drifted into
sleep on their not very comfortable, and not very big,
couch?  Me, or Dan, trapped in a system that he seemed
to have little chance of escaping from?

Evidently the family budget didn't run to such
luxuries as bacon and eggs  but they gave me lots of
toast and a big mug of tea the next morning, and then
it was time to go:  it's only a couple of hours up the
motorway to the National Exhibition Centre, and we
were soon pulling off the M42 into the huge car parks.
 There seemed to be a lot of people around, even
though it was still early, and Dan and I followed the
signs that said "Exhibitors' Entrance".

There was a line of registration desks, and at each
one there were a couple of people - I think  I could
tell instinctively that they were "owner" and "slave"
as one set were in casual clothes and jackets, and the
others were, like me, rather more cheaply and crudely
dressed in tough jeans and stuff like that.  Some of
the waiting slaves were just in shorts, though, and it
looked to me as if they were shivering slightly as it
wasn't all that warm in there.

We got to the front, and the bloke sitting at the PC
began to ask Dan a lo of questions... Owner's name and
address, e-mail, contact phone number. And then it got
worse - as I heard him say "And now the slave details:
 Name?  How long is his indenture in total, and how
long has he served already?  Date of Birth? Reason for
indenture?"

Dan had to ask me for my date of birth, and the bloke
a the PC seemed vaguely surprised that Dan didn't know
this.  He looked at me sharply, though,  when Dan
answered to the last question "Crimes against
humanity",  and said to Dan "He isn't dangerous, is
he?  The show rules specifically prohibit the display
of slaves who have been involved in violent crime,
rape, murder...."

"No - it was really unfortunate, for him.  He was a
soldier, who happened to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time.  You know what those UN bastards are
like.... Always picking on us Westerners....."

"Poor bloke.  Couldn't the Government do something for
him, him being a soldier and everything?"

"No.  You know how they want to pander to
international opinion!  Completely fucking spineless,
and never standing up for our blokes, who they sent
there in the first place anyway!   But he's not
violent as such, anyway - he's a good worker, and
never any trouble."

The man keyed a whole lot of stuff into his PC, and
then asked "And what class or classes are you entering
him in to?"

"Well, male slaves, I suppose..."

"No - you need to be a lot more specific.  Clearly,
he's Caucasian.  And male.  But then within that we
have the various sub-classifications - 'Scandinavian',
'Mediterranean', Slavic', and so on...."

"Well I guess he comes from England...."

"Yes, but those classifications apply not to his
origin, but to his characteristics.    So a
'Scandinavian' is blond, blue-eyed.... And a
'Mediterranean' is darker skinned, kind of swarthy,
with a lot of body hair...."

"I hadn't thought of that", Dan said, looking
uncomfortable.

"First time of showing this prime property is it,
sir?"

"Yes... I didn't realise it was so complicated...."

The man looked at me and snapped "Pull up your shirt,
slave, and let me take a look at your belly."  I was a
bit astonished, but seeing Dan looking worried, did as
 I was told.  The bloke turned to Dan and said "Well
let me suggest you put him in 'Mid Europeans' - that's
probably the biggest class, but it allows for a lot of
variation.   He's agreeably hairy, but I don't think
he'd really make it with the 'Mediterranean's' as his
skin doesn't really have that olive hue.  There's a
lot of variation in the 'Middle Europeans', but
judging from what I've seen, he'll probably do well."

Dan nodded and said thank you, and the bloke went on
"Now, is it just the age-related categories??"

"Can I have some guidance, please, again?"

"Well it's simple - 'Pups' are the sixteen and
seventeen year olds, 'Youth' are eighteen to twenty
one, twenty two to twenty five are 'Studs', twenty six
to thirty six are 'Primes', thirty six to fifty are
'Matures', and above that.... Well, no one bothers to
show the 'Oldies' - who'd want to look at old men's
bodies?"

"I guess that makes him a 'Prime' then, just.... He's
twenty six."

"And you don't want him entered into any subsidiary
classes - it's a kind of matrix thing, so he can be
judged in his age class, and then for Agility, or
Obedience, or Sex..."

"Well I hadn't thought about it...."

"Well, sir, if you hadn't thought about it and he
hasn't been trained, I'd advise you to forget it, for
this year at least..... The 'Agility' is pretty
specialised ,and men with big bodies like him aren't
generally very much good at it, even if they are
really fit, as he seems to be.  The 'Obedience'
wouldn't really work unless  you've put him through
some pretty rigorous training.... "

"...well, I am after as many prizes as possible, as I
need the money..... And he's a pretty obedient sort of
slave, we never have any trouble with him on the
job....  Perhaps I could give it a go...?"

"Can he raise an erection on command, and then drop it
again on command, even after a few seconds?"

"What?"

"Yes, that's one of the standard tests.... They have
to do 'dressage' and marching and stuff like that, but
when it gets on to body control, it needs a lot of
practice!  Think about it, sir- you're probably like
most men and can throw a hard-on easily - but if I
said to you now 'Get an erection!', I bet you couldn't
do it.  It takes training..... And if you haven't put
the time in already with this slave, it just isn't
worth it!"

"OK, thanks... I'd hate to look foolish in the display
ring...."

I stood there listening to all this in horror.  I
mean, if Dan would feel foolish if I couldn't get an
erection on demand, how did he think I'd feel?  I
mean, no bloke minds throwing one, does he?  And the
oftener the better - it's one of those things that
help you get through the day, to have that feeling of
your cock straining against your clothes.  But being
made to do it on command.....  And I guess it also
meant that I'd be displayed naked....  I shuddered,
but at least that seemed to have been ruled out.

"So what's the 'sex' category, then?"

"Oh well, it's mostly intended for slaves working in
the sex industry.   They have to fuck, and so on..."

Dan turned to me.  "Hey, Steve, that sounds good,
doesn't it?  I bet it's a long time since you've had
the chance to fuck.... But I bet you know how....?"

I was about to say that there was no way  I was going
to fuck in public, when the man at the desk cut in
"It's not quite as simple as that, sir... And again,
unless he slave has been fully trained, you won't get
anywhere..... For example, what's the maximum length
of penis he can take down the throat without gagging?
And what diameter dildo can he stretch to?"

Dan looked as astonished as I was, and the man went on
"The fucking's only one of the things in the 'sex'
category. It's a 'points' competition, and even the
best stud in the world can't win on fucking alone -
all the other things, like ability to take cock, and
so on, count as well.  So unless your slave there has
had a lot of experience - and I do mean a lot - then
I'd advise against it."

"OK, I guess its just the standard class then, at
least for this year"

That sounded ominous, but I kept silent.


The man at the desk nodded an pressed a few more keys,
and a printer hummed and spat out a small label.  I
watched as he peeled off the adhesive backing and
spread the label carefully on a piece of fluorescent
green plastic.  "OK, slave - come here, and
kneel....", he rapped at me.

I was slow to react.  I 'd heard the  words, but they
didn't seem to make any sense.  The man turned to Dan
and said "I think you'll have problems in the ring if
the slave is as slow and dull-witted as he seems to
be!  I told him to kneel, and he's just standing
there...."

I saw a slave at the next desk kneeling by the side of
the PC there, and realised what was required.  Look,
Dan had been nice to me the night before, and I didn't
want to embarrass him, so without further ado I knelt
down as I'd been told.

The bloke picked up the plastic strip and wrapped it
around my neck, then pushed the ends together and
fiddled for a moment, throwing a scrap into the bin by
his side.  He looked at Dan. "There you are, sir!
Your slave 'Steve' is all entered.  He must wear the
plastic collar with his name tag and classification at
all times - if he's found at the Show without it, he's
automatically disqualified.  But don't worry - it's
really tough plastic and perfectly durable - in fact,
when you get him home you'll find you need really
tough shears to cut through it."

I reached up and felt the hated thing encircling my
neck.  I'd never been collared before, although I knew
it was the fashion for some slaves to have to wear one
all the time.  And now I felt my manhood starting to
slip away - the bright green fluorescence marked me
out as something different: a slave, and not a man -
immediately.

"We're all done now then... Good luck!" The man told
Dan.  "Take the slave through and strip him ready for
the photographs and measurements - they'll give you a
box for all his things, and they'll be returned to you
when you leave. "

"Photographs?"

"Yes, and the formal measurements.  It's for the show
catalogue...."

End Of Part One