Date: Mon, 28 Apr 2003 13:22:53 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Was this really true

WAS THIS REALLY TRUE?

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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


Even after several weeks I still can't make up my mind
- the story I heard one night sounded so fantastic
that I doubted that it could actually have happened.
On the other hand, the guy who recounted it to me had
that ring of truth about him:  he was completely open
and honest in our dealings, and I just felt
instinctively like trusting him.  What would he have
had to gain by lying?  I wasn't a film producer or
anything who would have paid a vast sum to make his
life story, and there was no need anyway for him to
tell me anything.   My job depends to a great extent
on listening to what people say and forming a
judgement on their reliability, and I like to think
I'm pretty good at it.  On the whole therefore I was
inclined to believe that at least for its greater part
the story was true, but it niggled at me.

I found myself returning again and again to the story
I had been told, and in the end my curiosity got the
better of me.  I tried to make contact with the guy
again, but failed:  e-mails bounced, and his cell
phone number gave a "number not in service" message.
Given what he had told me, I was tempted to go to the
police and report the whole thing - but would they
have believed me?  After all, I only half-believed it
myself.  And if even some of the things he told me
about the government's involvement were true, I might
be placing myself in danger.

Perhaps, even as you read this, he's once again in
that horrific place he told me about, as he so much
feared he would be recaptured.  But perhaps he really
did finally make the break and is even now sitting on
a beach somewhere, living his life quietly.  One of
the reasons for writing this story and sharing it with
my readers is the hope that one day Steve will read it
and get in touch:  I really would like to know the
truth!

Here then is the brief history of my one meeting with
the man I only knew as Steve, and of his life as he
related it to me.  I leave it to my readers to join me
in judging whether there is any underlying truth to
the tale.

MEETING

My job as a senior marketing director occasionally
takes me to the East Coast, and I had an unexpected
and urgent requirement to be in Manhattan for an
important client meeting.  It went pretty well, but
there was not time to fly home that night after it
finished, and the client wanted to get back to his
home in Westchester and did not wish to be entertained
to dinner.

I was therefore at a loose end in the city, and hate
eating alone - in fact, I usually use these occasions
to skip eating at all:  driving a desk all day, it's
easy to end up eating too much for the exercise that
you're doing, and these occasions away from home are
one way of cutting down.  I've always been in pretty
good shape, ever since I was a bit of a jock at school
and college, but now, in my mid-forties, it's a
constant battle to keep the flab away and I have too
little time for really serious exercise any more,
although I do try to get to the gym three times a week
at least.

Anyway, I have a more particular pleasure on these
solitary evenings in the city - especially if I've had
a major success, I like to treat myself to a good fuck
with an escort.  Don't get me wrong - I'm not such a
monster that I can't find fuck buddies and have to pay
for sex:  at home my "little black book" has a list of
guys who I hook up with  regularly.  But when I'm
travelling I haven't got the time to go through all
the boring stuff of finding guys in the chat rooms,
exchanging endless e-mails with them, getting lied to
about their age and looks  (my experience is that at
least half the guys there looking for sex take five
years off their age, and most of the photos are, shall
we say, at least "optimistic"), and then having to
cope with the unreliability when guys just don't show.
 What's more I've found you just can't rely on what
guys say - I'm tired of having passive lumps of meat
lying there when they said they were versatile! With
usually only a single evening available, and only a
short time in which to make arrangements, it's just
easier, and much more certain, to get a professional.

My experience is that provided you get a REAL
professional escort, one who's taken the time and
trouble to build a decent website, you're pretty
certain to get the goods as described,  he'll show up
when booked, and deliver the services he promised.
You need to steer clear of the "amateurs" - students
and the like who are just doing it as a way of raising
a bit of extra cash, and go for the real full-time
hard core professionals.

I've had some great times with professional escorts -
I always pick a guy with a body I like, of course, and
then I'm usually surprised to find how articulate they
can be:  you do need to talk a bit, after all, when
you've finished fucking!  It's also surprised me, too,
to find that a number of porn stars also escort when
they're not filming - and that's a double bonus as if
you later get a DVD with one of those guys in, you can
relate to it much better as your body remembers the
touch, feel and smell of them to go along with the
writhing and groaning on the small screen.

Anyway, as was therefore my habit, having concluded my
business successfully I decided to hire a guy for an
hour's vigorous relaxation.  I have a certain "type" I
always hire - I'm not interested in those thinks in
their early twenties, as I like a muscular guy with a
lot of meat on his bones.  And I don't think a guy is
properly experienced (of life, not of fucking!) until
he's in his mid thirties - so I always go for an older
guy.  Obviously they have to have nice big dicks and
low-hanging balls, and a fantastic smile in their pics
always helps, too.  I'm pretty versatile myself, and
like a lot of sensual body contact before and after.
So the guy has to be prepared to top or bottom,
depending on my mood, and he's got to be a great
kisser - it never ceases to amaze me that some escorts
will allow you to fuck them in the ass or the mouth,
but won't agree to kiss you.

I sat in my hotel room, opened my laptop, jacked it
into the phone, and began my search.  I don't know
what attracted me to Steve - I'd never used him before
- but certainly he had everything on my check list:
he said he was 37, he was 6'3" tall with a very
defined, muscular body (but not grotesquely so), and
he had a cute smile on his ruggedly handsome face.
Unlike a lot of escorts he hadn't locked away all his
full-body shots behind AVS passwords, and I could
admire his big, meaty dick and his muscular ass.   He
said he was "into anything", and was happy to top or
bottom.  "The client's pleasure is paramount", he
wrote.  "I'm only here to make sure you have a good
time in whatever way YOU want."

I called his cell phone, and he sounded pleasant:
confident and assured, and happy to discuss my
requirements with me just as if we were doing any sort
of business transaction.  We didn't haggle about the
fee, as he was asking the regular price, but he did
tell me that he didn't "clock watch" - I should book
him for an hour, and if we were still going strong at
the end of that time it would be because he was
enjoying it, and he wouldn't clock up extras
(something else you have to look out for!).

When I opened the door to my room an hour later, he
was standing there in the corridor looking totally
relaxed.  He was everything I had hoped for, and
completely fulfilled my expectations at first sight -
and, what's more, he had that extra "something", that
something you just can't define:  he was downright
sexy, and my dick immediately started to strain inside
my slacks just at the sight of him.

I motioned him to come in, and once inside, he
instinctively reached out to shake my hand.  His grip
was warm and strong, and as we said hello, he
immediately reached out, pulled me close to him, and
kissed me full on the lips.  His tongue was in my
mouth, one hand was behind my head holding me to him,
and with his other hand he was stroking at my dick
through my slacks.

We pulled away after a few moments, and he was
grinning at me.  I just knew we were going to have an
amazing time that night - those first few moments with
a new guy, any new guy, are so important and he'd got
it just right.  There was another thing I instantly
liked, too - he didn't ask for the money upfront, as
some escorts do.  I always think they should wait -
after all, if they do a good job, you're going to pay
them, aren't you?  And if they don't do a good job,
they shouldn't expect payment.

Even before I asked he kicked off his shoes  and undid
the buttons on his jeans and dropped them to the
floor.  Even though it was October, he'd turned up
only in jeans and a T-shirt and I saw that this was
indeed all he was wearing - his beautiful cock was
fully erect as his jeans fell to the floor, as he wore
no underwear.  He crossed his arms in front of him and
pulled his T-shirt up and over his head, and I
experienced that thrill I get when guys undress like
this - their dicks strain upwards as the arms are
raised and the body's muscles tighten;  and you get to
be able to take a really good look at the dick whilst
the guy's head is covered by the T, without him
knowing.  Yes, I know it's silly - after all, you've
paid for it, haven't you?  But somehow, in those first
few moments, even experienced sophisticated guys like
me can be a little nervous, and being able to get a
good look at the body with no risk of eye contact with
its owner is a little bonus.

He just stood there, smiling, and I stepped back to
take in the sheer physical perfection of him - not
only was he beautifully muscled, but he was an even
dark tan absolutely all over.  I reached out and  just
couldn't help wanting to touch his silky skin  - he
had a little patch of hair on his pecs, and a
"treasure trail" across his hard belly leading down to
a neatly-trimmed patch of dark blonde pubic hair above
that magnificent dick.  As my fingers explored him, I
soon realised that his balls were however shaved,
although the rest of his body had a faint covering of
fine almost-white silky smooth hair.  The only thing
to mar the silky skin was that he was tattooed - I was
a little surprised at this, as often very good looking
guys like this one don't want to mar their image in
case they get offered modelling assignments or
something.  And these tattoos were very prominent -
big black letters on his left pec, and the same on his
back, on his right shoulder blade - I couldn't make
out what they said, as they seemed to be in some sort
of foreign script.  He also had, most unusually, a
kind of bar-code on his left arm high above his
biceps, almost on the shoulder.  And as my hands
greedily probed his body, I felt a slight depression,
almost like a wound, or a scar, on his right ass
cheek.

As I ran my hands over him he continued to smile, and,
unlike a lot of guys who "freeze" as you examine them,
he actually helped and encouraged me by moving his
arms and legs slightly under my hands, thrusting his
hips towards me as I weighed his dick in my palm, and
bending slightly as my hands ran over his muscular
ass.  He didn't flinch, though, not even a little bit,
as I rolled one of his hard nipples between my thumb
and forefinger as it jutted out so proudly from his
big, dark aureoles.

I really liked what I saw, and could just tell from
the whole way that he conducted himself that he was
completely at ease with his body and his sexuality.
As I stopped my examination, he took his dick in his
hand and gently stroked it - it had been almost
completely erect before, but now reared into solid
perfection, and a delicious-looking dribble of pre-cum
started to leak from his piss slit:  he was obviously
very horny, and "primed" for action!

We smiled at each other, and started to kiss again.
He kept his face locked to mine as he helped me to
start to get naked - actually I stated slowly, and
then, as my own body began to react to the sheer
animal maleness of him, I got more and more frantic to
be as naked and free as he was, and was almost tearing
at my clothes to get out of them.

We fell onto the bed, our hands exploring each others
bodies, we....

Actually, this story isn't about the next hour.  Just
take it from me that it was absolutely the best sex
I've ever had with anyone, anywhere.   And he was even
totally accommodating to my particular pleasure -
throat fucking.  There aren't a lot of guys, even the
professional ones, who will really let you do it
properly with their necks hard against the edge of a
table and your dick rammed so far down their throats
that they start to pass out for lack of air - but he
did, and I had that marvellous sensation you so rarely
get as my dick head hit again and again at the back of
his throat, and I felt him start to struggle as he
began to lose consciousness.  It was only the thought
of taking his lucious muscular arse that finally
prevented me from shooting down his throat, and I let
him get up and get on the bed.  Actually, that's part
of the pleasure for me - I say "let him get up", but
with his power and strength I really couldn't stop him
doing whatever he wanted.  It's this feeling of a man
holding himself in check, and doing what you say, so
that you are in control of his raw power, that really
turns me on.  But, as I said, this isn't about sex -
you can read about that anywhere, and doing it is so
much better than reading about it (or writing about
it).

We finally lay, in intimate closeness, on the wreck of
the bed, both panting slightly and covered in that
delicious sheen of sweat you get after real sexual
exercise.  I've told you I like people, and I just
can't resist questioning guys at times like this.
Some of them won't respond, but most men are very open
and somewhat vulnerable at this time, so your
questions can strike home.

"Thanks, Steve.  That was fantastic.  But then you
know that, don't you?"

"Uh, uh."

"I bet you get a lot of satisfied clients."

"Uh, uh."

"I hope you don't mind me asking...."

"No, ask away - I can always put something in your
mouth to stop you, if I don't like the questions..".
As he said this, he grinned at me, grabbed my hand,
and put it down onto his dick, that was again rock
hard.  I knew what he had in mind to stop me talking!

"Well... Look.... You've got a great body.  You're a
really nice guy.  You seem to be well educated..."

"Uh,  uh".

"...so why are you an escort?  I'd have thought you
could make a success of any job...."

"Well, it's a a long story.  I don't think you'd be
interested."

"Sure I would.  I like people, Steve, and I'm always
interested in finding out more about a guy."

"No, there's not time."

I was fascinated now.  Was this just a "come on" for
another hour's fee?

"No, tell me... I'll pay you for another hour."

"No, you won't.  I agreed on the phone that if we ran
over, it would only be because I was enjoying myself,
too, and there'd be no charge.  I'm comfortable with
you somehow, and we've just had really great sex -
some clients just want to fuck me, or for me to fuck
them, and really treat me like dirt... Buy you've
treated me as an equal, and I think we've had a great
time mutually.  Actually, I need to talk to someone,
so if you don't mid lying there, and don't interrupt,
I'll tell you.  There's no charge - after all, you'll
be doing the work by listening to me rattle on."

"That's great... So how did it start...."

"If I'm going to tell you my story, you don't have to
say anything.  NOTHING at all, OK?"

"Sure... Sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt..."

With that, Steve turned over so that he was lying face
down.  He buried his face in his crossed arms and kind
of shucked around a bit to get comfortable.  I
wriggled myself to lie alongside him, and put my body
in contact with his along its length, feeling his
firm, warm flesh against mine.   I threw on of my legs
across his, letting it lie gently against his lovely
ass.  I put one arm across his shoulders.  We both
shuffled again, to get really comfortable.  It was a
one of those rare moments, when two men are completely
relaxed and comfortable in each others company even
though they had only known each other for less than an
hour.

In his masculine, easy tone, be began to tell me of
his life.

STEVE'S STORY


I guess I had a pretty conventional upbringing.  Small
town in the Midwest.  It's not important which one.
Only child.  Mom and dad  not divorced or anything.
Did well at High School academically, and played a lot
of sports.   Girl friends.  Started fucking at
fourteen, and really enjoyed it.  Good at it, too - or
so the girls told me.

College - not Ivy League, but still a good school.
Read maths and physics, so was getting set up for a
good job as graduates in hard sciences are always in
short supply.

Mom and dad were both killed in a car crash just as I
was leaving college.  It was their fault, too, so
there wasn't any compensation or anything.  After the
mortgage was paid off there wasn't a whole lot of
inheritance - dad had quite a good job, but he'd paid
a lot for me to go to college, and at least I was
debt-free.

I just didn't want to start work immediately.  I
decided to take a year out, and tour the world.  It
would help me get over mom and dad's death, and give
me a broader perspective on life, I hoped - after all,
I'd never even left the USA at that time.

Don't get me wrong - "tour the world" sounds like
something that rich folk do when they retire.  I only
had a few thousand dollars, so it was definitely going
to be back of the plane, student hostels, buses.... no
luxury, no frills.  I reckoned I just had enough to
last a year, without having to work whilst I was
travelling.

Most students go off to Europe, I know, but I decided
to start in South America - it's so close to us here
in the USA, yet most of us know almost nothing about
it.  Of course everyone warned me it wasn't safe - all
the drugs, the terrible governments, the violence....
But I reckoned I could take care of myself.  I was,
after all, young, fit, and very strong.  I had some
Spanish and learned a bit of Portuguese, and I
reckoned that terrorists were really after rich
tourists, not guys like me just bumming along, living
the life of the "ordinary" people.

It went really well for about seven months.  I did a
lot of walking in the Andes, and the relatively hard
life on the road only added to my fitness.  I really
didn't keep in touch with my friends back in the USA,
and of course no longer had my folks, so I almost
fooled myself into thinking I was a completely
free-living spirit, with no ties, no hang-ups, and no
emotional baggage.  They say that you should make
occasional contact with the US Embassies in these
countries if you're travelling, especially if you're
going "up country", but I was so confident in my own
abilities that I never bothered.  I guess you could
say that, as far as the USA was concerned, I'd really
"dropped out", and no one had "sight" of me, and,
anyway, no one cared.

I should have left well alone, and not got mixed up in
local affairs that were none of my business.  But I
was headstrong, and when I saw how the local bandit
chief was taking advantage of the peasants in a tiny
village high in the mountains, I just couldn't help
joining in.   I stood in the village square and tried
to convince the peasants to stand up to the bandits
and not give them food and money.  Numerically, I
pointed out, we were far stronger.  And we had more
guns.   But what we didn't have was "spirit" - I guess
the habit of living under the control of the bandits
was just so strong.

They came for me one night - just clubbed me
senseless, before I even knew what was happening.  I
woke up with a splitting headache, lying in some
mountain clearing somewhere.  I went to move, and
found I was hog-tied - ankles and wrists together.

I struggled to get free, but it was no use.  Oh fuck,
I though, this is the end.  I'd heard about these
bandits and how their reign of terror kept control
over the villages, and all sorts of thoughts went
through my head - I thought that it was highly likely
that my mutilated corpse would be thrown from the back
of a truck into the village square.  I only hoped that
they'd kill me quickly -  some of the stories
circulating about how they tortured men before killing
them were absolutely horrifying.

They came for me a couple of hours later - they just
threaded a pole through my arms and legs, and four of
them carried me through the jungle paths, face down.
It hurt like hell, as the ropes cut into my wrists and
ankles, and the strain on my body from being held so
unnaturally made it extremely difficult to breathe.

I was dumped down in front of the chief, in a
clearing, after what seemed like hours.  He looked,
well, "ordinary" - a  middle aged guy, in faded
clothes and with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Perhaps there was something cruel about his face, or
perhaps I'm just projecting my own views onto the
situation.

"We really can't have you stirring up the villagers",
he told me.  "I need to make an example of
troublemakers like you.  I ought just to kill you, and
cut off your limbs, and dump your pieces back in the
village.  Or blind you.  Or castrate you.  Anything,
to make sure they understand that you don't defy me
and get away with it."

"Fuck you...", I started, then stopped as one of his
men simply kicked me in the balls.  I shrieked, and
vomited, with the immense pain.

"So, American... Many fine words in the village, but
no ability to withstand a little punishment.  You're
fortunate though, as I happen to be short of money
currently.  The drug price has been falling, and our
shipments aren't making the money they used to.
There's a profitable sideline in slaves, though, and I
have decided to ship you off to Miami with the next
batch of drugs.  They'll give me a good price for a
young, well-built guy like you."

At first, I thought I must have misunderstood and got
my translation wrong somewhere.  But when I was put
into a cage later that day  - a very small cage made
of strong metal bars, only just big enough to hold my
body bent double - I began to think that I had heard
correctly.

They kept me half-sedated most of the time.  The
flight passed in a blur, and all I really remember is
the pain from my cramped limbs in the small cage
stuffed into the fuselage of the tiny plane.  At
least, I comforted myself, they said I was being taken
to Miami - once I was back in the USA, there would be
some chance of escaping.

But there wasn't.  These drug guys had everything
highly organised.  The plane landed at some isolated
airstrip, the drugs were loaded into one truck, and
they manhandled my cage onto another.  We drove
through the night for a couple of hours, and then my
cage was unloaded.  There were five or six guys there
when my cage was opened, and in my half-sedated state
I couldn't put up any resistance anyway.  They simply
bundled me into a cell - concrete floor and walls,
metal door, lavatory in the corner - and left me.

I don't really know how long I was there.  They opened
the door occasionally and pushed food in, but
otherwise I was left alone.  I soon realised there was
no point in shouting or complaining - the cell had
that "dead" sound that implied it was heavily
insulated.  And the guards that brought my food never
listened to what I said, or made any comment at all.

At some point I was bundled out of the cell, cuffed,
gagged, and driven across town in the back of a truck.
 I could tell from the sounds around that we were in
the docks area, and soon I was unloaded and made to
climb up the gangway into a rusty old tramp steamer.
Once aboard, the crew manhandled me down two or three
ladders, and I was pushed into part of the cargo hold.

There were 30 other guys in there, and we were there
for days and days as the ship evidently made a voyage.
 We were kept in the pitch dark, and the only light t
we had was when the door to the hold was opened
occasionally and food was thrown in.  We had to piss
and crap in the bilge, but at least there was a water
tap so we could drink whenever we wanted.  I soon
found out that all the guys were, like me,
"untraceable" - dropouts, hitch hikers, guys just out
of the forces... No one had a wife, parents... anyone
who would really notice they had disappeared.

We all wondered where we were going, as the voyage
went on and on, but we thought we must be crossing the
Atlantic as quite often the sea was extremely rough -
the small tramp steamer pitched and rolled, and most
of us were extremely sick.

None of could wash, and the crap, piss and puke did
not make for a nice atmosphere in the hold.  I'd read
about the 19th century slave trade to the USA, and the
terrible conditions the negroes endured aboard ship en
route to the plantations, and I could now begin to
really understand what it must have been like -
although, in fairness, we did at least have enough
space to move around in, and we had all been allowed
to keep our clothes and were not entirely naked like
the blacks had been.

It must have been days before there were the
unmistakable signs that the ship was docking - the
dreadful rocking motion stopped, and there were
clanking and banging sounds as if it was being brought
up to a dock.  When the door into our captivity was
next opened, it wasn't to throw food in - instead, the
rough-looking ship's crew hauled a guy out, then
slammed the door again.  They came back a short time
later, and took another guy.  This went on, until I
decided it  was my turn - evidently they were going to
take us all sooner or later, and so the earlier I
went, I reasoned, the better - I didn't want to spend
any more time in that hell hole.

I was bundled back up the ladders, and I could not
resist the men - I was so weak after the days of
confinement, and my eyes hurt abominably with the
unaccustomed light. As we emerged onto the deck
something else hit me - the heat!  It had been hot
when we'd gone on board in Miami, if indeed it was
Miami where we had left from, but here the heat was
different - much hotter, and the humidity by the water
made it a hundred times worse.  My wretched
vomit-stained clothes stank, and now I was sweating
profusely, adding to my misery.  Flies buzzed
everywhere, and there was a disgusting smell of
rotting seaweed and fish.

A man was standing there, and he just looked me up and
down.  I went to say something to him, to demand to be
let go, but before I could do so he'd just snapped one
word at the crew who were holding me - "Mines".  What
the hell did that mean, I wondered.

I was roughly bundled away, and down the loading ramp
of the ship onto the quayside, where they pushed me
into the closed back of a truck standing there. The
doors on the back of the truck slammed shut behind me,
and I could see in the dim light that leaked in
through a few tiny cracks in the sides of the truck
that there were already some of the guys from the
ship's hold there..... But not many, only four.

Over the next hour we were joined by a couple of
others, and then the truck set off.  What had happened
to the rest of us?  We were 30 in the hold, and now we
were only seven.  We talked about this, but could
think of no explanation - other than the fact that we
were all the big, strong guys from the hold - the
smaller, slim guys seemed to have been weeded out.  We
all remembered the man at the top of the ramp saying
"mines", too.

The truck was obviously passing through the suburbs
and centre of a town, and we all tried banging on the
sides and shouting, to try to attract attention.  But
even though the truck was frequently stopped, and we
guessed from the noise of other traffic and from the
hooting and shouting that was going on outside that we
were stuck in heavy traffic, no one seemed to pay any
attention - it was almost as if having men shouting
and cursing inside a sealed truck was an everyday
occurrence there.

The journey went on for hours and hours.  We soon left
the town, and although we seemed occasionally to go
through other smaller places, we were mostly on an
open road.  It grew intolerably hot - the metal sides
of the truck were almost too hot to touch from the sun
beating down on the outside, and we were all sweating
like pigs.  We were soon so exhausted by the heat and
the motion of the truck that all we could do was lie
supine on the floor.  Fortunately they had provided us
with water, and there was a tank in the corner with a
tap on it - by lying under the tap you could drink all
you needed.  They hadn't thought about pissing,
though, and we soon realised that all we could do was
just move into one corner and piss there.   The stench
of our piss only added to the already strong smell
from our bodies and clothes, though, as we had not
been able to wash now for days and days.

It cooled down as night fell - the light leaking into
the truck faded, and the sides got less like the
inside of an oven.  But the journey went on and on,
and it seemed as if the quality of the road got worse
and worse - we were being thrown around as it bumped
and jerked over what must have been little more than a
track.

We found it impossible to sleep, and it was anyway
soon morning, a judged by the light leaking in.  How
much longer would this terrible journey go on?  We
were all so wretched, we could not speak to each
other, and we just lay there in misery.

But the journey did end, eventually.  The truck
groaned to a halt, and there was a lot of shouting.
Then the back doors opened, and we were motioned out.

It was the bleakest place I've ever seen.  We were
literally in the "middle of nowhere",  All you could
see for miles around was sand and scrub.  About 50
yards away there was a long, low building made of
rough concrete, surrounded by a number of other
smaller buildings, all made of the same material.
There was not a scrap of colour, and everything looked
"washed out", especially as the incredibly hot, white
sun burned down on us.

Guards with rifles stood around, and I didn't doubt
they would shoot us if we made any attempt to move.  A
guy in Arab dress came out of one of the small
buildings, and strode towards us.

One of the guys started to say something, but he was
quickly and brutally clubbed to the ground by one of
the guards using his rifle butt.  The Arab simply
watched, then started to address us.

"Welcome to the rest of your lives, slaves... Because
that is what you are.  You are now at the most
productive, most secret, mine in the world, and this
is where you will spend the rest of your life.  You
will see that this is a very inhospitable place.  It
is impossible to escape from on foot, as it is too far
from civilisation and without water you would never
make it across the desert alive, and we keep the
trucks and four-wheel drives very closely supervised."

"We cannot get normal workers to work here, as we
would have to provide them with too many facilities
and services.  And we would have to arrange regular
trips back to 'the world' for rest and relaxation.
The solution is simple - we use slaves.  You do not
need rest and relaxation, and you do not need trips
out.  You work so hard that you are glad simply to
rest at night.  You are grateful for the simplest food
- although we ensure you are well fed as we need to
keep up your work rate, there is no need for fancy
fruit, vegetables and meat.   You work sixteen hours a
day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year.  Your
output from the mines is therefore very high, and we
can produce the same volume of work with only half the
number of slaves as we would need free workers.  And,
of course, once we have paid off your initial purchase
price, there is nothing more: no wages, welfare,
pensions...."

"I am giving you this explanation and it is the only
one you will ever hear.  From today on, you will work
with the rest of the slaves, and work hard.  And
failure to work is punished -  the guards will whip
you if you are caught slacking as they go past.  And
if the part of the mine you are working in fails to
meet its production target for a five-day period,
every slave will receive 50 lashes at the period end."

"You are mining the incredibly rare black opals, only
found here in this mine.  They are extremely valuable,
but, unfortunately, also very fragile.  Industrial
mining techniques cannot be used, as mechanical
excavators and explosives would destroy the opals.
Consequently all work has to be done by hand, and you
slaves uses shovels, picks, and hammers to break the
formations in which the opals are found and extract
them.  That is why we need strong slaves - you were
selected for use here at the mines from the latest
batch of imports into our country, and the weaker,
less powerful ones were rejected.  Who knows if,
ultimately, they will have ended up with the better
life!  All you men have probably revelled in your
power and strength all your lives, and now you will
have an opportunity to use it in ways which you
probably never even dreamed of."

"Now, finally, get naked..  All slaves here work
totally in the nude. As you will see, it is very hot,
and you do not need clothes to keep you warm.  You
also do not need them for reasons of modesty - we are
all men here, and none of you has anything to be
ashamed about anyway as you are all extremely well
built specimens.  Your nakedness is another example of
how this mine runs efficiently - we do not have to
spend even a single cent on clothing you, and no money
on laundering uniforms or anything.  In any case, that
would  require us to import even more water here to
the mine, across the desert - very inefficient.  Your
nakedness is also a constant reminder to you that you
are slaves - without even the tiniest scrap of cloth
across your loins you are just like beasts, who work
away as naked as when they were born.  Every time you
see your fellow slave's penis handing there fully
exposed, remember that it is the power of us, the
masters, who have turned you into mere animal
workers."

I think we were all so stunned at what he was saying
to take it all in at first.  Some of the guys started
to argue, but were brutally clubbed by the guards,
and, in the end, we all took our clothes of and stood
there under the blazing sun. In one way, it was a
relief - my own things were so vilely stained, stiff
with dirt, and smelly, that it was almost better to be
naked.   I still remember how hot the desert sand was
under my naked feet, and how uncomfortable it was to
walk - even though I used to go shoeless some of the
time in the yard at home, here were all sorts of sharp
stones digging in to me.  It's funny, really - even
here, in these totally unnatural conditions, men
behaved differently:  some, like me, were relatively
used to being naked with other guys as we'd played a
lot of sport and shared many locker rooms, so we just
stood there.  But some were embarrassed, and cupped
their hands over their dicks, as if trying to preserve
their modesty.

Whilst we were still in a state of semi-shock from
hearing about our new status, and whilst we were still
exhausted from the journey, the guards took us off for
"processing",   We were led into one of the small
buildings, and some, guy in a white coat took blood
and urine samples from us, then pumped us full of
shots with a syringe.  He explained that we were
getting covered against all the known bugs and
diseases in that area as the mine needed "to protect
its investment in its slaves" and it couldn't afford
for us not to work.  He also said that serious work
would not begin for three days whilst he examined our
samples for existing infections - they needed to
ensure we were healthy before we mixed with "the other
stock", as once some infection like AIDS  "got into
the herd, we could not eliminate it.  If all the new
stock is infection free, then you can all fuck each
other to your hearts' content.",  I wondered what he
was going on about - why would we even be thinking of
fucking?  Surely they didn't make women work in this
hell hole?

In turn, each of us was then strapped to a table and
tattooed.  I'd always thought that tattooing was
something that took hours and hours, and you had to
have several trips to the parlour.  But here they used
something called a "rapid animal tattooer" - I saw on
the box that it was intended for big cattle farms who
need to mark their stock.  They dialled numbers and so
on, pressed the device to you, and it fired hundreds
of needles into you to carry out all the marking at
the same time.

(Author's note : as he had been speaking this last
part, Steve shifted his body under me to show me, in
turn, the marks I had noticed earlier on his pec,
shoulder blade, and shoulder).

The worst thing, though, was the final mark - after we
had all been tattooed, we were made to lie in turn on
the table and were strapped down by big leather straps
that one of the guards helped the doctor to really
pull tight.  I could feel myself being crushed into
the leather of the table top, and couldn't do anything
about it.  The "doctor" had another instrument which
was plugged into a power socket, and it was with a
sickening dread I heard him say "The electric brander.
 Such an improvement on the old coal-fired ones.  Not
as spectacular, admittedly, and no atmosphere - but it
leaves a much crisper, clearer, brand.  Now, slave,
lie still - not that you can do much about it - as I
press the white-hot brand into your ass. Any movement
would spoil the crisp edges which I pride myself on.
It will hurt, I can assure you, and you may scream.
You may wonder why we brand you as well as tattooing
you, and, actually, it's purely psychological - we can
easily control you by looking at your slave number on
your pec or back, and by scanning that barcode on your
shoulder when we need to count all the slaves quickly.
 But you probably don't yet truly accept your new
status - once you have the mine's ownership mark
permanently and indelibly burned into you, though, you
should start to realise that everything is different.
If we are prepared to brand your flesh, you may begin
to realise that you are completely in our power, and
we will not hesitate to do whatever we want to your
body."

With that, he pressed the instrument home, and I did
scream.  And so did all the others, in turn.

We were locked into one of the other small buildings,
all naked together, and just lay there whimpering
slightly as the pain of our brands continued to ravage
through our bodies.  They basically ignored us for
several days, just occasionally opening the door to
throw in food, and this was our first introduction to
the fare at the mine:  it was just like hard dog chow,
really, and we never got anything else..  There was a
hole in one corner for us to piss and crap into, and
this was very hard - none of us was used to crapping
in front of other guys, and with all of us naked in
the tiny space, there was no way of concealing it.
Likewise with our erections - now totally naked, we
just couldn't hide it from each other.  And mostly
being young, we needed to jerk off - but how can you
do that when you're with six other naked guys in a
tiny space and they can all see, and hear, exactly
what you are doing?

On the fourth morning the guards came and led us off
to work - I guess we were all disease-free.  That day
was just like absolutely every other day whilst I was
there - the routine was absolutely invariant and
unchanging.  Nothing changed. Nothing happened except
the occasional arrival of new slaves like us, and that
wasn't allowed to disrupt the routine.

(Author's note:  as he said this, Steve shifted
uneasily, and half sat up.  His magnificent dick and
balls were hanging down towards the bed, between his
muscular thighs.  I had an almost irresistible urge to
reach in and fondle them, but did not want to break
the magic of the moment - I knew that if I said
anything, or made any overt sexual approach to Steve,
he'd "snap out" of the recollection state he was in,
and I'd never hear any more of his story.  So instead
I just put my arm around his broad shoulders and
pulled him slightly towards me, letting him know by my
body language, as one guy to another, that I
understood him, and that I was there for him if he
needed me.   He seemed comforted by this, and began to
speak again).

I was 22 years old when I went there, and 35 when I
left.  In all those 13 years one day was exactly like
the next.  There was never any variation.  Nothing
happened.  No music.  No reading. No pictures. Nothing
- just work.  I never had anything to eat except slave
chow, and nothing to drink except water - and that was
"recycled":  they collected the piss from us slaves
and added it to the water supply so they had to carry
in less across the desert.  All they needed was to
provide enough to replace that we lost by sweating -
and we really sweated - not any loss from our pissing.


The guards never spoke to us except to give us orders,
and they were few and far between as the day was
absolutely unvarying.  I could speak to my fellow
slaves, but after a time we had nothing to say - we'd
all told each other our life stories, and, after that,
what do you talk about when there's nothing happening?
 No news,  no gossip, nothing  "new".  We were mostly
silent, except when we were crying out in sexual
ecstasy.  I almost forgot how to speak.  And I'm sure
I started to forget how to "think", as there was
nothing to "think" about.

So how did we spend out time?  Well, the day always
began with the doors of that large building being
opened.  There were 300 of us slaves working in the
mine, and we were all herded in there every night.
There were no windows, only narrow ventilation slits
high up, and the straw on the floor was only changed
about every 30 days - I say "about", as we had no way
of keeping track of time at all.  It was just that,
occasionally, we'd go in there at night and there
would be fresh straw - sweet smelling, rather than the
rank stuff we had been lying on the previous night.
It was pitch black at night, as there were no lights
in there.  If there was a special guy you wanted to
fuck, you had to make sure you located him before the
doors slammed shut, otherwise you couldn't find him in
the dark.  There were no facilities of any kind - if
you had to crap, you just had to do it in the straw
(actually, that usually wasn't a problem - the slave
chow didn't bulk much, so most of us could easily time
our crapping to the "allowed" times).

It was noisy all night, of course.  Guys always moan,
talk, and whimper in their sleep.  And there's always
someone gently farting, or snoring, or just breathing
hard.  That's after everyone had finished fucking, of
course:  well, there's nothing else to do, is there?
Now I'm back in "civilisation", I can see why so many
people's sex lives are so unsatisfactory - there are
so many other things to do, so you don't have enough
time to think about sex.  And so many alternatives -
movies, restaurants, staying late at the office... you
don't have time for sex, even if you have thought
about it.  But we all had nothing else to think about,
and every night we had time, and no distractions.  So,
not unnaturally, if you have a lot of young, horny
blokes locked up together, there's a lot of fucking.

I suppose I was a virgin when I was enslaved - sure,
I'd fucked lots of girls, but I'd never been up
another guy's ass, or had a dick up mine.  And I'd
certainly never experienced the pleasure of a dick
down my throat.  Cum was about the only variety in my
diet at all - the slave chow was so bland, that being
allowed to swallow a load of another guy's cum was a
real treat.

I quickly discovered why we'd been kept in isolation
those first few days - had anyone with AIDS, or any
sexually transmitted disease, got in there, it would
have spread like wildfire.  Actually, that's what I
hate about being back in so-called "civilisation" -
you have to wear these condoms all the time.  I hate
it.  There's nothing like the feel of a hot, raw dick
sliding against the delicate membranes of your ass.
And when I'm fucking, I hate being all covered up - it
takes away all the sensation.   Some guys now won't
even suck you - I ask you - what's the point of
sucking a dick if you can't take the cum down your
throat?

Anyway, to get back to my daily life:  as we pulled
ourselves to our feet and stumbled towards the light,
most of us had hard-ons:  you know, the ones that you
usually get first thing in the morning when you want
to piss.  It was forbidden to piss anywhere except in
the piss collectors, and as we filed out, we had to
piss into one of the waiting funnels so that it could
be collected and recycled back into the water supply.
Actually, I think recycled is not the right word - it
implies treatment of some kind.  They just tipped it
straight back into the fresh water, to bulk it out,
and so everything we drank always tasted faintly of
piss.

One of the most humiliating things about the guards
was the way we were treated totally anonymously.  They
never used our names - indeed, the guards didn't even
know our names.  They hardly ever used our numbers
that had been tattooed so prominently on us.  A s we
went out of the door we had to pass our shoulders past
a scanner, and it just recorded us:  they always knew
that we were all there, therefore, and if anyone was
sick, or had died, they knew who it was and could go
back into the barracks and pull them out when the rest
of us had left.

The scanner also triggered the food dispenser, and I
held up my hands for the measured amount of slave chow
I was entitled to.  They wanted us to be strong and
healthy, but not go to fat!  I never felt there was
quite enough and all of us felt slightly hungry all
the time, and after I had crunched it down (it never
took more than a couple of minutes), I carried on in
the line of shuffling slaves as we moved across the
desert towards the mine.

I've told you about the blazing sun, but actually
first thing in the morning, as the sun rises, it's
quite cold, especially when you're totally naked.
Even the barest of covering can help you to keep warm,
but we were not allowed even this.  So every morning I
could feel the bumps breaking out on my skin, and like
most of my fellows I flapped my arms up and down to
try to get a bit of warmth into them.  After the first
few weeks my feet had really toughened and I had at
least a quarter of an inch of hard, dry skin all over
the soles, so I no longer suffered so much from the
sharp gravel of the desert (or the intense heat of the
sand later in the day).

At the mine (well, it was more like a quarry, actually
- a wide, deep hole in the ground which we walked down
into along a sloping ramp that ran around its side) we
were issued with tools, and assigned to an area.  As
we moved in to our assigned area we could see a big
board telling us how we were on that period's quota -
no numbers, just two lines representing the target,
and progress to date.  We knew that if we didn't make
it, we'd be whipped.

The work was simple, but backbreaking under the baking
sun.  You had to pick away at the side of the quarry
to release a big piece of the wall, then use a huge
hammer to break it into small pieces.  The rubble had
to be sorted over, to see if there were any opals in
there, and then the remaining rubble had to be
shovelled into little wheeled bins.  Throughout the
day, as a bin was filled, one of us had to slip a
harness on and drag it up the ramp and out of the
quarry.

And that's all there is to it - pick, smash, shovel...
Then do it all over again.  The guards patrolled
around, and if anyone was seen to be slacking, even
for an instant, the whip cracked down across your back
or ass.

You didn't really sweat - it was much too hot and too
dry for that as it evaporated the moment it formed,
and there was of course no clothing to stop it, or to
get soaked in sweat.  The young slave boys made
regular rounds with water skins, and we were allowed
to drink almost without limit as the owners knew that
we needed to keep a good intake of water up if we were
going to keep on working.

There was no break throughout the day, and we just
worked on and on until it was almost sunset.  Then we
were herded back towards the slave barn.  We were fed
again as we went in, and allowed to piss in to the
piss collectors, and to crap into a dung hole.  It's
funny - before I went there, I didn't think I could
ever crap in front of another guy.  But I soon learned
to squat down as soon as the line advanced me to the
dung hole, pull my cheeks apart, and let go.  We were
pushed inside, then the doors slammed shut and we all
started on our one bit of pleasure before falling into
the sleep of total exhaustion.

I've told you how fanatical they were about not
shipping in more water than they needed to, and so of
course none was ever used to wash us.  They did
recognise the need to keep us disease-free, and so
every fifth day on the way in to the slave barn we
went through the cleaning trough.  You've probably
seen films of them disinfecting cattle and sheep on
farms - well ,that's how it was for us.  There was a
pit ion the floor, with a ramp leading in and a ramp
leading out, and the line of slaves shuffled down the
"in ramp" into the disinfectant, and moved along it as
the pit got deeper and deeper until you were floating.
 A guard on the edge used a sort of plunger to push
your head totally under for an instant, and then you
carried on, marching up the "out ramp".   One lot of
disinfectant, and nothing wasted.   It didn't really
get you clean, but it kept you antiseptic!

There only other change in routine was when they
clipped our hair - about every second time we had a
disinfect.  One of the slaves was chosen to sit there
and pedal away at a man-powered clipper machine, and
they used things like sheep shearers to cut our hair
down again to a quarter inch.  They also ran it over
our balls, and our pits, so we only had a sort of
stubble, at most, anywhere on our bodies.

Other than the total boredom, and the endless pain in
my body from the hard work and the whippings, I
suppose I got two things from my time there, though.
I've always had a defined, reasonably fit body, but
now I had a superb one:  I had been honed and trained
so that I could work and work, and had the muscles
that you only get from work - you can't get those
pounding away in the gym.  My neck, shoulders, thighs,
ass - all were now thicker and sturdier, and I had
turned from a student, into a real man.  And, of
course, I came to understand the importance of proper
sex, real man-to-man workouts.  They can say what they
like about so-called straight sex: I've done both and
I can tell you that there's no way that fucking a
woman is in any way comparable to the pleasure from
another guy.  And I can't imagine that a few years ago
I would ever have thought that.

Of course it was totally destroying to our self-esteem
to be treated just like numbered animals.  No
personality, no name, just having our numbers scanned,
being fed and watered, then shorn and cleaned
occasionally. Not even allowed the tiniest scrap of
cloth to cover our nakedness.  This isn't the way men
are meant to live.  We were nothing - just bought in,
and worked.

We didn't even know what happened to us eventually -
there wasn't anyone there over about 45, I guess -
although we were all in such good shape it was
difficult to tell.  So what did they do with older
slaves?   Did they sell them on, we sometimes
wondered, or just have them "put down" as you would an
old animal?  Of course, it's possible that there just
weren't any older guys there as the place hadn't been
going that long, and none of the guys bought in, like
me, had yet aged enough.  Actually, for most of the
time, I didn't even know how old I was - there was
just no way of keeping track of time.... Every day was
exactly the same, and there were no changes in the
seasons or anything.  Until I got away, I didn't know
that I'd been there for  13 years and had spent all my
young manhood as a slave in that never-ending
relentless toil.  All we did know is that no one ever
escaped - it really was impossible, and we didn't even
attempt it as survival in the desert would have been
impossible.  I guess slavery is always preferable to
the finality of death.

It was probably worse for guys like me, actually, who
had been free and who knew about the world outside.
We numbered about half the slaves, but the other half
were "bred" slaves - they'd bring these shipments of
young guys in occasionally - all about 16 years old -
and they had been born as slaves, it turned out.  They
were used in the mines for sorting out the opals after
we older and stronger guys had smashed the rock, but
they were worked hard, and soon grew more muscular and
could do "real" work.  You could hardly speak to them
as they had no concept of what you were talking about
- all they knew is that they were brought up in a big
building somewhere, and that for as long as they could
remember they had worked at something - packing things
on a production line, running machinery, and so on.
They only had a little English, and we only had a
little Arabic, but as far as we could tell they didn't
know things like "mother", "father", "school", and so
on.  They seemed to have been brought up communally,
in a herd, and then when they were "mature", they were
shipped to the mines.

They knew nothing else except a life of obedience and
toil, and actually seemed to quite enjoy it - they all
joined in enthusiastically in our fucking from the
moment they first arrived, and were VERY experienced:
it seems they were all used to having sex from the
moment they first got a hard-on, and thought it was
all perfectly natural and fun.  It's almost as if they
couldn't believe their luck, to be put in with these
muscular, hard studs!

Anyway, I suppose I'd have been there for ever if I
hadn't  had the incredible good luck to engineer an
escape.  It's a long story, and I was incredibly
lucky, and I don't think anyone else will ever manage
it the same way - perhaps we'd better save it for
another time.  I managed to get to the capital, and
into the US Embassy.  I had a real problem in
convincing them I was a US citizen, as I had no
papers, no money, and only a tiny scrap of cloth that
I'd managed to find somewhere to cover my nakedness -
it's funny, really, but after spending all that time
totally naked, surrounded by other naked men, I'd
completely forgotten about clothes  (The guards
actually looked "funny" as they watched us and whipped
us!).  But the moment I was  back in "the real world",
I noticed my nakedness, and was actually embarrassed
by it!

I thought that the moment I got back to the US there
would be a huge uproar and complaints in the UN and
all sorts of things- after all, a lot of those slaves
are US citizens, as I was.  But they took me aside and
told me NOTHING was going to be done - we need the
oil, and the use of their country as a base for our
troops too much to risk upsetting the ruler by
accusing him of "unnatural slavery practices".
Indeed, I was threatened that if I ever spoke of it to
anyone, or went to the press, or whatever, "the
government agents" would take me out, and return me to
the mines!   So I've just kept quiet for a couple of
years, and you're the first person I've ever told any
of this to.

(Author's note:  he stretched his magnificent body in
that luxurious way only men totally at ease with
themselves can do, and shuffled to make himself
comfortable on my bed again.  I adjusted myself so
that I was again in close contact with his sensuous
skin).

Of course I had no money and no job when I got back
here, and the government offered to find me work as
part of the price of my silence.  But I'd had enough
of being a slave, and wanted to make my own way in
life.  I turned to escorting as it's the perfect job
for me - I enjoy using my body, I enjoy sex, it's very
well paid, and I get lots of free time.  I just
couldn't face getting my obsolete scientific knowledge
up to date, and going to work in an office! I'm now so
much in the habit of working hard that I spend most of
the day running and working out generally, then take a
couple of clients at night - it's like being paid for
what you really enjoy doing.  I really like sex, and
it's astonishing that guys are prepared to pay me to
do it with them.

(Author's note:  he gave me another of those amazing
slow smiles).

But I'm going to give it all up - I've saved a fair
bit, and I'm going to take myself off to a beach
somewhere where the living costs are low, where I can
spend all my time working to keep myself in shape,
take the occasional client to pay for the little
luxuries, and find myself a few like-minded men as
regular fuck buddies.  Actually, it's about time I
moved on, as I've started to notice a number of Arab
guys half watching me as I move around the streets -
even though I don't think our government will return
me to the mines, as I've not told anyone about my
experiences, I can't help thinking that the Arabs are
trying to track me down - it must be a huge loss of
face for them to have had a slave escape, and they can
probably only recover from that if they re-take me.

I....

(Author's note:  At that moment, the phone rang.  It
was my boss, congratulating me on the meeting I'd had
earlier in the day that has significantly moved our
contract negotiation on.  I just couldn't get rid of
him off the phone, even though Steve was playfully
toying with my dick as I spoke!   Our discussion went
on and on, and I saw Steve tire of the game.  He swung
himself off the bed, and started to pull his jeans on.
  Still  l couldn't finish the call, and he pushed his
feet into his sneakers, and pulled his T-shirt over
his muscled torso.  He went to the door, gave me a
little wave, and whispered "Call me again - it was fun
for me, too".  I'm sure he'd have left without payment
if I hadn't made frantic gestures at my wallet on the
side table, and he came back and helped himself.
Afterwards, as I expected, having experienced the man
and his honest personality, I wasn't at all surprised
to find that he had taken only the exact fee from the
stack of bills in there).

So, reader, there you have it.  My e-mail bounced, and
his phone was disconnected.  Did the Arabs catch up
with him, or is he sitting on his beach?  Was it an
elaborate story, made up to pass the time and excite
me - certainly I found it very erotic to hear about
the way men were treated like animals and used in such
a way?  Or was it true?  I leave you to judge.  I
still don't know, but I'd love to find out.  He
remains absolutely the sexiest man I've ever met, and
I'd like to catch up with him again for that reason,
too, if for no other.

Pete Brown.   April, 2003.


The end.