A story written by Pete Brown. (Part 4 of 21). Click here to see all the published chapters of the story.


I flinched, perfectly reflexively as the needle stabbed into my dick as it lay there on the white cloth. The doctor saw my attempt at this involuntary movement, and laughed “They all do that, Steve! Somehow guys seem to think that their dick is solid, with bone and stuff, and I suppose they’re worried the needle will snap if I stab it like that. But your dick’s all flesh, you know – just a lot of spongy flesh that can fill with blood, just as yours now is. Now, let’s see if that anaesthetic is working…”

As he said this, he raked his finger nail across my piss slit, and although I could see him do it, and it would normally have caused me to squirm, I couldn’t feel a thing. I began to cheer up – he must not have been bullshitting when he said that as a doctor he didn’t want to cause me unnecessary pain when he was doing this partial circumcision on me. I didn’t want it done, and he’d forced me to sign the voluntary release, but at least it wasn’t going to hurt.

Look, I don’t know much about circumcisions, but I guess that when they do babies it’s all over in a few seconds. But this guy must have worked for about half an hour at least on me – he was cutting and snipping little bits here and there, then he used a needle and surgical thread to sew the cut ends of my ‘skin together again in their new length, sprayed the whole thing with antiseptic, and put a bit plaster all around my dick head. I can’t say I watched all of it, as although it didn’t hurt, I felt distinctly queasy at seeing my body being cut like this, and just didn’t look.

He then took another syringe and advanced on me again, and gave me an injection at the base of my dick. “This will keep you quiet for a couple of days”, he told me. “Don’t worry if you don’t get an erection – that’s intentional, to give your foreskin time to heal. If we stretch it too much, it might scar and that would never do – they want you with a nice, sleek look. So this stuff paralyses the small muscles that control the blood flow out of your dick – they can’t contract, so the blood flows free, so you don’t get an erection. It will wear off after a couple of days, so don’t think that there’s anything wrong with you. And I’ll give you another shot of painkiller in your dick, too, when we’re all finished up, so you wont feel a thing from this little operation.”

Hey, perhaps being a slave wasn’t all that bad, if at least they treated you properly when you were ill, I thought, and I sat there quite relaxed as he brought clamp things around from the back of the chair and screwed them tightly to the sides of my head – all the time asking me if it was OK, not too tight, no skin caught, and so on.

Taking a pair of tweezers and some gauze soaked in a solution in a small surgical dish, he swabbed up first me left nostril and then my right. The heady fumes of what I took to be a pungent antiseptic swirled around, and made me want to sneeze. I kind of contorted my face, and he snapped “Keep still, Steve! I don’t want to puncture the membranes of your nose with these tweezers! It’s only antiseptic, to stop infection.”

He stood back a moment, picked something up from the small table by my side, and pushed it up my nose. “Now, hold tight…. Just a moment’s discomfort….”

I screamed, I can tell you. My whole body tried to jerk and kick out at him, but of course I was securely bound to the chair, and I couldn’t even move my head as it was so tightly clamped. I got that salty taste of blood, and something warm started to drip onto my chest and run across my belly. The pain went on and on, and the doctor stood back, almost brandishing a pair of bloodstained pliers.

He picked up a piece of cotton gauze and rubbed it quickly across my chest and belly, and as he tossed it to one side I saw it was soaked in blood – my blood.

“There, almost done! Punching the hole through your septum is the worst part. Now, let’s just wait for the bleeding to stop a bit – it soon does, in the nose…”

I shouted at him in anger “I thought you said that you were a doctor, that the AMSPCS didn’t allow doctors to operate on slaves without proper anaesthesia….”

“Careful, Steve! You’re a slave remember? A bit of respect, please. Doctors are allowed to punish slaves, remember? Keep a respectful tone in your voice when you speak to me! But in answer to your question, of course we use anaesthetics for operations – as I said, we’re not butchers; you live in a civilised society here in the USA, not some kind of hell hole in the third world when they simply don’t bother about the comfort of slaves at all!”

“But that hurt…” I saw him reaching idly for the prod thing, and added “… Sir.”

“Only for a moment, I’m sure. You’re a big tough guy – surely you can take a little pain? But before you ask, that wasn’t an operation. The ASPCS has agreed that it’s not at all cruel to carry out general marking processes without anaesthesia – after all, the majority of ringing – which is what I’m about to do to you – and branding is all done at dealers where there isn’t a doctor in attendance. We have to be able to mark property for the new owners, don’t we? And the ASPCS has agreed that it’s better not to hold up the process, as the anticipation of being, for example, branded, might be more cruel to the slave than just getting on and doing it.”


“No ‘buts’, Steve. That’s the way it is. The American Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Slaves does good work, believe you me. There’s many a slave who has cause to be thankful for their efforts to ensure that slaves are treated humanely, and they get that co- operation from owners and the trade because they know there are sensible limits beyond which it makes no sense to go – a few minutes discomfort during a ringing, or a branding…. It’s a small enough price to pay for the ready compliance with the rest of the rules that make sure you are treated well.”

“Anyway”, he continued, “Like it or not, it doesn’t matter – you’re a slave, at least for the next ten years, and your opinion really doesn’t matter. Now… I think the blood’s stopped… Let me get on and finish.”

The “ring” wasn’t really a ring, except in the mathematical sense. I mean, when we normally thing of a ring, we think of a circle. But the nose rings they fit into slaves are more like the links of a thick chain, oval in shape, so that they can go quite high up inside the nose without causing the nostrils to be unpleasantly flared out, and can hang down properly over the upper lip. A circle would be just too big to fit.

The doctor fiddled around a lot – and it hurt, and tickled and made me desperate to sneeze, as he manoeuvred the open end through the hole he’d punched in my septum, then a dab of some sort of epoxy adhesive on the open ends, and a squeeze with pliers to close the thing up, and he pronounced me done. All this activity had cased the scabs in my nose to break, and blood was again flowing freely – I could taste it on my lips, and feel it again on my belly.

“Feel OK, does it?”

“No, sir, it does not!”, I muttered. I wanted to sneeze all the time, the blood and mucus flowing over my face was very unpleasant, and the weight of the ring and the way it hung over my lip was horrible.

“Now, Steve, don’t exaggerate! I’ve ringed a lot of slaves, and this was a good one. For the next few days keep teasing it gently, so that as the scar tissue forms on your septum the ring continues to move freely – believe me, it’s not a good idea to get it moulded into the scar issue, or the first guy that jerks on it will cause you pain all over again. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He undid the head clamp then, and the Velcro bindings, and handed me a piece of cloth so that I could wipe my blood away off my body, and try to clean my face.

“That’s you done here, then”, he told me. “I’ve swabbed everything well, so there should be no infection. Expect to fele some discomfort from your nose, and from your dick once the anaesthetic wears off, but it will only be for a few days. If it goes on longer than that, or you get any sudden swelling or severe discomfort, alert your owner and ask him to get you some attention – otherwise there’s a risk his investment in you will be wasted!”

“Now, this room doubles as a tattoo parlour as well as my little operating room, so go and lie over there on that table and I’ll call the tattooist so that he can get started.”

I know a lot of my readers have had tattoos, so I don’t really need to tell you, do I, about how it hurts? I mean, it’s not the sort of pain that you can’t bear, but it’s not exactly comfortable. And I guess that most of you knew that it was only going to take half an hour or so, and that the discomfort would be pretty localised.

The tattooist never spoke to me – he had an iPod plugged in, and all the time he was working on me he just listened to his music. It was as if I simply didn’t matter, and was just a piece of flesh lying there that he could work on as he wanted. He started on the giant “Steve” running right across the top of my back and shoulders, and it seemed to go on and on – I guess that having to block in those big letters really took a long time, and it certainly was uncomfortable as hell. Just as he was finishing a guard came in and handed him a piece of paper – he took his ‘phones off for a moment, and said “Is this his SIN?”

“Yup! His registration’s just come through from the slave registration bureau. And his owner wants his ID number put at the base of his spine, right above where his crack starts. But not in those giant letters that you’ve done up there – he said something about eighteen point – does that make sense?

The tattooist nodded, put his ‘phones back in, and then I felt his needle digging in again right above my ass. I knew about SINs, of course, as they’d told me that I would be properly registered, but I never thought that it would be tattooed onto my body – still, there didn’t seem any point in even trying to complain, as all that would happen would they punish me until I signed a voluntary agreement. What asholes our legislators were not to see such an obvious flaw in their legislation. But then, perhaps that’s what they wanted – to be seen to have humane legislation, so they could brag about it to the rest of the world, but not to have to bother about implementing it properly.

When he’d done my back, he didn’t even bother to stop listening to his fucking music – just slapped my naked ass casually to attract my attention, then gestured to me to turn over. It wasn’t so bad when he did my name again on my chest, but when he came to do the word “slave” across my belly, it actually hurt even more than I expected – I guess the muscles there are more sensitive, or something. And, of course, he had to shave a big strip across my belly hair before he could begin: when I looked down afterwards, the swathe across my body hair seemed to make the words stand out even more!

When I looked at myself in the mirror on the wall I saw something that was becoming less and less recognisably “me”, and more an more a “slave”. Those huge tattoos really changed me – there’s no way I’d ever have had that done, and I wondered even now if I would be able to get rid of them after my indenture period was over. The tattooist saw me looking, and said, as if he was proud of what he’d done to me, “Pretty neat, huh? You slave boys really are lucky getting all this for free. That much work would cost you a fortune normally.”

They gave me a T and a pair of plain slave shorts then, and it was really good to be covered up once more – I started to feel a bit more human. But my “processing” wasn’t over yet – in another room in the place there was a workshop with a big beefy slave standing there – it was hot in the room, and he was naked except for his leather apron to protect his front – as he turned you could see all his bare back and ass, and it was like some sort of weird erotic photo that you usually sometimes see in those leather magazines on the top shelf at the newsagent.

He smiled at me, and said “You’re Steve?”


“Don’t worry, this isn’t going to hurt. It’s only the men around here who hurt you. I’m a slave, like you, as hard work’s involved, but us slaves stick together.”

He picked up a piece of paper, came around and lifted my T, and said to me “Just checking that this work order’s really for you – there might be a couple of Steve’s coming in here today. But yes, your SIN corresponds…. You’re lucky, you’ve obviously got a considerate owner, as he’s letting you have a chain collar.”

“A collar?”

“Yes – he’s asked you for to be collared and cuffed. It’s a bit unusual, as collaring is really dying out – it was very popular when the Indentured Servant laws came in a few years ago as owners wanted everyone to see that they had the money to own a slave. But now I think the fashion’s swinging a bit the other way, as rich guys like to kind of say that they own so many slaves that it’s nothing special, so they don’t need visible collars and stuff. Mind you, we do about half of the slaves who come through here still, and I feel sorry for the ones who have to solid collars, as how ever carefully they’re fitted, sooner or later they chafe and you get sores and stuff. Your owner is clearly enlightened – your collar and cuffs are to be in chain: big, heavy links of course, as you’re a tough, masculine guy and the decoration needs to be in keeping with your general body style. Now… Come over here, and bend down in front of my anvil….”

Illustration by Theo Blaze

Well, what was the point in resisting? It didn’t sound much, and there wasn’t anything I could do, was there? So I knelt on the floor, and the slave fussed around trying out different lengths of chain around my neck. He tugged and fiddled with it, always trying just to get a finger between the links and my flesh, and asking me if it was too tight, and if I could breathe easily.

“I won’t make it too tight”, he said. “Even though you’re obviously fit and in shape, once you get really working as a slave it’s inevitable that all your muscles will thicken up a bit, and having a collar that’s choking you stops you giving your owner the best. Now, hold still – I’ve got to weld this thing shut as it’s steel – I’m putting this shield between the collar and your neck, but it may get hot anyway. But whatever you do, don’t move – it will soon be over.”

It did get hot, and it was uncomfortable, too, as some of the sparks showering off the work really stung my back. But he was right – it didn’t hurt, really. When he told me I could get to my feet, I felt the weight of the chain around me: it must have been a couple of pounds, or, at least, it felt like that. Standing there it almost weighed me down, and it was a new reminder to me that I was no longer a man, but a slave, wearing a collar at the command of my master.

“That’s the worst out of the way… Now for the cuffs….”

“What are they?”

“Just like your collar, but around your wrists, which we do sometimes, and around your ankles, which is a bit more unusual. I guess you’re going to spend a lot of time naked?”

“I don’t know what my owner intends. What makes you say that, though?”

“Well, think about it, Steve. You’d look really… Well, ‘exotic’, I suppose you’d say, standing there nude with just that nose ring, your collar, and the cuffs all sparkling in steel. They kind of delineate your body, and the contrast between the steel and the skin is somehow ‘erotic’, even, I guess…”

Oh shit, I thought. I mean, although I’d got used to being naked in the last few hours, I didn’t want to have to be like that all the time, did I?  Still, the welding of the ankle and wrist bracelets was not quite as bad as the neck collar, and the slave evidently knew what he was doing as, other than their weight, which felt odd at first as I took a few steps, they weren’t too tight or anything.

They kept me at the auction centre that night, and as I was now sold, and someone else’s property, I got a bit better treatment than I had when I was stock awaiting auction – I was allowed to keep the shorts and T, and I was in a reasonably sized cage that even had a bed wide enough for me to lie in properly – except, of course, that I couldn’t sleep much as my tattoos, my nose and my dick all sent constant complaints to my brain if I so much as put any pressure at all on the. You try sleeping when all those parts of you are sensitive!

The next morning I was even allowed to shower properly, fed a good meal of slave chow, and given a clean T and shorts! How quickly I seemed to be adapting to this new life, and finding pleasure and gratitude for simple things: I mean, starting out the day in clean clothes with a clean body isn’t all that special, is it? I used to do it every day in my “old” life. But compared with what I’d been through n the last two days, it was heaven.

I had to wait for a couple of hours, or thereabouts, I think, just standing outside the door of the doctor’s office in the centre. No one seemed bothered, or explained why I was waiting: inwardly I marked this down as another facet of slave life: my time was worthless, and it didn’t matter if I just stood there for ever. And, of course, I couldn’t go and complain as I would have if I was more than a few minutes late normally. Still, it was quite interesting just standing there in the corridor – I watched all the newly-enslaved go by on their way to and from various processings and the auction room, and I felt my dick begin to stir when they led a lot of half-naked women past – at least that drug he’d given me was wearing off.

When the doctor did see me he told me to drop my shorts, then as I stood in front of his chair, he just took hold of my dick (no “now I’ll just do something a little intimate….” as you’d get from a doctor normally – he just handled me as he liked) and pulled the plaster off. I winced, and gave a little cry, but he was now rolling my dick around in his hands.

“This looks OK – I don’t think we need to plaster it again. I used a good sharp scalpel, and neat stitching…. The scabs will drop off in a day or two, and until then, don’t jerk off, or fuck. Just let nature take its course. Now, just erect for me, will you…..”

Try as I might, I just couldn’t get hard. I mean, a doctor just doesn’t normally ask you to do that, does he?

“Listen, slave”, he snapped, “When a man tells you to get erect for him, you’d better do it. I’ll make allowances for the fact that there may be still some of the drug in you…. Now, try again, or else I’ll get a slave in here to wank you until you’re raw….”

I stood there, and the harder I tried, the worse it got – my dick, that normally disgraces me by leaping to attention at every possible moment, just hung there.”

“I’m warning you, slave….”

“Sir, can I…. Can I…. Can I stimulate myself?” I forced the words our, flushing with embarrassment. I mean, you don’t ask another guy if you can jerk off, do you? I didn’t even really know how to ask the question – should I say “jerk off”, or was there some medical term you used with a doctor?

“Do what you like, as long as that dick is hard in the next two minutes – I don’t have all day, and I need to make sure that your ‘skin still slides back properly: if it’s too tight, you’ll be in pain every time you get an erection!”

I started to stroke myself gently, and then harder and harder. I closed my eyes, to try to shut out the doctor’s office, and the sight of the doctor looking at me. I thought of all the sexiest things I could, I tried to replay the last time I’d had sex, and most of all, I just kept jacking.

Fortunately, it all worked, and I felt myself starting to go hard, and, of course, once you’re a bit hard, you can always make yourself completely hard just by jerking yourself, can’t you? I hated having my dick stuck out in front of me like that, but I suppose he was a doctor and was used to seeing it (especially here in the auction centre). But when he took the end of it in his hand and started to gentle tease my ‘skin back, I instinctively tried to back away from him.

“Steady, boy!”, he snapped. “You’d better get used to having a man hold your dick, where you’re going!”

“Sir? Please, what do you mean, ‘where I’m going’?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter – you’ll find out, soon enough! Anyway, you look fine. I think I’ve done a good job on you, really enhanced the look of your dick. Now, as I said, no jerking off, no fucking. I don’t need to bandage you up again as the wound’s scabbed over. And the stitches will dissolve themselves in a couple of days. So that’s it…. You’re out of here.”

I suppose it’s a mark of how relaxed the authorities are about slavery now that they don’t insist that slaves are locked up all the time, or even cuffed. Not even when they’re in transit between one place and another. I guess it’s because in our society, as I’ve said, without your driver’s licence, credit cards and all that stuff you just can’t do anything: no job, no use of transport, no place to stay, no way of buying food… Once you’re in the Indentured Servant programme and they’ve allocated you your SID, that’s it – they know that you might be able to go on the run for a few days, but sooner or later you’ll be caught. Nevertheless, I was expecting to be moved to my new “home” in some kind of special slave transporter – I’d obviously seen them on the highways, with the slaves’ faces peering out from the barred windows as they were carried to unknown destinations, or, perhaps, put into a transit cage and shipped by FedEx or UPS as I knew they did a lot of that kind of business. So I was surprised, when I was directed down to the loading bay, and instead of being caged or anything, there was the slave Gary sitting there, just in his pale blue satin shorts as before, swinging his legs idly over the edge of the dock and apparently just enjoying the morning sunshine.

He saw me, and scrambled to his feet. “Hey, Steve…. You’re looking good!”

“Gary… Is my owner here to collect me?”

“It’s owners, in the plural, Steve – Master Brett and Master Jed. They run the place together. But they wouldn’t bother to come down to collect you – they just sent me to show you the way. But you’re late – and we’ll have to get a move on, as I think Master Brett wants to start your training this afternoon. We’ll have to jog back – you can run three miles, can’t you?”

Well of course I could – I worked out and exercised regularly.

“Sure… But not in bare feet….”

“Oh, here….” He handed me a pair of trainers – the sort I used myself. “We have to work out a lot to keep in shape, so every new slave gets a new pair of trainers, and they knew your size from the sale statistics. Oh… And these….”, he continued, handing , me something very small and shiny. “…you have to leave that T and the shorts here at the centre as they belong to them, and the masters don’t want to be billed extra. So they sent these standard uniform shorts for you… Hurry up and strip off and get dressed, and we’ll be off.”

Well, this didn’t all sound too bad. I always indulged myself with expensive trainers, as I spent a lot of time exercising and thought that cheap knockoffs just weren’t worth risking my muscles for. If they were prepared to spend that much on a slave, for his exercise, perhaps things would turn out all right.

Mind you, there were no socks – I had to put the trainers on bare foot. And when I pulled on the shorts, they were obscene! Look, I understand that there’s no harm in showing off a man’s body, especially when he’s a slave. I mean, look at how guys spend a fortune on swimming trunks and Speedos so that they can cut a good figure at the beach or pool. But in some ways it was worse wearing these shorts than it was to be naked! They were just designed to titillate and excite anyone looking at me, to make them salivate at the thought of what was being concealed. They were like that sexy underwear you see in the stores, that is designed to make you come over all lustful if your girl friend wears it… Yes, that’s it: the shorts were the male equivalent of that!

For a start, the fabric – a thin, shiny white satin-like material. It clung to my body, and was translucent, rather than opaque. So the dark patch of my pubic hair could be seen quite clearly – that is if you weren’t looking at the outline of my dick that was perfectly clear because of the cut of the things. They were “tailored” so that when I pulled them on, as high as I could so that they were almost cutting into that sensitive area underneath my balls, the waistband was still so low that the top of my clipped pubes sprayed over the top of it, and at the back the start of my ass crack was openly on display even just standing upright, and not bending over. They clung to my ass like glue, and had the back seam done so that it rode down into my crack and my ass cheeks were individually clearly delineated. But at the front they were looser, except that they had a fly opening without a zip or any other fastening – just a tiny overlap. At any moment I felt that my dick and balls could easily fall out.

I stood there, tugging at the waistband and at the obscenely short legs (if my dick didn’t fall out of the fly, I felt it might poke out from the legs!), trying futilely to get more coverage.

Gary grinned at me, and said “We all feel like that at first, Steve… But don’t worry! You won’t often fall out of them…. And it means that a lot of time-wasters don’t bother to have you strip – they can see mostly what they’re getting, and move on if it’s not suitable! Now, strip off that T, as it belongs ere, and let’s go…”

I pulled the T over my head, feeling little twinges of discomfort as my belly, pecs and shoulder muscles moved under their new tattoos, and looked at Gary. He saw what I was after, and said “Oh no, we don’t get Ts or anything – just shorts. I’m always a bit ashamed, personally, as I’m only slightly built – but you’re OK – a hunk like you, muscled like that – those tats really suit you. And without a shirt your collar and cuffs are much more prominent…”

“Hey, about that… Why do you only have a nose ring and a collar and I’ve got this extra junk…”  “Oh come on, Steve, isn’t it obvious? No one thinks I could fight back or anything, so I don’t need ankle and wrist cuffs. But you…. Well, even if you are gentle as a lamb, you look pretty tough and fierce with all that manly hair over you, and those muscles…. They’ll almost always want you ‘gently restrained’, as the brochure says…”

I went to ask him what all this shit was about, but he just shouted “Come on, let’s go fast, so as not to be late… I don’t want to be spanked again…”, and ran off, signalling for me to follow.

It wasn’t that hard, actually – as I’ve said, I’m used to exercising and working out, and I’ve got good long legs, and a good lung capacity, so running is one of my favourite pastimes. I could easily keep pace with the slighter, shorter Gary as we ran along the sidewalks towards the city centre. I could easily ask him more questions, as I was well within my limits. But he was obviously straining, to go as fast as he could, and it didn’t seem fair to make him use his breath for talking: mind you, I did wonder what kind of punishments there were, and how freely they were handed out, to make him run quite as fast as this when he was clearly outside his comfort zone.

I’m used to it now, of course, but that first time I ran, almost naked, through downtown it felt so odd. In spite of my embarrassment about the shorts we were both perfectly “decent”, I suppose, and I guess that in the past I’d noticed that the summer uniform of the municipal employees sweeping the streets and so on was just shorts. But it was autumn now, and going colder, so we were the only ones just in shorts now on the streets, and the only ones running. And most slaves were only discretely tattooed with their owners’ names and their SINs, whereas the words “Gary” and “Steve” positively shrieked out at the passers by from our bodies. Or, of course, it could just have been that people enjoy seeing guys in good shape exercising. Whatever the reason, though, I felt constantly embarrassed – especially when a load of slaves working on one of the construction sites whistled at us as we ran past!

We went right down town, and fortunately there was one of the special slaveways between the regular sidewalk and the roadway, to facilitate the passage of slaves on business for their owners, so we could keep going without any fear of jostling pedestrians, or of getting in the way of the traffic. Gary slowed in front of one of the biggest and most prestigious office towers right in the centre, and said, haltingly, his breath coming in big pants “We’re here.”

I went to go in through the doors, but he grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me back. “Are you mad, Steve? This is the public entrance – slaves have to use the side door! That security guard would whip your ass as soon as looking at you if you go into the normal lobby when you’re not accompanying a free man.

It had honestly never occurred to me before that segregation like that might be practised, but Gary went on “And be careful on the subway and the bus, too, if you’re told to take one – always get in the slave area, however crowded it is and however empty the ‘free men’ part is. A lot of freemen will complain to the guard or driver instantly if they have to mingle with slaves, and public transit employees can punish slaves, you know.”

Well, I didn’t know! But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I hadn’t really seen a lot of slaves around as I went about my business – perhaps that was why, they were all mostly segregated from us, except when they were directly working in the same area.

In contrast to the soaring ten-story atrium in stainless steel and glass of the public entrance, the slave entrance was just a small metal door in the side alley. Inside, Gary told me we’d better run up the ten flights to “our” floor, as there was only one slave elevator and this could take for ever to journey up and down the building. The staircase was just like fire stairs – concrete, grey, and ill-lit, and even I was out of breath a bit after ten flights. We emerged into a reception area, with a young male slave sitting behind an impressive reception desk. On the wall behind him, the sign said “Slaves For Your Pleasure, Inc.”, and then, in smaller letters, “Serving the needs of the traveller for over ten years.”

[columns] [span3]


Pete Brown – the interview with the author



Pleasure Slave (all chapters)



Overview Pete Brown stories



Kinky Art by Theo Blaze