A SLAVE’S LIFE free porn video

A SLAVE’S LIFE

There was something wrong when I woke up. I usually snap awake and
go from deep sl**p to full consciousness without any intervening
period. I know a lot of young guys like me like to just lie there
and would stay in bed all day, but I’m a morning person, I’m wide
awake, and ready to go. There was something else different, too – I
didn’t have my usual morning hard-on.

When I say that I don’t lie there like a lot of guys my age, that
isn’t quite true – the first thing I have to do is get rid of my
erection, and I think wanking when you first wake up is one of the
best things a man can do for himself: I’m at my brightest and best,
and my thoughts can run riot as I stroke my cock and fondle my
balls. I rarely even have to play with my tits in the morning to
keep myself hard, so I’ve got both hands free to concentrate on my
tackle as I wank.

But this morning was different – I was slow and lethargic. I knew I
was awake, but somehow my brain wasn’t functioning properly. And as
I reached down for my cock, it was flaccid, just lying there between
my thighs like a warm, moist slug. Then other sensations started to
come to me – for one thing, I’d still got a T-shirt on, and I always
sl**p naked. I’d obviously taken my shorts off, though, as I could
feel my cock against my thighs. What the fuck had happened to me?
And there was something else curious, too – my body was starting to
report all kinds of little differences between what I was used to
and ‘here’ – the smell of the bed, for example: there wasn’t my own
man scent all around me. I moved my knees up and down
experimentally, to waft air from the bed over my face, and there
wasn’t that familiar smell of sweat, dried cum and general body
odour that I usually get. And the sheets felt differently – hell,
that was it…. I usually sl**p under a duvet, and now this felt
like a rough, scratchy blanked on top of me.

I f***ed myself to try to remember what I’d been doing the night
before. Had I picked up a woman and gone back to her place? I
reached around, hoping to feel a warm body for a clue, but I seemed
to be alone. Thank Christ for that! The last time this had
happened I’d had way too much to drink after the match (I play in
the club’s first team), picked up a woman, gone back to her place,
fucked her, fallen asl**p, then couldn’t even remember her name in
the morning – in fact, I couldn’t even remember that I was with a
woman, and it was only when she came in with coffee for me and I
almost jumped out of my skin in surprise that I vaguely remembered
what had happened. She was really pissed off, and spread the word
around that I was just a casual fucker, only interested in sex and
not a ‘proper relationship’ – well, that was true, of course, but it
didn’t do me any good with most of the girls who hang around the
club and it took me a long time to get my next ‘date’. Actually,
it’s not too bad for picking up casual dates at my club – since they
built the gym we’ve had a string of nubile young women joining just
as gym members, and the joke is that they only spent all the money
on the new facilities to provide us studs in the first team with
sex. Well, rugby’s a man’s thing, isn’t it? I know they do play
women’s rugby now, but, frankly, who’d fancy those women?

Guys need to bond together, especially in their early twenties, and
I really enjoyed the twice-weekly training sessions and the Saturday
matches: it helped me to keep fit, as working in a boring office
(even though I had excellent ‘prospects’) would otherwise have let
me slide into sloth, like a lot of the guys I still kept in contact
with from university. And as I was on the first team, I did a lot
of other training as well to maintain my fitness – I usually went
for a long run every morning that I wasn’t training or playing.

But where the fuck was I now? What had happened? I remembered the
match – we’d won – and that incredible feeling of complete
exhaustion that comes over you as you finally come off the field and
you know you’ve run as hard and as fast as you can, and have put all
your f***e into the scrums and tackling the other team. It’s a real
man’s game, not like those wimps who play soccer. And then the
communal bath, with all the heat, and the steam, and the comradeship
of the other guys as you all lie there stark naked, drinking the
first of the after match beers and talking about your girl friends.

Of course I’d gone on to have a few more beers, too, who doesn’t?
But I can take a lot – my tall, big-framed body has a big mass
because of all my muscles, and the alcohol hardly affects me (not
that I’m one of those vile body builder ‘muscles on muscles’ types –
I’m lean and athletic, and my strength comes from all the regular,
different types of workout. I can’t imagine spending hours a day in
a gym, and all those supplements and things, trying to get bigger
biceps, or whatever). So where the fuck was I now? What had
happened after that?

Only one way to find out – I threw aside the blanked, and pushed my
feet to the floor, then stood up and stretched all of my 6’2′ in an
effort to finally throw off sl**p and wake up. As I felt life
returning to me I saw that I had indeed only got my T shirt on – I
could kind of feel my cock and balls hanging down from under the
hem, which was resting on my bum at the back. I scratched myself,
as you do, and looked around. Other than the bed and a bucket in
the corner, the room was bare – just plain painted walls, and
thermoplastic tiles on the floor that felt cold under my bare feet.
Where the fuck were the rest of my clothes? And my watch – I never
took that off, and I always slept with it on, but now my wrist was
bare. Fuck me, I must have been out of it last night, to have taken
that off (or let someone take it off?). Mind you, this didn’t look
like some bird’s house – where the fuck was I?

I went over to the door, intending to peer out and see what could be
seen, but there was no handle. It looked to be a tough door, too, not
like a domestic door in a house. Oh Christ – this was looking bad –
it seemed to be some sort of cell. What the fuck had I done last
night, to get arrested?

Another problem was presenting itself now, too – I needed to piss.
All guys do, when they first get up, don’t they? So I banged on the
door, hoping to get someone to come. It sounded curiously ‘dead’,
though, and I just got the impression there wasn’t anyone out there
listening. As I’d started to do something about it, my need to piss
was now almost unbearable, and I looked at the bucket – there was
nothing for it, was there? The sound of my big stream of gold
hitting the metal was odd – we all get used to pissing in lavatories
and urinals, don’t we, and you’re not used to hearing your piss
splash against bare metal, which is itself acting as a sort of
amplifier. Still, it was good to at least get rid of that problem,
and I massaged my cock to get the last few drops of piss out – well,
you need to, don’t you? Even though I didn’t have one of those very
long, droopy foreskins hanging long past the end of my cock, I
wasn’t ‘cut’ like some of the guys on the team: you could always
see my piss slit as my ‘skin covered about half my cock head, but
even so it was possible for piss, sweat and the odd bit of pre-cum
to get caught under it and it was just as much trouble as having a
full ‘skin to keep clean. In some ways I envied the guys on the
team who were cut, as it seemed to be easier for them to
remain ‘sweet’ and fresh – you never know, after all, when the
opportunity to get a good sucking off from a woman you’ve picked up
will arise, do you? We often talked about things like this in the
bath after matches, but I told them they didn’t know what they were
missing -when you wank, having your ‘skin slide backwards and
forwards over your cockhead is fantastic – I don’t know how those
cut guys manage!

It was odd, really – usually when I’ve had a heavy night of drinking
I wake up with a raging thirst, and although there was nothing to
drink, I didn’t feel all that thirsty. So I didn’t think I’d had a
big d***k last night then done something to get me locked up. And
the police took stuff like your belt, didn’t they, to stop suicides,
not all your clothes? So why was I here? And where the fuck
was ‘here’?

I tried banging n the door again, but it still sounded ‘dead’, so
the only other thing to do was to go and lie down again on the bed.
I pulled the blanket over me and just lay there – I was worried,
now, as I hate having things in my life I can’t explain. There was
absolutely nothing to do, so I decided to have a wank – that always
passes the time, doesn’t it, and takes your mind off other things?
So I spat big gobs onto my hand, and started to lubricate my cock
with it and gradually began to stroke myself into that special place
you go to when your climax is near. Oh shit! I stopped suddenly,
as I remembered where I was – just the blanket, and me. Somehow I
didn’t want to shoot all over the blanket or the sheet on the base
of the bed – I didn’t know who might come in and look, and the
thought of having dried cum (or even worse, wet cum stains) visible
was awful. I know some guys catch their cum and then eat it, but
I’d tried that once and it almost made me sick – yes, I know it
doesn’t taste as bad as it smells, but somehow the huge, semi-fluid
semi-gelatinous pool of my spunk made me feel totally nauseated. I
don’t know how women get on with sucking a man off – I do like to
shoot into their mouths as I can’t stand all the mess if I shoot
over their faces and over their breasts – but I suppose they get
used to the taste if they really want to please their men.

I was too far gone now, though, and I felt my balls contracting and
my spunk forcing itself along my cock. With a big groan and sigh I
felt my hot cum pumping out all over me – my hand was covered, of
course, and my hard stomach, and as the after shocks died away and I
relaxed, I knew my pubic hair was covered in it. The blanket fell
down onto me, and, oh fuck, yes, it was covered in my cum, too,
where the initial big spurts had fired themselves upwards. So what
was I going to do now? Not only had I soiled the bed, but my hand,
body and pubic hair was all covered in my thick slime. Suppose
someone was to come in? Oh shit! I did the only thing I could do –
I got up, pulled my T off and used it to mop over myself – but it’s
never very successful, is it? Once your cum gets into your pubic
hair you do really need to have a good shower, or at least stand on
tiptoe so you can wash yourself in a wash basin to get away all
those strands that cling to the hairs. And even though I scrubbed
away at it, I wasn’t very good at cleaning the blanked either –
there was a very visible big wet damp patch still on it, even when
I’d finished.

There was no possibility of wearing the T again as I’d shot a really
monster load, even for me, so I balled it up and tossed it into the
corner by the bucket, and lay back on the bed, now totally naked. I
really had no idea of how long ‘d been there – without my watch,
even the time I’d been ‘awake’ was a bit of a mystery as I thought
I’d drifted in and out of a light sl**p a couple of times. But when
I felt the stubble on my chin, I thought it must be about thirty six
hours since I’d last shaved on Saturday morning before going off to
the match, so it might now be late Sunday afternoon. Surely someone
would have noticed I wasn’t there by now? – but, probably not: all
my mates on the team would think I’d gone off with a bird, so
wouldn’t be surprised when I hadn’t turned up at the pub for a
lunchtime drink. And I’d got no close f****y really – I only called
my s****r very occasionally. I suppose someone would notice
tomorrow morning, at work, but it wasn’t that unusual for guys just
not to turn up – in the web design game, if you’re offered a better
job over the weekend, you often just take it.

I was getting really worried by now – for one thing there were the
rumblings of hunger, and for another I started to think about what
would happen if I needed to crap – surely I couldn’t use that
bucket? It’s one thing to share your ‘cell’, as that’s how I was now
thinking about it, with a bucket of piss – but with some vile smelly
turds? I was getting thirsty, too, and thought about getting up and
beating on the door again. But somehow I sensed that it would be
useless.

I don’t know how long I lay there, but the deathly quiet of
my ‘cell’ was broken by a loud ‘snick’. I started upwards, and saw
that the door had half opened. Wrapping the blanket around me – I’m
not ashamed of my body, but even so, when you’re in a strange place,
and you don’t know what the fuck’s happening, you tend to try to
cover up, don’t you?

I peered into the corridor outside the door, and all that could be
seen was a row of identical doors. I walked cautiously along,
trying the doors as I went, but they had no handles either and
there was nothing else to do – especially as, just as I’d left it,
the door to my own ‘cell’ had closed and was now immovable when I
pushed at it.

At the end of the corridor, though, there was an open door, and
inside there was a lavatory, a big shower, and a washbasin!

It felt so good to be able to crap, then shower to get my body
really clean, and then to stand and shave off my stubble with a
disposable razor – you feel so much better, don’t you, when you’re
fresh and smart? I looked around for deodorant but there wasn’t
any, and I noticed that the shampoo and shower soap, and the shaving
cream, were all unperfumed – very unusual. Best of all, though was
that on a shelf by the side of the shower were some clothes – not
what I would have chosen for myself, but clothes, never the less. I
pulled them on gratefully, and they seemed to be a good fit, if
that’s the right word – the top was a plain white cotton singlet
that left my shoulders exposed and had very deep, loose arm holes
stretching half way to my waist. It was that sort of cotton that’s
very thin, almost translucent, and even though it was not tight on
me, I just knew that the shadow of my thick thatch of chest hair was
easily visible – even where it was not poking out above the low
neckline. It was too short, as well, not even coming to the top of
my pubic thatch.

The shorts were in that satin material they used to make sports
clothes out of until the Lycra stuff became fashionable, and felt
silky smooth on me. The legs were cut very high, though, so you
could see most of my big strong thighs, and they were very low-cut,
barely coming over the top of my bush: I knew that if I bent down
the top of my ass crack would be exposed, and, as it was, there was a
visible gap between the top of the shorts and the bottom of the
singlet. Unlike most sports shorts I’d ever owned, these didn’t have
one of those ‘pouch’ linings, either, and had the legs not been
relatively tight around my thighs my cock would have fallen out.
As it was, it nestled snugly in the silky fabric, trapped between the
short legs and the low waist band – I just hoped I didn’t get an
erection!

A door on the other side of the shower room now opened, and I went
through. I was in a brightly-lit space, very bare, with a man in a
dark business suit behind a desk.

‘What the fuck’s going on…..’

‘Silence, until you’re spoken to….’

‘I will not! Now, tell me what the fuck’s….’

I never got to finish the sentence, as I was howling with pain and
leaping up and down trying not to let my feet touch the floor.

‘Now, silence, until you’re spoken to! All over this facility the
floors have embedded wires, and I can send those painful shocks
through them, as you have just experienced. I have rubber-soled
shoes, as do all the guards here. But all prisoners have bare
feet. So, you see, we can control you. Either obey, or suffer the
consequences.’

‘Anyway’, the man continued, ‘I know that you’re wondering
where you are, and why you’re here. All our prisoners want to
know that. Firstly, let me reassure you that you’re not in trouble
with the police…. You didn’t drink too much, smash a place up,
and get arrested. A lot of men think that. But before you start to
congratulate yourself, let me tell you that, sadly for you, the
position is far worse.’

‘You have been taken, to order. A collector ordered a man like you,
and we are supplying…’

‘What the fuck is this? ‘A collector….’, ‘Taken to order’? Are
you mad….’

I was rolling around on the floor this time, as the shock had been
much more intense, almost disabling.

‘This is for your own good’, the man continued calmly. ‘So listen
well, and hear me out. There are certain rich men in the world –
very rich men – who have achieved everything they can. They run
huge corporations, control thousands of workers’ lives, and make a
significant difference to economic life all over the planet. They
play expensive sports, own houses on many continents, fly around in
their private jets. What else is there for them do? What can they
spend their wealth on? What is the ultimate pleasure for a man who
is used to ordering affairs on such a scale?’

‘I’ll tell you’, he went on. ‘The ultimate control that a man can
exercise is to own slaves. A slave owner completely orders and
controls the life of a slave – he can command when the slave rises
and when he sl**ps, what he eats and when, what he works at, whether
he is allowed to breed. The owner can have his slave tattooed and
branded, whipped or otherwise punished for disobedience, and, of
course exercise the ultimate control over him: he can sell him,
just as he would sell any household chattel.’

‘Of course the ownership of one man by another, although a long
established feature of human society, is now i*****l in most
countries. But there are certain parts of the world – islands in
the Indian Ocean, deep in the Amazonian rain forests, on the vast
plains of Central Asia, for example – where a truly rich man can
indulge himself. In most of these places the law still prohibits
slavery, but appropriate levels of illicit payment to the local
police and civil authorities can enable a powerful man to enjoy the
ultimate fruits of his efforts by owning and managing slaves.’

‘A lot of slaves are simply the human waste from very poor
countries – blacks from Africa, where life is very cheap, some of
the teaming billions from India where parents are only too glad to
sell their teenage sons, uneducated peasants from most South
American countries… Those sorts. But the real connoisseurs
amongst slave owners want to own good looking, educated,
Westerners. To some extent there’s no satisfaction in owning many
hundreds of the ‘peasant’ types as to them their slavery is almost a
relief – they get properly fed, enough water, access to proper
medical care, and generally live a life that’s better than they were
experiencing before. But to a well educated man from a typical
Western country, slavery is hell: no freedom, no choice, and the
requirement to obey your owner absolutely all the time, or risk
punishment.’

‘It’s no wonder that these very rich men want slaves like this: the
satisfaction of ‘taming’ a sophisticated Westerner, used to his
freedom, is so much more intense. And with their education, they
are able to perform so many more useful tasks.’

He looked at me, and I saw that he had given me permission to speak.

‘You’re mad! They could never get way with it! And why enslave
me? If someone wants me to design a web site for him, he can just
hire me….’

The man roared with laughter! ‘No, you won’t be required to design
a web site, I shouldn’t think! We’ve taken you to order, as your
owner specified a 23 year old, over six foot, properly muscled….
Sitting at a terminal is the last thing you’re likely to do! Almost
certainly you’re destined for a life of hard physical work of some
type, and that’s what will be so appealing for your owner: he’ll
know he’s chosen to squander all your education, all your training,
so that he can use your body in a way that pleases him. And believe
me, we’re not mad – we do this hundreds of times a year. We’re one
of the largest agencies in this field, and we routinely search out
and ‘take’ young men like you. Haven’t you ever noticed the
statistics that occasionally appear about the number of young men
mysteriously vanishing from home, never to be heard from again?
Well some of them might be suicides – the rate is very high for men
in the 20 to 30 age group – but the majority have been taken by
specialist firms like this to be shipped as slaves. It’s really
easy to do, once you’ve made the investment in the infrastructure,
as we have: a few strong guards, a ‘chance’ meeting with the man in
a pub or club, a small pill in his drink, then you ‘help’ him to the
door.’

‘If you doubt any of this’, he went on, ‘Look at this facility:
escape-proof soundproof cells, the under-floor wires…. You
wouldn’t build something like this if there wasn’t a need for it,
would you? What do you think was behind all those other doors on
the corridor you came along? I’ll tell you: other young men, just
like you, awaiting a time that’s convenient for us to ship them out
to their new owners. The only reason you weren’t in that cell for a
couple more days is that there’s a flight later this afternoon that
we need to get you on – usually we like to leave the men locked up,
silent and hungry, a bucket of stinking bodily waste in the corner,
for at least two days – it starts to focus their minds on what’s
happening to them.’

‘Well, that’s you fixed, then!’ I couldn’t help interrupting. ‘My
passport’s with my s****r as I left it there when I got back from
holiday, and ….’

The man was laughing. ‘You are so naive, like a lot of the men who
pass through here. You don’t think you’ll need a passport, do you?
You won’t be going trough customs and emigration – you’ll be neatly
crated up, as cargo, traveling as all goods do around the world, in
the cargo hold. There’ll be no trace of you ever leaving the
country, and you’ll just be one of those young men who has
‘disappeared’ – if anyone notices! They’ll wonder at that rugby
club of yours when you don’t turn up for practice for a couple of
weeks, but none of the men you know there are old-time friends.
Your employer will write you off as someone else who’s just found
another job. Your s****r won’t worry for a few months as you’re not
a close f****y, and by then it will be too late as the trail will be
cold: one of our agents will have paid up your landlord, and moved
your stuff out of your rented flat.’

‘Let me give you something to think about’, he went on. ‘You’re
unusual, as your new owner has specified that you are to be shipped
clothed – the majority of the stock that leaves here goes naked, as
it’s so much easier to deal with human shipments when the stock is
nude – fitting catheters to deal with the urine on a long journey in
a crate, and so on, is so much easier. But your new owner has
specified shipping ‘lightly clothed’ – I expect he wants to savour
the delight for himself of making you strip for him: many of the
newly enslaved are touchingly concerned about their nudity
originally, and I expect your new owner wants to experience this
first hand.’

‘Let me warn you not to try to escape from here, or whilst you’re
being shipped, though – as you have seen, we will punish you if you
disobey. Do not think that we would hesitate for a moment to have
you killed if there was the slightest risk of our operation being
compromised. You’ll be surrounded by our guards, of course, and any
attempt to break loose and ‘make a run for it’ will result in your
being shot.’

‘Right!’, he finished finally. ‘You’ll have lots of questions, I
know, but you may not ask any of them. Now – put your hands behind
your back.’

I stood there, dumbly, and he snapped ‘Now – or do you want a shock
that will incapacitate you, and then I’ll just do it anyway?’

So I put my hands behind my back, and he got up and came over, and I
felt myself being handcuffed! I’ve read about it, of course –
having someone cuff your wrists behind your back, and I know some
guys get turned on by the thought. But it’s actually horrible – you
feel so powerless, so defenseless – if he’d tried to grab my cock, I
couldn’t have stopped him. If he’d pushed me, I couldn’t retaliate.
If he’d tripped me, I wouldn’t have been able to save myself as I
fell. Somehow it seemed as if I’d let all my freedom slip away in
this act – I was no longer really able to even contemplate making a
break for freedom. It was as if I was already a captive – no, as if I’d
somehow already entered a new life where someone other than me was
already starting to rule things for me.

He went back to his desk, and returned holding a small tag – rather
like a luggage tag – on a steel chain. This was passed around my
neck and there was a ‘snap’ from the catch. The tag was hanging
down just below my throat, and I could feel its coldness against my
skin. I hate wearing jewelry, and I don’t like to see other men
doing so, whether its rings on the fingers or necklaces – there had
been quite a thing recently, I know, for guys to wear gold or silver
chains – some quite chunky – around the neck, but in our club we
didn’t do it. Anyone wearing something like that on the rugby field
was likely to find it torn off in one of the rucks (and by his own
team mates, too!).

He didn’t waste any time then, and pressed a button on the desk. A
guy in neatly pressed chinos and a white polo short came in, and the
man told him to ‘take me away to the airport.’

I was led through what seemed to be a large building – evidently
this was quite an operation – and I wanted to ask the man who was
leading the way more. But the moment I started a question, he
stopped, turned, and said ‘You were told to shut the fuck up in
there. You saw the penalty for carrying on talking. Now, do as you
were told, before I punish you. The first rule a slave has to learn
is that he is here to obey, not to question. You have no need to
know more, no need to think, no need to do anything other than obey –
simple obedience to your owner’s orders, complete and absolute
subservience to his will, is all that is required of you. So…
Shut the fuck up, slave boy!’

It was awful being refereed to like this. I wasn’t a slave, and I
wasn’t a boy! I was a mature man, capable of living my own life,
making my own decisions. Yet here I was being led, scantily clad,
through this place, and the fear of punishment was actually making
me start to do exactly as I was told – I didn’t want to go on speaking
in case I was in fact punished! Of course I’d taken hard knocks in
my time – as a rugby player you expect to get a bit battered and
bruised, don’t you, and that ability to treat men roughly is all
part of the game. But no one had ever deliberately set out to hurt
me before – no one had ever caused me so much deliberate pain that I
had stopped what I was doing, immediately (well, not since dad last
spanked me, when I was about seven!).

Ultimately the guard leading me came to an external door, and there
was another guard sitting behind glass in a little
cubicle. ‘Shipping a slave – permission to leave the building?’ My
guard asked, and the man in the cubicle reached out with the kind of
gun thing you see at checkouts in supermarkets, and pointed it at
the tag hanging around on my neck. He consulted a screen on his
desk, and said ‘OK, there’s a van outside. Door opening.’

We went out into a yard, that was totally enclosed, where there was
a white van waiting with its back doors open. Even if the yard
hadn’t been totally enclosed and I was worrying about the threat to
shoot me, I probably wouldn’t have tried to run at this point – it’s
not easy with your hands cuffed behind your back, you know,
especially when the guard accompanying you looks as if he’s in good
shape and works out regularly.

The guard gestured for me to get in the back of the van, then
said ‘It’s an hour to the airport. The doors are locked, but we
don’t want any silly attempts to escape, now do we? You’ll see that
the floor of the van has he same pattern of lines that we have in
the building – any noise, any commotion when we’re stopped in
traffic or anything and the driver will shock you, or really turn up
the juice and stun you.’

So I lay there in the back of the van, bracing myself with my legs
against the walls as it drove through the streets. I tried to
imagine where we were in relation to the geography of London, but we
seemed to be taking a maze of normal city road, and I didn’t really
recognize any of the motorways or anything. The journey went on and
on, and I realized that I probably wasn’t going to be able to
escape – an organization that followed men in transit with some type
of tag, and who bothered to have special vans for transporting them,
was unlikely to slip up and leave some chink in their arrangements,
was it? Still, I might catch a glimpse of a policeman, or an
airport security guard of some kind, and then I’d do everything I
could to scream and shout and attract his attention.

When the van did finally stop and the doors were opened, my hopes
were dashed – we were way out on a big concrete space, one of those
holding areas you see at airports, drawn up by the side of a big
executive jet. No policemen or any other officials in sight! Two
of the polo- shirted chino’d guards were standing there, and as
they ‘helped’ me out of the van to stand in front of them (rather
roughly, I thought). One of them ran one of the scanner things over
my tag again, looked at a little inbuilt screen on it, and said to
his companion ‘Yes, this is the one. Let’s load him onto the
flight.’

‘Look, please. Enough is enough…. Why don’t you let me go, and
I’ll say no….’

I never got to finish the sentence, as one of the two guards slammed
his rubber-soled boot down on to my naked foot – he pushed it very
hard down, almost totally crushing my instep, and I fell to the
ground, shouting with pain.

The two men stood there, looking down at me as I rolled around the
concrete clutching at my foot and trying to ‘make the pain go away’,
and they laughed. ‘Always have one last try, don’t they?’, one said
to the other. ‘They’ve always led a nice, civilized life and they
think that rational argument can fix things. As usual, he’s trying
to bargain with us! As if anyone would negotiate with a slave!
Still, perhaps that’s taught him that you don’t need sophisticated
electrical stuff to really hurt a slave when he’s disobedient.’

‘You, slave, get on your feet NOW’, the other barked. ‘Me and my
mate are expert at giving a man’s body a good kicking, and causing
real hurt without permanent damage. There’s nothing we like more
than an unruly slave, as it allows us to practice our kicking before
we go off to gang fights at the weekend. Now, UP!’

I struggled to stand up, finding it very hard to do so without the
help of my hands, and stood there all covered in dust from where I’d
rolled on the concrete. ‘Should we clean him up – take him over to
the hanger and hose him down a bit?’

‘No – if they want, they can clean him on the plane – I’ve been on
board this one, and the owner’s got it fitted up as a complete suite
for himself – bedroom, bathroom with a proper big bath in it,
everything. If they want the slave clean, they can give him a bath
as he flies off to his new life!’

I didn’t like hearing the way they spoke – all this ‘If they want
the slave clean… They can give him a bath’ – there was no element
of choice, no ‘If he wants to clean himself up…’ kind of
discussion.

They led me – still hurting – up the steps of the plane, and inside
it was unbelievably luxurious – not like a commercial jet at all.
It was all dark wood, deep carpets (that were so tempting to my
feet that I wanted to stop and just wriggle my toes down into the
thick rich pile), and big leather furniture. On we went though
through a room fitted out as an office, with PCs and stuff, then
along a corridor (dividing a bedroom?) and finally through a
heavy-looking door.

Beyond this was not even a normal airplane interior – no plastic
and soft lighting. Instead you could see all the construction of
the machine as the ribs, cables, and all the other stuff were
clearly visible. Standing around on the floor, strapped down, were
crates and cartons of various kinds, and I guessed this must be some
sort of cargo hold. The only unusual feature was in the far corner
where, against the wall there was a kind of cell, or cage – about
four feet square, with stainless steel bars running floor to
ceiling. The guards led me to this, opened the door, and told me to
get inside. Once in, they closed and locked the door with a heavy-
looking lock, then told me to turn around.

It was a relief to get the cuffs off, as standing and lying all that
time with my arms behind my back had become very uncomfortable
and I felt as if I was beginning to lose sensation in them. To the best
of my ability, as the cell was so small, I tried to spread and
stretch my arms and to rub life into my cramped muscles – I got all
those ‘pins and needles’ sensations as the bl**d flow returned fully.

‘Right, slave boy’, one of the guars said ‘Make yourself
comfortable! Take off’s not for about an hour, and it’s a long,
long flight for you, even in this jet.’

With that, the two men turned and went back out through the door,
leaving me alone there in the cell. Well, they said ‘get
comfortable’, but have you ever tried it in such a small space? I
could stand up, of course, but the thought of doing that for what
might be a very long time seemed stupid. Lying down wasn’t
possible, and I tried to sit – but in the confined space my back was
pressed against the bars or the metal wall of the aircraft, and my
legs had to be all hunched up. There wasn’t any padding or
anything, and I was sitting on the metal floor of the aircraft. I
don’t think overweight guys with big fat asses realize how painful
it can be for a guy with real muscle only to try to sit on a
perfectly hard surface – there’s nothing to really cushion you, is
there?

I don’t know how long I sat there for, but after some time I saw out
of one of the windows four men coming towards the plane – they were
in those dark blue uniforms beloved of airlines. Two seemed very
obviously in charge, and two much younger ones were following them.

End of part 1

A SLAVE’S LIFE, Part 2

I stood in my cell, banging frantically at the aircraft window.
Perhaps if I could attract the attention of these men – and then I
stopped, and realized how stupid I’d been – if they were coming
towards the plane, they must know about the cell, and the ‘cargo’
they therefore carried. I began to realize that my chances of
escaping had gone – at least until this plane got to wherever it was
going.

It was incredibly uncomfortable when the plane did take off – as it
climbed steeply I was thrown back against the bars, and they hurt as
they pressed into my body. They obviously didn’t believe all
the usual rules about being strapped in and so on applied when they
were transporting a prisoner (I still couldn’t bring myself to use
the word ‘slave’ when I was thinking about myself). We’d been
airborne for some time when the door from the front of the plane
opened and one of the two younger guys came in – he was in a
typical air steward’s uniform: tight black trousers, showing off his
slim bum, short-sleeved white shirt with dark blue epaulets on the
shoulders, and a dark blue tie. He had a deep tan, and his curly
blond hair was bleached almost white, and cut quite short. If I’d
been on a normal commercial flight I’d have thought he was one of
those typical stewards that you see everywhere, and would have
sniggered at the thought that he was so obviously ‘queer’.

‘Hey!’, I shouted at him, as he rummaged around in the crates,
ignoring me.

He came over to the bars, and looked at me.

‘Hey…. Let me out of here!’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid!’. He had one of those East London
accents – not at all what you’d expect from a steward. ‘If I was to
do that, they’d have me in there before you could say Jack
Robinson! You’re valuable, you know, and we have to take care of
the cargo.’

‘Look, I’m not cargo… I’ve been captured…. Please help me…
Call the police, or something…’

He just laughed! ‘You’re so fucking naive, mate! I work for the
boss, the man that now owns you. I like my job flying with him
around the world on this private jet – beats dealing with all those
cattle-class holiday maker and their whiney k**s flying off to
Benidorm, I tell you! I get to stay in the best hotels, the pay is
fucking marvelous, and the Captain is drop dead gorgeous – I used
to fly backwards and forwards between Gatwick and Spain, and never
got to stay anywhere, for pay that was peanuts. Do you think I want
to go back to that? Now, I thought you slaves knew that you aren’t
allowed to speak, unless you’re spoken to. So shut the fuck up!’

I could hardly believe it. Somehow, seeing someone so ‘normal’ had
fooled me into thinking that he wouldn’t have anything to do with
this whole business, and yet he seemed to be pleased to be a part of
it.

‘Please….’

‘I told you to shut up! See this switch – well, I think you know
about electrified floors. This is extra – the whole cell is wired,
and if you don’t keep that mouth shut, I’ll give you something to
shout about!’

I just stood there, and I kind of knew he meant it. He’d got a kind
of sadistic look on his face, and it was almost as if he wanted an
excuse to press the switch he’d indicated. So I watched him,
silently, as he found a case, opened it, and got out several of the
standard airline trays, and opened packets of food.

‘Just the crew today, so it’s easy for me’, he said
conversationally. ‘No wine, of course, as we’re all on duty. So
just water.’ Several bottles of cold mineral water were added to
the trays, and as I saw the moisture condense and start to roll down
the bottles, I realized I was thirsty still.

‘Please….’

‘I told you to shut up!’

‘I was just hoping you might give me some water…. Please.’

He looked over at me, took one of the bottles, and brought it and
gave it to me without a word. Then he went off with the trays to
the front of the aircraft, and I sat there, hunched in the cell,
gratefully drinking the water. It’s amazing, isn’t it: when you’re
really thirsty even plain water tastes wonderful.

He came back a long time later with the empty trays from the front,
and packed them neatly back into the crate. Then he came over and
held out his hand for the water bottle.

‘Thank you….’

‘Look, you’d better learn! I’ve been to the boss’s place, and the
slaves there never say a word except in answer to a direct
question. I think you’ll be in a lot of trouble if you don’t learn
the system, and pretty quick!’

He stood looking at me, and went on ‘This trip is pretty much of a
wash out for me, though – usually the slave in that cell is totally
naked, and they chain him to the bars, too. So I get a proper look
at his body, and don’t have to guess what delights are hidden away.
Are you cut, mate?’

‘Uh?’

‘Cut. ‘Skinned. Still got your foreskin?’

‘Well, yes…’

‘Well that’s a double pity, then. I like wanking a guy who still
has his ‘skin. I suppose I could order you to get your cock out so
I can play with it, but you wouldn’t do it, and I’d have to turn on
the electricity… And you still wouldn’t do it, so I’d have to
shock you some more… And then you might injure yourself.’

‘You don’t want to just drop your shorts, do you, and have a little
play, to pass the time?’

‘You’re fucking right I don’t! I’m not some fucking queer, like
you….’

‘Steady, boy! I can punish you for rudeness, you know!’

He looked at me again, and went on ‘Look, for some reason, in spite
of your manners and lack of co-operation, I’ve taken a liking to
you! So let me give you some advice.’

‘First, the talking thing. They really will punish you if you
interrupt, or ask questions, or comment…. It’s strictly
for acknowledging masters’ questions for the slaves at the boss’s
place. And secondly, if you do speak, always be respectful – if
you’d sounded off at one of the boss’s guests like you just did to
me, your back would be a bl**dy mess within minutes when he had you
whipped.’

‘You’re making too much of all of this – you’re very lucky, really.’

‘Lucky? How….’

‘SHUT UP! Don’t you listen to what I’ve said? Anyway, you’re lucky
as the boss is acknowledged as one of the best and most humane
owners on ‘the circuit’ – the club of ultra rich men who can afford
to indulge themselves by ordering men to be captured and enslaved
for them. Where did you meet him, by the way?’

He stopped, and clearly was expecting a reply, so I thought I could
answer. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know who your boss
is, even….’

‘Not ‘your boss’, THE boss, the man who owns the estate where you’re
going to live, the guy who owns this plane, the guy who’s paid a
small fortune to have you captured: it’s far from cheap, you
know. Arab guy, early forties, black hair, dark black eyes…
Fucking gorgeous!’

‘I’ve never met any Arabs, and certainly not anyone like that.’

‘So are you an actor, on the stage, had a bit part in a movie….’

‘No, I’m just an ordinary guy, work in an office, go to the Club and
play…..’

‘Play what?’

‘Rugby, for a really good club team….’

‘Oh well, that’s it, probably. Do you play in public – I mean
anywhere big, not just some little ground somewhere?’

‘Yes – I was in the annual Sevens competition at Twickenham a couple
of months ago….’

‘That’ it, then. I bet he saw you play and was turned on by you,
and simply ordered you to be captured and enslaved.’

‘Look, you’re k**ding, right? People don’t do things like that
these days….’

‘Look at this plane. How much do you think it costs to keep this in
the air? Look at the cell you’re in – would anyone have that in a
plane like this if they didn’t intend to use it? And I can tell you
they DO do things like this – about once a month we fly off
somewhere to pick up cargo like you, from all over – the States,
Australia, New Zealand: it’s quite a change to go back to the UK,
as most of the men the boss likes are big, brawny outdoor types and
there are many more of them in those other countries.’

‘Anyway’, he went on ‘There’s nothing you can do about it now. He’s
had you taken, and you now belong to him. You’ll find there’s no
escape from his estate – I’ve been invited there several times, and
I see the same faces – or should I say bodies – each time. I
recognise a lot of the guys from these journeys, and, of course,
I’ve usually wanked most of them. I can’t think why they’re
shipping you with clothes on – you won’t keep them on the estate, of
course.’

‘What…..?’

‘Well, the boss has spent all this money on having you taken and
enslaved because he saw something about you he liked – I expect it
was seeing your bum in those tight shorts rugby players wear! So
when he’s got you on his estate, he’s going to want to see it, isn’t
he? So if it was your bum he liked, you can be sure it will be very
visible, all the time – only special slaves, like chefs and waiters,
get to wear clothes on the estate: all the other slaves are naked,
all the time. It’s fucking marvelous, I tell you – just like
paradise: all that gorgeous male flesh just there to look at!’

‘But, as I said’, he went on, ‘You’re lucky. Some of the owners are
real bastards, but the boss is known as a really good owner. He’s
not sadistic, so if you’re punished it’s not for his pleasure, but
because you’ve done wrong (not that he won’t watch you being
flogged, or whatever – he likes to see it. But he doesn’t order it
just to amuse himself, as some owners do). And he keeps all the
slaves properly fed, you get the best medical attention to keep you
healthy, and unless you’ve been bought in as a sex toy – and I don’t
think you have been, as you’re too big – then you don’t even get
fucked.’

‘Sex toy..? ‘

‘Well, yes. Some of the slaves we transport are really cute –
young, like you, but not so big. More ‘swimmers’ type of bodies,
under six foot, lithe and not over muscled. I think of them as
‘extremely fuckable’. And that’s what they’re for – some of the slaves
on the estate are just kept for sex – well, not entirely: they
spend a lot of time working out to keep in shape, but their prime
function is to be available for sex. When I’ve been invited to stay
there, it’s fantastic – I can look through the catalogue and order
any one of them for a casual fuck, or to spend the night.’

‘But I’m not gay…’

‘Who cares? If they’ve taken you as a sex toy, they’d soon train
you to take it, or give it, or both. But, as I say, I don’t think
that’s why you’ve been taken: you’re too big, for one thing – a lot
of men are intimidated at the thought of fucking someone your size,
even though they know you’re a slave and will obey them totally.
And, if you were going to be a sex toy, they’d have had you stripped
already, and I’d have wanked you, or got you to suck my cock, or
something – the more men that use a sex toy early on in his
training, the sooner he loses all his inhibitions, you know…. So
I don’t think that’s what’s in store for you – pity, really, as I’m
not intimidated by the thought of fucking a really big guy, and I
could have you the next time I’m at the estate.’

‘Look, can I ask you if there’ anything to eat? I haven’t had
anything for a day at least, and I’m famished…’

‘Well, they didn’t give any instructions about feeding you. And I’m
not a fucking servant, you know. I wait on passengers, and I’m not
here to feed the stock!’

‘Please…’

He gave a shrug, opened a cupboard and took out a small package.

He open the plastic covering, and gave me two biscuits, each about
the size of my hand and pale brown in colour. I took them off him,
and stood there, looking at them.

‘That’s standard slave chow – better get used to it. That’s what
all the slaves on the estate are fed, and we keep some on board in
case the plane’s delayed and the stock needs feeding. They tell me
it’s perfectly balanced, all the vitamins and minerals, all that
crap! I’ve tried it, and it does give you the energy to work, but
it’s fucking boring. Still, that’s all you’ll be getting from now
on, so now’s a good time to start.’

I went to nibble at the biscuit, but it was surprisingly hard – I had
to almost gnaw at it to be able to break bits off and chew them.

‘See’, he said, ‘Just like dog biscuits! Very hard, so you have to
really chew at them – keeps your teeth in good shape, and exercises
your jaws properly. I told you your new owner was humane – some
owners feed their slaves on swill – boiled up waste from the owner’s
table – as they think it’s more humiliating. But your owner buys
the proper food, well balanced, healthy: he wants you to be fit and
active, and this is a lot better for you than the stuff the crew and
I have been eating. Steak and chocolate mousse tastes a lot better,
but yours will do you more good.’

I carried on chewing away at it, swallowing the bland stuff.

‘Well, it may be doing me more good, but it doesn’t taste of
anything!’

‘Well of course not. They could add artificial flavours, but
they’re no good for you. But the real reason is to focus your mind –
I was talking to one of the trainers the last time I was at the
estate and he told me that the food is deliberately bland – they
want your mind to concentrate on serving your owner. That’s why you
don’t get any music to listen to, any books or videos, any of that
stuff – they say it’s just distracting. When there’s just you, your
body, and your work, you really focus on it. And that’s what a
slave should do – concentrate on delivering the ultimate in perfect
work for his owner.’

As he was speaking, I was conscious that after all the water I’d
d***k the inevitable was happening – I needed to piss.

‘Please…. Look, you’ve got to let me out of here, just for a
bit…. I need to go to the gents.’

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid! Do you think we’d let a slave loose on
this aircraft – you might try something foolish, then we’d have to
shoot you.’

‘So what do I do? Piss on the floor?’

‘You do that and I’ll shock you into u*********sness. No…. Use
this.’

He fetched one of the food containers that had been used for the
crew’s dinner, and held it out to me. I put my hand through the bar
to take it, but it was too big to go through.

‘Just piss through the bars’, he said.

I’d hoped to be able to turn away from him as I pissed – I’m not
piss shy, as I’m used to peeing in public lavatories and stuff. And
at the rugby club we have one of those long communal metal troughs
to piss in, with none of those silly partitions that stop you
looking at the next guy – after all, we all bath together naked,
don’t we? But after he’d gone on about ‘sex toys’ and stuff, I
didn’t really want to expose myself to this guy – especially as he’d
said he liked sex with men himself. It’s one thing to be naked with
your mates, all good normal guys – but let a queer see me….. No!

But as I stood there, the urge to let go kept getting stronger, I
saw there was nothing else I could do. As I went to get my cock
out, another problem then presented itself – the tiny shorts were so
skimpy and so tight that there was no way that I could just release
my cock: I was going to have to push the shorts right down to get
it out – and then, of course, with only the too-short singlet on
top, he’d be able to see all my pubes, my balls, my bum….

I hated it, but I had no choice. I put the box down on the floor
out side the bars, then wriggled to get the tiny shorts down over my
cock, so that they were resting on my thick thighs. Then I quickly
stooped to pick up the box, poked my cock through the bars, and
started to piss.

It was heaven – once it started to flow, I just stood there with my
eyes half closed, pissing away and getting that marvelous feeling
of relief you get when you’ve been wanting to go for some time.
When finally I finished I put the box down on the floor and shook
the last drops out of my cock, then struggled to get my shorts up
again.

‘Very nice!’, the guy said conversationally, as if it was the most
natural thing in the world. ‘Very nice – one of the best cocks I’ve
seen for some time, and those balls…. I really like a guy with
big, low hangers like yours. Once they’ve exposed them, they’ll be
a real treat. But I don’t suppose the boss saw those – it must have
been that bum of yours that attracted him: it’s even nicer ‘in the
flesh’ than when it’s trying to burst its way out of your shorts,
you know. I like a bum like that – muscular, rounded, carried high
up on top of those thighs of yours… And that little patch of hair
at the top of your crack… Nice, very nice!’

I started to blush as he was talking. I wasn’t used to guys talking
about my body like this – well, not to me, anyway: like all good
looking guys I supposed that gays would look at me and whisper to
themselves about me if they saw me in the street, or wherever.
Actually, I wanted to tell him to shut his obscene mouth – but what
was the use: he could, after all, shock me into silence if he
wanted to.

‘Yes’, he went on, ‘Very nice. I’ll have to look out for you next
time I’m invited to the estate. Once you’ve been trimmed and so on,
you’ll be truly amazing.’

I wanted to ask him what the hell he was talking about, but he
picked up the box with my piss in it, and went and emptied it down
the sink in the corner where the food was prepared, before throwing
the empty box into a trash sack. Then he went through into the
front of the plane. I was amazed at the way a guy could treat piss
like that – I couldn’t imagine I’d ever be able to pick up a box
with another guy’s warm piss in it, and treat it so casually. On
the other hand, perhaps he thought that it was more like keeping an
a****l clean in its cage – not like real man piss at all.

I sat there thinking about everything he’d said – Jesus fucking
Christ…. What sort of a place was I going to?

Well, I found out after what seemed like an interminable wait. We
came down onto what was clearly a private airstrip in the middle of
the desert – there was no fancy terminal or anything, just the landing
strip and a small building at the side, from which I could see a
big black limousine and a white Land Rover racing towards us.

As I peered out of the window I saw a man in traditional Arab dress
go down the steps, and was whisked away in the limousine. Two men
got out of the Range Rover, and they looked to be identically
dressed. They came up the aircraft steps, and a few moments later
they were led into the cargo area by the steward.

Both men were in their late twenties or early thirties, and were fit
looking – they wore identical khaki shorts cut very short so that
most of their thighs were exposed and their cocks were clearly
bunched up in the short body section, and tight-fitting white polo
shirts. On their feet they had black combat boots, with white socks
rolled over the tops. Around their waists were thick black belts,
with a variety of strange things hanging from them – although I did
recognise handcuffs as one of the items.

They were chatting to the steward as they came in. ‘…. And was
his cum thick and creamy?’

‘Don’t know – he’s not cuffed or anything, and he’s a big strong
guy. I didn’t like to put my hand in and find out!’

All three of them laughed, and one of the two men in white said ‘So
shipping him clothed spoiled your fun, then! If you’re horny, why
don’t you give that pilot a miss tonight and come over to my
quarters and see how a real man does it…? You know what they
say…. ‘Soldiers do it at attention’!’

They saw me looking at them and listening, and the other man in
white snapped at me ‘Hands in front of you – we’re going to cuff you
for the journey.’

Defiantly I put my hands behind my back, and stood there looking at
him.

‘Get your hands in front of you now, boy! Don’t you know that
slaves obey guards?’

I just stood there, and the man casually took a small rod from a
holster on his belt and pushed it through the bars and touched me
with it. My world exploded – it was as if someone had thrown
scalding water all over me. I screamed, and threw myself about,
trying to brush the water off me. Only gradually did the pain
subside.

‘Now, boy, hands in front of you, so we can cuff you. Or would you
like another taste of the tickler? Good, isn’t it – adapted from
cattle prods, and re-tuned to the human nervous system. Lots of
pain, no lasting physical harm.’

What was the point of arguing? I couldn’t escape from
the ‘tickler’, confined in the cage. So I extended my hands out in
front of me, and the guy took the handcuffs off his belt and snapped
them around my wrists.

They told the steward to open my cell, and then ordered me to follow
them. As I was going past the steward he reached out and ran his
hand lightly over my backside – I could feel it plainly, trough the
thin silken material of my tiny shorts. ‘Fuck you….’ I shouted,
as I felt somehow violated. Another man had never touched my body
like that before.

All that earned me was a big slap on my bum from one of the two
guards, who told the steward, laughingly, that ‘this is the way to
treat a slave’s ass – a good hard slap, not a little grope!’. I
felt so humiliated – no one had slapped me there before, either.

They led me back through the plane and down the steps – as we left
the air conditioned interior the heat hit me like a blow – it must
have been way up into the nineties. But I didn’t sweat – I suppose
the air was so dry, as it looked as if were in desert.

They opened the back door of the Land Rover and told me to get in,
and as soon as I sat down a cuff was pulled out from under the back
seat and snapped shut around my ankle.

‘You know’, said one of the guards, ‘We’ve had slaves try to leap
from the moving vehicle as we make our way to the estate, even
though they’re handcuffed, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and they
have absolutely no idea where they are. So now we make sure you
stay inside – you’ve cost too much money to allow you to injure
yourself doing anything stupid. So just sit back and relax – I
would say enjoy the view, but the scenery’s not much!’

We sped through the bleak landscape, mile after mile. A blob
appeared on the horizon, and it turned green as we approached – it
was one of those things I’d read about: an oasis. But this wasn’t
the traditional kind with a pool surrounded with palm trees – there
seemed to be a vast areas of green in the desert, surrounded by a
mesh fence about four feet high. The track curved around, and we
went through a gate, that opened as the men touched a radio control
on the dash.

‘See that fence, boy?’ One of the guards said. ‘Mark it well!
It’s not so high that you couldn’t jump it easily – but don’t ever
try. Apart from the fact that you’d never survive walking across
the desert to ‘civilization’, that fence marks out the placing of
the sensor cable for the slave collars – you’ll get one as soon as
we arrive, and it’s an update on the technology used to keep dogs in
gardens – they get a mild shock when they try to cross the buried
sensor wire to make them go back. But if you cross the wire, the
shock will kill you! You get a warning jolt if you go within three
feet of the fence, but don’t try any more. Understand?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Look, boy, if you’re going to get on well as a slave on the estate,
you’d better start learning proper manners! All guards and
overseers are addressed as ‘Sir’ by slaves, and y