Date: Wed, 7 Feb 2007 12:47:15 -0500
From: Michael J. Griffith <baldmickeyg@sbcglobal.net>
Subject: The Warehouse, Chapter 1

Mike sat back and looked at his warehouse business. It is amazing how
quickly the culture had changed after the New Conservative Party took over
the legislature. It started out simply enough-a variety of bills were
passed "cracking down on the rampant crime." Soon, the courts were jammed,
and "streamlined," a polite way of saying due process all but
disappeared. The jails and prisons quickly became overcrowded, and the
Inmate Sales and Rental Act was passed.

Now, Mike's warehouse business, which once had 500 employees, now had 600
slaves. Oh, that's not what they were called, of course. Slavery is
illegal. They are "Prisoners Under Contract," or, as they're more commonly
known, "pucks." 600 pucks, all acquired at auction, selected for their
appearance. Mike likes big, beefy, hairy men. Most were older. The older
ones are cheaper. All were capable of heavy labor, which is what the
business needed.

Mike's apartment was on the fourth floor of an old brick warehouse, and
from his window, he could see the modern steel warehouse, the small
two-story office building, and the single story plain concrete building
known as the Training Center. The compound was surrounded by an 8 foot
brick fence topped with razor wire. Mike's pucks were kept in uniforms that
required a fence to keep them out of view of the general public.

The uniform consisted of a 1-1/2 leather cockring and suitable
footwear-socks and workboots for the warehouse workers, sandals for the
office staff, and flip-flops for the support staff. There was a special
dress code for the Training Center men.

Looking out the window, Mike could see it was shift change at the
warehouse. 120 big beefy men were headed from the old building beneath him,
and walking toward the warehouse. In about 15 minutes, another 120 men
would be leaving the warehouse and headed back to the barracks downstairs
to shower, eat, and rest.

The warehouse shifts are 13 hours, six days a week. Four shifts keep the
warehouse functioning 24/7. The office is also open six days a week, from 6
am to 7 pm. The support staff works around the clock, providing cooking,
cleaning, and personal grooming services for all the crews. The support
staff is scheduled individually, and most crew members have split shifts.

Mike was very proud of the fact his pucks were given Sunday off. Most
employers worked pucks seven days a week. He was also proud that he
encouraged his pucks to have an active sex life. "Sucking and fucking makes
for a happy crew." Most employers felt that energy wasted on sex would
adversely affect their bottom line. Of course, most of Mike's pucks were
straight, and had to be taught that a hole was a hole, and reciprocity was
only fair. Some of them picked him these concepts quickly, and the rest
were eventually persuaded to take pleasure where they could. It wasn't easy
being a puck.

The Inmate Sales and Rental Act had very specific rules for acquisition and
treatment of inmates. If the convict was sentenced for less than ten years,
he could only be rented for annual fee, and could not be permanently marked
or damaged. For those sentenced for over ten years, certain tattoos and
piercings were allowed, and some permanent damage, such scars from
whippings, were considered "normal wear and tear."

Mike took advantage of the more onerous paragraphs in the Inmate Sales and
Rental Act. An inmate whose sentence would be complete after the inmate
turned sixty was available for sale, on the grounds that his life would be
over by the time he reached the end of his sentence. Inmates sentenced to
more than 25 years were also available for sale, because after 25 years,
they could never rejoin society.

Inmates that were sold were afforded little protection from the law. There
were no restrictions on permanent markings or physical damage, beyond the
vague phrase, "Purchased inmates may not be tortured without cause." The
sentence had no meaning, because an owner could slice off a finger, or
anything else, claiming it was corrective action for incorrect behavior. No
owner had ever been charged for violence against a purchased inmate, nor
was that likely to happen.

Mike's pucks were all purchased. He didn't care for tattoos, so none had
been marked by him, although many came with tattoos from their previous
lives. He had some of them pierced, when the mood struck him. His training
staff was instructed to keep permanent damage to an absolute minimum during
training sessions. Mike liked low-hanging balls and big nipples on his men,
so pucks were trained with ball weights and nipple suction upon
arrival. Mike considered himself to be a good boss.

While Mike sat enjoying his scotch, waiting for the crew at the end of
their shift to come back to the barracks, Pete came in.

"Excuse me, sir. The chef would like to know what the boss would like for
dinner, and when it should be served."

Pete was quite a find. 47 years old, slim, muscular, with a nice coating of
hair front to back, head to toe. He was graying, but still looked
incredibly hot. Sentenced to 15 years for embezzlement, he would spend the
rest of his life as a puck. Mike had his nipples and cock pierced, with the
rings soldered closed, so Pete would never forget his new station in
life. He had adapted quickly and well to that new position, and Mike
considered him a fair reward for running a successful business. Pete
managed the household, chauffeured Mike around town, and provided services
in the bedroom when needed.

"It's been a long day. Come and massage my neck and head."

Pete had been given massage training after he arrived, and had learned
well. Mike leaned back and closed his eyes. If he were a cat, he would be
purring. After several minutes, Mike sat up, realized he missed the end of
the shift change, and said,

"I think I'll see how the men are doing downstairs. I'll have dinner in an
hour. Make it steak, medium-rare, and baked potato, butter, no sour
cream. Tell the chef to make a nice salad with the best produce he
has. None of that iceberg lettuce crap he tried to serve me yesterday."

With that, Mike stood up, handed Pete his nearly empty glass, and headed
toward the door. He turned around, saw Pete standing there wearing nothing
but a chrome cockring and a smile, and said,

"Can I bring you back something to fuck tonight? You deserve a reward for
your hard work."

"Whatever pleases you, sir. Perhaps I could put on a show for your
pleasure."

Mike walked out the door, counting his blessings.

--End of Chapter One--

This is my first attempt at writing. If you like what you read, please
email me at baldmickeyg@sbcglobal.net. I have a half-dozen more chapters
outlined.