A kinky story written by Pete Brown | Chapter 2

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

Dan led me through into a big enclosed area – well, “enclosed” in the sense that there were some of those portable five-feet high screens marking it off from the rest of the huge space, and you could see heads peeking over them from the idly curious.  As we went in an attendant reached up and read my collar, and used a magic marker to write five numbers on the lid of a cardboard storage container. 

“There, sir… Marked with the slave’s show number…. Just ask for it when you’re ready to take him away. Get him to strip totally and put all his things in the box, and then join the queue over there for the photography and measurement stations.” 

I looked around, and there were some plain wooden benches, much like you find in changing rooms at gyms and so on, and several owners and slaves were standing around as the slaves stripped…. But to my horror I saw that this really was a communal facility:  it wasn’t just blokes taking their kit off, as the Show was for females, too, and there were several women getting naked.   I wondered if the heads poking over the screens were there to look at them, or the men! 

“OK, Steve…. Come on, let’s get you naked….” 

“Dan, sir… I can’t… There are women….” 

“Oh come on, Steve!  Are you shy?  Are you telling me you’ve never appeared naked in front of a woman before?  You were all right last night….” 

“But this is so exposed –  look at everyone peeking at us over the barriers.  And there are several of them…” 

“…and they’re getting naked in front of you.  And look at all the other blokes – they don’t seem to mind.  In fact that one over there looks quite excited….” 

I turned, and there was a young bloke, probably early twenties, with a huge erection as he stood there watching the women.  He didn’t  seem to be worrying about it, but it was odd – I mean, we all know we get erections, we like them, and we’re proud of them.  But blokes don’t show them off to each other, do they?  In fact, some of my worst moments have come when I’ve felt myself starting to stiffen when we’ve been changing, or in the showers.   But this man seemed totally unconcerned about having a hard-on with other blokes around, and his owner didn’t seem to be concerned, either. 

Dan saw me staring, and my look of amazement.  “Look, Steve, you don’t have any choice.  No one’s going to be looking at you, handsome though you are, when there’s that one there to look at!  I wonder if he’s one of those sex workers we were told about?  Anyway, come on, get your kit off…. We haven’t got all day, and the queue’s not getting any shorter….” 

Very reluctantly, as it seemed I didn’t have a whole lot of choice, I bent down and undid my work boots and put them into the box, and then stripped down.  I hated all the other men, and the women, seeing me in my horrible underpants, and in a way it was a relief to get them off. 

Dan handed the box to the attendant, and then I felt somehow “cut off” from the rest of my normal world. It was bad enough when I was first made a slave, being made to live a very different life, but I guess I’d kind of adjusted to it.  Now, with even my clothes taken away and with this plastic collar around my neck I felt that feeling of isolation from the “real” world again.  This wasn’t how men were meant to live.  They didn’t have the right to do this to men, I thought. But here I was, “in the system”, and the very ordinariness of it seemed to make me need to conform: the other naked slaves were standing there in a line, waiting patiently, apparently unconcerned;  and  by the side of them their owners were standing in small groups chatting away, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be there talking about the prospects for the Show, or the traffic on the journey, or whatever. 

Dan led me over to the queue, and I didn’t know what was the best thing to do – to kind of walk with a carefree air as if I was used to going around naked in front of a whole lot of other people, or to be a bit modest and to try to cover my cock and balls with my hands.  I decided not to do the latter, as I always think blokes doing that when they’re caught in those “candid” photos you see look pretty stupid, and so walked normally.  There were carpet tiles, I remember, as their harsh scratchiness felt strange to my bare feet.  And you know how it is in those huge air-conditioned spaces – the air seems to blow everywhere, and it can be refreshing when you’re at an exhibition or something.  But when you’re naked, it feels cold on you and it’s not all that pleasant – and it kind of reminds you that you’re about to be the exhibition! 

The photography wasn’t all that bad – well, I’d had a set of “mugshots” done for the army, several times. But it was a bit much to make you stand there in the nude whilst they took a whole body shot of you.   And not just one, either – I had to face them, then they did me from the back, and then I was told to turn so that they could do me from the side.  I asked the photographer why they needed all these, and he said it was for the show catalogue so that when we were in the ring it would be easier for the spectators to be able to tell who was who. 

“So they get to see all of me, in the nude?” 

“Oh yes, but it’s only a tiny thumbnail, so they can’t really even see whether you’re circumcised or not. Don’t worry about it – no one is going to be taking it away to wank over when they can get full-sized pictures of slaves in the booths in the merchants’ area.” 

So that was that – well, what was the point of arguing?  And at least I could stand and watch the women being done as I waited to be measured.  I’ve seen acres of pictures of naked women, of course, as all the barracks always have a lot of them lying around (although the best pages  are often stuck together as a result of blokes wanking on them!).  But seeing the pictures actually being taken was different somehow.  No, not different – much more erotic.  And the photographer was a dirty fucker – he kept stopping and going over to “rearrange” the women, as he called it – moving their tits slightly, or getting them to spread their legs a bit wider by putting his hands right up the top of her thighs and nudging them apart.  I noticed that I wasn’t the only male slave who was watching who found all of this pretty exciting, however humiliating it must have been for the poor girl concerned, and several of us looked slyly at each other and grinned, as blokes do when you’re watching a stripper in a pub. 

The measuring was pretty horrible, though:  they did my chest, and my waist, and my biceps, but then they did my inside leg!  Well we’re all used to having that done when you get measured for a suit, but then you’ve got your underpants and trousers on, and you have to remember that I was naked!  I hated the feel of the guys hand as he pushed one end of the tape measure right up to that sensitive bit behind my balls, and the feeling of it against my balls themselves as they hung there, but I suppose it was only for a few seconds (and I suppose it was no worse, really, than what the photographer had done to the women).  They had one of those special things for measuring my height where a little arm comes down a sliding scale to the top of my head, and taking  my weight was easy on a big scales.  I thought it was all over then, but as I was about to walk off the bloke who was doing it said “Not so fast, boy – we’ve still got the most important ones to do yet.” 

He had this big pair of callipers with a scale between the two “arms”, and he used them to measure the length of my cock, pushing one arm into my pubes and touching the end of my cock with the other, before reading the length off the scale.  I think I was blushing at having my cock measured – not that I’ve got anything at all to be ashamed off on that score, but it’s not something you ever actually do, is it?  I mean, on the labels of sex DVDs you read that so-and-so has an eight inch cock, and you look at the picture to compare him with yourself, but you don’t actually get a ruler out and measure it, do you?  But if that wasn’t enough, I thought I was hearing things when he said “One last one, and then you’re all done – get that thing cock hard, will you?” 


“Get it hard.  That cock of yours.  The public likes to know how a slave is hung, so they need it flaccid and hard.” 

“No… I can’t….” 

“Oh, you’re one of those blokes who can only get it up with a lot of stimulation, are you?  I’ll call one of the other slaves over and get him to give you a wank then, shall I?” 

“No… I mean I can’t do it here, in public….” 

“This isn’t in public.  There’s only me, and a few slaves around.” 


“First time is it, boy?  First time on show?” 


“Look, stop worrying!  This is the worse you’ll have to do, providing you don’t get really high up in the competitions.  In the early rounds all the judging is done with your shorts on.  And even if you do well, you’ll soon get used to it – just remember that a slave has no right to feel embarrassed or ashamed of his body:  if his owner wants him to appear naked, then that’s that.  It’s the responsibility of the owner, not the slave, so the slave need have no fear of ridicule, or shame, or anything.. And by entering you in the competition your owner took all that responsibility on himself.” 

Well I still felt bad about it.  I’d never consciously made myself go hard in front of another bloke before. I suppose I had been erect in the barracks sometimes but then I’d have had my underwear on, or could cover it with a towel, or something – but blokes just don’t go around waving their hard cocks at each other, do they? 

He saw me hesitating, and snapped “Now come on, be a good boy!  You’re holding everything up!  Either get hard, or we’ll need to get one of the other slaves over here to get you roused….” 

Reluctantly, very reluctantly, I reached down and started to stroke my cock.  There was probably still the excitement of the naked women a few minutes ago in my brain as it wasn’t all that difficult, actually, and I was actually quite pleased with the way my cock jutted up there, way above the horizontal (even though it is very thick and long.  I think it’s because I have such a muscular stomach, so all the muscles are working together properly).  It didn’t take the bloke a moment then to touch the callipers to my pubes and to my piss slit, and finally to use them to take the width of my cock. 

He was nice enough to allow me time to calm down before sending me off, and there was Dan waiting a the final “station” of this registration process – the place where they issued the show shorts.  “Extra Large for this one”, Dan told the man.  “He’s a big bloke, as you can see.  Or perhaps even XXL.” 

“First time, is it, sir?”  The man disking out the shorts asked. 


“Well, sir, if you don’t mind me giving you a little advice…. Most owners choose show shorts that are smaller than the slave really needs – for this one, I’d say a ‘Large’ at the most, or perhaps he might even be able to squeeze into a ‘Medium’.  You must remember, sir, that the slaves are here on show, and the public wants to get a good look:  unless the shorts are really tight they miss out on the muscular definition of the backside, and, if  I may say so, that would be a real pity with this slave!  And there again, until they get to the higher levels, the slaves don’t have to appear naked – and so you want the audience to be able to form their own view of his tackle, don’t you?  If the shorts are loose, then his very impressive equipment just isn’t even hinted at.” 

I saw Dan looking, and he grinned and looked at me. “Hear that, Steve boy?  Even the expert here thinks you’ve got a pretty good body.  So it would be a shame to deprive the public of a bit of pleasure, wouldn’t it?”  He turned and went on “So let’s try the ‘Medium’ on him please.” 

I was handed a pair of white shorts which, even as I took them in my hand, I felt were far too small.  They weren’t like work shorts, or leisure shorts, coming down to the knee, but were more like those swimming ‘trunks’ with very short legs indeed, only coming at most a couple of inches down my thigh.  They were made of some sort of half-shiny artificial fabric with just a hint of “stretch” in it, and as  I looked at them  I could see that  they were not lined or anything – they were more like an abbreviated version of boxer underwear, I’d say.  I needed to hop around from foot to foot to even try to get the dammed things over my feet and up my long legs, and finally I stood there, tugging at them, trying to make them a bit less revealing. 

Anyone looking at me would indeed be able to see the outline of my cock and balls, I just knew, as the fabric was really bulging at the front.  And I could feel it stretched tightly over my bum – that part of it which they covered, that is, as the waist just wouldn’t come up very high and I felt certain that at least an inch of the top of my crack would be exposed, even when I wasn’t bending down.  And at the front, there was a straggle of pubic hair peeking over the waist, even allowing for the fact that I’d been “trimmed”. 

“There, I told you”, the guy said to Dan.  “He looks really good, doesn’t he?  Everyone can see him now, and make a pretty good guess at what he looks like.” 

Dan smiled, and slapped me on the bum.  “He’s right, Steve!  Not that they have to guess very hard!  You’d better be careful that you don’t get an erection, as those shorts are already so tightly stretched that any more strain might burst them totally.”  He looked at the man and went on “You don’t think we’d do better with the next size?  These are a bit revealing….” 

“Oh no, sir.  The judges like to see a man nicely displayed like this.  The ones he’s got on now are really sexy, I think – he’s kind of exposed, and yet concealed… Many people think that it’s more erotic to see a man like that, with so many tantalising hints of what lies underneath, than it is to see him actually naked.  I think you might have a real winner here, sir, if you take him into the ring like that…” 

Dan thanked the guy, and said breezily “Well that’s that then, Steve.  All booked in… Let’s go and find the grooming and rest areas.” 

t seemed that the protocol at this place was that all the different types of slaves  tended to cluster together, and I learned later that this was because the owners liked to chat and pass on tips to each other.  It also made it easier for spectators: the public could wander freely around the rest and grooming areas, and if they wanted to observe just one type of slave it was good for them as all the Caucasians would be in one place, all the blacks in another, and so on.  I never found out what happened about owners who chose to show different types of slaves, but, anyway, this didn’t affect us. 

The Caucasians’ area tended to be grouped into their subspecies, too, and the Scandinavians looked a pretty snooty lot, standing there tossing their blond hair around (even the blokes tended to have longer hair than you expect to see on a slave, as  I suppose they were not generally used for hard work, as I was, being more for show and display.  Ultimately we found ourselves in a reasonably quiet corner, not on one of the main passageways, with a lot of other Mid-Europeans.  In the space next to me there was a “pup”, a young lad who I learned had only just turned sixteen, and on the other side a “mature” , who  I was to learn had recently turned forty. 

The young lad was owned by a big florid man who was wearing a tweed suit and a bow tie, and who was very overweight and, I would guess, in his early  fifties. The Mature slave was owned by a thin old man, probably about sixty or seventy, who had on an elegant pinstriped suit and those kind of polished black shoes that show off the wearer’s long thin feet.  I saw Dan looking rather nervously at them as he was in jeans and a Polo shirt and a work jacket, but as they started talking  I heard them reassure him that although an owner needed to “look smart”  in the show ring, as the judges couldn’t help but be affected by the sight of the owner as well as the slave, there was no requirement to be very “formal”.  It was generally agreed that it was good to see new younger owners, like Dan, joining in and starting to take part in “the sport”, as they called it. 

The two owners asked Dan if he wanted to go off with them for tea, and said it was OK to leave us slaves there at the rest and grooming benches, provided we were secured.  They showed Dan how to loop the chain that was underneath the benches around my ankle, and then use a small padlock to holds it there, just as they were doing for their slaves. 

“It’s not necessary, of course”, the florid man told Dan, “as no slave can ever escape anyway with the tracker chip inside him.  But it’s a kind of traditional thing  here – when they used to hold dog shows an owner could not of course go off and leave his animal, and the smaller ones were left in cages and the larger ones tethered by the collar.  Leaving the slaves shackled by the ankle like this does add a certain old-fashioned resonance and nostalgic charm of shows like this.” 

So saying, the three men went off and I was left there with this chain around me – to tell you the truth, it really did make me feel like a slave!  On the construction site  I could almost fool myself that I was a free man, as I worked away just as a free man would.  Sure, I was locked in the barracks at night, but that was about the only difference I suppose.  But now, with this collar on, these ridiculous shorts, and a chain around me, I began to imagine myself as back in Roman times, as I’d read stories about how slaves would be taken to the marketplace to be sold, collared and chained up, just like we were. 

The “mature” slave stuck his hand out and said  “Well, that’s rid of them for an hour or so.  I’m  Joe.” 

“Steve”, I replied, shaking his hand. 

“And you’re a ‘Prime’, I can tell.  Nice body, Steve! And what about our young friend here…?” 

The young kid muttered  “Trent”,  and we all stood there for a moment, looking at each other.  You could see that Trent was going to be a “Mid European” like me as he got older, although for now he only had a really thin treasure trail running over his flat belly and a small patch of straggly hair on his pecs.  But Joe was, to some extent, an older version of me – he looked in great shape, but had a more lined face, and his close-cropped hair was clearly starting to thin. 

“I guess we’re all in competition with each other”, Joe went on.   “If we win our classes, there’s only one ‘best of breed’…. ”   He looked at me and went on “Have you got any prize certificates already?” 

“No, this is the first time I’ve ever been entered into things like this.”  “…and you, Trent?” 

“Fucking no!  I’ve only been a slave two weeks…” 

“What did you do to get  an Indenture, then?” 

“Fucking nothing!” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t for using bad language all the time?” 

“Screw you!  You’re just like all the workers at the Home…. Always prying, always going on at a bloke about nothing….” 

“Hey, young fellow, we’re all the same here, you know…. Now stop that…. And tell us.” 

“I was taken into care when I was ten as my mom died – I’d never known my dad.  It’s tough in those homes, you know – the older kids can be real bullies, and the staff mostly don’t care.  They chuck you out when you’re sixteen, and I reckon they have an arrangement with the police,  as the moment I was on my own, they pounced.  I’d got nowhere to stay, no job or anything, and so they immediately arrested me for being a vagrant, and hauled me into court and I got ten years indenture.  If you ask me they’re in league with each other to make sure there’s a ready supply of young guys like me coming on to the market – after all, a lot of other stuff, like antisocial behaviour, nicking cars, and petty theft has disappeared as no one wants to be enslaved.” 

“Hey, that’s really tough.”, I cut in.  “Surely the Social Services should have found you a place, made sure that when you went out of their care you had somewhere fixed up….” 

“You’re fucking right they should!  But, as I say, I reckon it’s all down to economics.  There just aren’t many sixteen year olds coming through the system at all.  And you should see how they all pored over us when I was sold – or my ‘indenture was reassigned’, as they call it!  It was bad enough for me, having men going all over my body.  But you should have seen how they went at the young girls, trying to find out if they were virgins.  Some hope, I can tell you! Virgins, coming out of kids’ homers?” 

“So, Trent, this is your first show!  Still, you’ll get used to it.  And you, Steve.  If you ask me, this isn’t the first time you’ll be back here…. You’re each pretty good looking.” 

“What about you, Joe?”, I asked. 

“Oh, this is my sixth time.  I was a ‘mature’ now, although I used to be a  ‘prime’ like you, Steve, and then moved on as I got older.  I’ve got a whole lot of prize certificates from other shows around the country – best in class, bet of breed….. But never anything from this show, which is the real creme de la creme! My owner has high hopes this time, as the slave who just pipped me to best in class last year isn’t being shown this season at all.” 

“You’ll have to give us some tips then….” 

Joe looked at me.  “As I said, we’re all competitors! Even if I win my class, and you win yours, we’ll be competing against each other for best of breed.”  He saw me look a bit oddly at him, and a grin broke out. “…but of course I’ll tell you.  Who the fuck cares, anyway?   My owner is OK normally, but when these shows are coming up he gets fanatical – I’m out in all weathers exercising, he watches my food like a hawk and I think he starves me to make sure my belly feels flatter that it normally does – not that I’m not pretty muscular there anyway.  If I did win here, I think he would make life a whole lot harder for me – he’d  want to put me in all the local shows and everything, so he could show off the prize certificate. 

“It sounds as if you have been indentured a long time, Joe”, I added. 

“You’re right, Steve.  Eight years now.  And no prospect of getting out of it, either!” 

“How so?” 

“Oh, the usual thing…. My wife found out I was having a bit of a harmless fling with my secretary, so she divorced me.  She got all the house and everything, and a monthly settlement…. And then when I lost my job as it was against the Company’s policy for bosses to have sex with their secretaries,  she got me indentured to make sure the payments were made.  And now of course there’s no way out of it – even when this term of indenture is up, I’ll never be able to do anything other than be indentured again, as I used to be a banker – and which bank is going to employ someone who’s been indentured?   I reckon I’m stuck for life.  Still, the  Captain isn’t so bad, I suppose…” 

“Hey, you’re the slave of a naval man…” 

“No, he was a captain in the army.  But he retired years ago, and now he keeps himself amused by ‘drilling’ me and subjecting me to ‘proper discipline’ and treating me like the batman he used to have.  And the fucking’s not so bad, really – the poor old sod can barely keep it up, and even with Viagra the best he achieves most nights is a lot of waving it around in front of me and then sliding it up and down my ass crack rather than pushing it right in…” 

I was shocked, and my voice sounded it.  “He fucks you?” 

Joe looked at me.  “So you haven’t been a slave long, have you, Steve?  Most owners fuck their slaves, you know.  It’s an almost irresistible temptation.  You’re totally under your owner’s control, and the thought of being able to do something like that to another bloke is  overwhelming.  Even men who think they’re totally ‘hetero’ end up by fucking their slaves, once they own them – it’s just the way men are made.  If you’re dominant, you like to show it.  And what better way is there of proving your total dominance and control over another man than to fuck him, especially if he doesn’t want to be fucked?  It’s the ultimate turn on.  And even owners who don’t find it particularly sexy still do it, really, I suppose, ‘because they can’.   I take it your owner hasn’t fucked you yet, then, Steve?” 

“Well he isn’t my owner really – I’m owned by a company, as I’m a construction worker.  Dan, the young guy you saw, he’s really a ‘handler’, I suppose.” 

“I bet you’ve been fucked, haven’t you, Trent?  A cute young lad like you is generally irresistible to older men.” 

Trent shrugged.  “Sure.  But he’s so fat it isn’t a problem  He hasn’t got a big cock anyway, and by the time his great belly has forced him away from getting any closer, only the first inch makes it up my bum. No, that’s not the problem… He’s seriously into spanking and stuff like that, and most nights I get spanked over his knee.  Even if I haven’t done anything wrong.  And if he can pin anything on me – I’ve forgotten something, or if he says I’ve ‘misbehaved’, then it’s with a hairbrush!   Actually, coming here is a nice change – he hasn’t laid into me for three days now as he doesn’t want any marks on my bum,  for the judging.” 

“Well they wouldn’t see those, would they….?”  I asked. 

Joe cut in “Oh yes, Steve.  In the ‘pups’ class the slaves are always shown totally naked.  Poor young Trent there is going to have to run around that show ring flashing his cock for everyone who wants to see.

And there’s always huge crowds when the pups are being judged – a whole lot of men find really young blokes like Trent very appealing, and they turn up in droves to see them… And the women, too.  I think there’s something about a young man’s cock that appeals to women – it’s not as threatening  as yours or mine, I suppose!” 

“Still”, Joe went on, “Even though that Dan is only your handler, I expect he’ll want to fuck you.” 

“Hell no – he’s married.  Got a kid, and another one on the way… His wife’s really nice….” 

“That’s got nothing to do with it, Steve!  As I said, all men really want to fuck other  men.  It’s just a natural male thing.  Is she here with him?  I didn’t see her.” 


“And are you staying somewhere…” 

“I don’t know.  Dan is doing it on the cheap… He’s got one of the firm’s vans, and I think we’re going to bed down in the back of it, in the car park.” 

“Hey ho, then, Steve.  Mark my words, he’ll  be up your arse tonight, for sure!” 

“No!  Dan isn’t like that.” 

“Steve, ALL men are like that.  It’s just that most of them don’t have the opportunity.” 

“Well I’m not like it!” 

“It’s only because you never had the chance, then. What did you do to get enslaved, anyway?” 

“I just did my job properly!  I was in the army, and an operation went wrong, and us blokes on the ground got the blame.” 

“You were in the army, and you didn’t fuck other blokes?  Oh, come on, Steve.  We’re all friends here – you can tell us.” 

“NO, honest, I didn’t.. 

“I bet you all wanked each other, at least…” 

I just shook my head, knowing that I wasn’t being entirely truthful.  Look, I know I’ve told you that you knew other blokes were wanking themselves in their bunks and you just ignored it as you beat your own meat, but sometimes we did do just a bit more.  If it was near the end of the month and some of the blokes were a bit short of cash,  instead of going into town and drinking and screwing the local women, we’d put one of the ultra hard porn DVDs on the TV in the barracks and sit there and watch it.  Well, you know how it is with good porn on the DVD – your cock really hurts if  it keeps thrusting against your underpants and uniform, so you get it out, don’t you?  After all, it’s not as if you haven’t seen all your mates’ cocks hundreds of times, in the showers and stuff.  And then you all sit there stroking them.  Then, after a time, some of the blokes start to wank themselves…. And it’s a short step from there and just leaning over and starting to stroke your mate….   I can’t say I particularly like wanking another bloke, but I do like feeling another bloke’s hand on my cock – well, it isn’t all that different from having a woman bring you off, is it?  Except that I think another bloke does it better, as he knows from personal experience  which bits of it are really sensitive.  But I wouldn’t want you to think that I was gay or anything – we never went beyond that, never.  Well, except that there was one guy in our barracks who’d suck you off, if you’d let him, and most of us had given it a try – I mean, a bloke’s lips are just the same as a bird’s, aren’t they? 

Fortunately I didn’t have to really lie, or indeed answer any more potentially embarrassing questions, as the three owners came back at that point.  Dan came up to me and told me to lie down on the preparation bench.  “The first heat of the prime Mid-Europeans is this afternoon, and it’s time to get you ready.  These gentlemen have been most helpful, and given me a lot of tips – it really is good of them, but it seems that owners who come to slave shows to show off their slaves are a nice bunch, very friendly.  They’ve even loaned me some slave oil, as there isn’t time to go off down to the sales area and buy some.” 

“What’s slave oil?” 

“Steve, I thought we agreed that you’d speak properly, as a slave should.” 


“Basically, body oil.  To make your skin shine.  But specially formulated so that it’s not greasy, and to be long lasting…. Provided it’s rubbed in well it won’t stain your shorts, and you’ll just kind of ‘glow’ under the arena lights, rather than looking shiny as you would if we used olive oil or something like that.  Here…. Get started…..” 

He tossed me a bottle with one of those pump things on the top, and then stood and watched as I  rubbed it into my legs and thighs, and then all over my arms, and my belly and my chest. 

I lay down then, and Dan pumped some of the oil onto my back and began to massage it in.  I’ve never had another bloke do things like that before – not massage me, or anything, and I have to say it really is quite sensual.  It was just as well I was lying on my front as the feel of Dan’s hands on my back and shoulders started to make me go hard. 

To be continued …

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