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Well what happened the next morning was the same as what happened to me every day I was there – and I was there for about twelve weeks, I reckon (when every day is exactly the same as every other and you’ve got no way of keeping a record as all we “owned” were our slave shorts) – the guards came down the corridor at some ungodly early hour, running their night-sticks along the bars of our cells to wake us up. Then we had to line up outside the cells (and, like me, a lot of the guys visibly had their morning piss hard-ons still!).
They marched us outside for an hour of gymnastics in the early morning light, and it was not fun as it had been at school – this was real “work out” stuff, like they say they do in Marines boot camps. You know the sort of thing: push-ups until you think your arms are going to drop off, running on the spot, very fast with the requirement to raise your knees up to your chest every step, jumping jacks, then ten laps around the exercise yard then back to push-ups. The guards made sure you really worked at it, as there was always one of them there with a light cane which fell on your butt or your shoulders if they thought you were slacking. The leader of the exercises was a big nigga slave, at least six-six, who just didn’t understand that the rest of us couldn’t keep up the pace as he raced around the yard, and he ran up and down the line of us “encouraging” us with the cane.
By the end of an hour we were all totally exhausted, and I felt really sorry for the guys who didn’t start out as fit as I had – they had a really dreadful time of it, but they were not spared as one of the objectives was to burn off surplus fat (and a lot of young niggas tended to run to fat, probably because of their poor diet). Some of them could barely summon up the energy to drag themselves off to the showers, when we were given fresh shorts for the rest of the day, and then went into breakfast. It was funny at first, really, just to be wearing shorts whether you were inside or out, but that’s all we were given and after a time I suppose I ceased to notice the wind on my body or anything. The breakfast – like all the food – was good, though: a big bowl of oatmeal, followed by a bowl of cut-up mixed fruit, and a big beaker of milk. A lot of the niggas complained at first as they weren’t used to eating like this, as they always had a burger for breakfast, but it didn’t do any good: you were given your “ration” in your bowl, and you had to eat every scrap as they said that it was a slave’s duty not to waste the food your owner provided, and, anyway, you needed the energy to work hard.
After breakfast we had lectures and demonstrations in slave lore. At first I couldn’t understand why some of this stuff took so long to get over, as a slave stood there in front of us and lectured us and we had to recite stuff by rote – it would have been much easier to have read it, but a lot of the young niggas couldn’t read properly! We chanted over and over again things like “A slave obeys”, “I obey my owner”, “I will not waste my owner’s time”, “A bad slave deserves to be punished”, and “A slave keeps himself healthy and fit”. And in-between we had to practice the slave “positions”: the hardest for me was the “slave rest” – you know, the one a slave is supposed to drop into when he’s doing nothing else: feet apart, hands clasped behind his back at the butt, and the head down, with the eyes looking at a point about three feet in front of him. It’ so fucking boring, just to stand there like that with nothing to do, and they made us practice it for hours on end, with the guards and the trainer walking up and down making sure we didn’t move, not even to sway, and that we didn’t raise our heads. We were told we had to learn to be still and silent like this as if we were sold as servants our owners might like us to remain in the corners of the room until called on to perform some service, and that might mean standing still like that all evening so as not to disturb our owners.
“Display” is hard, too, after a time: keeping your hands clasped behind your neck, with your shoulders back and hips thrust out gets tiring, especially as you are still meant to have your eyes downcast even though your head is back. Of course I only discovered the reason for this when I was first told to assume this position when I was naked: your dick is nicely forward, convenient for your owner to feel, and your balls are swinging between your open legs. I couldn’t understand the reason for the first kneeling position, though, when you kneel there with your heels together, your knees apart, your back straight, your butt resting on your heels, and your head back with your hands clasped behind you on your butt. It only makes sense really of course when your owner is standing in front of you and wants to push his dick into your mouth with you completely passive and not even allowed to touch it at all. But I didn’t know that then (although some of the niggas evidently did, as they talked about it afterwards amongst themselves), and so I thought it was pretty pointless.
After that we usually exercised again, then had lunch (usually a lot of salads and vegetables with a small piece of meat or cheese), and then another classroom session – and woe betide anyone who was seen not to be paying attention and drifting off into a doze after lunch: those fucking guards seemed to have eyes in the backs of their heads, and their canes were ready to rain down on anyone not thought to be properly attentive. We finished the day with another mammoth exercise session after that, starting with a general “warm-up” as we’d done together in the morning, and then individual exercises for each of us: the fat guys were made to run some more, for example. But because I was judged to be properly lean and muscular, I was put onto a multi-gym so that I could “develop”: and, as ever, the guards patrolled up and down to make sure I really did work at it, and didn’t try to sneak some of the settings down to a lower level!
They gave us a thick stew with all sorts of meat and fish and stuff in it for dinner. One or two of the niggas objected at first to eating “flesh of unknown origin”, they said, as it was against their religion or something, but a few sessions with the cane, and even a light whip for one particularly stubborn guy, and they were soon cured of those fads. I suppose you can understand it really – an owner isn’t going to want to buy a slave who’s got things he will and won’t do just because he says it’s against his religion, so the sooner that superstition is beaten out of him, the better: its kinder for the salve in the long run, I suppose. And then it was off to bed, and most of us were just too exhausted to do anything but jerk off and go straight to sleep – the first night as I lay there with my dick aching I was ashamed to try to stroke myself to climax in case any of the niggas saw my bedclothes moving or heard that unmistakable “slapping” noise of hand against dick. But when I heard the noises of guys all around me doing it, I soon overcame that. After all, groups of men living communally all behave the same way, don’t they? – they all jerk off, and they all know all the others do it, but no one talks about it. Silly, really, as it’s perfectly natural.
The only thing that was different in all this time occurred on the first day, and then every four days, or so it seemed: with everything absolutely the same and with nothing to write with, it’s hard sometimes even to remember how many entire days have gone by.
The first day was the worst, I suppose. After we’d breakfasted they took me and the other new guys out away from the others and we had to wait in a corridor, lined up outside an office. When it was my turn to go in a guard was standing against the wall looking tough, and with his complement of whips and stuff hanging from around his waist. I decided not to upset him, if at all possible. Other than that there was a young guy, probably twenty two or three, behind the desk, with a pile of file folders. He took the one off the top and opened it, read briefly, said “Steven Masters?”
“Yes, I’m Steve…”
“Fucking slave, haven’t they told you that free men are ‘sir’?”
“Steve, sir… They call me Steve.” I said, looking nervously at the guard.
He told me to put my right arm on the desk, then as I sat in front of him, he strapped a metal thing with a power cord coming out of it onto the underside of my wrist. He consulted the folder again and fiddled with the box, then said casually “This won’t hurt really – it will be uncomfortable for a couple of minutes as the automatic tattooer does its job, but just stay calm and hold tight, understand? Try not to flex your wrist or anything as it spoils the finish.”
“Yes. Of course. All slaves have their Slave Identification Number, their SIN, on their right wrists so they can be identified. Everyone knows that! Where on earth did you grow up, boy? Now, hold tight….”
The thing strapped to me made an angry buzzing noise, and, well, it was more than “uncomfortable” but it didn’t actually hurt so much that I couldn’t bear it. The underside of your wrist’s pretty tender and it was “unpleasant”, shall we say, but it was only for a minute or so, and then the guy was unstrapping the thing from me. He got a tissue and some fluid from a squeeze bottle, held my hand down, and with the other rubbed away at my wrist – and I winced and howled as the fluid must have been antiseptic, or alcohol, or something, as it stung viciously where the tattooer had punctured my skin. But as he washed away the blood that was oozing out, I could see in characters about three quarters of an inch tall, in thick, black type, 24601 staring up at me from my skin.
“Remember that, it’s your SIN”, he told me. “A lot of masters catalogue and control their slaves by it: if you’re on a big plantation, they’ll probably call the roll and issue your daily orders just using your SIN, as it’s too much trouble to name slaves on places like that.”
I think it was the completely routine nature of this process that was upsetting, and not just the thought of being marked like this as if I was some sort of object. And the thought of now being indelibly “numbered”, and that they might not “bother” with a name…. They were taking away my humanity, starting to turn me into something else. That young guy, who looked as if he was bored out of his mind, evidently did this day after day to guys, and I suppose girls, and thought nothing of it. It was normal, routine, something he did for a living, something totally accepted and acceptable to treat slaves like this. But for me it was completely dehumanising and I felt that I’d taken another step on the road to becoming something else, a slave, rather than a person.
With my wrist still sore and stinging from the tattoo, I had to wait whilst the other guys were done and then we had the only other part of our routine that differed from day to day: the four day shave. Look, I’m a pretty virile guy, but at sixteen even I didn’t need to shave every day. But they decided that every four days we ought to do so, to keep us looking neat and tidy. So after we’d showered, they ordered us to shave, but there were no mirrors or anything, so you had to stand there and shave another guy. It was odd – it’s all the wrong way around, as you get used to shaving in reverse in a mirror. But even odder was the fact that you have to stand really close to another guy if you’re going to use a razor on him, and as you do, and you’re both naked, you just can’t help brushing his body with your dick, or having his dick touch you as you move around. I’d never felt another guy’s skin against my dick before, and it was somehow vaguely erotic – all eight of us standing there naked, warm and moist from the shower, and most of us at least semi-erect. Mind you, none of us wanted to talk about it, and it was as if we just ignored it as we manoeuvred around each other.
So life went on, and about every week the guards would come through us, look at the ones who were considered to be “ready”, in that they’d lost enough weight, or put on enough muscle, and then these guys were taken off for sale. After I’d spotted that this was what was happening, I was expecting to be taken myself quite soon – I’d never been overweight as I was a jock, and after a couple of weeks of the strenuous exercises we did, I knew that my body was in even better shape than before I went there. And the guards could see it, too, as on these “!inspections” they’d make me ball my muscles and so on, and I could see that my number was being written on their clipboards along with the other guys ready for sale. But nevertheless, week after week, when we were all lined up and the numbers of the slaves to be taken off to the sale were read out, mine never came up! Time went on, and all the guys that I’d been with initially had long gone, together with a whole lot of guys who had arrived long after me, but still I was there. No one explained, no one ever aid anything, I was just left.
As I said, it was difficult to know for how long, as I had no way of recording the passage of time, but it was certainly weeks and weeks – I noticed the autumn tints coming on to the trees that surrounded the place. I went through that thing that all prisoners must go through – at first, everything was new and vaguely scary as us new boys had to adapt to the routine of the place, and then, just as things were running smoothly, most of them were taken off for sale. But for me the routine went on and on, and on and on, and it got at first very, very tedious, and then just dull and repetitive. They didn’t allow us TV or radio or newspapers or anything as they said it did us good to be “away from the things we knew” as it helped us adapt to our new lives, so there was absolutely nothing to do except follow their routine, and chat to the other guys. And even that got boring after a bit – sure, here was a constant supply of new guys arriving, but I soon learned that they couldn’t be real “buddies” as they would probably disappear in a couple of week, whilst I was still stuck there. And they were suspicious of me anyhow – in that sea of black bodies in the showers, I was the only whitey and that seemed wrong to them. And once they found out that I’d been there for weeks and weeks, that seemed even more wrong: I nearly got beaten up on several occasions as some tough niggas said that I was getting special privileges as I was a whitey, and therefore needed to be taught a lesson. Fortunately the guards broke up those kind of scuffles as soon as they started, but in some ways that made it even worse: they then said I must be some sort of snitch, spying on them for the guards, which is why they protected me (actually it was because they didn’t want “the goods” to get damaged!), and so then they’d just totally ignore me.
So mostly I was bored, bored, bored. And about the only thing I could do to relieve the boredom was to work especially hard at the exercises, and then at night to jerk off, usually several times! But, as I said, I guess all prisoners ultimately adapt, and after some weeks I found I could almost switch off from the mind-numbing boredom and repetition, and just let it all happen around me, with my body functioning almost automatically. I thought about all my old buddies, and about dad of course, but I almost ceased to wonder what was going to happen to me as the weeks slipped by and I was never selected to go off to the sales.: it didn’t matter, anyway, as there was absolutely nothing I could do to change things, one way or the other.
A prisoner on death row who’d dodged his execution for months or years must feel a bit like this, I suppose: living the prison life becomes the norm, and you just don’t expect that it can finally happen and things will change. So at first when my number was called out at the weekly “selection”, I didn’t pay any attention – I’d got to that point when I just knew I was never going to be selected. So I gave a scream when a guard slashed my across the butt with his paddle, and told me to step forward with the others who’d been chosen that week.
I was almost in a daze as I realised I was going off to be sold at last – and then I started to worry. I mean, I’d heard the niggas talking about god-looking men being sold as sex slaves, and even if that didn’t happen, the life of a draft slave, or a farm worker chained naked in a coffle, didn’t sound all that good. “You’ll be OK”, one of the niggas had told me “There’s a lot of white bosses who want a change from fucking dark meat, so you’ll fetch a high price, and that’s good.”
“Why should I care?”, I’d asked, and he’d explained that it was a simple matter of economics: if your owner had paid a lot of money for you, he had a real incentive to keep you fit and healthy to preserve your value, so you’d be properly housed and fed, given medical treatment if you needed it, and not worked into the ground. “Think of buying a car”, he’d said. “If you buy a new BMW from the dealer, you really look after it as you want to protect your investment. But if you buy a beat-up old heap from a cheap used car lot, you don’t care about it so you don’t have it washed, or serviced…”
Well, I could see the sense in that, I suppose, so I wasn’t too worried that I wouldn’t get a good owner. But I was terrified of this idea of being used as a sex slave – or a “pleasure slave” as I later found out such guys were described as in the dealer’s catalogue. I mean, I was only sixteen, and the thought of being a kind of toy for some old bitch really turned me off: I just couldn’t imagine having to fuck someone old enough to be my mother, or even my grandmother! When I mentioned this, though, the niggas around me fell about laughing. “Boy, a cute body like yours, a big dick, and that great ass you’ve got, it won’t be no white woman that will buy you: it will be a white man! Everyone knows that whiteys like ass, and the thought of being able to fuck young white ass, rather than go up a nigga’s hole, will drive them into a frenzy. You’ll make absolutely the top price at the auction, you see!”
As they drove us away from the training centre to the auction – they put collars around our necks that were locked with a small padlock, and then chained us together by the collar into a coffle – I just sat there in the back of the truck really gloomily. I didn’t want sex with men, and I didn’t want my ass used as a plaything for some rich guy, but there seemed to be nothing I could do about it: I knew I was a slave, slaves were sold to the highest bidder, and their owners then did with them whatever they wanted. The usual laws against forced sex and all that didn’t apply to slaves, who our society treated as if they were just animals – no, worse than that: you’re not allowed to have sex with animals. If my new owner wanted to fuck me, he would (he’d probably have guards and stuff, and anyway although I was strong, I was only sixteen and you just don’t have the strength to resist a fully grown man at that age). I just sat there, wondering what it would be like to have to suck a guy’s dick, or have it poked up me : I’d looked at some stuff on the Internet of course, and there seemed to be a lot of screaming and pain when you were fucked. It seems odd now, looking back on it, but it never occurred to me to even think about what it might be like to have a guy suck my dick, or to thrust it up his ass.
It was good to be able to see “life” again, though, proper life, with cars and stores and stuff as we went through the streets – the slave transport wagon we were in has a row of slits along the side to allow cool air to blow in, and you could see all that happening as we went along. Mind you, I couldn’t help thinking of those big transporters you see taking farm animals to market – when you go past them on the highway, you can just about see the heads of the sheep or cattle through the ventilation slits, and I guess that’s what we must have looked like to people outside.
They took us about fifty miles, to the next medium-sized town, and there we went right into the centre before pulling into an alley by the side of an expensive looking building. The transporter stopped and we all sat there until the doors were opened, and we were led out – it’s quite hard, actually, to jump down from a truck when you’re chained by the neck in-between two other guys. There was only one guard watching, but he had the usual complement of paddles, canes and whips hung from his belt, so I suppose they thought that we weren’t any kind of threat, being chained together – and of course they were right: there were fifteen of us, and there’s no way that fourteen chained niggas and a whitey, all of us clad in just a pair of slave shorts, could make a break for freedom.
Inside the building there was a featureless room, and we all stood there with the guard saying nothing, until another guy came in, with a clipboard. He came down the line of us as we stood there, and picked up our wrists to see our SINs and checked them off on the list on his clipboard. Once again, I felt just like a piece of goods, rather than a person, as he didn’t speak or anything, just grabbed our wrists, read the numbers, ticked them off on his list, and moved on. Once he seemed satisfied, he moved away so that he could see us all at one time, and said quiet quietly, but in a kind of bored way that suggested that he’d done this lots of times before “Right, you slaves, listen up. You’re here to be sold. This is the premier auction house in this part of the State, and we’ve got a good reputation, a reputation we intend to keep! So at the slightest sign of trouble from any of you, there will be swift and definitive action: you’re all familiar with the slave prod?”
We mumbled and nodded, and in an instant his whole tine changed “Fucking niggas! I thought you’d all been to slave school! You already deserve punishment for that sullen attitude you have. Now, when a free man asks you a question, don’t you know how to respond? I’ll ask you again – do you all know what a slave prod is?”
“Sir, yes, sir”, we all chorused.
“That’s better! The buyers who come here want to see enthusiastic, trained slaves on the block, and that’s what we aim to give them. Now, if there’s any trouble – any at all – or any disrespect, or any signs of any of you becoming uppity, we’ll prod you. Is that understood?”
“Sir, yes, sir”.
“Good. Now, we’ll process you in to our stock, photograph you for the catalogue, then you’ll be on display tomorrow morning, with your auction tomorrow afternoon. By tomorrow night you’ll all be safely shipped off to your new owners, all ready for your new life! Any questions?”
“Sir….”, one of my companions began.
“Shut the fuck up! You’re lucky I don’t order a prodding for you, as we don’t like uppity slaves here! You’re a fucking slave, remember? Slaves don’t have questions! Slaves listen, and obey. You wait until your owner tells you what to do, and then you do it. So how can you possibly have questions about what’s going to happen to you? It doesn’t matter, it’s of no concern to you. We will tell you all you need to know, we will process you, and that’s that.”
I listened to all of this, and even though we’d heard stuff like this before at our training sessions, this is the first time that I’d seen it in action – I realised I’d better be careful, and keep quiet as much as I could as I do like to know what’s going on!
“Right, let’s get started. Shrug those shorts – you won’t be needing them here!”
We stood there and did as we were told, and he ordered us to form a straight line, facing the door which led on in to the building. Oh shit, I thought – this is it, it’s starting to happen: he’s said we’re not going to be needing shorts, and yet we’re going to be up for inspection, and for sale. All of us were going to have to go through this entirely naked, having the buyers inspect us…. I wondered what it would be like to have to stand there totally exposed, and have men – and women – run their hands all over me as they could if they wanted to test my muscle tone, or even feel my dick! Was that what dad had had to endure, too? I just couldn’t help it – as I thought about that, and what it would be like to have someone’s hands on my body, I began to spring a wood.
Fortunately I was saved from the humiliation of boning up in front of the guy in charge and the guard (I suppose I’d got used to doing it in front of niggas) by the fact that they marched us through the door at that point, and in the next room we went through a kind of “tunnel” of showers, in line, all moving, as we were sprayed with shampoo and soap, and ordered to clean ourselves, and then rinsed thoroughly.
One at a time, then, they undid the collars that were holding us on to the chain, and in turn we had to go and stand against a big white wall that was ruled with a grid of black lines at one foot intervals. There was a camera set up in front of it, and the guy barked at us to “face the wall, hands to the sides, turn around… your back to the wall. Face left. Face right. Face the front. Arms out. Make a star..” (by the last, he meant that we had to make that sort of pose that you see in those old books, with a guy inside a big circle). And as he did this, there was the clicking of the camera shutter as it was all recorded – hadn’t he said something about a “catalogue”?
Evidently all the merchandise at this place could be viewed without the necessity of actually coming in to the sale rooms. I wondered how far these pictures would travel on the Internet – how many perverts would be jerking off as they looked at my young body with its dark black hair, strong young man’s muscles, and big dick? And no doubt it would be even more exciting as they’d know I was a slave, about to be sold with a whole lot of niggas, to whoever wanted to buy me.
As we were photographed we were taken and locked in a holding cage – not a bad one, I suppose, as there were only three tiers of bunks, and actually a bit of space to move around in front. They fed us, too – the usual mixture of stew and fruit, and there was lots of water to drink.
They kept all us young guys in one cage, but in the holding area there were several cages like ours, each with a different kind of stock. On either side of us there were cages of mature men – guys in their twenties and thirties, some even in their forties I suppose, but across the isle it was women! Like us, they were stark naked, too, and like us I suppose they’d got used to being like that a they made no attempt to shield their tits and cunts from our view – well, I suppose we weren’t trying to hide our dicks from them, either.
Us young guys were mostly used to being together by now, so we settled down to pass the time as best we could. They fed us, too, as you might expect – after all there’s no point, I suppose, in having slaves going up for sale who are looking miserable or unhappy, and most young guys look a lot more cheerful with a full belly. The older guys, though, seemed to be in two categories – there were ones who looked fit and happy, with well-formed muscles and so on: if they hadn’t been naked and black, they might have been ordinary people. The others, though, were sad-looking, and as they stood there or just sat slumped, you could see that their skin was deeply scarred with what could only be whip marks. I shuddered as I saw this – I mean I knew that slaves were whipped, and some of my former buddies even liked going to the public whippings that were staged by the town’s whipmaster, where owners of very disobedient slaves could send them for more extreme punishment than they could mete out themselves. But I’d never liked the thought of that – just as some people find the process of going to a bull fight utterly loathsome, and some don’t mind. So at an intellectual level I knew slaves could be whipped, but I’d never practically seen it – and here now, right in front of my eyes, was the evidence of what a whip could do when it tore through human flesh.
We managed to sleep, but in the early hours of the morning the guards came down between the cages banging on the bars to wake us all up. They shouted at us to tell us that we all had to sleep with our hands outside the blankets, as we were not allowed to jerk off that morning as we were going on display! I suppose that applied to the women as well, although I wasn’t sure what they might be doing with themselves that would be a potential difficulty for their sale – I could understand why you might want a guy “on the edge” as his dick would display better, but it’s not really the same for women, is it? As they went past, though, the guards pulled a couple of the women out for themselves and took them off – they left the young girls, muttering that there would be hell to pay if they were found messing up with the virgins. The ones they selected didn’t seem to mind, though, and the guards were laughing to themselves about how nigga women always liked a white dick. They brought them back about an hour later, and then, at least, we were left undisturbed for the rest of the night.
In the morning we were fed, then taken off, cage by cage, for the most thorough shaving and showering I’d ever experienced. And to my horror, after I’d thoroughly cleaned myself in the showers, a young nigga slave came and squatted down in front of me with a pair of clippers and proceeded to shave my balls! I don’t know if you’ve ever had this done, but, if you have, it’s probably because you wanted it, and it was pretty exciting. Well I can tell you that if it’s done to you when you don’t want it, and when you’ve never had another guy touch your balls, and you don’t want a guy messing with you down there, it’s disgusting. I went to stop him, but one of the guards pointed his slave prod at me threateningly and told me to put my hands behind my head and hold them there. I didn’t have any option, obviously, and just had to stand there as the nigga spread my legs, then actually grabbed hold of my dick and held it up against my belly as he first ran the clippers roughly over my balls, and then changed the cutting head on them for a finer one, and proceeded to move and stretch my ball sac so that the skin was flat and he could effectively “shave” off the stubble! I could feel myself getting hard as he did this, and I tried desperately to suppress it and mostly succeeded – I wasn’t completely limp, but at least the nigga didn’t have to really press it to hold it out of the way.
The guard came over, and as I stood there, now blushing furiously, he reached down and cupped my balls in his hands and kind of rolled them around a bit – again, no one had ever done this before, and it was worse that this was a white guy doing it to me – somehow having a nigga slave touching me had been bad, but not as bad. The guard pronounced himself satisfied with the work that had been done on me, but then said to the nigga “Just trim him back a bit generally, though, so that folks can get a good look at him.”
The nigga fell to his knees again and the clippers buzzed, and I realised he was cutting off a lot of my pubes! Like my dad, I’ve got a lot of thick, black hair and ever since it started to grow down there it’s always spread right across from one hip to the other. Now I realised that the nigga was trimming it so that there was a much smaller bush just around my dick and balls, and then trimming the length of that so that it was no more than a half an inch long all around. When he stood up after finishing, the guard looked at me again as I stood there, and snapped at the nigga “take some off his pits as well – a young lad like this shouldn’t have all that up there, and it might put some buyers off.”
The nigga came close to me, and as when we shaved each other at training school, his dick brushed against my hips as he came close up to me, then he gave me a friendly wink as he reached up and the clippers buzzed under my arms.
I was done then, and as I was marched out, I caught sight of myself in a big mirror by the door – I almost gasped with astonishment, as my dick was now so prominent, I’ve told you that I’m pretty well hung – well, as far as I’d been ably to judge from looking at the other guys at school in the showers, and even compared with most of the niggas I’d been “trained” with. But now I looked really enormous: having all my pubes trimmed away, and reduced in length, meant that you could see my dick handing there over my balls so much more easily, and my balls, without their thick covering of hair, looked so much bigger, too as they hung down behind it.
In the next room they put a collar around my neck – a leather one, which fastened with a little buckle. It didn’t feel all that odd at first, as I sometimes had to wear “formal” shirts with a buttoned up collar, and the tightness wasn’t all that different. But when they then put my hands up behind my neck and fastened straps around my wrists to the collar, I felt utterly helpless. It’s one thing to stand there with your hands behind your neck because a guard has told you to and will prod you if you don’t, but quite another to be physically unable to move your arms down, even if you wanted to. I suppose I felt a sense of mild panic, as I was so totally vulnerable: someone could punch me in the gut, or pull my dick, or do anything he wanted to with my body, and I’d be totally unable to stop him. One of the men who were presumably part of the auctioneer’s staff came up to me then, and turned my wrist so that he could read my SIN from the tattoo. He consulted his list, said to me “You’re Steven Masters?”
I knew by now what was expected, so I said politely “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Good, it’s important to check and get these things right”, he said affably. He fumbled around at some things he was carrying, then pulled out a big plastic ticket – yes, that’s the best way I can describe it – a ticket, or luggage label, perhaps, about eight inches by four inches. There was a string on it, and he stood there and tied it to the front of my collar so that the label hung down at about my belly. He picked the thing up then, and read it out to me “White buck, age sixteen. No record of violence. Believed to be virgin”.
“That about sums you up, doesn’t it, boy?” His tone was sneering now. “A sixteen year old buck, just right for fucking! Now let’s get you a good position in the viewing hall.”
To be continued …
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