A story written by Pete Brown. (Part 1 of 21).
I suppose I knew I would be sold as a slave the moment the judge handed down the sentence – after all, anyone convicted and sentenced for more than five years imprisonment has been sent straight off to the auctioneers ever since they passed that law about ten years ago, to save money on the prison service. But in my case it was fucking unfair – I didn’t take part in the robbery or anything, and I was only guilty, if I was guilty of anything, of being fucking stupid in agreeing to let my old college buddy hole up in my apartment when he came there one night with his companions. He told me they were just “passing through” and were tired and didn’t want to drive on, and it didn’t even seem strange when I turned on the TV he next morning and heard about the armed gang that had raided the security van for the local plant’s wages – after all, we’d been roomies in college, and you don’t think guys you know could be robbers, do you?
The police shot and killed all three of them when they left later that day, but there had been a considerable man-hunt and they traced their tracks back to my apartment and me. I told the officers I had no idea they were criminals, but they just laughed: how could they have picked my place to hide out in at random? And didn’t I know the leader from college? So there I was, tried and convicted as an accessory, with a sentence of ten years with no remission.
My lawyer told me that they’d stopped giving “time off for good behaviour” as it was no longer necessary – all long-term prisoners were sold as indentured servants now, and a prospective owner needed to know how long he had the guy for. “And”, he pointed out, “All indentured servants behave well anyway, so giving time off for it would be pointless. We used to have to give time off to keep prisoners in overcrowded jails under control, but an owner has more of a one-on-one relationship with an indentured servant and so discipline isn’t usually a problem: especially since the Supreme Court ruled that it wasn’t a ‘cruel and unusual punishment’ to use paddles, tawses and whips on indentured servants who were not performing properly”.
No appeal, of course – my lawyer said it just wasn’t worth while, in view of the evidence against me. And the higher courts now had the policy of increasing sentences when they thought that the appeal had been bought frivolously, as my case would appear. “Let me give you some advice, Steve”, he said at our last meeting. “Just accept it. Shit happens. Sometimes an innocent guy may get convicted, but we have a much more stable society now that we ever did before. Just think of yourself as helping to keep our great country great. And it probably won’t be so bad – a fit young healthy guy like you can survive this, and you’ll still only be 38 when you’re free – still lots of time to build a life, get married, settle down….”
So that was that. I was going to be sold as an indentured servant. But there’s something different about “knowing” something like that intellectually, and actually having it happen to you. The sense of unreality is heightened by the fact that they give you five days to sort your life out before you have to report to the auctioneer’s place. Five days to sell your stuff or get it put into storage, five days to say goodbye to your family and friends. Five days to… Well, to do whatever you want. Some guys try to escape, of course, but in our society that’s not easy: without a driver’s licence or anything you can’t work or get credit or buy food, and the moment you have to produce ID or use a credit card, the alarms go off as everything’s on-line. You can’t get a plane out for the same reason, and there’s no real advantage in trying to cross into Canada or Mexico on foot, as those countries no longer offer any asylum at all for fleeing felons as they value their relationship with our country too highly – indeed, they send you back, and then your sentence is automatically doubled.
So I sold most of my stuff, gave some of it to my buddies for safe keeping, and was surprised to find that there were even special kinds of bank accounts that I could open so that the tiny bit of money I had would be kept safe until my release – the banker explained that there was no way it could be touched at all until my sentence was complete, so that there was no risk that my owner would be able to force me to withdraw it and give it to him. “It’s one of the many ways the Government has tried to make it humane for you guys”, he told me. “They don’t want you to be destitute when you’re freed, as you might go off and commit other crimes. So this way you have your current capital, plus the interest, plus the yearly payment from your owner: the thousand dollars a year an owner has to pay each indentured servant, so that he has a little nest egg when he’s free.”
Well, that was that, then. And on my last night of freedom I went to a bar with some of my buddies, and we got fairly smashed. Some of them even thought about getting together and buying my contract, but, like me most of them were pretty broke and the law didn’t allow for loans to be raised for the purpose of buying indentured servant contracts. With my apartment gone, I slept that last night on the couch at my old buddy Rob’s place, and in the morning I was in a pretty bad way – those “few beers” had turned into a lot of beers! As he pulled the blanket off me, I groaned as the light stabbed through my eyelids and I sat there with my head in my hands, not so much from despair, as the fact that several little men with hammers seemed to have taken up residence in my skull.
Rob commiserated with me, and insisted I drank some coffee and ate some toast, as he pointed out that it might be a long time before I was fed. The way he said that started to strike home to me that everything was about to change – I mean, when you’re hungry you grab a sandwich, or call for a takeaway, don’t you? Now Rob was indicating that I’d need to wait until someone decided to feed me… And then, after I’d showered, Rob tossed a pair of thin old Jeans and a threadbare T into the bathroom. “Look, Steve, I know you had a reputation for being a bit of a fancy dresser, but there’s no point in going down to the auction house in anything expensive, as they won’t keep it for you. I’ll have your kit cleaned and stored with the rest of your stuff, and when you come back to us, it will be waiting… Except that I expect the fashions will have changed a bit! But leave your watch, old buddy, and your class ring…. I don’t think most owners let indentured servants have things like that.”
We had to drive thirty miles to the next town, as our town didn’t warrant an auction house of its own. We drove along almost in silence. I mean, what was there to say, really? It all seemed so inevitable. I was still pretty pissed off by the way I’d been “processed” by the system for something that wasn’t my fault, but, equally, I could see no way out if it. Rob said he’d come in with me in case there were any last minute things he could help with, and we went through the doors of the place. I’d never been in an auction house before. Not only did I not have enough money to buy an indentured servant, but, I suppose, somewhere, deep down, it didn’t seem to me that the concept of virtual slavery fitted well with the basic ideas of our Constitution for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness!
Some guys I knew at college used to go along to look at the young women slaves – there I’ve done it. I guess I’ve been avoiding using that term and sticking to the formally accurate “indentured servant”. But everyone really calls an indentured servant a slave, as in fact that’s what he is – a purchaser of an indentured servant contract has all the rights that an old-time slave owner had over the guy, to make him work, punish him…. About the only thing he can’t do is cause permanent mutilation, or death (although a contract owner could apply to the Court for both of these, if the indentured servant is persistently disobedient, or tries to escape too often).
Anyway, as I was saying, some of my buddies used to go along to look at the young women offered for sale, and would come back sniffing their fingers and laughing about the “inspections” they’d done on them. It seemed pretty feeble to me – I mean, who needs to go and humiliate some poor young woman, and finger them, when there was so much real, proper sex on offer? Personally, I’d never had any problem in getting a woman into bed, and so I suppose I had no need of these pathetic games.
So I had no idea what an official indentured servant auctioneer was like, and as we went through the imposing entrance into the marble reception area, I looked around with interest – it was like the glossiest, plushest corporate offices I’d ever seen. Judging from how she was dressed – or only half-dressed, I suppose – the woman behind the reception desk must have been a slave herself. “Good morning, gentlemen…. If you’ve come for the sale, I’m afraid you’re a little early as it doesn’t begin until noon. But of course you’re very welcome to go and inspect the stock coming up for auction later – would you like a catalogue?”
“No, thank you”, Rob replied before I had a chance to say anything. “I’m just here with my buddy, who’s got to report here to be auctioned himself….”
Her attitude changed at once. “This is the buyers’ entrance, sir. All stock must enter through the goods entrance, around the back.”. She lowered her voice, and went on in a quieter tone “Your friend had better get out of here quickly, sir. If any of the managers see a servant in this place, both he and I will be punished…. Please, take him around the back…. Quickly.”
She was so evidently terrified about what might happen that Rob turned and gestured for me to follow him. As we walked along the outside of the building I started to feel a chill creep over me – I mean, I knew slaves could be punished, but that woman had seemed genuinely terrified of it. I talked about this to Rob, and he tried to reassure me. “Look, Steve, if you read the papers you know that sla… servants… can be punished. There are always those picture spreads of when really disobedient ones have been taken to the public punishment officer and whipped in the town square. And I guess some owners use the paddle or tawse in private if a sla…. servant really doesn’t obey. I mean, standards have to be maintained, don’t they? And what else can an owner do when a guy’s disobedient? But I don’t think you have to worry about that sort of thing, do you? I mean, it must be obvious, even to you, that keeping your head down, obeying your owner, working hard…”
“What do you mean, Rob? ‘Even for me…’?”
“Look, Steve, we all know you can be a bit of a hot head, and you’ve got a rebellious streak… Always testing the limits. But you’re also bright. Surely you can see that you’re going to have to curb all of that and just knuckle down and really work hard and obediently, and not attempt to ‘cross’ your owner in any way. If you just do as you’re told, work hard… There won’t be any need for any punishment at all, will there?”
I’m not sure any of this was really helpful. He was right – I hate taking orders, and I always argue if someone says something stupid. But there was no time to talk further, as we were at the much more utilitarian “goods entrance” – a plain door, and inside, a counter behind which was a tough-looking guy in a security guard’s uniform.
“Strip off”, he snapped, without even waiting to hear what we wanted.
“Hey, bud!”, Rob almost shouted back. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. I’m just here to escort my buddy Steve….”
“Sorry, sir. It’s just that I’m expecting several new servants today, and most guys come in alone.”
“Well, I’m helping my old buddy Steve out. So a little more civility, please.”
“Sorry, sir”, the guard grinned. He scanned down a list on the desk, and said “Is this Steve Masters, then?”
“Yes, that’s me….”
“Shut the fuck up, boy! You’d better learn that slaves like you only speak when they’re spoken to.”
Turning to Rob he went on “Now, sir, as I was saying, this is Steve Masters, then?”
“Yes, he is.” As he said this, I felt like punching the guard out. He was totally ignoring me, as if I was no longer a man but some sort of object. And now Rob was going along with it.
“Hey, Rob, I can speak for myself…..”, I was saying, as the guard came around from behind his desk, and just touched me with a stick he was carrying. Even as I fell to the floor, screaming, I knew I’d been “prodded” – there had been a lot of stories about the use of cattle prods on indentured servants a few years ago, when the American Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Slaves had taken a case all the way up to the Supreme Court. But they’d failed, as you might expect, as the bastards who introduced the Indentured Servant provisions into the law had specifically legislated that during the period of indenture a man was no longer a man, and thus the provisions of the Constitution could not be applied to him. There was only one dissenting Justice in the opinion, and now I had felt the effects of this.
“As I said, boy, keep your mouth shut unless you’re spoken to!”, the guard growled. “This here is only set on half power, as I get a lot of slaves coming through who need an initial lesson in proper behaviour. Now, unless you want another taste, get up and stand quietly!”.
Turning to Rob, he carried on in that kind of exaggeratedly polite voice that all those in service industries have been trained to use with customers “Do you want to stay with him until he’s properly entered, sir? If you’ve come all this way down with him, you could stay and take away his clothes…”
“No, we don’t want those – they’re pretty old.”
“Very well then, let’s waste no more of your time, sir. You… Boy…. Strip off.”
He looked at me as he said this, and I looked back, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.
“Boy, I told you to strip! You’d better learn to obey first time, else you’ll be in trouble sooner, rather than later. Do you want another taste of the prod? Now, get out of those clothes – we process all new servants naked.”
So, as the guard and Rob watched me, I slipped off the sandals Rob had given me, let the thin Jeans fall to the floor, then pulled the T over my head. I stood there in front of them both, in the white cotton briefs I usually wore, and waited. It felt so odd – I mean, Rob and I had know each other for a long time and we were used to seeing each other changing for sport, but wearing only these thin briefs when he was fully clothed, and this guard guy was there, was somehow really odd. I almost felt myself start to blush, although why I should be at all embarrassed, I don’t know – I mean, unlike a lot of guys my age I hadn’t started to put on any flab or anything. I had a pretty strenuous job in construction, and in my spare time I did a lot of cycling, and running.
I’d nothing to be ashamed of, and I knew that most guys envied my lean, muscular build and the way that my thick wiry black hair fell so properly into place – a neat ‘treasure trail’ across my flat belly, a nice thatch on my chest,…. Still, it did feel odd, to be standing there almost naked in this semi-public place with two clothed guys, and even Rob seemed to be looking at me differently.
“Didn’t you hear me?”, the guard snapped. “I ordered you to strip. Are you stupid, or something? Get those fucking briefs off, before I show you another one of our little training devices, the paddle….”
Well, what was I supposed to do? I pushed my thumbs under the elastic of the waistband, and let them fall to the floor. Then, quite unconsciously, I gave my dick a little “flip” to release it from where it had been pressed into my balls – I mean, you do, don’t you? It’s almost like a reflex. But then I really did blush, as I knew that both Rob and the guard had seen me. Well, at home, it’s OK, isn’t it? And in a public changing room, you usually turn around so that your back is to the other guys, don’t you?
I stood there, one foot slightly in front of the other, and resisted the temptation to cover my dick and balls with my hands. I always think that looks stupid when guys try to do it, especially when they’re with other guys. I remembered that on Rob’s stag night we’d stripped him and pushed him out from the private room we were in to the general bar area, and he’d pranced around clutching at his tackle as if he was ashamed of it! Both the guard and Rob were looking at me, though, and they just stared.
“Very nice”, the guard said to Rob. “We don’t often get them in such good shape as that! You’re a lucky guy to have had that next to you! I bet you’re going to miss not having a body like that in bed….”
I thought Rob was going to hit the guy! “One more suggestion like that, and my lawyers will be suing you and your employers for defamation! I’m a happily married man, and Steve here is only interested in the ladies, too.”
“Sorry, sir. No need to get upset. But it’s a natural mistake, when one guy brings another in, as you have. Still, it’s a pity he’s one for the ladies…. With an ass like that, I expect he’ll be bought by an owner with a proper appreciation of the male form, if you see what I mean….”
“I don’t do sex with guys….”, I broke in.
“I told you to keep silent!”, the guard snapped back. “And, in any case, you’re wrong. What you should have said is ‘I used not to do sex with guys…”. In future, you’ll do whatever your owner wants. And what do you think someone will want a guy with a hard, sexy body like yours for, anyway?”
“Well, to work… You know…. Work.”
“Boy, slaves address free men as ‘sir’, always…. Unless they want punishing. Try again….”
I looked at Rob as the guard said this, and all he could do was kind of nod in agreement. I remembered that Rob employed a firm of contractors to do his lawns and stuff, and they were all slaves, and it then occurred to me that Rob must be used to this idea of the proper form of address, slaves nearly naked, and so on. There didn’t seem to be anything for it, thought, so, trying to keep the note of defiance out of my voice, I muttered “I suppose they buy them to work, SIR.”
“Get real! Buying a servant at auction is really costly. An owner will end up paying much more for a stud like you than he’d ever have to pay in wages for a labourer. The only reason people pay money for good-looking indentured servants is so that they have control… There are so many things you can get an indentured servant to do that you can’t pay an employee for, if you see what I mean…. Now, if I had the money, I’d jump at the chance to own your ass for some time, to be able to fuck it whenever I wanted….”
“Well, I don’t do that….” He glared at me, raised his prod threateningly, and I muttered “I don’t do that, SIR”.
“Oh, but you will! We offer new owners a full training package here, and you’d be amazed how the attitudes of the stock changes when it’s been on one of our little programmes….”
As he said this, he half laughed at Rob. “Don’t you worry about your buddy, sir. Once he’s been properly trained, he’ll be a real pleasure to everyone – women and men. When he comes back to you, you’ll be surprised at how co-operative he will have become….”
“I’ve told you, I’m happily married….”
“Oh yes, sir. A lot of guys say that. But most of us want to at least experience our best buddies, don’t we? Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to be able to play with this one’s dick? Or to have him take yours in that mouth of his – with that strong, square jaw, I bet he’d really know how to pleasure a guy….”
“How dare you! Now, shut the fuck up, before I complain I’ve never heard of anything so outrageous….”
Although Rob sounded angry, I couldn’t help notice that as the guard was speaking he’d been eyeing my body up and down, as if he was speculating about what I would be like for sex! There’s never been anything like that between us, of course – in our set, we don’t do sex with slaves; well, some of the guys do, I think, but they don’t brag about it to the rest of us, and I’d always supposed it was with female slaves, anyway.
Rob broke off in mid sentence, and continued “Mind you, I can see what you mean. He really does have the kind of body you see all the time in porno movies and so on, doesn’t he? And I suppose it’s relatively unusual for a nice looking American guy like him still to have a foreskin – I think he is – or rather was – probably the only guy at our sports club like that…. I suppose that increases his rarity value?”
It all seemed rather dream like. I’d listened to Rob and the guard and I couldn’t really believe what I was hearing. I mean, guys just don’t talk about fucking other guys, or sucking their dicks, do they – well, at least in my set they don’t: after a few beers when we’re all shooting the breeze we talk about real pussy. And being naked seemed to add to the unreality – there I was, in this semi- public place bare-assed naked, and with my oldest buddy and this guard standing there and talking about my butt, and fucking it, and discussing my dick!
As I’ve told you, I’m not really shy about my body, well, I’ve got no reason to be, but this was all somehow so very, very different from anything I’d ever experienced before. I suppose I should have said something, should have told that guard again that he must have it all wrong. Sure, he looked pretty menacing when he’d told me to shut the fuck up, but I’m not afraid of a fight, either – if he’d spoken to me like that in a bar, he’d have been in for trouble! But when you haven’t got your clothes on, and when the guard has a prod that can hurt you, it somehow changes you – it’s almost as if the act of making a guy strip starts the process of making him subservient to you. So I’d just stood there, listening in amazement. But now they seemed to be finishing.
The guard just shrugged, finally, and said to Rob “Well, even if you don’t want that ass, sir, I’m sure there are lots of buyers out there who will.”
He pressed a button on the desk. There was a “click” as a door opened, and he motioned me to go through it. I walked slowly across the floor, feeling the thermoplastic tiles cold against my bare feet. As I went through it, into I knew not what, I saw Rob starting to bend down to pick up my discarded clothes.
Nothing really prepares you for the experience of being turned from a free man into an indentured servant – or slave, as I might as well call myself, as everyone else does. Having to strip before entering the auction house was only the start of it. As I went through the door Rob stood up and waved goodbye, and the guard snapped “Stand against the wall, hands behind your neck, until a handler comes for you.”
I went to argue with him, but he went on “Look, boy, I see a lot of guys coming in here. I reckon you’re one of the type that argues about everything, and doesn’t do as he’s told. Well, let me give you a bit of advice: just accept what’s happened to you, and obey! You’ve already tasted the prod once, and the handlers on this side of the barrier don’t have theirs turned down – if I were you, I’d do everything I could to avoid upsetting them. We’re used to dealing with uppity slaves here, and you’d better understand that it will do you no good – if you’re sent off for ‘special corrective training’, as we call it, you’ll come back obedient, believe me!”
“I’ve seen a lot of young, tough guys like you come in here, nice, decent guys, used to living their own lives for themselves, and they kick up a big fuss and don’t behave properly as a slave should. So they have to be sent to the special training school, and then when they come back… Well, it isn’t just the marks of the physical beatings on their bodies, as they soon fade away. Or even the scars that can be left if they were bull whipped to bring them into line. No, it’s the look in their eyes – there’s nothing there! They look kind of ‘vacant’, as if there’s no one still at home. There’s nothing left of the guy that went into training – all we have is a perfectly trained, utterly obedient slave, with absolutely no free will of any kind.”
“Now”, he went on, “You seem a sensible kind of guy: you wouldn’t want that to happen to you, would you? How long.’s your sentence?”
“Get used to it, boy. ‘Ten years, sir’. Say it!”
“Ten years, sir.”
“Good. Well, after ten years you want to get on with your life, don’t you? Pick up where you left off? Get back together with your buddies?”
“Yes, of course.” I saw him looking at me, not exactly threateningly, but almost in exasperation. So I added a “….sir.”
“Well then, you must avoid getting sent to the ‘re-education’ centre at any cost. If they sense that you’re always going to be ‘uppity’, they won’t hesitate – the guys there know how to break a man, how to turn him into a real subservient creature with absolutely no shred of free will left, as I’ve said. But if you seem to be a ‘good’ slave, then you might avoid it. Just do as you’re told, without question, and be properly respectful to everyone here – you can seethe away inside, hate it, whatever – but don’t show it. If you do, they’ll send you off for re-education, and that will be the end of you as the man you now know you are. Do you understand?”
“Look, boy, there you go! Don’t question. Accept. Just rely on my experience – I’ve seen a lot of nice young guys through here, and the smart ones – and I think you are smart – survive because they understand that we hold all the power. Now, I’ve probably said too much. Just do as you’re told, get against that wall, hands behind your neck, and wait!”
I thought about what he’d said for a moment, and I guess I could see the sense in it – I’d seen the occasional social servant around the place, and I’d always wondered why they seemed so dull and lifeless. I reckoned I probably could fool them, appear to obey, and avoid this ‘re-education’ – it would be hard, as I’ve got a bit of a short temper, but the guard seemed a genuine kind of guy, and what he was saying did seem to make some kind of sense. Perhaps I could get out in ten years still relatively “me”.
So there I was. Standing there, buck naked, and wondering what the fuck was going to happen to me. I soon found out – a physical exam, a really thorough physical exam. As the doctor prodded at me, took my blood pressure, listened to my heart, took blood and urine samples, and ran a portable X-ray machine over me, he seemed to be quite chatty.
“We do a good job here”, he told me. “We want those taking on your contract to be sure that they have a healthy servant – after all, they’re responsible for your medical expenses and everything in future, so they need to know before you leave here that there are no incipient problems with you. And it’s in your interests too, you know – after all, an owner who took on your contract and then found you were sick all the time would soon get really pissed off, wouldn’t he? Then he’d be tempted to ‘sell you on’ – but with a poor medical record who’d want to buy you? So you’d be sold, if a buyer could be found at all, at a very low price. And low priced sla… social servants get all the worst jobs – those where there’s a big risk of injury, or death… I doubt that you’d last out your sentence. They even use particularly sickly slaves for things like automobile safety tests, you know- it’s so much more accurate to use a real body in a simulated crash to check new safety features than it is to use a crash test dummy! ”
“Anyway”, he went on, “I don’t think you’ve got much to be worried about – providing there’s no problem when your samples are analysed, I’d say you were in excellent condition. And you’re pretty good looking – handsome, even. I bet you’ll be in some rich man’s bed almost as soon as you’ been offered for sale”
“Look, please – I don’t do things like that. I’m straight…”
“Boy, you’d better wise up. It’s not what you want, when you’re an indentured servant – it’s what your owner wants. Someone buys your contract, and then you do what you’re told! And why do you think someone would want to buy the contract of a young, fit guy like you? If they just wanted you to work it would be much easier to hire a normal employee, after all – if the economy turns down or something then, they can just fire the guy. Whereas if they buy your contract they’re stuck with you for the ten years: he’s got to continue to feed you, clothe you (well, in as far as you need clothes as a servant), and look after your medical bills, as I’ve explained. No, the only reason men consider taking on a contract like yours is for the control it buys them- you’re theirs twenty four hours per day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year. And you have to do as you’re told, in EVERY respect. And, of course, that usually means serving your owner sexually.”
“Look, sir, there must be lots of indentured servants – are you telling me all their owners want them for sex? ”
“Of course! Well, at least the good looking ones are all used for that. Where have you been all your life, boy? Look, it’s natural for one man to want to dominate and control another, isn’t it? That’s what millions of years of human evolution have bred into us, and a few centuries of so-called ‘civilisation’ isn’t going to completely mask it! So what better way of utterly controlling and dominating another guy than by owning him, totally – and then by showing that total domination by making him serve you in every way you can think of? Fucking you is probably the most complexly dominating thing that another man can do to you. And if you don’t want to be fucked, or don’t like it, so much the better. Your owner is demonstrating his total control over you even more! Look, it’s always happened – men marry because that’s what society wants them to do, but give them a chance, and even the straightest of straight guy wants to try pushing his dick into another guy – it’s perfectly natural, and to be expected, as I’ve told you. And the whole indentured servant set-up makes it easy: your owner is given the right in law to control you, and society doesn’t consider you to be a ‘man’, in the sense of a free man, any longer. A lot of women would object if their men folk started to fuck other men, but it’s different with an indentured servant – it’s almost expected. So you’d better get used to the idea – a nice body like yours is just crying out to be fucked, and you surely will be.”
“Anyway, we’ve finished here”, he continued. “Guard… Take this one off and carry on with processing him – I’m sure his tests are going to come out fine, and we don’t want to waste any time getting him on the block,..”
I wanted to carry on arguing with him, but I knew there was no point. I’ kind of read all those stories in the papers about the way some indentured servants were treated by their owners, and it sounded as if they were all true. What was going to happen to me? But it was too late to do anything about it now, I knew.
It was all very efficient – they were used to processing guys through their system. In quick succession they made me trim my finger nails and toe nails (have you even bent down to trim your toe nails with another guys watching, when you’re stark naked? Your dick and balls swing against your thighs, and you just know they’re looking at them, and at your ass). Then a barber cut my hair – not that I had it long, anyway, but I ended up with a really short crew cut, with my sideburns and the back of my neck sharply razored into a crisp line.
Then the part I found difficult to believe at first – the barber told me to open my legs as I sat there in this chair, and to put my feet up onto the arms. I felt totally exposed and humiliated like that, with my legs spread and my tackle all exposed, and when he went to start to run his electric clippers down there…. Well, I almost exploded. And then I felt the full power of a prod!
To be continued ….
Pete Brown – the interview with the author
Pleasure Slave (all chapters)
Overview Pete Brown stories
Other kinky artists