A kinky story written by Pete Brown | Chapter 3

Click here to see all published chapters | Illustration by Theo Blaze.

I didn’t even have strength to struggle as the two goons half carried me back to my cage. I was in absolute agony, not helped by the cramped condition in the cage, which made it extremely difficult not to cause further hurt from my brand. I just half-lay there, groaning faintly and wondering how the hell I had got into this dreadful state.  I wasn’t allowed to rest all that long, though. Some hours later the two goons came and got me out of the cage, and half led, half pushed me along the corridors into another room, where some of the other guys from the cages were already working out on a variety of machines that you see in any gym – the only difference being that all the guys were naked, and they were chained to the machine! They led me to a running machine, slipped a chain around my waist and locked it to the machine. 

“Please….”, I begged, “Please, sirs, don’t make me do this… The pain from the brand… I can’t run…”  

“Nonsense!”, the one called Julian said. “It will hurt like hell at first, but the stretching and pulling on the brand as you run along will do it good, and you’ll find the pain subsides, at least a little. Mind you, be prepared for shocks: we’ve modified the electronics in this machine so that if you don’t go fast enough you’ll be ‘encouraged’ by a little voltage, rather like you experienced in the cages last night when you were foolish enough to start talking. Now, off we go…” 

He pressed a button, and the moving walkway began to slide. I started walking, then jogging, and all the time I was in agony from my brand. But as the exercise went on, and the machine got faster and faster, I almost forgot the problem with my brand as I started to need to breathe more and more deeply to be able to keep moving. Look, I was always pretty fit, and I went to the gym frequently, but I soon found that there’s a real difference between exercising at a pace you choose, and exercising when you’re being “driven”. And, sure enough, from time to time I was jerked almost off my feet as a stinging shock ran through me as the machine sensed that I might be lagging behind. When they finally did come and let me free, I was soaked in sweat, my chest was heaving, my heart was racing, and I felt absolutely exhausted. And, actually, I did notice the pain from my brand rather less. 

I was so worn out that I wasn’t able to offer any resistance at all as they took me back to my cage. When the janitor came along with the bowls that evening and opened the small “window” on the front of my cage, like the other guys I stuck my head out and stated to snaffle up the slave chow. I was hungry, but I knew that I didn’t want another session with the “feeder” – oh, fuck me, was this how slave training was done? You made the alternative so unpleasant that the slave was glad to do something that he was ordered? Had I really given up resisting because I “knew” it was useless, or because I feared the alternative? Was I being slowly and insidiously sucked into slavedom, with my resolve to remain a “free man” gradually being sapped away by my fears? And how, I wondered now, had all those obedient slaves on the plantation been trained? I’d always assumed they were just “naturally” slaves – but not I began to have my doubts.  The whole way this place was organised – the keeping of us naked in tiny cages, the pissing and crapping on the floor, the feeding just as if we were animals in kennels, all seemed designed to say to us that we were no longer men, but something else, something less than men and more like animals. 

What could I do to keep my sense of self, to remain Jon, rather than be turned into Steve? Although I’d done some basic psychology stuff, there wasn’t anything I could think of that I could do at all. I slipped into sleep, deeply troubled, and tossed and turned all night.  They exercised me all morning the next day, sometimes on the running machine, and sometimes on a rowing machine to tone my belly and build my upper body. I was exhausted, and didn’t know how I was going to last out the rest of the day. But there was salvation – of a kind: they took me off back to the room with the chief honcho, and I noticed that they no longer bothered to cuff my wrists to a collar: could it be they knew I was being broken, that I was losing the will to fight and to remain “free”? 

“Ah, Steve”, he said, looking at me across his desk, as I was made to stand in front of him. “We’ve done the brand, now, what else do we need to do…. The hair, I think: no one looking at you could possibly imagine you’re a slave, with hair like that. So Julian, Wayne, take him away and do the standard trim, please, then bring him back.” 

I felt like crying as my lovely hair was shorn off my head: I’d never had it particularly long, but it was always well kept, and now I just had a half inch stubble there, a stubble that was razored sharply at the back of the neck and the sides, so that it made me look “hard”. But they didn’t finish there, though – I was made to lie on a table whilst they bent over me and shaved my pubes mostly away, trimming what was left just to an inch or so. No one had ever handled my balls before, and I was almost in terror of being seriously hurt as they stretched my sac this way and that to be able to clean it totally of my dark blond hairs: but they obviously knew what they were doing, as apart from the sheer humiliation of it all, they didn’t hurt me, and there were no cuts or even scratches.  Surely that was all – but no: I was told to rest my body on the table and spread my legs, and I felt the smooth slickness of the razor sliding up and down my crack as one of them pulled my cheeks apart and the other worked away. 

It was all so fucking humiliating – I mean, you just don’t show the inside of your crack to other men, do you? But then I realised that you did: all my uncle’s slaves were trimmed and shaved like this, and I’d spent hours just looking at their bodies as they toiled away without even considering the effect on them! We did it because it was judged “hygienic” – totally denuding all the waiters and cooks – or because it was “the thing to do” – the slaves like Jason the pool boy, when everyone considered it was “nicer” to look at him like that. I’d even had Blackie trimmed and shaved, of course, as that was the way ponies were “presented”. I almost groaned as I thought of the humiliation that those slaves suffered every day from being exposed like that, and now this was to be my fate, too. 

When they had finished and were taking me back to the chief honcho, I caught sight of myself in a full-length mirror on the wall. I was astonished – gone was the confident, easygoing free man with his expensive clothes and designer haircut, and there was a slave: my whole face looked different with my hair so cropped, and I looked somehow “harder” and “meaner”, a look I’d noticed in many slaves at the plantation. And of course my body was different, too: my dick and balls were now extremely prominent, instead of nestling in their cosy cluster of dark blond hair, they were now so totally prominent. I just knew that what they’d said to me was true: any one taking a look at me, especially if I was in a slave dealer’s showroom, would just say to themselves “slave”, and think no more about it. People judge on appearances, so often, I knew, and now my appearance shrieked “slave”, even without the giant “S” on my butt! 

Standing in front of the chief a few minutes later, he kept glancing at the slave dossier again and saying “remarkable!” To himself. But then he looked at me and said “Do you like your new look, Steve? It makes you much more of a man, and much less of a soft non-worker. But do you think there are other differences between you and all the other slaves you have seen?” 

“No, master.” Was it my imagination, or did I find it easier to say the dreaded word today, now I was so much more looking like a slave? 

“Come, come, Steve! When did you last see a slave with a foreskin?” 

I stood there, considering, and I realised he was right. To a man, all the slaves on the plantation had been ‘skinned, and I suppose I’d assumed, if I’d thought about it at all, that it was how they’d been born – after all, a very high proportion of US males are cut at birth, aren’t they? But then, quite a lot of slaves were Hispanics and men from other countries – was that true there also? Probably not, my brain told me – so there must be a programme to actually ‘skin slaves! 

“Master, they were all ‘skinned. But how can that be? They’re not all ‘lifers’, so they couldn’t be ‘skinned, surely?” 

“You ask too many questions, Steve! Of course they can be ‘skinned – that’s not considered to be true modification of the slave’s body, so anyone enslaved can automatically be cut if their owners want it, and almost a hundred percent of owners do: after all, you don’t want your slave hiding parts of your property from you, do you? Keeping his dick head covered up, away from the gaze of the man who owns it? So, Steve, I’m afraid that your ‘skin is going to have to go: no one would think you were a credible slave with that hanging there on the end of your dick! Now, come here, though – before I send you off for ‘skinning, I just need to check….” 

He beckoned me to come closer to him, and I shuffled forward. He took my dick in the palm of his hand, and I shuddered slightly at this further invasion of my manhood. 

“Easy, Steve”, he murmured, looking deep into my eyes. “A master owns you totally, you know that by now, and there’s no harm in him handling his property….” 

As he spoke, his thumb was toying with my ‘skin, trying to push it back. His hand felt hot and moist against my dick, and I hated it: only my girl friends had ever been this intimate with me before. But to my horror I felt myself stiffening, and I saw the guy smiling at me as he recognised this, too. Look, I couldn’t help it. Even though it was totally humiliating, once a guy is actually stimulating your dick, there’s not much you can do about it, is there? Any of you who think I liked it, or are saying to yourselves that I was gay really, should try it: find another man and put your dick in his outstretched hand, and then get him to play with it! 

I remembered how, as soon as I was sixteen and allowed in, my buddies from school and I would go to the local slave auctions and play at inspecting the slaves, as if we wanted to buy them: we used to bet (only a few dollars – we were clean-living guys!) to see if we could get any of them to cum without actually going as far as properly jerking them off. Now I knew how totally humiliating this must have been for the slaves concerned – not only to have your dick handled like that in public, but to have a crowd of sniggering sixteen year olds doing it! I blushed with shame – not for what was being done to me now, but from thinking of the embarrassment I must have caused those poor guys. 

The chief now had my ‘skin totally off my head as my dick continued to swell as it lay there, and mercifully, he let it drop before my erection got any worse. “Good, fine”, he told me. “There are some men who have a decent enough thick shaft, but where the head is smaller. I think that looks absurd, and in those cases I think it’s better to leave it decently covered by the ‘skin. But you’re fine – perfect, almost: a really great dick in the first place, and a nice meaty head with a pronounced flange: once we’ve exposed that to public view, the buyers will be queuing up for you! So it’s off to the veterinarian for you now – he’s a good man, and will do a great job on transforming you to the perfect specimen of a slave.” 

“Master, please, no… I’m used to it, I’ve always had it… I won’t be able to jerk off properly without it…” 

“Nonsense, Steve! Millions of men jerk off perfectly well without a ‘skin. And, anyway, what makes you think an owner will allow you to jerk off? Some owners like to see their slaves leaking cum all the time, and specifically forbid any self stimulation. So don’t be stupid – it’s not your choice, anyway: do start to think like a slave, will you?” 

“Take him away, Wayne”, he said, and one of the big guys came over and fitted a restraint collar to me, and cuffed my wrists to it. 

“I know you’ve been behaving”, he told me, “But we’re going out of here, across town to the veterinarian’s office, and we can’t trust you – yet!”. 

It was that “Yet” that sounded so ominous – did they get to the point where slaves wouldn’t try to escape? Wayne ordered me to kneel as soon as we were out of the room, and then to open my mouth. I went to disobey, and he didn’t hesitate to slap my face in the way I’d kind of understood they did when they wanted to get a slave’s attention – very, hard, open-handed, so that my ears were ringing and my cheek was stinging. I would have gone for him, fought back, but with your hands cuffed there’s no hope, is there? 

I didn’t want to be hit again so I opened my jaws. He grunted with satisfaction at having me obey him, and slipped a ball gag into my mouth, fastening its strap tightly behind my head so that even though I thrust at it with my tongue, it wouldn’t budge. 

“We probably can’t trust you – yet!”, he snapped. “But this will keep you quiet at the veterinarian. Now….”  

From his pocket he bought out a chain with a handle at one end and a clip at the other, and snapped the clip onto my restraint collar. “Up, boy, off we go… Walkies….”, he said. 

I’d never imagined that I’d be led naked through the streets. Wayne walked ahead of me, holding the handle on the chain just as if it was a dog leash, and unless I wanted to have unpleasant tugs all the time at me, all I could do was follow. I was acutely conscious of being naked – it’s bad enough to be stripped and nude in the “training centre”, but out on the streets of the town, it was just awful. I’d have tried to cover myself if I could, but with my hands cuffed there was absolutely no possibility of preventing the passers by from staring at me if they wanted to. And my feet hurt – it was a hot day, and the tarmac burned into my soles as I walked along. 

I’d made slaves appear naked in towns before, of course, as you know I ran my pony, Blackie, totally naked, and now I began to understand how he must have felt in those first few days when I made him jog along the main street (although he would have got used to it, I consoled myself with thinking, so perhaps it wasn’t too bad for him really). Mind you, I know he had a lot of trouble initially with his feet, and I had to “encourage” him a lot in the first weeks to not lower his pace as he went over gravel and even flints – I hadn’t realised how bad running in bare feet over uneven surfaces could be, as when I was without shoes at home, it was always on the cool tiles of the pool area, or the luxurious carpets of the plantation’s rooms. 

I was heartily glad when we arrived – the five or six blocks had been one of the most humiliating experiences in my life; But new horrors waited for me – the reception area had several people waiting to see the veterinarian – in that hick town it seemed there wasn’t enough pure ‘slave’ business to justify him working on it full time, and so he had a small animal practice as well, and there were two owners there, one with a dog on a leash (as I was!), and the other with a cat in a basket. 

Wayne went to the reception desk as I stood there flushing with embarrassment as the man and the woman with their pets stared at me, then he came back, slapped me hard on the butt, and snapped “Turn around and face the wall! Don’t make decent folk stare at your body like that!”, then, turning to the man and the woman went on, “I hope you don’t me mind me disciplining the slave like that – I can see that you’d never need to do that to your pets, but this one is more like a puppy who isn’t properly trained, and the only thing he really understands is corporal punishment!” 

I’d stood there in amazement as he said this, and my anger rose when he started to compare me with those pets (but, thinking rationally, he had as many right over me as they did over their animals, I suppose). As I was so cross, I hesitated, and Wayne slapped me on the butt again, the pistol-like crack of his hand meeting my flesh echoing around the waiting room.

“Fucking slave!”, he snapped “Turn around NOW, unless you want me to take you outside for a whipping. And I want your toes and nose right against the wall… Now, move!” 

Well, what was I supposed to do? I’m sure he would have dragged me out and whipped me if I’d done nothing, so I faced the wall, and heard him growl “toes and nose….”, so I shuffled forward until my toes were hard against the wall, and leaned my head forward so my nose was, too. 

It’s a problem, though – you try it! If you’re a really thin, slender guy it might be OK, but if you’re packing any beef, the thickness of your body means that this position is really uncomfortable after a short period of time. I was acutely aware, too, that Wayne’s hand prints would be clearly outlined on my naked skin and that instead of staring at my dick, the other customers must now be observing my butt. 

By the time I got into the veterinarian my muscles were almost shaking from the strain at holding the position against the wall. “So, this is the ‘skinning – another one, I see, Wayne! We must be getting very lawless around here, or these young guys must be fucking lazy, refusing to work, and getting into debt, the number of them you bring through here.” 

“Well, you know how it is… We have a sharp eye for a business opportunity, and when the courts order a male enslavement, we leap in….” 

This was too much. This was probably my last chance to escape – surely, here in a professional office, once my plight was known all would be OK – the veterinarian would call the cops, and I’d be free by tonight. 

“I’m not a slave… Please call the cops… They’ve abducted me and are trying to enslave me…”, I shouted out, trying to give the veterinarian a sense of the urgency of the thing by thrusting myself at him. Of course, all he got was a load of totally inarticulate mumbling through the ball gag, and I saw him look almost aghast at me as I was so close to him.  

If anything, the veterinarian’s blow to my face was even harder than Wayne’s had been earlier. I staggered with the force of it. 

“Quiet, slave! I won’t tolerate unruly slaves here…”  

“But I’m not a slave…”, I almost was screaming it now, uselessly, through the gag, of course, and the second blow from the veterinarian was so viciously hard that I did fall over, and lay there, glaring up at him. 

“I told you, slave, that I won’t tolerate unruly behaviour here! It disturbs the animals to have slaves shouting and gesticulating. Now there’s nothing to be worried about – it’s a perfectly simple operation, and it will be all over in a few minutes: I haven’t had a patient die on me yet as I ‘skinned him! You’ll feel some discomfort, of course, but you look like a strong healthy guy, so there’s no risk of the whole thing giving you a heart attack or anything.” 

“Please… Please don’t do this…. I’m not a slave….” I was almost whimpering it now, hoping that my humble approach might work when anger hadn’t. But it was equally inaudible, I guess. 

The veterinarian looked as if he was going to strike me again, but just shrugged. “These slaves”, he said to Wayne, ignoring me. “They’re really pathetic, aren’t they? No stamina! No spunk. Look at him crouching there now – still, what do you expect: if he was a proper man, he’d have had the character and stamina not to get involved with the law, or would work properly, or whatever. Incidentally, why is he a new slave – I assume he is newly enslaved, as he’s still got his ‘skin?” 

“Oh, I don’t really know…”, Wayne said. 

“Well, even though you’re excellent customers, and I hate upsetting clients, suppose I’d better check his enslavement order before operating… The American Veterinary College send out a warning letter last month saying that there had been a number of instances of frat boy pranks that had gone wrong and where the practitioner was being sued for millions of dollars – you know the type of thing: they get one of their frat brothers hopelessly drunk, strip him naked, gag him, then take him to an unsuspecting veterinarian to be ‘skinned. When the guy discovers what’s happened, he doesn’t sue his frat brothers – no, he takes the veterinarian to court and there’s hell to pay from the insurance companies who have to fork out for the damages. Now of course I’m not suggesting that this is anything like that – I mean, just looking at him you can tell he’s a slave from the way his hair is cropped and that mean look on his face, and he’s tanned all over. No, he certainly doesn’t look like a frat boy at all – in fact, he doesn’t look as if he’s got the intelligence to even graduate from High School, which is probably where he went wrong…” 

I was so pissed off, that I thought of kicking out at him. And how could he be so wrong? Of course I’d got the intelligence to graduate from High School – I’d graduated form Yale! But I realised with a sick horror that what I’d been told was true – make a guy look like a slave, and people start to think of him as a slave, and just assume he is one. 

“I’ll go back to the training centre and get it if you wish”, Wayne responded, smiling with confidence. “But I think if you check his butt….” 

He hauled on the chain on my collar to drag me to my feet, and the veterinarian ran his hand over my left ass cheek. 

“Ah yes, the ‘S'”, he said. “So he’s a ‘lifer’. No need to get the documentation – only a slave would be branded there like that. What a stupid fucker he must be to have got in so deep that he was given life… I don’t suppose you want anything else done at the same time, do you? I mean, looking at the way he was behaving, I’d probably normally recommend that you have him calmed – I could take his balls whilst you’re here…” 

No! How could this idiot be so wrong! Couldn’t he see that a slave brand might be false, too? But then I realised that his attitude was just what I might expect – no free man would willingly submit to having that “S” seared into his flesh, so therefore, with the brand, I “must” be a slave! And no all this talk of castrating me – he’d do it, too, no doubt: an owner had total control over a ‘lifer’, as I knew. 

“No”, Wayne said, “He was enslaved for some sort of sex thing, I think, and as you can see he’s got nice tackle. A slave who’s very sexually experienced can be sold off to the brothels and places at a higher price than ordinary stock, so we’d better keep him intact.”  

“Well he doesn’t have to lose both balls – I could simply slit up the back of his sac and take one out, which would almost certainly calm him without destroying his sexual potency. Then if we slipped on a prosthetic ball – either in stainless steel, if you want him to look even more spectacular, or one of the plastic prosthetics that are so lifelike that most people handling the slave can’t tell they’re fake – and I sew him up neatly, so there’s no scarring, his value wouldn’t be affected at all.” 

“Well, I think not, doc. I’ll suggest it to my boss, though, and we can always bring him around again. But tell me – these prosthetic balls, can you really not tell?” 

“Not by the usual method of simply handling them. The plastic they use has just the same sort of weight, and resilience, as the real thing.” 

“So I might buy a slave without balls, or with only one, in spite of examining him at the dealer?” 

“Well not if you are aware of it, and use a more stringent test. I’m afraid that the old method of standing there and feeling them just won’t do – it’s agreeable, I know, but unscientific. You really need to pinch each balls separately through the sac…. If the ball is real, the slave will be, shall we say, ‘discomforted’ and you’ll be able to tell from his reaction.” 

“Well thanks, doc – we live and learn!” As he said this, Wayne reached down and cupped my balls in his big hand. The next minute I screamed and almost vomited as that awful sick sensation ran through me that you get when your balls hurt. I was doubled over with the automatic reaction of my body. 

Wayne and the veterinarian were both chuckling. “Man^Å”,  Wayne said, “Well, I guess he’s got two live ones! But I guess we might have known that from the way he’s misbehaving! Still, perhaps that will serve as a punishment for his actions earlier – and a warning to him of what might happen if he doesn’t improve his attitude!”. 

He looked meaningfully at me as he said this, and it was a clear warning of what they might do to me. “Now, boy, start behaving, or we’ll go with the doc’s suggestion and have you ‘calmed’. Now, up on to the table…”, Wayne snapped. 

It was the normal kind of stainless-steel table that veterinarians have, where they examine cats and dogs. As I sat on it, it was cold to my naked skin. “Now, boy”, Wayne told me, glaring at me as he did so, “We can do this two ways – either you can co-operate and I’ll let you sit there and see what’s going on, or if you think you’re not man enough for this, or just want to be plain troublesome, you can lie back and I’ll tie your chain to the leg to hold you down. Now, do you want to be chained down?” 

Of course I didn’t. I didn’t want any of it! But what could I do? I just shook my head, and Wayne snarled “OK then, boy. But if you move as the doc operates, I will chain you down and then I’ll beat the shit out of you when we get back to the training centre.” 

I sat there and watched as the veterinarian got a gleaming “one use” scalpel out of a plastic pack, then came and stood in front of me as I sat there. “Now, steady, boy”, he said, almost kindly, in the tone I supposed he regularly used to keep small animals calm. “I’ve just got to loosen your ‘skin all around – just don’t move, if you want to keep your dick whole!”. 

As he said this a sharp, acid, searing pain went through me, and I winced and wanted to twitch my whole body. “Good boy…. Now, hold still….” 

More pain. “See”, he commented to Wayne, “You have to cut the skin away all around. Now, whilst I’m doing this, do you want him to keep this….?” 

I could see he was pointing to something underneath my dick. “His dick’s a whole lot less sensitive after the ‘skin is gone, but this little triangular bit here, right at the bottom, is responsible for most of the remaining sensation. Snip it out, and he will be able to stud for hours as he’ll need a real lot of stimulation to reach a climax; leave it in, and hell still get a lot of fun from fucking….” 

Wayne looked at me, straight into my eyes. I’m sure he must have responded to my pleading look, as he muttered “Oh, leave it in. He’ll have little enough fun as a slave, I guess. May as well let him still enjoy sex – he is a guy, after all, and we all need our dicks exercised.” 

“Right, then. Now, how do you want him left? It’s becoming fashionable to leave enough of the ‘skin on so that he cock head is partially exposed when he’s flaccid, but so that it peels back when he erects. ‘Modern Slave Owner’ says that slaves like that will attract higher prices as they’re a novelty, I was reading the other day.” 

“No, doc. ‘High and Tight’ as usual – call me old fashioned if you will, but I still think that an owner has the right to see all of the slave all of the time – there’s something bit odd about the slav’e’s dick head being concealed, even if only partially so. And fashions change…. That ‘Modern Slave Owner’ is a bit of a rag, anyway – last month they were saying that it was unfashionable for an owner to fuck his slave boy…. Well, we all know that one didn’t catch on!” 

Both men laughed, and I thought about how they were discussing my body, my ‘skin like this! I was a man, a man has a right to choose whether he keeps his ‘skin or not – but no, as a slave, I had no freedom, no choice: my owner decided. And then another of those recurring references to owners fucking slaves – and it was quite clear they didn’t mean the owner’s dick going up some poor female! I could have screamed with the injustice of it all, but what would have been the point? They wouldn’t understand what I was screaming, and Wayne assuredly would carry out his threat to beat me when we got back, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop him with my hands cuffed as they were – and no authorities to intervene afterwards, even if he half- killed me and caused me to be hospitalised: he was my owner, and he could do what he wanted to my body and the police and courts knew he had that right. 

It was all so wrong – men shouldn’t treat other men like this. But then I thought of the hundreds of ‘skinned slaves on my uncle’s plantation, a plantation that I’d looked forward to inheriting – at least some of them must have had ‘skins when they were enslaved, and would have had to suffer this indignity, as I was now doing. 

“Almost over, boy… Stay calm….”, the doc went on again, just as if I was an animal. “…I just need to sew up the cut ends…. And then there we are, all done! That didn’t hurt, did it?” 

Fucking idiot! It had hurt like hell. Physically, and, what’s more, it had hurt my spirit. They’d used their power to modify my body again, against my will, and take me one more step towards looking like a slave. And as I was now beginning to realise with a sort of sick worry, once I looked like a slave completely, the world would ‘know’ I was a slave, and I would be a slave. 

The doc was speaking to Wayne now, though. “We’ll add it to your normal monthly account, as usual. I’ve used self-dissolving stitches so there’ll be no need to bring him back, and put on some antiseptic and coagulant to stop the blood flow – although dicks heal quickly, as there’s so much blood flow through there. I’d advise you to keep it totally uncovered for a couple of days to assist the healing process, and don’t let the boy masturbate or fuck for about a week to allow everything to settle down properly – I expect that will be difficult, as this one looks as if he’s a pretty regular fucker: has he been at your other slaves’ asses?” 

“Oh, we don’t give them a chance at that!”, Wayne chuckled. “We like the slaves to have a certain sexual tension during training, as it helps keep them focussed, so fucking is forbidden. We could stop them jerking off, I suppose, as it’s easy enough to tie their hands at night, but what’s the point – I suppose, underneath it all, they are guys, just like us, and we all have our basic needs as animals, don’t we?” 

I just sat there as Wayne signed to say he was happy with the operation, then he tugged at my chain, and snapped “Come on, boy, back to base….” and led me out. 

He did, in spite of what he’d said, tie my hands that night – my vilely uncomfortable cage was made even worse when I had to put my hands trough the mesh of which it was made so they could be cuffed there. “It’s for your own good, Steve”, I was told. “If you start playing with your dick, and all you slaves do that all the time, it will slow down the healing process and cost us money”. 

For a whole week, therefore, all I did was spend every night uncomfortably in my cage, every day at hard exercise (really hard exercise), the whole only punctuated by my two meals of slave chow. I watched the cages empty as slaves left after their “training”, and re-fill as new, protesting guys were brought in. I could see that they were wasting their time, as I had been. There would be nothing they could say or do to make these men change their minds and let them go. 

Finally, I was led into the chief honcho’s office again, and he really looked pleased. “Well, Steve Masters!”, he exclaimed, “In the flesh! Now, when I look at you, I see a slave, a real slave. Neatly cropped, nicely tanned and toned, ‘skinned, branded…. And when I take a closer look at Steve Masters’ dossier, I can see it’s ‘you’. So we not only have a slave who looks properly like one, but one with proper ‘provenance’ , and a Slave Identification Number. It’s time for you to move on, Steve…. We’ll have your SIN tattooed into you tomorrow, then the day after that one of the travelling dealers is coming and you can move on to the rest of your life!” 

“Look, please… Give me one more chance… I swear I’ll never mention it to anyone, forget all about this place….” 

“Oh, Steve – we’ve still failed a bit, haven’t we. You don’t understand that you’re a slave! I’ll get Wayne to give you six strokes of the cane after this, but I’m still going to sell you on to the dealer – we need the space, as one of our itinerant ‘scouts’ came across a group of four young guys on a hunting trip, so he took them all! Of course we can’t let you go – there’s too much at stake here – I make a very good living from converting young man flesh into useful slaves. And you’re hardly being sensible, are you – I do sometimes wonder about that supposed education of yours – you can’t forget us, as we’ve left our mark on you!” 

He laughed cruelly, and I saw Wayne and Julian moving forward to take me away, and punish me.  

To be continued …

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