A short story written by Pete Brown.


Here we go again. It’s only six o’clock and they’re making us get up. We have to start work at six thirty and before then my mates and me have to queue up to shit, then they give us our breakfast – that vile slave chow, but it’s all we’ll get until we stop tonight and we need all the energy we get as we work so fucking hard in the icy cold temperatures. They let us dress first, though, if you can call it that: I suppose our work suits keep off the snow and cut the worst of the wind, but they’re deliberately not insulated as the idea is that we have to keep moving, have to keep working, or else we’ll freeze to death.

The ski resort we’re in has built a reputation on having us slaves here: it’s considered amusing to watch us work when you’re on holiday enjoying yourself. And see us they do – our suits are those one-piece skin-tight things that ski jumpers wear, specially designed to reduce friction in the air. The only difference is that the ski jumpers suits are in dark colours, whereas ours are transparent – yes, transparent: it’s like wearing a condom all over you. We’re stark naked under those things, except for the tiny (and I do mean tiny) ‘modesty pouches’ that just cover our cocks and balls. They let us keep our body hair and that does help a little bit with insulation I suppose (well it does for me as I’m a hairy guy with thick black wiry hair on my chest and belly, and arms and legs. It has to be kept trimmed around my pubes though as the modesty pouches are so fucking tiny – just a little triangle of sheer white silk held by strings around under your waistline, and up and through your ass crack). They’re the absolute minimum required to satisfy the law that prohibits total nudity, but you can clearly see the outline of my circumcised cock and my balls through the pouch and the suit.

Other than that we wear ski boots – they took a lot of care to measure me properly for those when I first came here as we wear them so many hours a day, seven days a week, and they are comfortable – heavy work gloves, and a ski hat. The hats are colour coded – normally they’re black to mach our boots and gloves, but on the days when we’ve been paddled or caned, we have to wear red ones: that’s to alert the skiers that if they want to they can come and see the punishment marks on our bums! We look quite good, I suppose – the black boots, ‘naked’ bodies, black gloves, and black ski hats – especially as we’re all so muscular and fit. Look, before I came here I had a good body, but working hard all day at these altitudes really builds you up: we all have big torsos as our lungs have adapted to the thinner air, and constantly walking up and down the steep slopes does wonders for the calf and thigh. We don’t get any alcohol or stuff like that, and all we eat is the chow so, we none of us have any body fat – in fact you could say that we could all be male models if we weren’t slaves.

So how did I end up here, you might ask. Well I was in my second year at uni, and every Sunday me and a few mates played football (soccer, to any American readers) on one of the ‘Olympic legacy’ pitches over at Stratford. Always the same team, all keen footballers and all pretty fit as we were in the premier amateur league and we usually got together in the week to work out and practice, too. We all got on well together, and as you do, when you’re mates, we didn’t mind calling each other names and stuff like that during the match. So I’m yelling across the pitch to my mate Soloman “Come on, you fucking nigger, pass it to me…”, as you do when the match is at a critical point and you can see an opening for a shot, when there’s a lot of shouting from the touchline and the police march on and arrest me! I told them – as did Soloman – that it was OK. He and I are team mates, and he doesn’t mind us calling him a nigger, as he’s from West Africa and black as the ace of spades – in fact he reckons it’s good as it shows we’re all so well integrated that we can be open about things like colour.

It’s illegal – has been for years of course – but no one minds when you’re mates. The police said it was “Racially motivated defamation in a public place” though, and seemed to be taking it unnecessarily seriously. Both teams tried to talk them out of it as it was all harmless, but they bundled me into their squad car and drove me away, still in my soccer kit. At West Ham police station they made me take off my boots and socks, but left me my shirt and shorts, then a couple of hours later I got to see the duty solicitor. He told me I had a hopeless case as the police had video of me ‘committing the offence’, and that although he’d be with me in court and would enter a plea of mitigation on my behalf because of my age and the fact that there had been no complaint from Soloman, I’d still be found guilty as the law had pretty strict definitions about the words you could not use, even as a friendly gesture.

I was kept in the cells overnight, and I gather my mates tried to see me but were turned away. Then on Monday morning I was taken to Stratford Magistrates Court, where the video was shown, and I was found guilty. And enslaved. Yes, that’s the mandatory sentence for that offence now. It was still only eleven o’clock when the slave transporter collected me and I was taken to the East London Slave Centre, in Whitechapel: it was that quick, I was in a daze and hardly understood what had happened to me. There was all the usual stuff there – I was made to strip, weighed, measured, given a thorough medical exam, and photographed. I’m no prude – I’m used to changing for football and the gym and stuff with my mates, but there’s absolutely no privacy there: all of us slaves, men and women together, were in one big line that shuffled around the centre as all this went on. It’s difficult, I can tell you, for a young guy like me not to get a hard on when there’s some good-looking bitch stark naked standing next to you, or having a vaginal examination by the doctor as you wait your turn with him.

They question you pretty thoroughly about your experience then. I was told that as I was only in my second year at uni there was no hope of any sort of “desk job” as a slave, as with the incredible unemployment these days you needed a degree to even serve behind a Post Office counter! So it would be manual work for me, unless I had some ‘speciality’ or was one of the very few selected as a sex worker – the interviewer made me stand up and display myself for him as he said this, which was pretty humiliating as he needed me to get hard in front of him. But then told me I had no chance as although I’m well hung, the demand for guys is not as high as it is for women: a lot of potential buyers of sex workers would apparently find my fit muscular body ‘intimidating’ in spite of my other attributes.

When he heard I was a footballer, though, he asked me if I played any other sports, and I told him I’d been skiing since I was a kid, and was pretty good at that. He noted it down but said that he doubted it would mean much. So I’d probably end up as a slave labourer in a German factory – when I looked surprised, he told me to get real. “Perhaps you don’t realise the state this country is still in after the excesses at the start of the century”, he told me. “We’ve got no industry left, most of the services we used to do to balance the national books have gone to the Far East, and so almost the only thing keeping the country afloat is the export of slaves like you – why do you think they’re so zealous in enforcing all the laws now? They need a constant supply of slaves to export, and the Germans are big buyers as their industry is very successful, and they have a ‘heritage’ of using slave labourers going way back to the second world war.”

I was auctioned that afternoon. They waste no time, as once you’re a slave there’s no appeal or anything like that. You don’t even get to say goodbye to your mom and dad, as the idea is that a slave has no place in society, has no relations any longer. I was on display along with a lot of others only for a couple of hours – they give you little strips of cloth to hang around your waist so you’re not totally naked as you stand there shackled to the floor of the auction room (although it’s a bit hard on the women, as that’s all there is to wear and they’re bare breasted, which causes problems for a lot of the guys, like me, as you’d expect). This French guy who came past me looking at his catalogue stripped my covering away, though, and began to handle my cock and balls. I told the him to keep his fucking Frog hands off me, he in turn called a guard, and that’s the first time I was punished – a hard slice across my bare bum with a cane (there have of course been lots of others since!).

You think it’s going to be OK when you go up on to the stage for the auction itself. I had my little strip of cloth back in place, and other than the fact that this girl behind me had her tits pressed into my back as we stood there in a close line, I thought it would be OK. But as I mounted the steps onto the stage and entered the bright lights, the auctioneer’s assistant pulled my cloth away so I was stark naked in front of the crowd, and half boned-up from feeling the tits against me a few moments earlier. The crowd laughed, and I heard the auctioneer say “Good looking buck, number one hundred and twenty six in your catalogue, ladies and gentleman. Good school record, formerly in his second year at university. A handsome specimen, as you’ll see, twenty two years old.”

That was it. That summed up everything they needed to say about me in order for the auction to get under way. It took less than two minutes before the hammer came down, I reckon, and I was led off the stage, another assistant used a ‘magic marker’ to write the buyer’s number on my chest and bare bum, and that was that.

It turns out it was the Frenchman who’d bought me. That comment about being able to ski had saved me from the German slave factories. I was made to stand there, naked, as he made arrangements for me to be shipped down to the ski resort in the Alps that he worked for.

The journey wasn’t all that great – I was packed into a transport cage – if you haven’t seen one, they’re only just big enough for a big bloke like me to sit on the floor with his knees bent, then I had to bend my body down so the lid could be closed and locked shut. I was still naked, and I suppose that’s just as well as the journey takes about twenty hours and you need to piss, don’t you? I reckon I was lucky to be in the top layer as the cages were loaded into the transporter lorry as at least I didn’t experience the piss from the five layers of cages above me, as I would have if I’d been on the bottom. The lorry made good time to Folkestone, and lorries with slaves in transit get priority onto the Eurotunnel trains, it seems. Then onto a TGV for the journey across France (probably the same trains I’d caught with my mom and dad when we went skiing, except now the slave cages were packed into the rear luggage wagons). It was fucking cold on the final leg when a local lorry took my cage up the mountain, and when I was uncaged I stood there shivering, painfully cramped from being confined for so long in one position, and desperate for something to drink and to eat as they made no provision for food and water as the journey was so relatively short it was known that a slave could survive without it.

The processing of me at the resort didn’t take long – I had to have my boots properly fitted, I was given my first meal of chow and a litre of water to drink, then I had to lie there as my name was tattooed right across my back, in huge letters. I looked in the mirror at the end of the painful progress and saw “Steve” there, and tried to tell them that wasn’t my name: I thought they’d got it wrong as there was a mistake with the Frogs not understanding the English documentation that accompanied me. One of the guards pointed out that at this station there were thirty slaves like me who worked on the pistes, and that skiers needed a ready means of identifying them in case they wanted to complain. They’d tried numbers, but had found names – especially short, relatively ‘international’ names as they had so many foreign skiers – were best. “Steve” wasn’t currently in use, and as all the slaves had different names to avoid confusion, I was now Steve. Actually I suppose it’s no bad thing – it helped me to get used to being a slave, as Steve was not, and never had been “free” as I once was; and it saved mom and dad embarrassment in case any of their friends might be skiing and saw a guy who looked a lot like, and shared a name with, their enslaved son.

So what do I do all day? Well, straight after our chow we pull on all our gear and we’re out on the pistes by six thirty. We put our skis on, and then one of the snow ploughs tows us up to the top of the pistes, with us hanging on to a rope. Obviously they don’t turn the lifts on for this, as it costs so much energy to do that. We ski down then, repairing the damage that the fucking careless skiers have done the day before – putting the safety net mesh fencing back on corners, straightening and replacing the piste markers, moving any branches or other debris that have fallen on to the piste, and all that sort of stuff. At the bottom we’re directed around the station to do heavy manual work that the machines can’t get in to do – clearing piles of snow from the entrances to the ski lifts, chipping away any ice that’s formed if the snow melted the previous day and re-froze overnight and all that sort of stuff. It sounds hard, and it is: but we all need to work really hard to keep warm. That’s the clever thing about our ‘condoms’ as we call our suits – there’s some protection from the worst of the weather, but no insulation from the cold. So either you work, or you freeze – no need for guards to supervise us, or anything.

Depending on where we are in the season, the lifts open sometimes as early as eight fifteen and at the latest nine fifteen. Because of the varying snow heights, it’s not always possible for the skiers to ski directly into the lift, and my job then is to act as a ‘tow facility’ for people who are too fucking lazy – or who don’t know how do it – to side-step up the small slopes into the lift. All day I tow someone up by their ski pole, then run down the few steps, and start again. It’s only at the most two or three metres, but over the day I find myself walking up hundreds of metres in total – and as any of you who have skied at two thousand metres will know, that’s especially hard work on the body.

It’s not too bad sometimes, especially if the sun is shining. And some of the skiers can be really nice – I like the classes of three and four year olds who always smile at me and say thank you (they hold each others poles and I pull up several of them at a time), and their moniteurs generally don’t mind walking up themselves and even talk a bit to me as they’re always around the station and know all of us slaves. Some of the older men and women aren’t too bad, either: they’re not all that fit and appreciate not having to clamber around at the altitude. The blokes and girls around my own age are terrible, though – they ought to be able to climb up themselves, and if they don’t know how to side-step, they oughtn’t to be out on the mountain! Some of the blokes don’t use me as it’s a sort of macho thing I guess, but those who do, and the girls, are always complaining and threatening to report me, mostly for absolutely no reason at all, just because they can! I’m “too slow” or “I looked at them the wrong way”, or shit like that. They read “Steve” off my back through the almost transparent “condom”, and some of them even key it into their mobile phones to remember it. Fortunately most of them don’t do anything about it as they’re too tired at the end of the day, or, of they do go to the bureau des affaires, the agent in there tries to talk them out of it. If I get three reports, though, it’s a spanking with the paddle, and six gets me a stripe with the cane – and both earn me a red ski hat the next day.

Just before the lifts close we go up to the top again, then ski down collecting any stuff that’s been left – ski poles, lost hats, that kind of crap that the careless skiers lose. And that’s it for the day – except that, of course, some of the skiers who went home early have bathed and changed and are now out at the bottom of the pistes looking for photo opportunities.

Look, all I want to do is to get back to our base and crash out, but they want photographs. They come looking for “Steve” if they’ve liked the look of me during the day, then they want me to stand there with my arms draped around them as their friends take pictures, or I have to pretend to be dragging them along, all that sort of stuff. I suppose it’s OK, and most of them are nice about it and want to give me a tip as they say I’m ‘friendly and helpful’, but of course they can’t – where could I keep it, in my ‘condom’? And even if I had any money, where would I spend it, as we’re not allowed in to the shops and restaurants in the resort.

It’s the parties of girls who are the worst, though – they like the look of my body and want sort of ‘trophy’ photographs for their rooms, and I guess on Facebook and places like that. So I have to stand there as they pretend to kiss me, or they stand behind me and peep past my body, as their hands cover my nips, or even my crotch, through the ‘condom’. The blokes can be tough, too – they seem to like to stand next to me and be photographed from behind, with their hands on my bum! Every night this nonsense goes on for about an hour when all of us are exhausted, but it’s part of the way this resort sells itself as they have pictures in the brochures and on the website of all thirty of us lined up, taken from behind, with the caption ‘Come and see the ski bums at our resort, in your Alpine paradise’. Ha fucking ha, I say, and the copy writer who thought up that word play must have thought himself really clever.

It may be a paradise for some, but not for us, I can tell you! And it’s a source of even greater humiliation for us, too: I’ve told you how we have to wear the tiny pouches and keep our pubes trimmed, but otherwise are allowed to keep our body hair – well, not quite! We also have to bend over and shave each other’s bum cracks once a week, as with so many skiers wanting pictures of us from behind, it’s considered that a hairy bum would be unsightly!

When we are finally let off we have to trudge up the slopes, about a hundred metres, to the garage where the piste machines are kept: you try that sometime, carrying your skis, at that altitude, especially when you’re absolutely knackered form the day’s work.

Once we’re in, though, it’s not so bad, I suppose. They give us our evening ration of chow, and we stand there bullshitting a bit with each other as we eat it. Then we have to clean our boots and skis, before we can strip off our ‘condoms’ and pouches and climb into the bath – they do care a bit about us, I suppose, as they know a shower doesn’t really warm up cold flesh after skiing. So there’s a big communal bath full of hot water (a by-product of the operation of the huge diesel generator that’s also in the garage, that runs as standby in case the public electricity supply fails and the lifts would stop). All thirty of us, naked, just lolling around in that fantastic heat – it’s a bit crowded, no, a lot crowded, but we’re all blokes together, after all, and none of us wants not to have this hot bath. So we all crowd in and all stay in as long as we can. I was a bit shocked on my first day there, but now I’m used to the naked cocks and bums of my mates all pressed around me.

After that it’s the punishment sessions -they call out the names of any of us blokes who have had too many bad reports, and the rest of us stand apprehensively waiting to see if our names are on the list. There’s a sort of frame there which you have to bend over if you’re up for punishment, bend over and grab your ankles, and then the guard swats you with the paddle or stripes your bum with the cane. Both really hurt, but the cane lasts longer. And even though it can happen to any of us, and does, all the others always jeer and laugh as we cry out in pain, and make remarks about our arseholes as we stand there humiliatingly exposed.

They look after us at night, too – after all, it can go down to minus twenty or thirty at altitude. They wouldn’t want to have to have to heat a dormitory, so there’s a sort of “nest”, a very well insulated low-ceilinged room next to the bath. We plane our bodies dry, then all crowd in and the door is shut and locked until the morning – the heat of our bodies in such a small confined space is more than enough to keep us comfortable all night, especially as we sort of constantly shuffle around so that none of us always has to be at the edge.

Look, I was a straight guy, had a girlfriend who I fucked regularly, and all that sort of stuff. But it’s a long night and there’s nothing else to do. And if you’re stark naked with thirty other blokes, young, fit, virile blokes at that, what do you think happens? Of course we have erections, and then naturally we do something about it – and why should you wank yourself when there’s someone else to do it for you? Or, even better, someone who likes sucking cock and who wants yours. You soon lose any inhibitions you had as a free man, and it turns out that most men, given the opportunities that we have, actually enjoy using another bloke’s body anyway. The first time I fucked a bloke it broke all sorts of taboos for me – fucking a man’s arse, fucking in public, and so on, but now it seems perfectly normal. Well, I suppose it is, after all – an erect cock is a pretty good fit in an arsehole, isn’t it. And it gives a lot of pleasure.

So that’s it until the cycle starts all over again, at six the next morning. All except on Saturdays, that is, which is changeover day and there are far fewer skiers in the station, and we have less work to do towing people about – although they then keep us busy with even more maintenance work out of the pistes.

The only other change we ever get is if the big hotel in the station has some sort of conference – a whole load of dentists, or accountants, or salesmen or some such who are really having a ski holiday but charging the thing to tax. They have to go to a couple of lectures, but the rest of their time is free or skiing. They usually have one ‘gala evening’ when they need a lot of waiters to hand around the drinks and canapes, and tired as we are, we get used. The standard uniform for this is our pouches, plus bow ties on a black ribbon around our necks – nothing else. It’s pretty humiliating, I can tell you.

They collect us in a small white van from our place and drive us down to the hotel, and we’re freezing by the time we get there, even though we’re all huddled together. The behaviour of most of the attendees is pretty disgusting – they soon get tanked up on the free alcohol and then want even more photo opportunities with our naked bodies – and it’s quite usual for them to strip off our pouches “as a lark” – it’s OK, as it’s not strictly speaking a ‘public place’. A few of the women – and a lot of the men if their mates dare them – like then to stroke us to erection, and have us serve them drinks like that. The only consolation in all of this is that we get to snaffle a lot of the canapes as we serve them and that makes a real change from chow. We daren’t drink any of the alcohol, though, as they breath test us when we get back to base afterwards

I’ve been here for four years now, and I reckon I’ve got another five left. I’ll still be in great shape then and well able to carry on, but the station reckons that the regular skiers who come there every year like to see ‘fresh faces’ (or is that ‘fresh bodies’?). And, they say, every one – men and women – likes to see young bodies almost totally exposed except for the modesty pouch (did I mention that one of the evening activities is to come and see us all in the bath – for a fee you can stand in a sort of gallery and photograph us, if you want to – the modesty pouches are only under our ‘condoms’ in the daytime). It’s reckoned that the ladies wouldn’t mind looking at older blokes – well provided they’re still fit – up to the age of forty, but the men get embarrassed by older men, so the cut-off is thirty. I don’t know what will happen to me then – with luck, I suppose, someone might buy me as a private ski guide.

Our ‘season’ at the station runs from December to April. We’re shipped in at the start of November, after the first snows generally, so we can do a lot of the grunt work preparing the pistes. And at the start of May, we get shipped down to Greece to act as galley slaves rowing pleasure galleys around the Aegean – no modesty pouches there, as we row totally naked and of course the passengers like to watch us, especially when we’re allowed to go up on deck and swim at the end of the day. But that’s another story.