Date: Sat, 27 Dec 2003 00:59:33 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Willing Slave, Parts 1&2 (MM NC BDSM FANT)

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 1

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

I've heard stories about the "old" world, the one
before the combination of the war that burnt most of
the oil fields, the new mystery virus, and the global
warming catastrophe changed "the old order"
irrevocably.  Millions - or probably billions -
starved.  And there seemed to be no way of re-starting
the shattered economies of even the mightiest
industrial powers.

At first, when the Lottery was first proposed, it was
almost laughed out of existence it seemed so
preposterous.  But Telford, his generation's most
formidable economist, continued to work on the theory
and, as everything else failed, some countries decided
to at least give it a try.  He did of course
ultimately get his Nobel laureate, and had the
satisfaction of seeing the initial opposition almost
completely vanquished.

Of course the transition to the world we now know was
tough - in those early years, they say, many families
simply refused to give up their sons if they lost the
Lottery.  But now such a position is of course
unthinkable - as unthinkable as even considering
lighting a cigarette in a public place, or of giving
birth to more than the allotted quota of children.  It
must have been tough, though, and I suppose I'm glad
that after fifty years the system now works so well
that those in it, like me, are guaranteed humane
treatment and the whole of society understands what is
expected of us all.

Because both mom and dad have college degrees and he's
a powerful businessman, they were licensed for four
kids in total (those who fail to graduate from high
school are of course totally denied breeding rights),
and they had me and my three brothers - I'm the second
oldest. Although we are all meant to have adapted to
the Lottery, I think I can say candidly that it did
hurt me a bit when mom and dad and my elder brother
all were so happy that my two younger brothers were
not selected as they got to their first birthdays.
You're supposed to think that you're doing your bit
for society - no, for mankind - if a kid gets picked
(as I had been on my first birthday) and so there's no
cause for parties or anything either way - in theory!

Telford's theory was that we could no longer afford to
sustain the lifestyle that we'd all come to enjoy for
everyone.  Rigid limits to population growth would be
needed, but that these would only work within defined
parameters - a total ban on reproduction in some
years, for example, might be so widely flouted as to
be unenforceable.  But a "sensible", "modest",
rationing system of the kind we had implemented
received overwhelming public support, and those
breaking the code understood the death penalty awaited
them (and the illegal offspring).  However even with
all this, there were still too many people, and
insufficient resources after the oil crisis, to
properly service their requirements.  Hence the second
part of Telford's plan - the enslavement of every
fifth male born, and his use as a work animal.

At a stroke Telford removed a huge number of citizens
who needed a rich life style, as slaves would expect
no special housing, vacations, food, consumer goods,
and so on.  And at the same time they would be used to
replace some of the resources lost as a result of the
energy crisis:  in a modern plant, for example,
energy-hungry robots no longer "man" the production
lines - this has all reverted to slaves.  In many ways
our major manufacturing plans now look more like those
pictured at the start of the 20th century, rather than
those quaint "hi tech" things you see at the start of
the 21st century.  Slave muscle turned out to be so
much more flexible, and so much cheaper,  than
machines and the world recovery started rolling.

Our births are tightly regulated because of the
parental "rationing" system, and so it is easy to
assign a citizen serial number to every child at
birth.  In the month of its first birthday, every male
child's serial enters the lottery, and 20% of those
are randomly selected to grow up to be slaves.  Women
are not, of course, enslaved as in general they cannot
provide the raw muscle power that the economy needs
(and in any case, the removal of 20% of males from the
potential breeding pool results in the scramble for
husbands that is such a feature of modern life - those
men who are not enslaved and who choose to breed
relish the choice they have, and have no wish to see
the numbers of free women reduced).

A sceptical population initially thought that the
lottery could never be "fair" and that the rich and
powerful would ensure that their sons were never
selected as future slaves.  But a post on the Lottery
Board is now so prestigious that those overseeing the
process would never do anything to jeopardise the
complete impartiality of the system.  Sons of
senators, politicians, judges, and even of rich
businessmen like my father were, and continue to be,
selected.  Indeed, no politician could hope to win
office if at least one of his sons had not been
selected in the lottery - although the Lottery Board
is equally vigilant to ensure that there is no more
chance of them being able to get them selected, as
there is of getting someone not selected.

I grew up therefore knowing that I was different from
my brothers, and that my destiny was to live life as a
slave from my sixteenth birthday.  Not everyone in our
neighbourhood and circle of friends had as many boys
as mom and dad, and not all of them had a slave
growing up in the family.  Nevertheless it was not
rare, and I can honestly say that there was never any
prejudice shown to me as a kid by my parents' friends,
or other kids.

In some ways life as  a slave boy is actually more fun
than that of a free boy.  For one thing, after the
initial year of school where you learn to read and to
do simple arithmetic, there is no education and all
your time is your own.  Another of Telford's theories
was that it was a waste of the public resource to
squander education on slaves who would never need it
as, by definition, all slave employment was purely
manual. A full education, he argued, would not only
cost the state resources it could ill afford, but
could make the slave unhappy.   So I had a golden
childhood - watching my brothers going off to school
every day, whilst I stayed at home and played, or
watched TV.  And in the evenings I did not have
mountains of homework, and my vacations were not
filled with horrendous "projects" (the free knew that
they had to work at school now, and school standards
were high, and rigorously enforced.  Free men worked
in offices and society needed them to work hard - all
manual labour was done by slaves.  But to have a
"good" job in a "nice" office, you had to have all the
right qualifications and so on, so competition at
school and college was fierce and unrelenting).

We lived in a progressive neighbourhood, and our Town
voted part of its property taxes to set up and run
slave schools - actually, that's not as altruistic as
it sounds, as mom and dad both worked and mom's career
would have been distorted if I'd been at home all the
time).  There's no learning, of course, but there's a
big emphasis on sports, games, and fitness.  Most
parents recognised that it did their slave sons no
favours to allow them to sit around all day and get
fat and unfit - a slave's life was known to be one of
hard manual labour, and most parents saw it as giving
their kid the best start in life they could by making
sure he led an active life and grew a healthy, fit
body.  By the time I was sixteen I was much stronger,
tougher and more muscled than even my elder brother
(and he was on the Football Team at school).  That's
another reason why slave boys were treated with
respect, I suppose - they could beat the shit out of
free boys, if they wanted to.

In these much harsher times as far as sex is
concerned, there's no longer any dating or anything
whilst guys are still at school - you go to school to
work.  And although the slave boys are around and
available, no free woman (i.e. all the girls) would
consider dating him - what would be the point, after
all?  If they had sex and she got pregnant, the death
penalty awaited.  And if she didn't get pregnant, the
relationship was in any case going nowhere as the
slave boy's sixteenth birthday loomed.  But I loved
sport and liked being fit, and my childhood passed
very happily - mom and dad genuinely treated all of us
boys the same, and never avoided buying me new
clothes, or "stuff" just because it would all be
irrelevant on my sixteenth birthday.

I remember my enslavement eve party - held, as
traditional, on the night before the slave had to
report to his local slave centre.  It was like
Christmas, Thanksgiving, Graduation, Bar Mitzvah,
Wedding... all rolled in to one.  All my friends and
relations were invited, and after the festivities they
all formally came and wished me "good bye".  Once you
enter the slave centre, of course, all your former
ties with your family are completely severed, and you
must expect never to see them again - indeed, special
steps are taken in the records to make it almost
impossible to trace where a slave boy went after his
initial reception into a slave centre, and slaves in
training  are moved across the country, and even
between countries, to minimise the chance of them
interacting with those from their former lives.

The next morning my brothers hugged me on the steps of
the house, as it had been decided that only mom and
dad would take me to our local centre. I gave them my
last few possessions (my youngest brother had long
coveted my watch), and we drove off.  Parents can come
in to the centre's reception area, but I said goodbye
to mom and dad in the street, and walked proudly by
myself up the long path to the entrance doors.  You've
been preparing for this all your life, as you know
that this "goodbye" is going to happen, but it still
doesn't make it easy - if I hadn't been a fine
strapping lad, almost a man, I think I'd have cried.
That's one of the reasons, I suppose, why I wanted
that last walk alone  - I wanted to look like a proper
man when I arrived, and any tiny tears would have a
chance to dry.

The law's really strict about turning up - as I've
told you, there are no exceptions.  There used to be
cases of families sending their slave sons to Canada,
but now the Canadians, and most of the rest of the
civilised world, have adopted the same system, all
that will happen is that you'll be found, and sent
back.  A citizen can't get a job, a bank account or
credit card, a driving licence, a passport, medical
service, or anything without a valid citizen
identification number, and there's no way a "fugitive"
can any longer function in our society.   Some do try,
of course, but when a slave fails to turn up at the
appointed centre, the fines they levy on the family
are so huge that parents and siblings go out of their
way to make sure slave brothers do their duty.

My centre was in the next large town, and I didn't
know any of the other guys there that morning (the
centres operate seven days a week, as you report on
the day of your birthday).  Ten of us were there, and
the Superintendent first told us to strip off our
remaining clothes.

I'm not at all body shy, of course - I have after all
got three brothers.  But part of the thing about slave
school is that you play a lot of sport, and so you get
used to seeing other guys naked - there's none of
those private showers and stuff like in "free" schools
- at slave school you all change and shower together.
We all stood there, really feeling rather foolish -
it's one thing to change after a game, but another to
be standing their with your fellows all naked, and all
not knowing what was going to happen to you.

As we looked at each other, I was glad I was about the
biggest and toughest looking.  All the guys were quite
fit, but I stood out, I think.  The obligatory
showering and cleaning came next, and anyone who's
been at slave school will be familiar with the way you
are supposed to wash every part of you squeaky clean.


After that they give you a medical - a thorough, and I
do mean thorough, medical.  As well as all the usual
stuff like blood and urine samples, X-rays, and ECGs,
we all had to do a programme of harsh exercises so
that they could observe how well our hearts and lungs
stood up to the stress of hard work.  They fed us at
lunchtime - my first real meal of just slave chow!
Mom used to serve it to all of us occasionally, as she
wanted me to know what to expect for the rest of my
life, and didn't think it fair to make me eat that
when my brothers were having steak and pizza.  They
all used to groan and pretend to be upset at me, but
mom always made sure that there was a good desert, or
ice cream afterwards.  At the centre, of course, it
was just the chow, and we all sat there silently
chewing it down in the normal way that slaves eat,
from our bare hands.

One of us was judged not to be in good condition -
they ran all the tests quickly whilst we were eating,
and he was taken off to a regional centre for further
assessment.  There's no dodging the enslavement
because of poor health, of course - if you're really
so bad that you can't be found any job, they put you
in the organ banks so that at least your parts are of
some use to the community.

The Director of the place then came and addressed us,
as we stood there naked.  "Right, men, this is your
last chance.  If any of you believe you have been
incorrectly enslaved, the law gives you one final
opportunity to tell me:  I am then required to
investigate, and search the slave database for your
citizen identification number.  However, if as is
usual, all you men believe you are indeed slaves,
having been selected in the Lottery, we can begin...."

He looked at us expectantly, but no one objected.  As
I said, you know from your first birthday if you're
destined to be a slave, and there's really no
argument, so we all just shrugged.

"Right", he continued.  "You will now get new slave
names - slaves are known by their slave names, and it
will help you to distance yourself from your old life.
 Then we will mark you with your new SINs - that's
Slave Identification Number - as you no longer have a
citizen identification number:  your file there is
marked 'terminated as a citizen'.  That marking is
permanent and indelible, and is the way that you will
quickly be identified as a slave should you ever try
to escape - not, I'm sure, that any of you would be so
foolish.  We'll trim your hair and so on to make you
look better, then, finally, we'll give you a vasectomy
- there is of course no question of a slave ever being
allowed to breed and we take this extra precaution
just to make sure."

I must say that I'd never heard about the last bit!  I
knew about the SINs of course as the slaves you see
around all display them, but being tied off - well, I
suppose it didn't matter really, as I'd still be able
to wank.

When it was my turn to get a new name, I was told I
would in future be called "Steve".  Most slave names
are like that - short, powerful names that your master
can call out easily.  It was explained to us that once
we were used to it,  it would be better for us - so
many guys who were enslaved had long names, or foreign
names, that it was judged easier to simply rename us
all for the convenience of our new owners.  And, they
pointed out, it made it much harder for any family to
track us down, as all reference to our previous names
was lost.

It was horrible lying on the leather-topped table
whilst they tattooed my SIN on my left ass cheek
together with a "US Government" stamp - I don't think
anyone really knows just how much a tattoo needle can
hurt.  Then as you'd expect, I had to sit there whilst
they did it again on my right shoulder -  most slaves
wear work clothes, of course, so their ass marks are
not usually visible.  But it's easy enough for anyone
just to lift a slave's sleeve and read their SIN and
their name. Actually, in our fairly conservative town,
I think I'd only ever seen one ass mark as owners kept
their slaves clothed.  But the pool guy who came
always stripped off totally do dive in and inspect for
leaks, or clean difficult marks off the bottom, and he
of course had his ass marked.

I was expecting to be trimmed - I'd always kept my
hair short, but some of the guys almost wept when
their curly hair was shorn off to leave us all with a
uniform half inch on our heads.  But I wasn't
expecting to have the length of my pits reduced, or
for them to take the clippers to my pubes - they
reduced the length of all of it, and shaved away a bit
at the sides.  Then, as the final indignity, they ran
the clippers up and down my balls, before getting a
razor and shaving them smooth.  Well, I thought that
was the final indignity - having to stand there
gripping my ankles whilst they shaved down my ass
crack was pretty dire, too.  The guy who was doing
this seemed to really enjoy handling us - I'm sure he
moved my dick around a whole lot more than he really
needed to in order to be able to shave my balls!  He's
lucky I didn't shoot over him - as it was, I was
really fighting to stop myself having an erection.

They got a proper doctor in to do the vasectomies - he
was a real expert, I guess, if he was a contractor to
the slave centre here:  he must do hundreds a year.
It didn't hurt a bit - we got a pain killing
injection, then he did what he called a "key hole tie"
so there was almost no mark on me when he'd done, just
a few drops of blood at the side of my ac, and they
stuck a plaster on that.  "That's it, boy.  Send the
next one in", he said cheerfully when he'd done me.
"It shouldn't hurt, except you might feel a bit tender
for the next couple of days - it's set you up well,
though, as most sacs increase in size by about ten
percent after a vasectomy - not that you really need
it!"

It was all over by about four o'clock, and the
Director guy came and talked to us again.  He told us
that we were the last "batch" of slaves that week, and
that tomorrow the current stock at the centre would be
put up for auction.  We were the "lucky" ones, he told
us, as we hadn't had to wait around all week for
enough slaves to be accumulated to make it worth while
for the buyers to attend the auction.

We were allowed to sit around and watch TV with the
other guys then, and I suppose that was my first
experience of real communal living:  all forty or so
of us in one room, watching a programme that they
chose for us.  There wasn't a zapper to flip channels
or anything, and we had to watch a boring old
compilation of comedy programmes.  Still, with us all
sitting around naked, I guess it's a good thing that
some of the raunchy music videos weren't on or most of
us would have had a problem hiding our erections.

Still naked, we then bedded down for the night - just
an ordinary dormitory as you'd find at any school or
army base:  neat rows of beds, close together.  We
weren't locked in or anything, as they knew we weren't
going to escape - in fact, most slaves are never
locked in as there's nowhere for them to run to, no
way they can avoid being quickly identified as slaves
and returned to their owners for punishment.  When we
went into the men's room we all got a bit of a shock:
well, you're used to "trough" urinals at school,
aren't you, and those dividers between urinals are
only in places like public rest rooms in restaurants -
most guys don't mind pissing right up close next to
another guy.  But here there was a row of lavatories
along a wall, with no partitions or cubicles, or
anything - we were expected to crap communally, too.
Thank god I didn't need to go, as some of the guys
did.  I decided that I'd wake up in the night, and
sneak in there when I could be alone, then hope that
no one else had the same idea.

It was really difficult, being so close to the guys on
either side of me in their beds.  I always like to
wank when I get into bed, as it helps me sleep.  But I
was afraid that if I started to jerk off, they'd hear
the slapping of my hand against my dick, and/or see
the sheets moving!  There was another problem, too - I
didn't have anything to jerk off in to.  Usually I
take some toilet tissue with me, but I hadn't
collected any from the men's room, and I didn't like
to go out there now as coming back with a handful of
tissue would look a bit obvious, wouldn't it?  My dick
was rock hard, though, and I thought about just
jerking off and letting the semen stain the sheets -
but then, perhaps they'd look in the morning, and
punish me!  The Director hadn't said anything about
punishment, but I knew that "justified" punishment was
perfectly legal and most masters sensibly punished
their slaves for breaking house rules.

As I was lying there trying to decide what to do, I
heard that faint, unmistakable "slap, slap" as the guy
next to me started to jerk himself off.  Very quietly
I whispered "Hey, man...."

The noise stopped, and he hissed back "Yes?"

"Look... You're jerking off, right?"

"Sure.  I've been here a week. If I didn't let the
juice out, my balls would have been blown off."

"So what do you do.... You know... What do you do with
the cum?"

"Same as I've always done."

"Where did you get the tissue from?"

"Tissue?"

"You know, to catch it."

"We didn't do that at home.  Dad taught me that a man
always catches his cum in his hand, then just licks it
up.  So that's what I do."

"That's gross!"

"Well, it's a good system for now, here."  He turned
over, and I heard him start beating his meat again.

I was desperate now.  Not only was I rock hard, but
the thought of another guy getting relief when I
couldn't was terrible.  There was nothing for it - I
started jerking off, and, as I shot, I pointed my dick
down at the bottom sheet so that it made as small a
pool as possible.  No way was I going to eat cum.

The next morning they fed us more slave chow, then we
all had to shower and those of us who needed it shaved
our chins.  All forty or so of us were then assembled
in from of the Director, who addressed us.

"You are on display here this morning, then this
afternoon you are being auctioned.  There's nothing to
be afraid of or worried about - there's not much of a
direct market for sixteen year olds. It's possible
that one of the big hotels in the Town might come
along and take a couple of you as pageboys - but I
think they bought last week, and so it's unlikely. And
so most of you will be bought by one of the big slave
training schools who will then complete your
education, and give you the skills you need to be a
really productive slave.  Those of you who are going
to work in industrial  plants will get health and
safety training, for example.  Farm workers will be
taught the rudiments of animal husbandry or plant
care.  Those destined for personal service will be
taught hairdressing, and so on.  All you have to do is
stand still, and be polite, if any of the buyers
choose to examine you in detail.  On no account may
you speak, unless the buyers ask a direct question.
Just stand there, silent and still,  and pretend
you're just items in a showroom being offered for sale
- which, in fact, is what you are!"

I was getting used to being naked with all the other
guys now, and so I wasn't worried when we were taken
through, all together, into the display room.  It was
just a huge open room, carpeted with cheap carpet, but
running across the carpet were painted lines marking
out a kind of grid pattern.  The Director told us that
we were all to stand in one square of the grid, and
that we were not to leave it for the duration of the
sale -  the buyers would circulate around us and, when
the auction started, the auctioneer would come around
as well. I suppose it's like those fish auctions you
see on the quayside, where all the boxes of
miscellaneous fish are laid out, and the buyers and
the auctioneer walk around from one to the other.

Actually, it's tough - you try standing in one
reasonably confined space for any length of time.  We
were told we had to stand, and were not allowed to
sit, and two things happen - you get bored, and you
get tired:  you naturally want to walk around or run
or something, and just standing reasonably still is a
big problem.  It was a bit of a relief, therefore,
when the buyers came - well, at least it was
interesting.

You hear a lot of stories about the way slaves are
"handled" and inspected at auctions - at slave school
we used to wonder what it would be like to have to
bend over and have our asses fingered as there's a
certain type of writer who always talks about "virgin
ass holes" and how buyers are inspecting for that.
Well, that didn't happen here - the buyers just looked
like businessmen, in their suits, shirts and ties, and
they tended to carry clipboards which they were noting
things down on.  They looked almost bored as they made
the rounds of us as we all stood there, really just
ticking our names and SINs off on a printed list that
the auctioneers had provided them with.  I suppose the
idea was to make sure they didn't bid on any obviously
"wrong" lad - they didn't care if we were good or
average, but were only concerned to avoid bidding on
any lads who might have got through the system with
some major defect, or who were fat and flabby, or
anything.   They hardly looked at us in detail at all,
and I didn't see any cocks being fondled, or any
nipples being tweaked, or any of that other stuff that
buyers are supposed to do to slaves. I guess that if
you're buying "in bulk" with the intention of doing a
lot more training, small individual differences don't
count.

I'm those few inches taller than most guys my age, so
I had a reasonably good view of what was happening.
There seemed to be about four sets of buyers
circulating, and they seemed to be very thorough,
coming to all of us in turn for their quick visual
inspection.  In spite of not being touched at all, it
was still quite a strange experience to have men
looking you over and knowing that they were going to
be bidding money for you.  We were all used to the
idea that we'd be sold - I'd known ever since I was a
little kid - but somehow this is the first time that
the true reality of it struck home to me.  It's one
thing to have all your family and friends keep telling
you that you'll be sold at sixteen, and quite another
to stand there naked with the prospective buyers
prowling around looking at you and deciding how much
they're prepared to pay!

There was a big clock on the far wall of the room, and
we'd been there on display for about an hour and a
half so far.  Foolishly I hadn't stop to piss after
taking a huge drink of water with my breakfast of
slave chow, and I started to feel those little
messages from my bladder saying I'd like to go.  After
two hours I knew I really had to go - but what to do?
Here I was almost in the centre of a room full of
other naked guys, and there was no way of getting out,
and no one to tell.  I thought of just striding to the
door and telling one of the personnel from the slave
centre about my need, but then it occurred to me that
they might mark me down as "unruly" or something for
disobeying the order to stay in my square.  And I did
remember that slaves who could not be sold would end
up in the organ banks - so I didn't want to have even
the slightest risk of getting a bad reputation at this
stage.

As the little messages from my bladder increased, my
dick did what it could to help - I felt myself getting
a piss hard-on!  When we were all taken and made to
stand around I'd worried that I'd have constant
erections - I usually had at least five an hour, after
all, like most sexually mature lads do at my age.  As
I stood there I was terrified all the time about my
dick going hard and my 'skin pulling back, but it
never happened:  I suppose something in my brain told
me that his was like being in the locker room and
communal showers at slave school, where I never say
any of the other lads with a hard-on either.  But now,
in response to the need for piss, my dick was swelling
and rising - and I knew, even without looking down,
that it was now standing hard upright, almost parallel
with my belly!  Even though I've got a long, fat dick,
when I'm erect it really does reach for the sky, and
it's not content to just go out at right angles.  My
age, and the fact that I do a lot of exercise so I've
got really tight, flat belly muscles probably make it
like that, but now it was a real liability as there
was just nothing I could do about it.

As the next set of buyers approached along the line
which I was in, I desperately tried to make my
erection subside.  Then, when they were almost next to
me, in desperation I moved my hands in front of me to
shield myself from their gaze - it wasn't all that
effective, as even though I've got big hands, to go
with my body generally, my dick is even bigger when
it's rampant.

"Put this one down as a bit shy", one buyer said to
the other.  "Pity really, as he's got a great body
otherwise, but we don't need slaves who don't accept
that they're just work animals and  think they can
have the sensibilities of men."

The other man tugged gently at my arms and pulled me
to one side, then they both laughed when they saw my
dick.

"Ah, this one really does have a good body!  Let's bid
on him anyway - I remember myself at 16 when I wasn't
shy at all, unless my dick wanted to show off."

They read my SIN from my shoulder and ticked it off
the list, and were about to move on when the first
buyer came back and said "Why are you erect, boy?
Does the sight of all these other men naked turn you
on?  Have you been playing around with other lads,
trying out sex?"

Of course I hadn't!  In our society you didn't have
sex until you were married, which was never going to
happen to me.  None of the girls would think of
allowing themselves to be fucked in case they got
pregnant, and especially not by a lad who was going to
spend his life as a slave. And none of the lads at my
slave school were in to gay sex, and neither was my
older brother.  So the idea that I might have been
trying out sex was just ridiculous.

"No, sir.  I've never had sex.  It's just.... Well....
I'm bursting to piss.  This is just a morning piss
hard-on, but it's a few hours late."

Both men roared with laughter, and when they got to
the end of the row I was in, they went and spoke to
the attendant from the salve centre.  A couple of
minutes later I saw the guy coming down the line
towards me, carrying an ordinary plastic bucket.

He put it on the floor and said, as if it was the most
normal thing in the world, "Empty your bladder into
this, boy, so we can show you off properly."

Well, desperate though I was to piss, I couldn't do it
at first!  I'm not piss-shy or anything, as I'm used
to communal urinals in locker rooms and so on, but
with the other lads all around me standing there and
grinning, and with the attendant watching, I just
couldn't make it happen.  To make it worse, the
attendant had his hands on his hips, and was tapping
his foot up and down in impatience - the more he
seemed to be trying to hurry me, the less able I felt
to get he stream started.

It was so painful, though, that after I'd forced my
dick to pint downwards and I'd strained and strained,
a little squirt came out.  And once it had started,
there was no stopping, as you know. A great stream of
piss shot into the bucket, and this, too, was awful:
the sound of my stream of piss hitting the plastic
echoed and reverberated around the room, so that
everyone would know what was going on! I hated having
the attendant watch as I expressed the last few drops
of piss out of my dick, too - with a 'skin, you have
to be really careful, and I didn't want to have any
unpleasantness with dried piss under my 'skin in case
any of the buyers did do one of those mythical
inspections.  I was bright red after it was all over,
and my blush covered not only my face but my neck and
shoulders, too.  In the coolish air of the room I even
felt a bit chilly, a I realised I'd broken out in a
light sweat with my embarrassment.  Little did I know
that in my later life I wouldn't even have the dignity
of a bucket to piss in to most of the time I was
working!

As the attendant went out, a couple of the other lads
timidly shouted out to him, and I heard other streams
landing in the bucket - I can't have been the only one
in the same predicament.

Five or six groups of buyers had been around
eventually, and the clock told us that it was almost
auction time.  They'd all been the relatively faceless
"grey" businessmen, and I'd got used to being almost
ignored as they ticked me off on their little check
lists.  Coming down the row towards me now though wear
a couple of guys who were just not in the same mould -
they were both tall, like me, and unlike all the
"suits" we'd seen so far, they were in blue jeans and
tight T shirts.  They were bronzed, muscular and kind
of weather-beaten, as if they spent their whole life
out of doors.

"This is the one", one said to the other. "He's a head
taller than most of the rest.  Let's check out his
legs."

The other one dropped to his knees in front of me,
looked up, and said in a not unkindly way "Spread your
legs, boy - about a foot apart."

Oh God, I thought.  This is it.  They're going to
start that asshole stuff. Please don't let it hurt...
But he didn't finger my hole.  All he did was rub his
hands up and down my calves and my thighs, and they
were quite rough - he had callouses at the base of his
fingers, and they ruffled the hairs on my legs as the
probed and tested my musculature.

He got to his feet, and said "Turn around", and I did
as I was told, so my back was to him.  His hands ran
over my shoulders first, then down my back - one hand
on either side, with his fingers probing around into
my ribs.  Then he spent a lot of time pressing my ass
muscles - cupping my butt, and testing and stretching
the big muscles there almost as if he wanted to see
how resilient they were.  Any minute now, I thought...
He's going to tell me to grab my ankles, and then
he'll explore my hole.

"Face me again, boy".  Ah, he wasn't going to do that?
 I rotated, and he ran his hands lightly now down over
my pecs, but he didn't pay particular attention to my
nipples or anything.  He looked hard at my cock,
hanging there in front of me, but didn't touch it.

"This one would make a good buy", he said to his
companion.  "He's got the right body shape - good long
legs and a nice balance between leg length and body
length.  That's what the market is looking for.  And
he's already got a good butt - look how it flares out
from his narrow waist, and there's already a lot of
power in the muscles to drive those legs.  Nice dick,
too - absolutely in proportion to the rest of him,
with nice low-hangers setting the whole thing off."

"Yes", the other agreed. "He's already in good shape.
 A bit immature, as you expect at 16, but with some
hard training he looks as if he'll fill out nicely.
By eighteen I think he'd be a really fine specimen,
and we'd get a good price for him. So let's go for
it."

With that, without saying a word to me directly, they
strode off.

Who were they, and why had they been so particularly
interested in me compared with the other naked guys
who surrounded me?  And why were they so concerned
about my butt and my legs?   I didn't have much time
to ponder this, as the PA system announced that
bidding was about to commence.

End of part 1

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 2


By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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



Well the auction was not as bad as I thought it would
be.  In spite of having known about it for years, I
found myself strangely unprepared to be "sold off".
Standing there naked, surrounded by the other guys who
were also being sold, it made me feel as if I was less
than a human - well, in one way, I suppose, I was.
Slaves have no "human" rights after all, and it's part
of their lot to be traded, exchanged, and auctioned.
But it's one thing to know this intellectually, and
another to be standing there, humiliatingly displayed
naked, so that buyers can bid for you.

The auctioneer came around to each of our marked off
squares in turn and the bidding was very swift - not
more than a few moments for each lad.  There were only
four of five buyers, and they all seemed to know each
other and the auctioneer, and everything went very
quickly.  There almost seemed to be an agreed price
for healthy young lads like us, and once this price
was reached, the other bidders dropped out and the
auctioneer moved on.

When they got to me, though, the two men in Jeans who
had examined me so closely turned up, too, and my
price did not stop at the "agreed" level - the two
guys bid against the "suits" and I went for almost
double the "normal" rate.  I think they would have
gone on bidding much higher, but the "suits" dropped
out, saying it wasn't worth paying so much for me to
become an agricultural labourer, as there were plenty
of other slaves coming through the system at "normal"
prices.  The auctioneer asked the two men for their
names, and they said "Double J Ranch", and he used a
magic marker to scrawl on my naked belly two big "J"
characters - I hated being marked like this, just as
if I was an animal, but if that's what your master
wants, that's what a slave gets, I suppose.

Afterwards when all of us had been sold, the buyers
left and the Director of the place came in and told us
to form a line.  We were then moved past, one by one,
a table where a record keeper sat who noted down the
scrawled marks on our bellies, looked at our SINs,
referred to the list of auction prices, and was
evidently making up invoices for the buyers.  Most of
the other guys had been bought by two of the buyers,
and I saw them being separated off and going out into
the courtyard at the back where, still naked, they
were loaded into small buses.

The two men who had bought me were at the table, told
the record keeper they had only bought one slave, and
handed over a credit card to be processed. It all
seemed so normal - almost like a check-out at a store:
 you picked up your goods, me, and you handed over
your credit card.

"Shall I add in twenty for a uniform, sir?"

"No - he can go naked."

"A Town ordinance forbids naked slaves in the central
areas here, sir, so unless you have private
transportation arranged, you will need to have the
slave clothed.  We offer a standard uniform at very
reasonable prices...."

My owners nodded in agreement, the card was processed,
and they were told to take me over to a window in the
corner where I was handed my "uniform".  It's odd, I
suppose - I was already thinking of these men as my
"owners" - they'd come along here and actually
purchased me.  I now truly knew I was no longer a
"man",  as I was a slave, a piece of property which
these men now owned.

I'd seen slaves around of course working away on
manual jobs in the area where we  lived, and now I was
given he same "uniform" that slaves almost universally
wore - you know, the loose-fitting shorts with an
elastic waistband in a cheap grey synthetic material,
the loose singlet in the same fabric, cut so that my
name and SIN on my shoulder was exposed, and the cheap
plastic slave sandals.  No underwear, of course, or
socks: everything just designed for cheapness and
utility.  It felt odd to see myself in a mirror on the
wall as I followed my owners out  - with my
newly-cropped hair and my "uniform", I really did look
like a slave.  I'd been transformed from a normal
sixteen year old lad into a sixteen year old slave -
it had never occurred to me that a man's position
could so clearly be marked by his haircut and his
clothes.

I followed the men and we walked a few blocks through
the streets to a hotel near the bus station.  The men
had already taken a room, and we walked up the four
flights to it - I'm told that in olden times the
elevators were always in use, but with the energy
crisis now you need to pay extra if you want to use
them, and these men had obviously decided that the
charge was not worth while.  The room was just as
you'd expect - bathroom in one corner, big double bed,
a couch, and a TV.

Once we were in and they'd closed the doors, the one
who I judged to be slightly older turned to me and
said "Right, slave.... Steve, isn't it...?"

"Yes."

"Boy, you'd better learn to speak properly now you're
a slave.  On our ranch, in training, slaves always
answer with a sir at the front of the sentence, and a
sir at the end.  Now, try it..."

I swallowed as my mouth had gone dry as he spoke.
This was a new element of my life as a slave that I
hadn't thought about.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Good, Steve.  Now, let me tell you that I am Master
Dave and this other gentleman is Master Jay.  We have
been on a scouting expedition to buy new lads for
training at our ranch, and we will ship you there,
starting tomorrow.  The journey will take three days,
as our ranch is in Wyoming.  Have you ever been
there?"

"Sir, no, sir."  Actually, I hadn't really been out of
our state - one effect of the energy crisis was to
have driven up travel costs to such an extent that
only the very rich could afford to travel long
distances, and things like vacations were now mostly
spent close to home.  My estimation of these two men
went up - if they had been travelling around, this far
from home, they must be very successful businessmen.
The prospect of travel, seeing more of our country,
was actually very exciting.

"We run a training ranch, and we specialise in taking
young slaves of sixteen like you and turning them into
properly trained, strong, workers.  We usually keep
you for two years, and sell you on when you're
eighteen.  At our ranch we're fair, but firm, masters
- provided you work hard at your training, and obey
all orders exactly, you will not be punished.  We do
not indulge in sadistic beatings of our slaves merely
for pleasure, but if you do break our rules,  or if
you do not really work hard and enthusiastically at
the exercises you are given, you can expect to be
beaten, severely.  You will be properly fed,
adequately housed in the slave quarters, and receive
good medical care.  The life you will lead will be a
healthy, outdoor one, and all the other slaves we
select for training are, like you, strong-looking fit
lads who look as if they enjoy using their bodies and
who have clearly exercised hard anyway.  Would you say
that applied to you?"

"Sir, yes, sir.  I worked out every day, swam, and
played football."

"Good.  We try to pick exceptional slaves at your age
with the potential to grow into exceptional, mature
slaves at eighteen.  You will find that your body
fills out, your muscles grow, and you will develop a
capacity for sustained hard work.  You are fortunate
in that we are specialists - our work is known
throughout the country, and slaves who are sourced
from our ranch always command premium prices as buyers
know that the slaves have received the finest training
available.  And as a very expensive slave you can
expect to be treated well by your owner - if a man
buys a really expensive designer suit, he takes care
of it and hangs it on a hanger every night, and has it
dry cleaned:  if he buys a cheap pair of Jeans, he
throws them on the floor at night, and does all sorts
of work in them.  It's just the same with slaves - you
will be the designer suit that the owner takes
exceptional care of as you have cost him so much to
buy.  Master Jay and I are now going out to dinner.
You may watch the TV whilst we are away, and you will,
of course, stay in this room.  Is that all clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir.  But may I ask what I am being trained
for?"

Master Dave smiled at Master Jay, as much as to say
"surely, everyone has heard of us - what a stupid
question."  But he turned back to me and went on "We
are the foremost provider of trained pony slaves in
the country.  Slaves from the Double J Ranch have a
reputation for reliability, strength, excellent
temperament, perfect grooming, and complete competence
at their craft.  We only deal at the high-end of the
pony slave market, and do not, or course, turn out
those teams of slaves who pull wagons or delivery
vehicles.  We have three basic types of pony designed
for individual transport - long-distance 'marathon'
ponies, who can take their owners up to around 30 Km a
day, 'sprinters', deigned for use in the immediate
environs of the master's home, who can take him very
quickly on short journeys of up to a couple of Km, and
 'hacks'.  'Hacks' are general purpose ponies much
favoured by owners of farms and estates, where the
requirement is to be used all day by the master to
take him around on tours of inspection.  Hacks do
variable distances, with breaks whilst the master
attends to his business, and sometimes these will be
at a fast pace, but more generally the master allows a
steady trot."

"It's relatively easy to find lads for training as
'sprinters' and 'marathon' ponies, as you need
specific  body types for this work.  But 'hacks' are
more difficult to find, because of the many varying
requirements placed on them.  The ideal 'hack' had
big, long, powerful legs driven by strong ass muscles
so that he can trot for long distances or do the
occasional sprint if his master is pressed for time.
He must have a strong heart and large lung capacity so
that he can keep going at hard work for long periods,
and, finally, and a point that's sometimes overlooked,
he must look good!  His master is going to spend long
periods with him as the master goes about his
business, and so the pony slave must be pleasing to
the eye.  You have all the characteristics that will
make you, potentially, an excellent 'hack', and in the
next two years we will work on them and develop you
into a slave for whom a master will pay us a high
price."

With that, the two men turned and left, leaving me
feeling stunned!  Pony slaves were not usual in our
small town.  I'd heard about them, and even seen one
or two occasionally.  But we didn't have the large
farms and estates that made them useful, I suppose, or
the need for the great displays of the wealth of the
owner that they implied.  I mean, most people walk
these days, and to keep a slave for pulling you around
on short journeys is a big extravagance.

A lot of local deliveries were by the carriers with
teams of slaves pulling the cart, of course, but it
was almost always blacks who are used for this as they
are considered to be generally more powerfully built
and muscular, and thus better suited to the work of
hauling the heavy loads.  I'd never thought of myself
as standing between the shafts of a light rickshaw and
being used to transport a master around, and at first
it seemed wrong that they should consider using me in
this way.  But as I thought on I began to realise that
I was lucky - it wouldn't be much fun as a labourer in
a plant, or as a member of a gang of slaves toiling in
the fields, bent double picking the crops, or, even
worse, as a miner buried deep underground.   I could
see that as a pony slave, a prized possession of a
rich master, I might have an interesting and useful
life - masters did need to inspect  their plantations
and holdings, and there simply wasn't the gasoline to
ferry them around in cars all day as might have
happened before.

There was a big handful of slave chow in a bag on the
side, and I sat on the couch and turned on the TV,
munching away.  It was almost like being at home, as I
could choose which channels I wanted (unlike at slave
school) - and mom and dad, and my brothers, weren't
all there arguing about it.

The two men came back after a couple of hours, and as
they saw me sitting there, Master Jay snapped "Boy,
rule two : a slave gets to his feet respectfully when
his owner enters the room!"

I scrambled to my feet, and he went on "I guess we'd
better have another inspection of you to make sure we
haven't made a mistake - we could sell you locally
here if we had to, before we pay transport charges
tomorrow.  So shuck those clothes, so we can see you
properly."

Somehow having to stand naked in front of the two men
in that hotel room was much worse than being on
display earlier.  I was alone and wasn't surrounded by
other naked lads, and the whole atmosphere of a
bedroom, with carpet on the floor, curtains at the
window and so on was so "personal" compared with the
sterile formality of the auction room.  I felt myself
starting to flush with embarrassment, and I wanted to
move my hands to cover my private parts.

"Get in and take a shower - you probably stink after a
whole day sweating in that display.  We'll look more
closely at you then."

As I went into the bathroom to do as I'd been
instructed, I went to pull the door closed behind me,
but it was now Master Dave who called out:  "No, leave
the door.  Slaves have no need to hide their bodies
from their owners."

I turned on the shower, but realised that I really
wanted a crap - all that slave chow must be working
its way through my system.  I'd had to use the
communal facilities at the slave centre, but the
thought of doing my business now was worse - the two
men could plainly see me through the open bathroom
door.  But my need was very great, and I sat down on
the plastic seat and tried not to think that I might
be being observed - I sat with my shoulders bent over
and my head down, and hoped that the two men might
watch the TV or something.  Using the toilet tissue
was awful - I mean, it's not always very elegant at
the best of times, is it, and I was so embarrassed
that I didn't make a very good job of it.  Fortunately
I could just hop quickly into the shower, so it wasn't
all that much of a problem, and I stood there and let
the warm water cascade over me.  Like a lot of hotels
there was a cut-off, though, to save energy, and all
too soon I had to climb out and dry myself.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked back into
the bedroom, conscious that it was only a small towel
and that one thigh was jutting almost provocatively
out through the join where it wasn't quite big enough
to go all the way around - I've told you I'm a big guy
for my age, and there was no way one of the hotel's
small towels could go around my waist and overlap
properly.

The men looked up as I came in, and smiled.  Master
Jay reached out and, before I could stop him, pulled
the towel away so that I was totally naked.  "Slaves
should not have feelings of modesty in front of their
owners, boy.  Master Dave and I own you, own you
totally.  You are ours to look at and enjoy if we
wish, and we do not allow our ponies in training any
false sense that they have parts of their bodies which
can be concealed from us."

Both men now stood up, and came and started to run
their hands over me, commenting on my good points, and
my bad points - well, I don't think I had any bad
points, actually!  This time their inspection was much
more thorough, though - as well running their hands
over my back, chest, belly, ass, thighs and calves,
they reached down and gently "cupped" my balls, as if
they were feeling the weight of them.  It was Master
Dave who did this, and he kind of spread my sac out in
the palm of his hand, then used his thumb to separate
each ball and gently roll it around.

Well no guy likes his balls handled, does he?  I mean,
if you're drying yourself or something and
accidentally get it wrong, it fucking hurts, doesn't
it?  So when another guy grabs hold of them you have a
right to be worried - he's not going to be as careful
with them as you yourself would be, is he?

But I think Master Dave must have been used to feeling
other guys' balls, as it actually didn't hurt.  He
looked at Master Jay, and commented "They're fine -
but it's just as well to check there isn't any
testicular cancer:  too many of these young lads don't
bother."

Turning back to me, he continued "That's good, you're
fine.  An excellent purchase we've made - even though
we had to pay a bit of a premium for you as those
bastard dealers forced up the price, we'll still be
able to turn a handsome profit on you in a couple of
years - you've got everything we're looking for in a
pony with that body of yours, and you're quite a
handsome devil, aren't you?"

I blushed a bit ,a s I wasn't used to being  talked
about like this.

"Sir, I don't know, Sir....", I stammered.

"No false modesty, slave.  I bet all the girls wanted
a date with you, and with that dick of yours...."

"Sir, no, Sir.  None of the girls in our town would
date a guy who was destined to be a slave."

"So how did you exercise that dick of yours...
Brothers, other slaves....?"

"Sir, NO, Sir".  I almost shouted as it sounded so
disgusting.  "Of course not, sir. My brothers and me
never did anything like that.  We had a big house and
we all had our own rooms, so I was able to jerk off in
private."

I wondered why Master Dave and Master Jay smiled at
each other.  But Master Dave went on "Well, that
wasn't quite what I meant.  But  I think I know enough
now - so you just jerked yourself off.  Well, I expect
you got a lot of practice!  Master Jay and I need to
finally make sure that everything is working well in
you, so please show us how you jerk off - we need to
see that you are able to ejaculate properly."

"Sir, please, Sir... I'm not sure what you want me to
do."

"Isn't that perfectly clear? Jerk yourself off.  Show
us how much cum you produce - get beating your meat.
Although you've been vasectomised as part of slave
processing, you can still shoot a load, you know. It's
just that all your little swimmers are not energised."


I turned to go towards the bathroom, but Master Dave
said "No, boy.  Here, in front of us.  There's nothing
to be ashamed of in performing perfectly natural
functions in front of your owners."

I was blushing furiously as I started to jerk myself
off, but somehow it just wouldn't happen. I was used
to jerking off sprawled in the chair in my room, or
lying in bed, and it was just so wrong to be doing it
standing up in front of these two men.

Master Jay seemed kinder than Master Dave, and he saw
my obvious problem.  "Look, Steve", he began quietly
and calmly, "We just need to see your cum, to make
sure you can produce a really nice load.  But a lot of
lads don't like jerking themselves off whilst they're
standing up.  So you may as well learn the way that
slaves are usually trained to do it.  Now, kneel down
in front of us with your feet together and with your
knees wide apart.  Lean backwards so that your back is
upright, but you can bend your head so that you're
facing down, looking at your dick and at the floor.
As well as making you look subservient, it means you
don't have to look at the master who's commanded you
to do it, and that may make it easier for you."

Still blushing furiously, I did as he'd said, and it
actually was easier, I suppose.  I jerked away and
tried to think all the sexy thoughts I could, and it
started to happen - I went hard, and as I slid my
foreskin on and off my cock head, that wonderful
sensation you get started to take over.  It never
takes me all that long to cum, and, clearly seeing
that I was about to shoot, master Jay said "Be sure to
catch all your cum as we want to see the volume as
well as the quality."

I spurted into the palm of my hand, and held it there
as four big "aftershocks" added to the volume of my
initial ejaculate.  Then I cautiously raised my hand
towards master Dave and Master Jay.  To my amazement
both men dipped a finger and thumb into my warm cum
and kind of pulled them out away from me, so a big
skein of it grew between their fingers and my hand.  I
could smell that ammoniacal smell of  my cum as my
hand was right by my nose, and hated what they were
doing - this was such a private thing, and a guy's cum
shouldn't be interfered with like this, should it?

"Excellent, boy", Master Dave said.  "Now, Master Jay
and I are going to bed.  You can sleep on the couch,
but go and wash your hands first, and you'll find a
toothbrush there, too - give yourself a good brushing
as that slave chow, although it doesn't contain sugar,
can still leave bits between your teeth to harbour
decay.

It was again strange standing there totally naked
brushing my teeth, knowing that the two men could see
me through the open bathroom door.   And you know how
it is as you brush away - the movement of your arm
makes your body sway, and I could feel my dick
lurching from side to side, rather like a pendulum!

I went back and sat on the couch, and one of the
masters threw me a spare blanked from out of the
closet.  I lay there on the couch and pulled the
blanket over me, and remained still, watching them.
Where were they going to sleep, I wondered?  There was
only the double bed.

They pulled off  their shirts, then almost as if they
were completely used to acting in unison, both bent
down simultaneously to unlace the tall boots they were
wearing, and pull off their socks.  They unbuckled
their Jeans and shed them, and stood there in their
briefs.

I was a bit surprised by this, as I thought most men
wore boxers, but both Master Dave and Master Jay had
on really small white briefs - they contrasted so
strongly with their tanned muscular bodies (both men
were in good shape for older guys), and I could see
that they must both be well hung as their dicks were
clearly outlined by the thin material of the tight
briefs.  Completely unashamed, they pushed the briefs
down and kind of kicked the mover their feet, and
stood there facing each other, smiling.  Them Master
Dave leaned forward and kissed Master Jay, full on the
lips.

Master Dave then turned and strode towards the
bathroom, and Master Jay followed him.  Master Jay sat
and crapped whilst Master Dave cleaned his teeth, and
then the two men reversed these activities to complete
their preparations for bed.  At first I thought I'd
better turn over on the couch so that my face was
towards the back and I couldn't see the two masters,
but they seemed to be completely at ease with
themselves and didn't seem to even notice that I was
lying there watching them.

They came out of the bathroom, turning out the light,
and both got, completely naked, into the double bed,
and turned out the lights.  As all three of us lay
there in the dark of the room, I could hear little
whispers and laughs coming from the two men, and then
a load of noises I'd only heard before from mom and
dad's room - sometimes my elder brother and I would
wake up in the middle of the night and creep along the
passage to listen at mom and dad's door:  we'd hear
them making little rustling noises, then dad's
groaning and my mom giving little shouts of pleasure.
Well, it was just like that - these two men must be
fucking!

Look, I know it's not illegal or anything, and since
the restrictions on having kids came in force a lot
more guys choose to live together, rather than going
off to breed.  But surely you wouldn't fuck another
guy in the same room where there was another man,
would you?  Then the thought struck me - they didn't
think of me a a man:  I was a slave, and an owner
could do what he liked in front of his slaves.

I don't know whether they just had a quick fuck, or
whether it was just my extreme tiredness after all the
excitement of the day, but I drifted off into sleep.
I was woken by the blanket being stripped off me and
Master Dave slapping me on my ass and shouting "Come
on, Steve, rise and shine!  We've got to get you to
the slave transporter's.  Get your ass under the
shower, as we don't have all that much time."

I suddenly realised that I was in the state I always
was when I woke up - I had a piss hard-on, and Master
Dave, standing there staring down at my body, couldn't
help but see it!   I started to blush, but he went on
"I said get your ass into the shower, boy!"

So all I could do was get up, and stumble across the
room, covering my erection as best I could.  But in
the bathroom Master Jay was already in the shower, and
as I came in he pushed the door open and called out
"In here, boy.  Let's share this one, as Master Dave
and I don't want to have to pay extra" (like the use
of elevators, hot water, being so expensive after the
fuel crisis, was individually metered to rooms).

Well, I've obviously been in communal showers before -
we were all the time, at slave school, and I've even
shared a shower with my brothers occasionally.  But
this was a big, grown man, and as I eased myself  into
the tiny cubicle I couldn't help compare our bodies -
although I was taller than he was, I wasn't so well
developed and muscular.  I had a lot less body hair,
too, but I noted with satisfaction that my dick was
longer and thicker!

He started to soap me - I'd had his hands run over my
body yesterday as he "inspected" me, but this was
totally different - the warm water, the slimy soap...
It was almost, well, kind of 'sensual', I suppose.
And he handed me the soap and expected me to do the
same to him.  I'd never really touched another man
like this before, and it was actually quite thrilling
to be able to run my hands over his back and down onto
his ass.

To my astonishment, Master Jay had the same type of
tattoo on his ass as I had, and as he turned so I
could soap his chest, I saw his upper arm had a SIN
and "Jay" clearly showing.

He saw me looking, took the soap off me, and said
"I'll do my own dick and balls, and you can do your
own - there'll be time enough for you to get over
shyness about another man's body."

"Sir, it wasn't that, sir.... It was.... Well, I
thought you were a master, and I've just seen...."

"To you, boy, I am a master - Master Jay.  Master Dave
bought me twenty years ago, and he would free me if he
could.  But enslavement is for life ,as you may or may
not know.  Master Dave and I run the Double J Ranch
together, and as you probably saw last night, we're
really close....  So to you and all the other slaves
on the Double J, I am a master.  It's only when I have
to take my clothes off in front of other men that they
even guess that I'm a slave.  Once you're a slave,
you're never free - although with a good owner like
Master Dave, I'm actually more than free."

"Sir... So he could sell you, sir...."

"Well, I guess so.  But he's never going to do that!
Now, stop your questioning, boy, get your dick and ass
clean, and let's turn off this water before it ruins
us!"

I didn't like having to clean under my 'skin as he
watched, as that's always been a private area for me,
but he was so close in the tiny shower cubicle that
there wasn't really any way I could avoid it.  And his
"presence", his big man's body touching against mine,
was kind of there all the time as we stood there
drying ourselves.

We walked back naked into the bedroom, and Master Dave
was already dressed.  Master Jay started to pull his
clothes on, and Master Dave picked up the "uniform" T
and shorts I had been wearing the day before.  He held
them up to his face and sniffed, turned to me and said
"These will do - I don't want to pay out another
twenty for a new set.  You're only going to be
travelling in the slave section of the transporter, so
it won't matter.  Get into the bathroom and rub some
antiperspirant on your 'pits, though!"

It's really quick to get ready when you've got very
short hair and are only wearing a slave T and shorts,
and Master Jay was still tying his boots when I was
ready.  Then all three of us left the room and walked
down to the lobby.  Master Dave and Master Jay went
into the dining room to have breakfast, but I was told
to sit in the lobby in the special area reserved for
slaves (no plush leather chairs and flowers - just a
wooden bench against the wall).  Master Jay gave me a
package of slave chow as they went in, though, and
told me to finish it whilst I was waiting, and there
was a separate water cooler for slave use so I wasn't
too badly off.

When they came out, all three of us left the hotel and
walked the few blocks to the transportation terminus.
It was already quite warm - temperatures have gone up
a lot, they say, since the crisis - and I think I was
actually better off in the T and shorts, although the
sidewalk felt hot on my bare feet.  It seemed odd,
though, to be dressed as a slave rather than in the
stylish, casual clothes that everyone else was
wearing.  And I noticed that other pedestrians made no
effort to avoid me - they just walked on straight, and
it was always me who was expected to step aside to
give them room:  they could see from my dress that I
was a slave, and slaves give way to free men, of
course.

I'd been to the transportation terminal before
occasionally, to see dad off on a business trip, and I
always think it's interesting to watch the huge
three-segment double-decker buses being loaded with
passengers and their luggage.  Now, from my changing
perspective it wasn't so much the passengers I noticed
as the slaves:  muscled guys stripped just to their
work boots and shorts as it was so hot were packing
cases and other luggage into the lower levels of the
buses, and other, less well-defined slaves were
helping passengers up the steps and checking tickets.


Master Dave and Master Jake told me to stop gawking,
and follow them, and we went into the offices of USS -
I've seen their logos everywhere, as I expect you
have:  their delivery men in their slave uniforms with
the distinctive USS logo seem to be everywhere. It had
never occurred to me before that it stood for
"Universal Slave Services", though, and I wondered
what we were doing.

"A through booking for this slave to Buffalo", Master
Jake said.  The clerk behind the desk keyed something
into his PC, then said "There's a local service from
the uptown bus station, gentlemen, if you were to take
the slave there...."

"No, Buffalo Wyoming", Master Jake responded with a
smile.  "Folks often forget we have a town there with
that name, as everyone thinks of the New York one!"

More keying on the PC, and the clerk said "The total
journey time is four days, sir.  Do you want the slave
to be fed, and is he to be accommodated in a dormitory
at interchanges?"

"Food of course - I can't be bothered to go and buy
more slave chow.  But he's young, and he can sleep on
the benches overnight in the terminals - I think
that's best, anyway, as in those dormitories a young
lad like this could easily get abused."

"Quite, sir.  I'm afraid that some of the supervision
that we're able to provide is not as good as it might
be, and some of the more aggressive slaves do like
young lads like this....  USS is thinking of providing
'secure' delivery, with special dormitories with all
the slaves chained to their cots, but that doesn't
come in on these routes until next year."

"And do you want the slave to be given fresh clothes
each day?  That will be an extra sixty..."

"Yes, I suppose so.  We don't want him stinking the
bus out."

There was a little extra discussion, then Master Dave
handed over a credit card and there was a lot of
whirring and a bar coded ticked was printed.  The
clerk put a kind of plastic necklace through it, and
told me to lean over the counter, where he fastened
the plastic around my neck.

"This is your ticket and routing slip, slave", he said
to me.  "It's fastened around your neck permanently
until it's cut off, and it's waterproof so you can
shower and so on at the USS facilities at each
overnight stop.  The barcode on the front is all your
ticketing and routing details - at every major
interchange point insert it into the USS machine and
it will tell you when your next bus is."

I looked down at the thing handing around my neck,
that was in a bright fluorescent yellow.  One side was
a big bar code, and the other, in big letters,
proclaimed "USS - SLAVE IN TRANSIT".

The clerk turned to my owners and said "Thank you,
sirs", to Master Dave and Master Jake, and added "His
first bus is the direct to Pittsburgh - it leaves in
an hour."

We went out of the office, and went over to where the
Pittsburgh bus was loading.  I was actually quite
excited - because of the huge cost of transport now
I'd very rarely travelled, and the idea of sitting
high in one of the huge buses and seeing more of the
country was quite appealing.

"Now, Steve, you heard what the man said", Master Jake
told me.  "At every stop use your routing document to
find out what to do next.  You'll have to sleep on the
benches overnight, as it's already costing us a small
fortune to ship you.  We've paid for two meals of
slave chow a day, and for a fresh T and shorts each
morning.  When you get to Buffalo, there'll be
transport to the double J."

"Sir... Please sir.... Don't I have a contact
number..... Or some money in case anything goes wrong,
sir?"

"Of course not!  What could go wrong?  If it does,
simply show your USS routing slip to one of their
agents.  And what would you need money for?  We've
made arrangements for you to be fed, and there's
absolutely nothing a slave ever needs to buy."

We'd got to the bus now, and there was a USS agent
supervising the loading.  He scanned my routing slip,
and said to the masters "OK, this one is checked for
this bus.  You can leave him here and I'll see he's
loaded at the right time."

Master Dave and Master Jake didn't even say goodbye or
anything - they just walked off and left me there in
the bus terminal.  I'd never felt so alone - no money,
nothing, and off half way across the country with just
this routing slip to give me transport and food.  I
thought of calling my family to tell them I was
leaving, but realised there was no point -
effectively, I'd left, for ever, when they took me to
the slave centre.

I was wrong about being able to see much of the
country - when the agent told me that mot of the cargo
was loaded and it was time for me to be packed, I
wasn't allowed to get onto the upper deck.  Slave
quarters on these huge buses are, as you may not know,
down in the lower "cargo" deck.  And there aren't the
huge adjustable seats that passengers in the top deck
get - just a couple of benches across from each other,
where up to eight slaves can be packed in to a small
compartment.

There was a tiny window, though, and I sat with my
back to the way the bus would move close to it, so I
could see out as much as possible.  Just before we
left the door of the slave compartment was unlocked
again and another slave came in and sat down opposite
me.  Like me, he was wearing a loose slave "T" and a
pair of slave shorts, and the same sort of plastic
collar around his neck carried a "routing card" like
mine.

He was a big, muscular guy, and without any
introduction or anything he grabbed my arm and read my
name.  "Hi, Steve....."

I didn't know what to say, so I just mumbled "Hi...."

"Oh, you're new to this, are you?"  He asked me.

"Yes..."

"OK.. Here's how it works.  When one slave meets
another you read his name from his shoulder.  We're
often working in noisy places, and this is the
sure-fire way to know the name of your work mate.  Now
do it.  You can read, can't you?"

I reached across and very tentatively pulled his arm
towards me, feeling his hot, sweaty biceps under my
fingers.  "Yes....  Chet....",  I said, "I can read -
I got the basics at slave school, but there were
always a lot of books around the house for my
brothers...."

"OK, Steve, let me give you some advice.  Just do as
you're told, and don't add all this extra stuff."

Just at that moment a small loudspeaker came to life,
and we heard the "captain" of the bus telling
passengers that we would be leaving in five minutes,
and that all non-travellers should get off.

Chet leaned back on the bench and pulled his T off.
Now I could see more of it I realised that he did
indeed have a superbly muscled body, with a nice
thatch of fur on his pecs and a trail running across
his ridged belly to disappear down the top of his
shorts.  The yellow card sat there against him, and
somehow seeing a big, confident guy like this naked
except for slave shorts and a tag was at the same time
both exciting, and sad.

"Looks as if it's just you and me, Steve.  You may as
well get comfortable, as they don't bother too much
with the air conditioning down here", he said.

I didn't like to say I was OK, as this guy clearly
knew what he was doing, so I too pulled off my T and
sat there in my shorts facing him.  I sat there and
looked at him, and thought that this is probably how I
would be in a few years time - tough, muscular, half
naked, and tagged, being sent somewhere by my owner.

End Of Chapter 2