A story written by Pete Brown. (Part 2 of 21). Click here to see all the published chapters of the story.
I caught sight of myself after the barber had finished with me. I suppose they put a full length mirror there at the exit of the initial processing facility so that you know that you’ve been changed. And changed I had been – I’d gone in as a regular guy, just looking as if he was in the changing rooms at the gym or something, and now I was something else – the thing that stared back at me in amazement in the mirror actually looked like a slave: my cropped hair, the way that they’d trimmed the nice thatch on my pecs down to a stubble, and, most of all, the way that my dick now stood out so prominently, as they’d mostly cut away my pubes. Yes – instead of the usual dense patch stretching from hip to hip, I now only had a tiny patch just around my tackle, and that, too, had been reduced in length. And without any hair on them at all, my balls looked strangely bare and alone, as they swung there.
I suppose they keep you naked in the overnight holding cage so that you get used to being nude. I can’t think of any other reason – after all, a simple T and a pair of shorts wouldn’t cost much, would it? But no, I was pushed into the holding cage along with the other slaves waiting for their lab test results, and at once I realised I was the “odd one out”. Look, I may not have a lot of money, but I do have a college education! And, just looking at the other guys in there, you could tell that they were mostly the Ds and Es of our society – a lot of blacks, of course, and a lot of Hispanics, too. And the white guys all seemed to have a lot of tattoos – not the kind you sometimes see at a sports club: the discrete little thing on the shoulder, or even those that ex-marines seem to favour, with big gothic-looking letters saying USMC or semper fi, or whatever. No, there were real “trash” tattoos – “L O V E” and “H A T E” done very unskilfully on the fingers of each hand, or a gross fat woman on the forearm, or something. I guessed that they’d all mostly been in trouble before, but that this was the first time that they’d done something so stupid that it resulted in a sentence to social servitude.
None of us spoke much, or did anything, really – we just all sat there on the benches along the wall, mostly with our heads in our hands, almost as if, that way, we could shut out the reality of where we were. There was a problem for me, though, as I desperately needed to crap, and the only way of doing it was in the one crapper, that stood there, forlorn and alone, against the back wall. There was absolutely no privacy at all, but then, I supposed that was intentional, to further break down our view of our own “worth”. I guess some of the other guys, who may have been in prison before, were used to this idea of an open crapper in the cell, but I wasn’t. I mean, you don’t mind pissing in a a communal row of urinals, do you – actually, a lot of guys like this, as it lets them show off their dicks to the people next to them. But everywhere you go the lavatory bowls are always in cubicles, aren’t they – somehow, crapping is one of those human activities that people need to do in private. Thinking about it, you often see pictures of guys and women fucking and stuff, but you almost never see pictures of communal crapping.
So here I was, my stomach cramping in agony, and I just knew that I had to break one of the biggest taboos of all. There was nothing I could do about it – I just had to squat down there, with the possibility of all the other guys looking at me if they raised their eyes. And what was worse, the guard, patrolling up and down in the corridor, kept looking in, and couldn’t help but see me sitting there. Still, there was nothing to be done, and I eased myself down onto the metal rim of the bowl (no seat – another way of dehumanising men?), and let go. Somehow having to clean myself afterwards was even worse than the crap itself. I mean, you’re not actually at your most elegant at the best of times when you’re doing that, are you? And now I was trying to kind of conceal myself, trying not to let the others see the toilet tissue after I’d used it. But you have to look at it yourself, don’t you? I mean, how else do you know when to stop, recognise that you’re properly clean? I hated the whole thing, and was really glad when I could go and sit down against the wall gain.
The time seemed to drag on – not made worse by the fact that there was no way of knowing what time it actually was. I suppose that, quite unconsciously, you look at your watch many, many times a day. But now – no watch! And no visible clock, either. And absolutely nothing at all to do, other than sit there and stare at the wall, and try to avoid looking at the other guys (hey, it’s not that I have a problem with looking at another guy’s body – I mean, we all sneak a look at the other guys at the gym, don’t we? But I thought that some of these guys might object, and they were a pretty mean looking bunch: I’d heard about fights and stuff in holding cells, and I didn’t want to end up in one).
We were fed at some point, and this was my first introduction to slave chow. I suppose that, like most of you, I’d seen the adverts on TV – you know, those advertising the “all in one solution for a happy healthy slave”; the ones that showed a few healthy looking guys and women tucking into a bowl of something or other? Well now, it had never occurred to me before that owners would feed slaves that way really – I mean, if you’re cooking, it’s easy enough to do another portion for your slave, isn’t it? Or if you’re sending out for stuff, you can order him another pizza or whatever. But it seems that in our great country all this is much too much trouble for Mr and Mrs Joe Public, and the moment they acquire a social servant they also get a great big sack of slave chow delivered to feed him off, in the same way that they’d get in sacks of dog chow for their pets.
Let me tell you, I don’t know why all those people on the TV were laughing, as it tastes pretty disgusting. Well, no, that’s an exaggeration – not so much disgusting, as just plain bland and boring, but with a faintly nauseous meaty overtone that makes it sickly and disgusting. And you can’t laugh at all as you eat it, as you have to chomp really had to break up the hard biscuit-like things, and turn them into something that will go down your throat. After one mouthful I just gave up and sat there in despair, but the guard saw me, banged his stick on the bars to attract my attention, and told me that I had to eat – slaves had to keep themselves in good condition, and that meant eating a proper diet. It wasn’t up to me any longer to determine whether I would eat or not, as I was just an object, something that my owner would need to keep in good condition to protect his investment in me.
So, reluctantly, I started to chomp at the vile stuff again, but one of the blacks sitting next to me half whispered to me that I should keep drinking as I did so, as the water that they gave us at the same time helped to turn the stuff into a mush, which was easier to get down. Up until then I hadn’t realised that we were not supposed to talk – I’d assumed that all the other guys were silent as, like me, they were in despair about what was happening to them – but the moment he heard the black guy, the guard banged the bars again and shouted that we’d both be prodded if we didn’t shut the fuck up!
An indeterminate time later – again, it probably seemed much longer as I had no means of knowing the real time, and had absolutely nothing to do – the guards banged on the bars and told us to piss and crap, as the night time lock-down was about to begin. It was vile in the cage then, as several of the guys had to crap, and the smell assailed all of us. The guards then told us to line up in the middle of the cage, and id something outside, and the wall we’d been sitting against kind of split apart to form four tiers of bunks – very narrow bunks. They shouted at us to get into a bunk, and I got one on the bottom – it was so narrow that when I lay there on my back I almost overlapped the edge, and the bunk above me was just a couple of inches above my face. It was hard, too – these were not designed for comfort.
“Right, you slaves”, the guard called out “That’s it for tonight. You stay in your bunks, and don’t get out. And weight on the floor now and the alarm will go off, and you’ll all be punished. We don’t want you men getting up to any tricks during the night, do we? So now you’re all in your bunks, fucking well stay there!”
I have to tell you that I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard this. It might be really uncomfortable to have to lie there on the hard, narrow bunk, but you hear so many stories, don’t you, about prisoners locked in cells with criminals who then rape them or force them into humiliating sexual service? I’d been terrified that some of the guys who were obviously ex-cons might try something like that during the night.
It wasn’t exactly cold in our cage, but there weren’t any blankets or anything and we had to lie there naked. If you’re not used to tying to sleep without even a sheet over you it’s hard at first as your body is used to being covered at night. And, of course, after a day when it had had to behave properly as I was totally naked with lots of people around, once the lights dimmed and no one could see, it was only natural for my dick to make up for lost time and sprout a huge, almost painful, erection. I lay there with that kind of dull ache in my dick that means it’s telling you that it needs relief, and wondered what to do. After a long time, when the ache was getting worse, I gently started to slide my foreskin up and down, and that great feeling you get when you begin to jerk off swept over me. I got a bit faster, and squeezed harder, and my breathing got a bit more ragged…. and then I stopped. I was terrified that the other guys would hear me, in the confines of our tiny cage!
Look, all guys jerk off, don’t they? We all know we all do it. But it’s not the same, to “know” another guy jerks off, to lying right close to him and actually hearing him do it, is it? I just couldn’t bring myself to carry on, knowing the other guys might all be listening. But on the other hand the ache in my cock was now even worse, as it wanted me to finish what I’d started. In the relative silence of the tiny space around me, once my breathing had slackened, my ears picked up something, though. I strained my hearing, and then I knew what it was – that unmistakable kind of rubbing sound as someone else was jerking off. I just knew that all the other slaves were listening, as I was, and we heard the guy get faster and faster; and we could hear him breathing hard, too, and then there was a half-muffled cry, and silence!
Once one of us had done it, the others all seemed to follow, and the sounds of hands pleasuring dicks that went around the cage were soon joined by me – I was so turned on by the rustling and sighing around me that it only took four or five strokes before I felt my balls contract and I too gave that little cry that you do when you shoot. It was somehow like one of those male bonding things – all the other guys were doing it, and I needed to do it, too, so as not to be left out.
At once I realised another problem, though – I could feel my hot cum all up my belly and on my pecs as I’d angled my dick that way as I started to shoot – what was I to do now? I mean, most of us jerk off into yesterday’s T, or toilet tissue, or something, don’t we? Or there’s always the sheets on the bed to absorb it. But now I was covered in my own cum and there was absolutely nothing to wipe it off my body with: I moved my hand onto my belly, and could feel my cum there, all warm and slimy. Of course I’d know what to do now, but then I was really innocent – it just never occurred to me to scrape it up with my fingers and eat it; so I had to lie there, with it drying on me, terrified that everyone would see the dried cum on my skin in the morning.
I suppose I must have slept, in spite of the very uncomfortable conditions. It seemed to take for ever to fall asleep, and thought I was awake a lot during the night, but I also remember having a lot of very vivid dreams. And the banging of the guards on the cage bars did wake me from a very deep sleep, as I shot upright and banged my head on the bunk above me. We had to line up in the middle of the cage again and the bunks folded back into the wall. It had all happened so suddenly that I hadn’t noticed that I’d got my morning hard on until I suddenly realised my dick was swinging in front of me, really hard. And then I remembered the dried cum, and I started to blush furiously.
I mean, you just don’t have erections in front of other guys, do you? But then I saw I wasn’t alone – as us naked slaves stood there, trying to wake up properly, most of us had erect dicks, and no one seemed to be looking at me in particular. Fortunately, like all the other guys, my dick went down, and we were allowed to sit down against the wall as we crunched our way through a ration of slave chow – actually, even if I hadn’t been told the trick of eating it with lots of water I’d have persevered this time as I was actually very hungry, and my stomach was making rumbling noises.
I’d never been very interested in slave management, so used to skip over the pages in the Sunday papers that went on and on about how to keep your slaves happy and subservient, but those of you with slaves of your own probably know that the modern theory is that you keep them just on the wrong side of hunger: you need to feed them enough to keep their bodies in good shape and to enable them to do the work you assign to them, but not so much that they ever put on any fat. Indeed, it’s generally thought that a hungry slave is an attentive slave, more responsive to his owner’s orders. So the amount of slave chow they gave us was probably based on this theory.
I thought that we were just going to get shower after we’d eaten, but the guards separated us into two groups – most of us went one way, but a couple of the blacks and a Hispanic and one of the white guys were pushed another. It seems that they’d detected something that needed further looking at after their tests, and they were being sent back to the doctor. In our group we didn’t just get a shower, though – they gave us an enema first to clean us out!
Like everything else there it was all organised – you had to bend over a bar at around waist height, then they came down the line of us, snarled at us to reach back and pull our ass cheeks apart, then, as we waited there they inserted a nozzle up our asses – I’d never had anything like that up my ass, of course, and as the cold metal of the nozzle made contact with my delicate membranes I couldn’t help but moan with the shock, and wriggle to try to get myself comfortable.
“Keep still, fucker!”, the guard snapped, “Else you’ll feel my prod up there, too.”
Turning around as best I could standing there bent double, I could see that we were all hitched up to one pipe – the pipe coming out of my ass joined this thicker pipe, and there was some sort of valve at the junction. We looked like a row of pot plants, waiting to be watered by one of those automatic watering systems! As I watched, the guard came along opening all the valves, and I could feel something starting to fill up my bowels. It didn’t take long before I was very uncomfortable, then very uncomfortable indeed as it carried on filling me up, and the other guys must have been the same, too, as several of them started to shout out. The guard came along again, and in turn we were allowed to stand up, still with the nozzle up us, whilst he massaged our bellies. If he was satisfied we were full enough, he turned off the valve and you stood there, but if not, you went back to being filled. Then of course they told us we could pull the nozzles out of ourselves, and by this time my stomach was really cramping with pain.
The moment I did I had this absolutely unbearable need to crap, and crap now – it felt like the worse case of diarrhoea I’d ever had. But the place seemed designed for this, as we were in fact standing on a sort of meshed floor, and the guards told us to squat down and let go. I was long past caring about privacy or not crapping in front of other guys or the smell or anything – all I wanted to do, no, all I desperately needed to do, was to let go. I crouched there, like the others, and just let it all drop out of my bowels. But then it was back over the rail, for the nozzle to go in again….
In all, it took four flushings before the guard was satisfied, and then, as we stood there, with the dreadful smell of our shit all around us, they turned on water from overhead and we could finally clean our bodies properly. I though we might all get to shave after that, but the guards went along and only some of us were given razors – he grunted at me that I was a “real stud” and with my body hair and generally very masculine appearance, I would look better put up for sale with a “manly” growth of stubble on my face.
I shuddered inwardly, as this was the first time that anyone had mentioned the actual sale – I mean, I knew I was going to be auctioned, obviously, but somehow the thought of the actual process had gone right out of my mind. There were nine of us guys up for sale, and we all stood there, naked and now squeaky clean, wondering what was going to happen next.
We didn’t have long to wait – a guard came along and gave us a little kilt thing, and told us to get dressed. Well, if that was their idea of dressing, it was a bit odd. The kilt was in white cotton, and just consisted of a strip of fabric no more than a foot wide, with Velcro stitched along one edge. I tried at first to wrap it around my waist, but it was then so short that the end of my dick was hanging out from underneath! So I had to try to wrap it around me lower down – but then it was hardly long enough to reach all the way around, and it felt rather perilous as it clung to me below my hip bones, depending on the flare of my ass behind to keep it up. But, at least, my dick was now decently covered, even though I thought that you could probably see the top of my ass crack – still, builders and guys like that show their cracks off all the time, don’t they, when they bend down and their jeans pull? Mind you, there wasn’t enough fabric to decently overlap, so my thigh swung into view when I made any move.
The smaller thin guys were much better off, really, as they could overlap the fabric to make a proper kilt. The next step in the process was horrible, though. They came around and gagged us! The gag was a steel bar about five inches long with a plate about two inches long at right angles to it in its middle. We were ordered to kneel down, as it was more convenient for them, then you had to open your mouth, and they pushed the bar between your teeth so that the plate pushed your tongue down, and then a rubber band joined each end of the bar together, behind your head. I realised that I couldn’t push the plate and bar out, because of the strength of the rubber, and with my tongue pressed down to the floor of my mouth and the bar protruding from the side of my mouth, I couldn’t now speak intelligently.
It’s actually frightening – I mean, you’re used to being able to speak, aren’t you? And there’s always the thought that if something’s wrong, really wrong, you can shout out and say so (even if the guards then punish you). But without the power of speech, you can’t communicate – you’re starting to become an object, rather than a man. I felt a sweat beginning to break out over me as I began to understand more of what slavery might involve – suppose my new owner wanted me gagged like this permanently – I guess he could do it, if that was what he wanted!
If the gagging had started to make me sweat with apprehension, the next steps in preparing for sale really brought home how powerless we now were. As we continued to kneel there, a guard came along the row of us and fastened a leather collar around our necks. It wasn’t that it was very tight or even uncomfortable, but the thought of having another man fastening a collar around your neck is again one of those things that makes you recognise that you’re no longer in charge of your own destiny: not only is the collar a potent symbol of ownership, but the very way that we were kept kneeling whilst he fixed them to us clearly told us that we were powerless.
I could feel my heart racing and I began to feel chilled as my nervous sweat evaporated. My body was starting to prepare itself in the time- honoured way for “fight or flight” – but neither was possible. We were ordered to stand up then, and put our arms behind our backs. I felt the guard put cuffs around my wrists, and I now was completely helpless – but worse was to come: he roughly pushed my cuffed wrists high up my back, so high that it was actually painful and I would have cried out had I not been gagged, then there was a couple of metallic snapping sounds, and he moved on to the next guy. I couldn’t get my hands down from their position high up my back as evidently they were chained to the collar – the collar was now being pulled backwards, and was choking unless I stopped trying to pull my hands down, and I could feel a chain pressing into the flesh at the top of my shoulders.
Collared, cuffed and chained like this the only even vaguely comfortable way to stand was with my head thrown back and my chest out, and with my hips thrust forward (so making my dick rub against the front of my tiny kilt). I could feel all my muscles straining to accommodate this position, but perhaps that was the idea.
Finally, as the ultimate indignity, the guard came along the row of us once more. He stopped in front of me, and said “Are you Steve Masters?” All I could do is give a muffled “Yes” noise, and he fumbled around in a little pile of things he was holding, then reached up and attached it to my collar.
“Can’t be too careful with these”, he said to no one in particular. “There’s hell to pay though if we put the wrong label on the wrong slave. Bu there you are now – Steve Masters, 28, college education, believed to be a virgin. Auction number 8 in the catalogue. What more should any prospective buyer need to know?”
I couldn’t answer, of course, but he had anyway moved on to hang the label on the next guy. I felt utterly humiliated to be labelled in this way – I mean, surely there’s a lot more they ought to have said about me – if they really needed to do this labelling at all! But perhaps it was all part of making both us and the buyers think of us as “something different”, something that did not require the same consideration that men did.
They led us out then, shuffling along, one after the other, down a couple of corridors and into what was evidently the showroom – a brightly lit space with polished wood and stainless steel everywhere to create a look of expense and luxury. We were spaced out along the length of the place, then they went along opening small panels in the floor, pulling out a cuff on a short chain, and snapping them shut around our ankles. I was standing there then completely helpless – I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move more than a foot or so because of the ankle chain, I couldn’t bend my body because of the collar, cuffs and chain, and I was terrified that at any moment the perilous hold that the little kilt had on my body would give way, and I’d be naked.
Somehow I suppose I’d got used to being naked “out back”, but here, in these luxurious surroundings, when I could see that the customers would soon be in to look me over, the thought of being nude was just awful. I twisted and turned as best I could and saw that all my companions were as uncomfortable and apparently worried as I was, and I could even feel sweat trickling down my ribs where it had fallen from under my arms: you know how it is – it feels icy cold, doesn’t it?
We stood there wondering what was going to happen next, when the doors opened and the guards came in with another line of slaves to be sold – but this time the women! Like us, they too were gagged, collard, cuffed and chained, and only had the same skimpy loincloths to cover their nakedness – their breasts were of course very prominent, because of the way they had to hold themselves. As they were manacled to the floor in a row opposite us, I couldn’t help looking at them. Like us, they were all in good physical shape, and as I looked at all these nearly-naked women my dick stirred into life.
Even at a time like this when I was terrified and ashamed – yes, I guess I was ashamed at my condition – I couldn’t help starting to throw a bone. It just shows you, doesn’t it, that the male brain always has time to think about one thing – sex! I fought against it, willed my dick to go soft, and finally, to my huge relief, I managed it and the totally embarrassing bulge that had been thrusting the skimpy kilt away from me subsided – fortunately just before the first prospective customers arrived and were allowed in.
Mind you, as you might expect, the first ones there weren’t really serious – they were a group of college guys who went along the line of women fondling their breasts, and even reaching under the short kilts and evidently fingering them, as there was a lot of foul comments and general raucous noise as they smelled their fingers, as guys do when they’ve been near cunt! I felt really sorry fore the women, who writhed and moved around as best they could to avoid the crude investigation of the college boys, and who weren’t even able to scream or shout at them to stop it.
It was erotic, though – I mean, you don’t routinely see a load of tits being played with, do you, and in spite of my best efforts, my bone started to push the front of my kilt out again.
One of the college boys glanced across at me and called out to his fellows “Hey, look at that slave
here – filthy bastard, he’s getting turned on!” To my horror they came over and stood in front of me. One of them reached down and pulled the kilt open, and they all pointed and laughed at my erection.
“Fuck me”, one of them said “He’s hung like a horse! He’ll make some guy scream when he tries to push that up his ass!”
“No, it’s not that…”, another replied. “Look at his own ass – most guys will want to ride that: I wouldn’t mind being up there myself.”
“You could never afford it, Jase – this is top quality merchandise! He’ll be bought by some really old rich guy, and he’ll never get to enjoy feeling young studs like us fuck him!”
I could feel myself blushing furiously all the time they were doing this, as I just couldn’t believe that college boys would be looking at another guy and talking like that – it wasn’t like that in my college days, or, at least, not with the set I moved in. Still, if they were right, and I was to be bought by an old guy, perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to have a group of young guys like that fucking me.
The first “real” customers were flowing in now, though, and from time to time someone would come up and take a look at me, and some would even reach up to look at the label hanging from my collar – they could evidently cross-reference this to the auction catalogue they were carrying. They would sometimes run a hand over my body, or lift up my kilt to take a peek at my dick.
At first, I hated it and blushed with embarrassment and fury, but after a time it almost became routine – it seemed that my dick was a major part of the decision process for most of them, and I saw one or two of them get out a pen and note something down in their catalogues – did this mean that they were going to bid on me, and was this a price they were prepared to pay? It was worrying, actually, as all the guys who took an interest in me were overweight, and old : none of them under fifty, at least. What kind of life would I have if one of those old fat guys bought me, I wondered as I stood there, helpless to do anything about it anyway.
The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. I mean, you shouldn’t treat a man like this, should you? A man shouldn’t be made to stand almost naked so that he can be pawed over by college boys and fat old men. Actually, a man shouldn’t be enslaved like this – what right did they have to take away my freedom, to treat me like some piece of mere merchandise, rather than a person? At lease a prisoner has his dignity left – now, like this, I was less even than a criminal: I was just an object, to be handled, and bought and sold, as men wanted to.
After I’d raged inwardly about the utter indignity and humiliation of my position, I managed to “switch off” most of the time, fortunately, and tried to think about other things. I kind of “came back” almost with a start, when I heard a deep, confident voice say:
“Hey, boy, what’s a well educated guy like you doing in a place like this?”
There in front of me was a guy quite unlike any of the others who’d been looking at me – he was in a work shirt and jeans instead of a crumpled suit, and was astonishing because of the sheer vitality he exuded. He must have been in his mid thirties, but was in great shape – he was perhaps an inch shorter than me, but at least as well muscled and his lean body wore his clothes with a quiet arrogance. Amongst all those old, suited fat guys, he stood out as something totally different and exciting. He had a smile on his face, and his piercing blue eyes were almost twinkling with amusement.
“Never mind”, he went on. “Now, I just need to do a bit of work to check you out. You don’t mind, do you?”
Again he smiled, as he knew I was in no position to object. “If it’s uncomfortable, just shout – or mumble – and I’ll stop. But I like the look of you, but I do need to know that you’re capable of hard work: too much of the stock coming up for sale these days is artificially puffed up, and I need a guy to really work hard alongside me on my ranch. There’s a stack of work to be done, and I can only afford one slave to help out, so he’s got to be tough, and strong.”
This was the only guy so far who’d shown me any courtesy or consideration by even suggesting he needed permission to examine me. As he spoke, he started to run his hands over my body, and unlike the fat, moist fingers of the guys who’d touched me before, his were firm and confident. And he didn’t just run them lightly over my pecs, as they mostly did: no, this was a proper inspection: the fingers probed my muscles, testing their strength and subtlety. And when he’d done my upper body and commented favourably on my hard belly, he knelt down and I could feel his hands kneading first my thighs, and then my calves, as he assessed their strength.
He couldn’t really feel my shoulder muscles because of my chained arms, but he muttered “Don’t worry now… Almost done…..” As he slipped his hands up under my kilt to probe my ass muscles for their power. He confided himself to the big slabs of muscle there, though, and there was no suggestion of him probing my ass hole or anything.
Finally, he was standing in front of me again, and said “Hey, bud, you’re in good shape. You didn’t get hose muscles at the gym, did you?” I shook my head, as I couldn’t answer otherwise.
“So what’s a college educated guy like you doing working at a grunt job that gives you muscles like that?” All I could do is shrug.
“Well, it doesn’t really matter – perhaps you’re like me: can’t stand being indoors, and want to really use my body in the way that a man should, doing good, honest work.”
I nodded, vigorously.
“OK, boy. We seem to have a lot in common! Look, I don’t like doing this to you, but I’m going to be bidding a lot of money on you and I need to be sure they’re not hiding anything in their sales statistics. So don’t worry…..”
He reached down, and I felt his strong fingers curl around my dick, just for an instant, then fumble around to cup my balls. He squeezed, gently, I now know, and I squirmed vigorously. It wasn’t so much that it actually hurt – although it was uncomfortable – more the fact that I just wasn’t used to a guy touching and squeezing me like that.
“Easy, Steve, all over!”, he said in that half laughing way again. “But I had to do that: I bought a slave once and then found he only had one ball as a previous owner had persuaded the court to allow for a half castration, to calm him down. And without both balls, I just don’t think a slave works as hard or as well. Still no trouble in that department with you – it feels as if you have a good set, and a nice dick, too!”
He grinned as he said this, and somehow I no longer felt quite so embarrassed by this big strong man doing these intimate things to me.
“See you later”, he said then, and headed off. “With any luck you’ll be coming back to my ranch with me tonight.”
I cheered up a lot as he said that – this was the kind of owner I could really work for: someone I could admire and respect, and who, from the sound of it, I would be working alongside, rather than for. And no mention of all that stuff about using me for sex – hadn’t he apologised, even, for having to touch my tackle? And he hadn’t done what so many before had, which was to lift my kilt and look at me, so he evidently wasn’t that interested in even thinking about using me for sex.
I really began to relax – perhaps this would work out OK after all, working on a ranch for ten years, in the good fresh air, with a guy like that, wouldn’t be a problem at all.
Pete Brown – the interview with the author
Pleasure Slave (all chapters)
Overview Pete Brown stories
Other kinky artists