A story written by Pete Brown. (Part 17 of 21). Click here to see all the published chapters of the story.
I really did feel like an idiot, standing there. Even though it wasn’t my fault, really, that I was being punished for the bad report – and it certainly wasn’t my fault that the whole place had slipped in the ratings – my fellows all sniggered and laughed at me as I stood there, telling me that it was going to be really tough for me. It was so unfair – I always hated it when someone was hailed as “finally making the target” where I used to work: the guy who bought in the business at the end of the month was hailed as a hero, whereas I, who had sold my stuff early on, was after all just as much responsible for our achievement. And now it was the same – mine might have been the last bad report, but those who hadn’t done so well earlier in the month were equally to blame, but they were not being punished!
All I could do, though, was stand there, feeling at first stupid, then cross. I thought of just ignoring it, and exercising as usual, but then I didn’t doubt that Master Jed would make good on his threat to use the bull whip. So I had to stick it out.
I must have been there for at least an hour, and you know how bad that is, just to stand still for an hour: your legs and back aches, and with my eyes only a few inches from the wall, I was totally, mindlessly, bored as I soon finished scrutinising all the tiny patterns and imperfections in the bare plaster. Master Jed came in then and told me to follow him, and we went down to street where there was a beat-up old car standing. “Right, Steve: this is your punishment! We’ve hired you out for the day to one of the places on the South Side that services the blacks and Hispanics. We may as well get back some of the money you’ve cost us! You’ll find it rather different there, and, shall we say, a ‘different type of client’ from the ones you’re used to!’ Now, get in…”
The car was, I suppose, some sort of really beat-up cab, as the moment I was in it roared off into the traffic. We soon left the affluent centre I was used to, and were in a part of the city that I’d never really ventured in to before – small shops and bars lined the streets, and the overwhelming percentage of the people on the streets were now blacks, Hispanics, or assorted kinds that you couldn’t even tell about, as they were in long robes with their faces covered, and all that sort of stuff. The taxi finally pulled up at a grubby-looking doorway sandwiched between a really low-looking bar and a liquor store. There was a smell of exotic spices and old cooking fat in the air. The taxi driver, a greasy-looking Hispanic, his gut bulging over the waistband of his cheap jeans, and with thick, black oily hair, motioned for me to go in, and he followed me.
There was a tiny window in the passage way inside the door, and inside was a big black. He looked at me and the taxi driver, then pressed a button to buzz open the heavy door in front of us. Inside there were some battered couches with a few newspapers and magazines, all of which had been heavily used and were rather tattered, lying around.
“Right, boy”, the black told me. “This is the reception area. In-between customers you come here and stand around, so that they can see what’s on offer. You don’t take cash or anything – that’s all done at the window before the guys are allowed in. And remember, it’s half an hour maximum: I’ll be watching you, and you need to keep your work rate up or else I’ll whip you. Just get the guy in to your cubicle, get him hard, suck him off or let him fuck you, then get him out quick; clean yourself up, and get back here for the next customer. It’s pay day today, and we’re expecting the usual big, horny crowd who have been waiting for a bit of ass all week.”
He walked off, with me following, and opened a flimsy door “This is your cubicle for today”, he told me. I looked and there was a three-quarter sized bed (the place was too small for a proper double) covered in plastic sheet, a stand in the corner where I guessed the customers could hang their coats, and a wash basin with a grubby-looking towel, and a used bar of soap. “Remember, clean yourself after each customer – they don’t like the smell of another guy’s cum on you. And not more than thirty minutes each. The condoms and lube are here…”
“Am I supposed to have a guy every thirty minutes? You can’t be serious!”
“You boys coming down from that fancy place are all the same. How long do you think it takes a horny guy to fuck you – and our customers are all really horny and frustrated? You’re used to spending al night with a guy, but it’s different here. Our customers are guys away from their women, who just want quick relief – it’s not part of their culture to jerk themselves off. Most of them don’t really want to fuck another guy, but the women prostitutes are really vile, so it’s better for them to fuck a guy than to have to jerk themselves off they reckon. So suck them or let them fuck you – they only need to shoot, for physical relief. Most of them don’t even use the full thirty minutes – they’re in, get their dicks out, get them in you, and then they’re away – as I said, they don’t necessarily want to do it at all so the quicker the better as far as they are concerned.”
“Please…. I can’t do that….”
“Of course you can! All you have to do is lie there and be used: our customers all know the score: they pay their fifty and they get a nice mouth, or a nice ass, and that’s it. And I don’t want any complaints, and any time being wasted. I have five of you boys, and when the rush starts at about six, when they’re all finishing work, I don’t want queues building up.”
“Senor…” The taxi driver was now speaking to the black. “Can I be first….?”
“Sure. Go ahead. You can have this guy instead of the fare.”
The black turned and left, and the greasy Hispanic at once undid his jeans and pushed them to the ground. His underwear was white once, I suppose, but had gone grey with poor washing and age. Not that it mattered, as he simply pushed that down to his knees, too, and stood there with his fat dick starting to go hard, poking out from under his shirt tail.
I stood there in horror, but he snapped “On your knees, bitch, and suck my dick….”
Well, what was I supposed to do? Here I was, in this hell hole, with the first customer. If I refused, I’d be whipped here, and bullwhipped by Master Jed. So I knelt down, and took his dick in my hand, and pushed back his ‘skin. It was disgusting – it must have been hours since he last showered, and days since he cleaned his dick properly! I almost vomited as a I nosed that vile rank odour that uncut guys get if they’re not careful. And as I took it into my mouth, he put his hands behind my head and pulled me close to him, so all the dark, dirty odours of his pubes flooded my nostrils.
It just wasn’t like being with one of my usual clients – nicely showered, in clean clothes, taking their time, talking…. No, this was just using me, using my mouth to bring him sexual satisfaction, nothing more, nothing less.
He held my head so that I had to take his cum in my mouth, and stay on his dick as it gradually detumesced and the last dribbles of his cum trickled into me. Then without a word he pulled up his clothes, and left. No tip, not even “goodbye.” I went over to the basin and tried to wash my mouth out – look, there’s nothing wrong with cum, don’t let me let you think that – I’ve had lots and lots of it as many clients like you to suck them, or lick their cum off if they’ve shot over you. No, it was this Hispanic – he was so dirty and sweaty, and his dick tasted so foul from the rancid smeg under his skin that it almost made me want to vomit.
I was still bent over the basin when the black came in. “Didn’t you hear me, boy? I told you to go out to reception as soon as you’re finished. Jose only cums in the mouth, I know, as he’s a good customer, so you can be straight out there… So lose those shorts so the customers can see what they’re getting, and move it…!”
The rest of that day was a nightmare. I soon realised that these guys were indeed almost ashamed of what they were doing – they had wives or girl friends somewhere, but they wanted to ease their dicks and balls, and so this place was convenient, and cheap! Some of them didn’t have good English anyway, but they mostly didn’t speak anyway, as they didn’t want to see me as another guy as they were disgusted with themselves. About three quarters of them only wanted to face fuck me, and the remainder, to a man, always fucked my ass doggy style, with me lying on my belly on the bed, feet on the floor, as they stood there and went at it. Not one of them wanted to fuck me on my back, as I think they didn’t want to look at the face of another guy as they went up him.
I hated the whole thing. It was utterly vile. I hated the guys, their smell, the way they didn’t even bother to undress, just pushed their pants and underwear to the floor, and the way there was absolutely no human contact at all. It they did say anything, it was just to scream things like “Go, bitch!” at me. And, of course, there were the condoms – we never used them at Slaves For Your Pleasure as like all discerning guys, our clients wanted the proper sensation of a raw dick on a raw ass. But now I had to roll those awful things on to the guys’ dicks, then afterwards, toss them into the waste bin in the corner.
I’d got there at about three in the afternoon, and it was four in the morning before the queue of guys waiting for service finally dried up. I hadn’t had time to speak to my “co-workers”, but now we sat there on the scuzzy couches, all looking half dead. I must have had about twenty guys – I lost count after the first eight or so – and my ass was sore from all the attention it had got. My co-workers were a pretty miserable looking lot – none of them had a body like mine, as they were all kind of thin and undernourished looking. I was amazed when they started to smoke – didn’t they care at all about their health?
Incredibly, they were basically sneering at me – I was “a fucking slave” and didn’t deserve to be in their company and they were proper free men. I ask you – what a way for a guy to make a living! And they didn’t make much, either – I soon learned that the place charged a basic fifty for thirty minutes, and that the guy performing the service just got a quarter of that. So my epic stint, with all those dreadful dicks forced into me, would only have earned me two fifty. And Slaves For Your Pleasure usually charged their clients more than two thousand!
They didn’t even give me a cab back “home” – I had to jog through the deserted streets on a cold morning in just my shorts. And back at base, there was a change, too: I’d been looking forward to crawling into bed with one of the guys I liked being with – Jomo, perhaps, or better still, Ray, so I could tell them how bad I felt. But the moment I went into reception, I was told to wait. Master Jed came out, only half dressed, as I suppose he’d been with one of the guys – and led me down the corridor and locked me into a tiny room, with just a basin, lavatory, and single bed. “When we lend our guys out to that place”, he told me, “We keep them locked up until we get their test results back – there’s too much risk of you passing something on to the other men here. Now, Steve, remember this: they’re always glad to hire one of our studs down there, and if there’s the slightest bit of bother with you in the future, you’ll be straight back there. And there are worse places, too – that was relatively civilised. There are places we could send you to where the blacks come off shift then line up to just fuck: one after the other, no break at all in-between: as soon as one gets his dick out of you, the next one is there .”
So that was it. I realised that I didn’t have a bad life, really. I enjoyed the sex with most of the clients, especially now I’d mastered the trick of turning most of them around so that I got to fuck. I was clean, warm, well fed, and had lots of time to myself to exercise. And I was working with a great bunch of guys, and had made some special friends. If I sat down and thought about it, I suppose I might even have said that being made a slave had done me good: I’d been kind of drifting before, but now there as some structure to my life, and I was mostly enjoying it.
All that changed, though, when about a month later I was called into Master Brett’s office. I stood there, head respectfully bowed, hands behind my back, and feet apart, whilst he finished signing some papers, then made a couple of phone calls. When he finally acknowledged me, he smiled “Our training here has done you good, Steve. You’d never have stood like that for all this time when you first arrived. You’ve learned that a free man likes to just have a slave around sometimes, so that he’s got something interesting to look at. Now we want you to remember all of that in your next assignment – I’m sure your new owner will tell everyone where he got you from, and I wouldn’t want our reputation to be spoiled because you misbehave, or go back to being ‘uppity’. I’ll certainly recommend to him that he sends you to that place on the South Side if there’s any signs of that!”
He stopped for a moment, and so I was able to say “Please, sir… My new owner?”
“Yes, Steve. It is rather unusual. But a client came in and made us an offer for you, and whilst we were at first inclined to refuse, the price he finally came up with was so attractive that it was a no-brainer. He was so impressed with you that he wants to use you all the time, wholly and exclusively.”
I began to feel really happy – of all the clients I’d had, the only one who I could think of who really appreciated me, and who had the money, I thought, was Scott! I truly enjoyed being with him, and he had a nice body: the thought of living with him, and being ale to fuck him every night, was fantastic! Hey, if this was slavery, give me more!
Just then the telephone rang, and Master Brett said “Please, show him in….” There was a knock on the door, a slave opened it, and in came Rob. He at once came over to me and I said “Rob….”, in absolute shock.
“Master Rob to you, Steve!”, he snapped. Then turning to Master Brett said “I thought you told me that his attitude problem had been fixed, when we agreed the deal…”
“A momentary lapse, I’m sure”, Master Brett replied smoothly. “The slave knows that any failure to obey you completely, and to give you the most complete satisfaction, will result in punishment… And we’ve provided you with the contact….”
“Quite so. Now, let me just make sure all is as expected….”
Rob came over to me, and my old friend, the guy I’d been to school an college with, started to run his hands over my body. Look, I know it’s no big deal to have another guy feel your muscles (especially if you have a good body, as I have) – and as a slave you really do get used to it. But this was Rob, my old buddy, probing and pushing at me just as if I was some sort of animal, rather that his friend.
“Shuck those shorts, Steve”, he said cheerily. “I just want to make sure that nothing’s happened to that dick and those balls…”
I don’t know why I felt the most acute embarrassment now – after all, I’d been naked hundreds of times in front of other men, and had had so many clients feel my dick and balls. And Rob had even hired me and had sex with me, so it should have been all right. But as he held my dick in his warm palm, then cupped my balls with his other hand and used his thumb to separate them and caress them, I felt myself blushing with shame – or was it with anger? I couldn’t help myself – I went to pull my body back, away form his hands.
“Steady, Steve!”, Rob said in a mildly irritated tone. “You’re going to have to get used to me feeling your balls, you know! Why do you think I’ve paid all this money for your contract? I’ve always liked the look of you, but you were always so dammed superior, always off with the best-looking women, that you never even noticed me. Well, now that I’ve come into that inheritance, I can afford to indulge my whims a little… And you’re one of the things I’ve always wanted, just like the Porsche, and the fancy apartment….”
He stood up, and said to Master Brett “He’ll do. I’ve still got my doubts about his training – did you see the way he tried to pull back when I was testing his balls? But I’ll soon fix that, I think. I’ve just bought an apartment in Harbour View Towers, and one of the services provided for the use of residents in the building is the punishment room in the basement: everyone there owns slaves, as you’d expect in a place like that, and I guess there’s always a need for some physical chastisement – in fact the concierge says that he has a whip master’s certificate and is authorised to perform severe floggings, so I don’t expect too many problems. This one will soon learn how I expect to be treated as his owner.”
They chatted for a minute or two, as I stood there, now naked, playing no part in the conversation. The two men discussed their deal, my treatment, the proper way of disciplining slaves, the need for a properly servile attitude, and all the other kinds of things that you’d expect two slave owners to talk about. It was just as if I wasn’t there, that it wasn’t my body they were discussing, my life they were deciding on.
Finally, they were finished, and Rob curtly told me to follow him. I went to pull up my shorts, tiny as they were, but he snapped “No need for those, Steve. You’re easy on the eye, and there’s no point in covering up your assets!”
“Oh, sir – you’d better let him dress, even minimally”, Master Brett interrupted. “The City Council has an ordinance that forbids slaves to be naked in the central area, unless they’re pulling rickshaws, or cleaning out the public fountains, or any of those jobs where nakedness is deemed ‘essential for the proper conduct of the work’. If you’re just leading your slave through the streets, or sending him out to the stores, or on errands, or whatever, then I’m afraid that you have to have him covered. But we’ll throw in the shorts, at no additional charge.”
Rob shrugged, snapped at me “Come on, boy…”, and strode out.
Harbour View Towers was one of those very fancy new buildings, all steel and sheet glass, with stunning views – especially from the thirty fourth floor, where Rob’s apartment was. He’d had to let me ride in the front set of his brand new Porsche to get there, as when he opened the trunk, the proper place for slaves to ride, he’d said, it was just too small for even a tiny slave to cower in, let alone a big guy like me. As it was, he spent the entire journey grumbling about how the sweat from my bare back was probably damaging the fine soft calf leather of the seat! I remembered how we used to drive along together, either in my beat-up old truck, or his beat-up old car, and that never mattered: we’d just been happy to be two guys off somewhere, to a party, or a game, or something… But now, it was all different.
When we were stopped at some lights, he turned to me and said “This is going to be awkward for me, Steve. We used to be buddies, I know, but now I own you, you’re my slave. I’ll tell you now that I won’t tolerate bad behaviour or anything – you’re a slave, and you’ll obey, or I won’t hesitate to have you punished: I’ll try not to let our former friendship interfere, as it does a slave no good, the books say, to have a master who is too lenient, or who doesn’t act consistently. So, difficult though it may be for me, I will do the right thing.
Fucking hell! Difficult for him? How did he think I felt? I’d already had that disastrous session with him at Slaves For Your Pleasure, and now he was gong to own me full time!
“Rob, look, I know it’s difficult, but we’re buddies, I’ll try….”
“That’s what I mean, slave! I’m Master Rob, your owner; you’re not my buddy any more – you can’t be friends with a slave, as the saying goes.; and you’ll have to do a lot better than ‘try’ – as I said, if you don’t do as I want, then I won’t hesitate to punish.”
The light changed and he raced away then, and we just sat there in silence for the rest of the short journey. Rob showed me his reserved parking space in the basement garage of Harbour View Towers and told me that one of my duties – eventually, when I’d ‘settled in’, would be to come down every day and polish the Porsche. Then we went over to the elevators, and because I was with him, I was allowed to use the regular ones – as Rob pointed out, this was a modern building, designed for the wealthy with slaves ,and so there was a separate slave elevator for use by unaccompanied slaves. Just as well, I thought, remembering the climb to the tenth floor of Slaves For Pleasure – how high was this place?
We got out on floor thirty four, and there were only four doors in the elegant hallway. Rob opened one of them, and we went it – curiously, there was a long, narrow hallway, but then it opened out into a huge living room: floor to ceiling glass windows running the whole width of the long wall gave a stunning view of the lake, and there was a small but functional “kitchen” in steel and marble in one corner. I suspected that the residents of Harbour View Towers ate out, or had food sent in, and that there was almost no “real” cooking done.
Opening off the huge living room was an equally spacious bedroom, again with those stunning views, and behind that was a vast marble bathroom with a big bath, walk-in shower, and all the expensive fittings you would expect in such a place. Rob then took me back into the living room and opened a small, narrow door, almost hidden in one corner.
Inside there was what I can only describe as a “cell”. A narrow bunk on one wall, a lavatory and wash basin crammed on the other, and in-between, barely room to move. There was no natural light as this tiny space seemed to be crammed into the building’s core, around the elevator shafts, and there was a small air grille in the ceiling. “This is your room, Steve”, Rob added, rather unnecessarily – well, it was hardly a guest room, was it? “Harbour View Towers has all these in-build slave facilities. The door is specially strengthened, so that when you’re locked in, you can’t break out. And it’s soundproofed, of course, so if I’m punishing you by ‘locking you down’, you won’t be able to disturb me by shouting! You won’t normally sleep in here, though, as I have other plans…”
He led me back to the bedroom, and showed me a small truckle bed that slid out from under his monster-sized one. Neatly folded on top of it was a small blanket. “This is where you sleep, Steve. When I’ve finished fucking you, you get this out and spend the rest of the night here, in case I need you again before morning. Then you’re readily available in the morning so I can just kick at you when I’m ready for my bath – and so on. Now, whilst we’re thinking about this, drop those shorts. There’s no need for you to be dressed around the house, as I’ve bought you to be easy on the eye and you’ve got nothing to be ashamed about anyway. We’ll see how we get on with the food later – if I ever find one of your hairs anywhere around my plate after you’ve served me, or in the kitchen area, then I’ll just have you completely shaved.”
I stood there, half hesitating, and he snapped “Shug those shorts! I need to attach your restraint chain, and I can’t do that with those fucking shorts on….
He went over to the corner of the room, and came back to me dragging a light but strong-looking chain with a cuff on one end. He clipped it neatly around my left ankle and it snapped shut with a final-sounding snick. “You wear this all the time”, he told me. “The key is up by the front door, and you’ll see that although you can get around all the rest of the apartment with this chain on, you can’t reach the door, or those cupboards by it: it’s a special feature of the slave-ready apartments here: the mounting is fixed into the concrete of the building, and the rooms are specially designed to be ‘open plan’ so you can move freely, but not towards the front door. The owner can leave the slave alone all day with no fear of him causing mischief. Every time I go out I’ll leave there by the door, too, the remotes for the TV and CD, and the phone – ‘Modern Slave Owner’ says that slaves who don’t have access to entertainment are brighter and more alert when their owners return in the evening, and I can see that they’re right. Of course, it’s a bit of a nuisance not being able to have you answer the door to visitors – I always enjoy being greeted by a naked slave when I go out visiting – but that’s a small price to pay for the security of knowing that you can’t leave, and can’t cause mischief.”
“And whilst we’re having this little talk about slave behaviour: your duties. To service me sexually, of course, as I’ve described. But then I need this place kept absolutely immaculate – not a speck of dust anywhere. And my clothes – I might change two or three times a day, and I always need to look immaculate, as a ‘man about town’. Freshly ironed shirts, jackets and slacks always pressed before they’re put away, that kind of thing. I don’t like to see ironing around the place, so you do all that when I’m out. And that’s about it, really. Oh, except for the weekly poker games – we’re still doing that, as we used to. Still the same old gang… Still on Fridays. You can’t play now, of curse, but we always have them here now, so on Friday nights you’ll serve the drinks, empty the ashtrays, hand around the snacks, and generally make it a pleasant experience for your former buddies to relax over a good game. The chain means that you can’t wear shorts, of course, but somewhere around you’ll find there’s a loin cloth that you can wear when I’ve got guests – not that there’s anything wrong with nudity for a slave, but some people find it a little distasteful, especially if the slave is serving snacks or drinks. So Friday night is loin cloth night. And that’s it, really.”
Rob looked at his watch, muttered “Hell…. I’m late for tea… Whilst I’m gone, have a good look around, and see what’s what and where things are kept.”
Without giving me a chance to say a word, he tossed his jacket on to the floor and took another one from the closet, strode through the living room picking up the remotes and the phone, then went out of the front door. I followed the same route, the chain making a faintly slithering rattling noise as I dragged it after me, but half way along the corridor the chain jerked me to a halt. However much I pulled, however hard I tried, I couldn’t reach the front door. It was rather like using a vacuum cleaner: there’s never enough cord to reach everywhere!, There was nothing else to do, so I spent the rest of my time exploring the apartment – looking in all the closets, seeing the astonishing array of smart clothes Rob had bought himself, trying out the shower and stuff. But there was no entertainment, as I couldn’t work the TV or CD, and ultimately I just sat there, watching the lights in the city gradually come on from the huge panoramic windows. It was so odd – Rob has always been a bit of a slob: he didn’t exercise as much as the rest of our set, he never bothered much about his personal appearance, sometimes not shaving for two or three days, and allowing his hair to straggle over his collar, and clothes were unimportant – jeans or sweat pants, a sweat top, an old jacket…. And he’d lived in an apartment that verged on the squalid, with empty beer cans and pizza boxes all over the place. How this inheritance, all this money, had changed him. And he was changed in other ways, too, I mused. I’d always thought that he might be just a little bit queer, as he didn’t chase the women as enthusiastically as the rest of us, but now he seemed like all these other rich guys who were clients of Slaves For Your Pleasure – all he wanted was ass! Perhaps that’s what owning slaves does to you, I thought.
Rob didn’t come back until about midnight, and then he seemed to be mildly drunk (well, perhaps more than that!). I kind of stood there, not knowing what to do, as he pulled his clothes off and left them just in a heap all over the bedroom floor. “You can do all that in the morning”, he snapped when he saw me looking at them rather disapprovingly. “Now, on your belly on the bed, and spread your legs…”
In his drunken state it was surprising that he could get it up, and then find my hole. But I had to endure him thrashing away on top of me until he finally shot his load. He lay still, his dick remaining buried in me, for a few minutes, and his foul alcohol-fuelled breath flowed over me. “There, Steve boy, this is how it’s going to be from now on – just you and me, every night. I’m going to fuck you, Steve, whenever I want; and sometimes I’m going to have a little hors d’oeuvre, when you’re on your knees cleaning out my ass with that tongue of yours. Who would have thought, Steve, that you, team captain, super stud, admired by everyone, would now be my personal plaything? Mine to do with exactly as I want? And I’ve been reading some stuff on the net recently, and I think it might be interesting to try a few new things – like cinching your balls tightly down to the bottom of your sac for a few days, and caging your cock so you can’t cum, and then seeing what happens when – and if – I release you.”
But it was his next few words that really chilled me, as he continued “And, Steve, just think about it – you’re not only legally my slave, but you’re physically my prisoner, too. Here on the thirty fourth floor, you’re chained by your ankle and you can’t get out of the door, and the phones won’t work for you…. So whatever I choose to do to you, you’ve got to stay here and take it. I think we’re going to have some fun, Steve… Or, at least, I will!”
So saying, he pulled himself out of me and stood there whilst I knelt in front of him cleaning him off, then he threw himself into the bed and ordered me to get out the truckle for myself. I lay there, wrapped in my thin blanket, wondering what the fuck was going to happen to me!
Pete Brown – the interview with the author
Pleasure Slave (all chapters)
Overview Pete Brown stories
Kinky Art by Theo Blaze