A kinky story written by Pete Brown | Chapter 1
Author’s note: I was watching the world’s greatest dog show – Crufts – on TV last night. Congratulations to my Australian and American readers – the supreme champion was an Australian-something-or-other, who now lives in California. My erotic imagination was fired as I began to speculate about how slave owners, just like the owners of these prized dogs, would want to put their slaves into competitions. And there might be financial rewards, too – the stud fees, and the prices of puppies, for Crufts’ champions presumably rockets…. And so too for slaves?
For those of you not familiar with Crufts, there are individual breed championships – daschund, toy poodle, labrador, etc. – and the winners of these individual breeds then compete to find a “group” champion from a set of “similar” breeds: gun dogs, terriers, hounds, etc. The seven group champions then finally compete to find the “Supreme Champion”, the “Best In Show”. In addition to these classes where the judging is based on adherence to the breed standards, condition of the dog, etc., there are other specialised competitions and displays, for example the obedience championships, where the dogs have to perform specific tasks like lying still for ten minutes when their owners are out of the ring; and the agility championships, where the dogs run a course containing “jumps”, pipes to run through, and seesaws to run along.
Like most people I wasn’t particularly worried when they brought in the Indentured Service Act to cope with the overflowing prisons. After all, I was not only a law-abiding citizen, but I was one of those who actually upheld the law – I’d gone into the army as soon as I could, at sixteen, and was now into my third four-year term. I loved the life – it kept me really fit, there was slots of sport and I enjoyed competing, great companionship, and I got to see interesting places as increasingly the army was sent by our government to take part in “peace keeping” operations around the world. I lived in the barracks as I wasn’t married, and I was saving money as a lot of things were found by the army, and even though I had to pay an accommodation charge, it was nothing like the rentals in private apartments, or the horrendous mortgage payments some guys get saddled with even at a nearly age.
Around our base there just weren’t any indentured servants, as it was considered that they might be a security risk. I saw them of course at the weekend or when I was on leave, but they mostly were working sweeping the streets, collecting the rubbish, and other “civic” tasks; and in the cheap end of the food business, serving hamburgers and stuff like that. Other than that, the whole thing never really touched my consciousness, I suppose – and, if it did, like the majority of citizens I thought it was a pretty good idea to have these people gainfully employed rather than being a charge on the state stuck in some prison or other. It seemed to have had a good effect generally, too, as the crime statistics had crashed as you really didn’t want to risk Indenture.
It all went wrong when those fucking UN bastards decided to prosecute all of us who were involved for “crimes against humanity”! It was just politics, of course – all those fucking third-world delegates were pretty pissed off that we were in Africa anyway, and the fact that we were keeping the natives from slaughtering each other in another one of those almost interminable revolutions that lead to massacres of one tribe or another didn’t seem to matter. They said we had failed to follow the “rules of engagement” when we fired on a mob without giving them the necessary clear warnings, and then firing blanks, and finally resorting to live ammo. What they failed to point out was that this mob was about four thousand strong armed with spears and machetes and stuff, running towards us in a frenzy, intent on hacking us to pieces! So what were we supposed to do? Just stand there and let them overrun us? But their leader was a real slimy bastard who used the “massacre” (and only about fifty were killed anyway, far fewer than in the previous day’s riots that he’d instigated) became an issue at the UN with those factions in it who resented any interference by the “civilised” into African affairs. So all of us who survived were taken to The Hague and tried, and we were all found guilty.
Twenty years seems a fucking long time when you’re only twenty six, and it didn’t help that the army told me that I’d be out before I was fifty, but that “I should take steps to learn new skills during my sentence as the crimes for which I had been found guilty meant an automatic discharge, without pension or anything, at the end of the sentence”. No mention of the fact that I was only in that fucking country as I was acting under orders, or anything. And my savings were confiscated, “to help the victims” – not that it would get to any of the poor bastards we had been trying to help, as the rampant corruption in their country would snaffle it first. The future looked pretty grim, I can tell you. And the prospect of spending twenty years in the army’s jail was even worse – you don’t do any real soldiering in there, as everyone knows, as it’s intended as a real “punishment” place, more for a “short sharp shock” of about six months, rather than twenty years.
The only thing they did do for us finally was to agree to bring our discharges from the army to be brought forward, to be effective immediately, provided we agreed to spend the time in a civilian prison – meaning, of course, that I became an indentured servant as all long sentences like that resulted in this.
It was a bit of a shock to have my army dog tags taken away and then to have me ISIN (indentured servant identification number) tattooed under my left pit and on the underside of my right wrist: those fuckers who were so worried about “human rights” ought to take a look at forcibly and permanently marking a man like that – I mean, it turns you from being a man, a man with a name, into a mere object. And when they implanted my tracker chip, that was even worse. It’s not that it hurt – it was all “humane” as they gave me an injection of anaesthetic before the thing was pushed right up under my left shoulder blade, and afterwards when it was still sore for several days we were all given pain killers if we asked for them. No, it was the thought that just like cars and stuff I could now be tracked and located wherever I moved around the country, and I was no longer “free” therefore to go where I wanted and do what I wanted.
Look, like everyone else, I might as well start talking about myself as a slave, as that’s what I now was. I know that in law it’s “indentured service”, but everyone uses the shorter “slavery” as the whole thing is the same: you have no rights, and you just have to work away at whatever your current indenture owner (or “owner”) tells you, and he can punish you if you don’t please him. I suppose it’s just the same as when they introduced marriage for gays in 2006 – strictly speaking “marriage” is only for a hetero couple and gays have “civil partnerships”, but everyone now calls it marriage anyway as the public is astute enough to know a thing when they see it, in spite of what the law says formally .
There’s a lot of rubbish written about how humiliating slave auctions are, with fanciful tales of blokes being stripped and “inspected” and such like, but it’s not like that – well, it wasn’t like that for me, anyway. I guess it might be different for women, but in my case the auction house graded us simply – mid twenties, fit, strong – and my contract was sold with a batch of fifty others to a big construction company. None, to the best of my knowledge, from the company even saw us. They just bought a lot of fifty contracts for young, fit, strong men who the “graders” deemed suitable for heavy manual labour. Even the “grading” wasn’t that bad as one by one we went in front of a group of three men who looked at how old we were, scanned our medical records, and then seemed to decide just by looking at us which of us were capable of heavy work – I didn’t even have to take my shirt off or anything. And we weren’t chained up or anything like that, or kept in cages: they knew we couldn’t run away, with those tracker hips inside us, so what would be the point? Whilst we were at the auctioneers it wasn’t all that different from being in the army, except that we were not really allowed out into the streets.
It turns out that even with all the mechanisation there’s hundreds of jobs on a big construction site that need doing manually. Unloading stuff from delivery trucks, digging ditches where a machine can’t get in because of lack of space, carrying stuff from one place to another…. This all used to be done by labourers, but gradually it became more and more expensive as labour rates went up and up. The arrival of all the Poles and Czechs and people like that helped for a few years as they were initially prepared to work for low wages at jobs our people didn’t want to do, but as their home countries got more and more prosperous they too started to ask for more money, if indeed they came to the country at all and didn’t just choose to stay at home. So these days most of the men you see doing “unskilled” jobs on construction sites are in fact indentured servants – slaves, as I said. The crane drivers, blokes who do the shuttering, electricians, people like that, are all free men still, but all the “grunt” work is done by blokes like me now.
There’s a lot of myth talked, too, about the life of slaves these days, probably stemming from those stories where they’re kept naked, constantly chained up, and whipped and caned, and even fucked by their owners, but all I can tell you is that it wasn’t like that for me on our site. Sure, I had to work hard, because if I didn’t they’d simply withhold the little “privileges” that made life bearable: we all got basic rations, so we were fed properly (starving men can’t output enough hard work, after all), but anything else, like fruit, or coffee, was a “privilege” that had to be “earned”. And once you’d had a week of plain, basic rations, you’d do almost anything to avoid them taking away those important little extras. But as for being kept naked – well, it was against health and safety regulations to allow men onto the site without proper protective clothing and such like, so we had proper steel-toed work boots, and in the winter proper jeans, shirts and thick donkey jackets (shivering slaves don’t give of their best!). In the summer it was shorts and T-shirts, but that’s the way the free men were dressed, too, and if you wanted to take your T off and work bare-chested, that was OK, but it was your choice. The living conditions weren’t all that bad, either, as we had a hut on the site and it wasn’t so very different from our barracks room – a neat row of single beds, communal showers: I suppose the only real difference was that we didn’t have lockers (we had nothing to put in them, anyway), and that at night the doors were locked and we were not allowed out.
Actually, I think we had a better time of it than some of the free men did – we were at least housed right next to the site, whereas some of them had a terrible struggle to make it in every day from the far suburbs where they lived (they certainly couldn’t afford the accommodation right in the centre, where we were!). And although we didn’t have any money, neither did most of them – by the time they’d paid their mortgage, travelling costs, and all the expenses of the kids they seemed to be raising, they had almost nothing left over for themselves. In fact, there was one young bloke who lived way, way out as that’s the only place he could afford a place and whose wife had just given him another kid, who was so hard-up that when we had our break at lunch time he could only buy a sandwich, and was looking enviously at my plate full of plain, basic food. He was a kind of apprentice surveyor, on his first job after university, and so he probably wasn’t earning much; but he was pretty nice to me and the other slaves as when he was checking the work we did he always said “please” and “thank you” and if there was something wrong, he helped us to get ut put right before our privileges were withdrawn. So we got into the habit of “helping” him at break times by going back through the servery and picking up another plate full – at the cash register we didn’t have to pay as we turned our wrists over and once the cashier saw the ISIN she charged the meal to a separate account. He was so pathetically grateful, and wolfed it down so quickly, that I thought he must be really short of cash and must be very hungry (he was very, very thin). It does make you wonder, I suppose, whether it’s better to be a well-fed slave – but, on the other hand, he did get to go “home” at night (albeit with a fearsomely long journey), and I suppose he did get to fuck!
On our site we were really lucky, I suppose, in that we were quite close to the Cathedral and so it had to close on Sundays. We only worked six days a week, therefore, and after they’d marched us off to a morning service and we’d been forced to stand there listening to the mindless drivel about “redemption” and “the after life” and stuff, and tried to stop laughing as they said the wine was turned to blood or something, we were free to do what we wanted. Not that there was all that much to do, without money: no cafes or bars, no cinema, no shopping…. But they did allow us to be out and about and not locked in our hut, and being “central” it didn’t matter all that much that we had no money for public transport – given enough time (and we had lots) we could visit most parts of the central area. Mind you, some free men can be real bastards – one cold, wet November day I’d walked to the National Gallery and decided to duck in to warm up before heading back to the site, and some fucker complained to the attendants at the entrance that I hadn’t paid the “voluntary” admission charge. The attendant reminded him that it was a voluntary contribution, and I chipped in and said that I’d gladly pay if I could but that as an indentured servant I had no money. That did it! The fucker made a most unpleasant scene about slaves being allowed to mingle with free men and how he didn’t want his wife “corrupted” and stuff like that. I’d have really argued with him, and even punched him out, but it just wasn’t worth it – the name of my owners was all over my donkey jacket, complete with an 0800 number for public comments, and he could easily have complained and then I’d have lost all my privileges. So instead I just shuffled away, feeling vaguely guilty about not acting like a real man.
It was March, and the weather was unseasonably mild so I was taking advantage of the first bit of sun to work stripped to the waist, when the foreman came up and told me to stop what I was doing and get straight over to the site offices. I wondered what it could be about, and, for a bit, was really worried that I’d done something very wrong and was going to be severely punished; but the more I thought about it, the more I knew I was pretty blameless. Not that that necessarily helps – a slave can get into trouble for stuff he hasn’t done, as well as for stuff he has done!
The receptionist told me to wait as the site manager wanted to see me, and I stood there in my jeans, boots and helmet looking at all the people working at their screens – it seemed as if there were almost as many people working in the offices as there were on the site itself. I became aware of the powerful scent of my sweat as it evaporated, quite unlike the “genteel” atmosphere in the office area, and I began to wish I’d stopped to pull my T on, but there was nothing I could do about it now, so I moved back against the wall, to try to keep as much out of the way as possible. Then I thought I might at least sit down on one of the chairs in the tiny reception area, but the moment I moved towards it, the receptionist bitch snapped “They’re not for slaves! And you’re filthy dirty, anyway, and covered in sweat”. Well, I suppose she was right as I’d been digging a drainage trench and my jeans were pretty disgusting – but what do you expect when you have men working hard? Still, it felt pretty humiliating to have this young girl order me around like that – she was just the sort of young, cheap-looking bitch that I used to pick up all the time in bars for a quick casual fuck out the alley at the back, and now she was ordering me around as if she owned the place.
When I was allowed in to the site manager’s office eventually, he was sitting behind his desk, which was covered in papers, and in front of him was sitting the young surveyor guy who I’ve told you about. I stood there, as the two men looked at me, and the young guy at once said “See, sir, this is the one I have been telling you about – Steve. I think we could be in with a real chance with this one….”
“I know you say that, but why this one?”
“There’s all sorts of things ‘right’ about him: over six foot, big-boned but not too gross, beautifully muscled: not like those body builders, but proper long, lean muscles that you only get from hard work. And he’s a proper ‘European’ type with that thatch of hair on his pecs and belly. And look at his face – square tending to oblong, nicely symmetric with a good nose, dark brown eyes…. And I’ve sat with him at break time recently and he seems to have good teeth….”
“We’ve got twenty slaves here, though – why not one of the others?”
“As I said, it’s all to do with the right ‘type’ There’s a fair-haired guy who’s quite good, but he’s not ‘Scandinavian’ enough in his general looks. And some of the darker, ‘Mediterranean’ ones just don’t have the bodies to go with it. One of the former illegal immigrants from Russia has nice green eyes and grey hair, but his disfigured with tattoos…. This one’s superb, though – he’s got almost a model’s body, and, as I say, the face….”
I could hardly believe they were talking about me and the other guys in these terms, describing us as if we were just pieces of meat that you might or might not find agreeable. I thought about saying something, but life in the army teaches you to keep quiet when you’re with “officers”, until you’re asked a question.
“I’m not sure we can spare him….”
“It’s only four days, sir, and I’m sure we can simply make all the others work hard enough to cover for this one’s absence. And think of the money, if it succeeds…..”
“Yes, that would be attractive. The prize would be really welcome, as my wife’s set on that cruise this year…..”
“I could do with the money too, sir, with the new baby….”
“Quite, Dan. But will there be a lot of other expenses? What about preparing him, and so on?”
“We could go in one of the firm’s trucks up to the show. And as for preparing him – well, there’s not a lot to do. He’s in really good condition already, and for the normal categories, that’s all there is to it: we’ll need to cut his hair, trim his nails, stuff like that….. But my wife can do all that as she used to be a hairdresser before we married. It’s not as if we need all the elaborate training for the special obedience or agility classes – all he’s got to do is stand there, walk around a bit, flex his muscles….”
“Well, if you’re sure.., I’ll let you go ahead, provided you take the time out of your annual leave entitlement…”
“Yes, sir. And we split the prize fifty-fifty?”
“Assuming there is one, that is…..”
The site manager dismissed us then, and I never got to speak a a word, not one single word. Once we were outside the young guy said to me “I’m Dan…. And this will be a bit of fun for you, Steve… get you away from here….”
“What sort of work then, Dan?”
“Actually, Steve, I think you’d better call me ‘sir’. If you get used to it from the start, you won’t inadvertently fall into the trap of calling me by the wrong name when it’s something important, like judging….”
“Yes, you’re going to be entered into the slave Show, at the NEC – National Exhibition Centre. Its really prestigious….”
“Oh come on, didn’t you keep up with things before you were a slave? Surely everyone’s heard of it… It’s the biggest in the world…. Very famous….”
“I was in the army, and spent a lot of time abroad…. I was more into sport….”
“Well, at one time people used to show dogs. But as we got more and more slaves, the dogs started to go out of fashion and it became more interesting to show slaves instead. Well you can see why, can’t you?”
“Well dogs were all pedigrees. They cost thousands – sometimes tens of thousands – to buy from breeders. And there was a a whole lot of stuff about having exactly the right ‘breed characteristics’ and stuff…. And you couldn’t do much with a dog, between shows. It was very specialised. Now almost anyone can afford an Indentured Service contract as a slave on a few years need not be expensive. And there isn’t the same requirement for adherence to an arbitrary set of characteristics – almost everyone can say whether they like a particular slave or not, and why. And in-between shows, the slaves is actually useful about the place! So slave showing has ballooned in popularity, and with it, the amount of prize money.”
“Buy why me?”
“Look, Steve, I need the money! And I happened to see you working the other day, stripped to the waist, and thought I’d be in with a fair chance of a prize with a slave like you…”
“You’d best get back to work, though…. But tonight, instead of going to your barracks, you’ll be coming home with me. The show starts tomorrow, and there’s some preparation we need to do: you need a good haircut, stuff like that…”
That night was actually quite exciting. At the end of the day Dan waited for me whilst I showered and changed into clean underwear and socks, jeans and T, and collected my donkey jacket. He made me stand there and wash the worst of the muck off my boots, and then we set out.
The journey out to his little house in the depths of Essex was pretty grim – crammed into the tubes, then a slow “mainline” train out through endless depressing suburbs, then a bus. It took over an hour and a half in total, and when we got there it wasn’t much: one of those endless little boxes crammed close together in featureless rows on a mean-looking estate of houses a long way from anywhere. Dan’s wife seemed nice enough, though, and his baby was cute, I suppose, if you’re into babies. The food wasn’t nearly as good as I’d have got at the canteen on the site, though, and there wasn’t enough of it, but Dan and his wife seemed to be trying to make an effort.
Wen we’d eaten and the baby had been put to bed, Dan’s wife was really nice when she cut my hair, and it felt good to have a woman’s fingers running through it once again as on the site we mostly just hacked at each others when it got too long – they didn’t bother what we looked like, really, but we weren’t allowed to have very long hair as it might be unsafe with all the machinery and stuff around. Now, when she’d done, I felt like a proper soldier again: a good half-inch crop all over, with neatly shaved sideboards and a crisp line at the back of my neck. The trouble started then, though, as Dan said to me “OK, Steve, pull off your T now so Julie can trim your pits and that thatch on your body….”
“Steve, I think you’re forgetting you’re a slave, and a slave under my control, what’s more! Now, fucking do as you’re told! You know what happens if you don’t obey on the site – loss of privileges. Well, can you imagine how long that might last for if I take you straight back tomorrow morning and tell the site manager that you’ve been wilfully disobedient? He’s looking forward to sharing in the prize money, you’ll remember….”
I thought for a moment. It’s not such a terrible thing to take your T off in front of a woman, after all, especially if you have a good body like mine. I’d done it lots of times before, after all, but it was just doing it here, in this tiny house, in such intimate conditions: I usually only stripped off like that when I was getting ready for sex.
I had to stand there as she used the clippers and scissors to trim the hair in my pits, and she put the highest numbered cutters on the clippers then, and began to go over my chest!
I’ve got a lot of quite long curly hair there, and I suppose that once she’d finished, it did look a lot better – she held a mirror in front of me and I could see that my muscles were somehow much more “defined” as they were no longer concealed, and he slick layer she’d left did look a whole lot better. Mind you, I was really on tenterhooks when she then took her razor-sharp hairdressing scissors and started to snip at the few strands that had been left by the clippers around my aureoles. Not only were the scissors cold, but I was terrified she might cut my nips – I’m really tender there! All this attention to them made them stand up and go really hard, and she half whispered “You’re just like Dan! Every time I touch him there he goes like that….. And Dan has something else that goes hard in sympathy, Steve…. Have you?”
Actually, my cock was straining at my underwear, but it didn’t seem to be right to be having a conversation like this. So I just said “No!”, rather gruffly, and left it at that.
Dan seemed pleased with the finished effect, and said casually “Right, Steve, on with the show….. Slip off your jeans and stuff, so Julie can do your pubes….”
“Steve, let me remind you again, you’re a slave! And you’re supposed to be going to s lave show. You’ve got tot look your best, and you won’t be very attractive with a great forest of hair preventing the judges from really seeing what you’ve got…. Before I selected you for this I came and watched all the site slaves showering one night, and although you’re impressively hung, you just don’t ‘show’ all that well with all that hair around you. We’ll just trim most of it away, reduce the length of the rest…”
“I’m not going to be appearing naked, anyway, so ….”
“Well not unless you get to be a winner, I suppose. But on the first days you display in Speedos, and it’s kind of traditional for these to be chosen to be on the very small side – we don’t want a great bush of your pubes poking out everywhere….”
“No! I’m not going to do it.”
“Steve, just think about what your life will be like if I take you back to the site tomorrow. No privileges again – ever! And I can make sure you always get the wettest, dirtiest, smelliest jobs that are going… For ever. And there’s be a whole lot of sniggering and laughing at you when the other blokes learned you were ashamed to strip off in front of a woman. Now, stop being so stupid – a man like you can’t be unused to letting another bloke see his tackle… You were a soldier, weren’t you? And they surely all live together, shower together…”
“No, but your wife…”
“Oh, come on, Steve! She’s an adult, not some prude from the Midwest of the USA. She’s used to seeing me, you know…. And I don’t think she’ll be so affronted by you….”
I felt myself blushing as I pushed my jeans down, and stepped out of them. They only gave us really old-fashioned “underpants” rather than nice smart slips, and it made me feel a bit like when I was a kid in the stuff my mother used to choose for me as I stood there then. Dan looked at me again, a faint smile playing in the corners of his mouth. “Come on, Steve…. We’re waiting….”
Well, if you’ve got to do something you’d rather not, but which you know you have to, there’s no point in postponing it, is there? And anyway, what did I have to be ashamed of? I’d got a good body, no, a great body. And a nice dick. So I shrugged them down, and then, quite unconsciously, as you do, I reached down and kind of “flicked” my cock, to free it from where my sweat had stuck it to my balls.
Dan had me kneel on the kitchen table then so his wife could sit down and be at the right height to trim my pubes! It was at once humiliating, and bizarre, to be there in that tiny suburban house, in a minute kitchen with the pots and pans still piled in the sink, having a woman snipping away at your pubes with hairdressing scissors! And she did that hairdresser thing when she’d finished, too, holding a mirror up for me to be able to see what she’d done, and asking perkily “Is that all right, sir?”
I have to say I think I did look better – my cock looked even bigger than usual, and was much more visible now that thick thatch had been mostly removed and shortened.
“OK, Steve. Up and use the bathroom – we’ve got an early start tomorrow”, Dan told me. “There’s a clean towel in there for you, and tonight you’re going to sleep on the sofa down here – we’ve got some blankets and things for you.”
It seemed silly to stand there and pull my ugly underpants on then, so I thanked them for dinner and everything and made my way upstairs to their tiny bathroom. It wad odd, really – so homely, with a lot of shampoo and makeup and stuff lying around, and with some plastic ducks and other toys that I guessed were their kid’s: it was so long since I’d used anything other than an institutional communal place that it felt odd – especially as, like the rest of the house, everything was on such a small scale that I could hardly use the bath properly as my knees were almost up to my chin!
I realised then that I’d left my clothes downstairs, so I had to go down with just the towel wrapped around my waist – that always seems kind of intimate, I think, but Dan showed me a pile of blankets and looked a bit embarrassed when he said “I’m sorry it’s the couch… But this is a small house and we don’t have a spare room…”
I felt sorry for him, actually, as in many ways he was living a much worse life than I was. I might be indentured, and known as a “slave”, but at least I had mates around me, good food, a proper place to sleep… Poor Dan had that dreadful commute, this tiny house, and was clearly always worried about money. Who was the real “slave”, I began to wonder as I drifted into sleep on their not very comfortable, and not very big, couch? Me, or Dan, trapped in a system that he seemed to have little chance of escaping from?
Evidently the family budget didn’t run to such luxuries as bacon and eggs but they gave me lots of toast and a big mug of tea the next morning, and then it was time to go: it’s only a couple of hours up the motorway to the National Exhibition Centre, and we were soon pulling off the M42 into the huge car parks. There seemed to be a lot of people around, even though it was still early, and Dan and I followed the signs that said “Exhibitors’ Entrance”.
There was a line of registration desks, and at each one there were a couple of people – I think I could tell instinctively that they were “owner” and “slave” as one set were in casual clothes and jackets, and the others were, like me, rather more cheaply and crudely dressed in tough jeans and stuff like that. Some of the waiting slaves were just in shorts, though, and it looked to me as if they were shivering slightly as it wasn’t all that warm in there.
We got to the front, and the bloke sitting at the PC began to ask Dan a lo of questions… Owner’s name and address, e-mail, contact phone number. And then it got worse – as I heard him say “And now the slave details: Name? How long is his indenture in total, and how long has he served already? Date of Birth? Reason for indenture?”
Dan had to ask me for my date of birth, and the bloke a the PC seemed vaguely surprised that Dan didn’t know this. He looked at me sharply, though, when Dan answered to the last question “Crimes against humanity”, and said to Dan “He isn’t dangerous, is he? The show rules specifically prohibit the display of slaves who have been involved in violent crime, rape, murder….”
“No – it was really unfortunate, for him. He was a soldier, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know what those UN bastards are like…. Always picking on us Westerners…..”
“Poor bloke. Couldn’t the Government do something for him, him being a soldier and everything?”
“No. You know how they want to pander to international opinion! Completely fucking spineless, and never standing up for our blokes, who they sent there in the first place anyway! But he’s not violent as such, anyway – he’s a good worker, and never any trouble.”
The man keyed a whole lot of stuff into his PC, and then asked “And what class or classes are you entering him in to?”
“Well, male slaves, I suppose…”
“No – you need to be a lot more specific. Clearly, he’s Caucasian. And male. But then within that we have the various sub-classifications – ‘Scandinavian’, ‘Mediterranean’, Slavic’, and so on….”
“Well I guess he comes from England….”
“Yes, but those classifications apply not to his origin, but to his characteristics. So a ‘Scandinavian’ is blond, blue-eyed…. And a ‘Mediterranean’ is darker skinned, kind of swarthy, with a lot of body hair….”
“I hadn’t thought of that”, Dan said, looking uncomfortable.
“First time of showing this prime property is it, sir?”
“Yes… I didn’t realise it was so complicated….”
The man looked at me and snapped “Pull up your shirt, slave, and let me take a look at your belly.” I was a bit astonished, but seeing Dan looking worried, did as I was told. The bloke turned to Dan and said “Well let me suggest you put him in ‘Mid Europeans’ – that’s probably the biggest class, but it allows for a lot of variation. He’s agreeably hairy, but I don’t think he’d really make it with the ‘Mediterranean’s’ as his skin doesn’t really have that olive hue. There’s a lot of variation in the ‘Middle Europeans’, but judging from what I’ve seen, he’ll probably do well.”
Dan nodded and said thank you, and the bloke went on “Now, is it just the age-related categories??”
“Can I have some guidance, please, again?”
“Well it’s simple – ‘Pups’ are the sixteen and seventeen year olds, ‘Youth’ are eighteen to twenty one, twenty two to twenty five are ‘Studs’, twenty six to thirty six are ‘Primes’, thirty six to fifty are ‘Matures’, and above that…. Well, no one bothers to show the ‘Oldies’ – who’d want to look at old men’s bodies?”
“I guess that makes him a ‘Prime’ then, just…. He’s twenty six.”
“And you don’t want him entered into any subsidiary classes – it’s a kind of matrix thing, so he can be judged in his age class, and then for Agility, or Obedience, or Sex…”
“Well I hadn’t thought about it….”
“Well, sir, if you hadn’t thought about it and he hasn’t been trained, I’d advise you to forget it, for this year at least….. The ‘Agility’ is pretty specialised ,and men with big bodies like him aren’t generally very much good at it, even if they are really fit, as he seems to be. The ‘Obedience’ wouldn’t really work unless you’ve put him through some pretty rigorous training…. ”
“…well, I am after as many prizes as possible, as I need the money….. And he’s a pretty obedient sort of slave, we never have any trouble with him on the job…. Perhaps I could give it a go…?”
“Can he raise an erection on command, and then drop it again on command, even after a few seconds?”
“Yes, that’s one of the standard tests…. They have to do ‘dressage’ and marching and stuff like that, but when it gets on to body control, it needs a lot of practice! Think about it, sir- you’re probably like most men and can throw a hard-on easily – but if I said to you now ‘Get an erection!’, I bet you couldn’t do it. It takes training….. And if you haven’t put the time in already with this slave, it just isn’t worth it!”
“OK, thanks… I’d hate to look foolish in the display ring….”
I stood there listening to all this in horror. I mean, if Dan would feel foolish if I couldn’t get an erection on demand, how did he think I’d feel? I mean, no bloke minds throwing one, does he? And the oftener the better – it’s one of those things that help you get through the day, to have that feeling of your cock straining against your clothes. But being made to do it on command….. And I guess it also meant that I’d be displayed naked…. I shuddered, but at least that seemed to have been ruled out.
“So what’s the ‘sex’ category, then?”
“Oh well, it’s mostly intended for slaves working in the sex industry. They have to fuck, and so on…”
Dan turned to me. “Hey, Steve, that sounds good, doesn’t it? I bet it’s a long time since you’ve had the chance to fuck…. But I bet you know how….?”
I was about to say that there was no way I was going to fuck in public, when the man at the desk cut in “It’s not quite as simple as that, sir… And again, unless he slave has been fully trained, you won’t get anywhere….. For example, what’s the maximum length of penis he can take down the throat without gagging? And what diameter dildo can he stretch to?”
Dan looked as astonished as I was, and the man went on “The fucking’s only one of the things in the ‘sex’ category. It’s a ‘points’ competition, and even the best stud in the world can’t win on fucking alone – all the other things, like ability to take cock, and so on, count as well. So unless your slave there has had a lot of experience – and I do mean a lot – then I’d advise against it.”
“OK, I guess its just the standard class then, at least for this year”
That sounded ominous, but I kept silent.
The man at the desk nodded an pressed a few more keys, and a printer hummed and spat out a small label. I watched as he peeled off the adhesive backing and spread the label carefully on a piece of fluorescent green plastic. “OK, slave – come here, and kneel….”, he rapped at me.
I was slow to react. I ‘d heard the words, but they didn’t seem to make any sense. The man turned to Dan and said “I think you’ll have problems in the ring if the slave is as slow and dull-witted as he seems to be! I told him to kneel, and he’s just standing there….”
I saw a slave at the next desk kneeling by the side of the PC there, and realised what was required. Look, Dan had been nice to me the night before, and I didn’t want to embarrass him, so without further ado I knelt down as I’d been told.
The bloke picked up the plastic strip and wrapped it around my neck, then pushed the ends together and fiddled for a moment, throwing a scrap into the bin by his side. He looked at Dan. “There you are, sir! Your slave ‘Steve’ is all entered. He must wear the plastic collar with his name tag and classification at all times – if he’s found at the Show without it, he’s automatically disqualified. But don’t worry – it’s really tough plastic and perfectly durable – in fact, when you get him home you’ll find you need really tough shears to cut through it.”
I reached up and felt the hated thing encircling my neck. I’d never been collared before, although I knew it was the fashion for some slaves to have to wear one all the time. And now I felt my manhood starting to slip away – the bright green fluorescence marked me out as something different: a slave, and not a man – immediately.
“We’re all done now then… Good luck!” The man told Dan. “Take the slave through and strip him ready for the photographs and measurements – they’ll give you a box for all his things, and they’ll be returned to you when you leave. ”
“Yes, and the formal measurements. It’s for the show catalogue….”
To be continued …
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