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PASSING

Part One - A journey to work, a surprise, a deal, and a party.

It was already going to be a good day I knew as I stood waiting for the
early morning tube to the office. The big deal I'd had my people working on
for some days was going to happen today, as my client assured me in a
"secret" conversation last night (we're not supposed to talk to clients
other than using the company phones and company computers because of the
requirements of the Financial Authority to be able to trace everything to
do with high value transactions). But George and I had known each other
for some years, and in various jobs with different employers as we both
clawed our way up the ladder I'd worked for him, and he'd worked for me,
and we both knew that honest conversation between friends was exceedingly
helpful in making goods deals happen!

Not only that, though, but it was one of those glorious autumn mornings
that are possible even in London: the sun was shining and there was that
wonderful "nip" in the air that says the heat and humidity of summer was at
last over. Not so cold that I needed an overcoat, but cool enough to be
bracing.

The tube sighed to a stop with the doors right in front of me (I know where
to stand on the platform to get in at the right place which also positions
me for the exit at Canary Wharf). I was first in as I usually am, so could
take my choice of a number of empty seats, which is one of the reasons that
I always travel in early (that and being in the office before my people, so
I can get ahead of them by knowing what's been going on overnight). I'm a
"morning person" at my brightest and best first thing, although I do admit
that my abilities for dynamism and creativity fall off from about mid
afternoon. When I was starting out I had to endure going to meetings that
went on late into the evening, but now I'm in charge all meetings finish
before 18:00, and I say we'll resume at 07:00 the next morning. I know
that's then a huge advantage for me!

My day got even better as I sat down. Normally the tubes at this time in
the morning are filled with what I think of as the "Ds and Es", an old
expression I learned years ago when we still thought of social classes
going down to D and E. No more, of course. But it's still a convenient
shorthand for me for the assorted collection of the remaining "blue collar"
workers, the poor amongst the most recent wave of immigrants (although some
of the young east Europeans, Turks, and south Americans can be visually
quite exciting), and students going off to a morning shift at a coffee bar
or somewhere before going on to lectures.

There, right opposite me, a confident half-smile on his face, was a simply
stunning male. Early twenties, white, very self-confident looking, deeply
tanned as if he had just come back from vacation, with a thatch of dark
blond hair that looked just "scruffy" enough to declare that it had been
artfully (and expensively) cut by a high-class barber. He must have been
just over six foot tall, I thought, and there didn't seem to be a trace of
fat on his body; and his legs, casually sprawled out so that they
obstructed half the gangway, were lean and muscled. He was evidently one
of those men who like to go for a workout before turning up at the office,
and who save time by travelling in to the city in their gym gear and change
into their suits at the gym. His stuff was from one of those very expensive
designer sports labels in that kind of shiny satin material that I find
appealing. As I looked, I saw that his bronzed bare legs were covered in
that same dark blond hair that was on his head, except that they had been
bleached by the sun and so formed a kind of sheen of pale straw over the
skin.

Realising that I was doing more than give a casual glance at this beauty I
opened my paper as if to read (even after all these years I can't get used
to reading the newspapers electronically). I started to flip through the
articles but my brain wouldn't focus on them, but as I turned the pages I
was able to get glimpses of him without my interest being too obvious. And
the more I saw, the more he turned me on.

There was a very prominent bulge in the front of his shorts that suggested
his cock was on an appropriate scale to the rest of him, and I sat there
for a few moments speculating whether he'd be `skinned (if he was an
American he probably would be as I know most men there are still
circumcised); but if he still had his `skin, was it one of those wonderful
ones that generally only just covers the cock head leaving the piss slit
partially revealed? Or would it dribble off into what I consider to be an
ugly appendage hanging all shrivelled when not erect? And as I mused on I
thought about his balls - would they hang low in his sac, so that they
ended well below the tip of his cock, or would they be a tight fit in his
sac held high up, so that his cock rested on the top and caused it to look
half erect even when he wasn't aroused? Either way I wouldn't care if I
ever had him naked in front of me!

My speculation continued. His shorts were really quite short - unusual
these days when men do not want to be mistaken for slaves - and I could see
that therefore his tan must have come from wearing "proper" swimming gear
for serious swimmers, and he was not one of those spoilsports who goes on
the beach wearing shorts down to the knees! I could feel my own cock
stiffening as I wondered if he might even be one of those men who is so
keen on swimming that he still used tiny Speedos! Or perhaps at some
private beach or a rich friend's swimming pool he might even swim and sun
himself naked. It was almost uncomfortable as my cock firmed up so much
that I really wanted to grab my crotch and try to make a bit more room for
it in my underwear, and it got worse as I thought of that glorious hard
bronzed flesh covered in sun oil, glistening in the heat and with, perhaps,
sweat dripping from his armpits! And that kind of confident man would
surely not be concerned to have a slave rub the oil into him.... all over.
And probably a male slave, too, as he'd have nothing to be concerned about
with his magnificent body almost certainly being vastly superior to that of
the slave.

Given the very short shorts it was a bit surprising that his shirt had long
sleeves - a T, or even better a singlet exposing his shoulders, would have
been good. But it was at least made from the same stretchy-clingy material
as his shorts so I could see his biceps flexing as he moved slightly. And
there seemed to be quite big prominent nipples, something I like as I think
they really make a man exciting, especially when set in big, dark
aureoles. Surely he had the classic "six pack", too - something you don't
see a lot of these days as so many men now only do office work and do not
have the time to spend developing them. Ideally of course they'd come from
hard manual labour, but in our society that kind of work is now almost
always done by slaves.

All too soon the tube was racing along in the long tunnel before Canary
Wharf and I began to fold my newspaper as he stood up - simply, no strain,
just the power of his legs pushing him upwards. He hefted his haversack on
to his back effortlessly, and I just couldn't help wondering what kind of
suit he wore, and, more importantly, about his underwear that must be in
there too. An Adonis like that surely would not have a T or a vest under
his shirt as he'd want people to see his body under a tight shirt. And he
might even favour very low-cut briefs with those short legs that give your
cock plenty of room, rather than tight boxers.

I simply couldn't help but notice that he had the classic body shape -
broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist in that delightful "V" some
men have, and from there the flaring of his buttocks that seemed to be
tightly clenched together before his powerful thighs began. What a ride
all that promised - but I knew I had no chance, as a man like that would
almost certainly spend his time fucking a string of beautiful, young,
big-breasted women. And even if he did go with other men, they would be the
same type as him - tall, confident, handsome, young "gym rats".....

He almost ran up the escalator, as you'd expect, even though they are very
long at that station, and as I'd managed to get myself behind him as we
left the train as I also ran (I'm not in bad condition!) so that I could
watch the interplay of his legs, buttocks and body as he surged upwards. I
knew I'd lose him at the barriers as I had to go to the office and could
not spare the time to follow him to whatever gym he used in the complex (or
perhaps it was a private one in the tower where he probably worked).

He fumbled for his travel pass at the barrier - I do hate it when people
are not ready and impede the smooth flow - and I almost bumped in to him I
was so close. But as he swung his haversack around having reached back in
to it for the pass, his sleeve dropped slightly - and there, to my
amazement, on the underside of his wrist was tattooed the set of eight
numbers that could only be a SIN!

I was now almost beside myself with lust! I'd been thinking, u*********sly
I suppose, as one does, that this expensively-dressed confident stallion
must be a free man. But no - he was a slave. Someone's property. Someone
perhaps like me actually owned all this handsome flesh and could order it
to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Some men have all the luck!
It was a bit surprising therefore that when he got to the bottom of the
next set of escalators running up to the street that he did not defer to
the other passengers, as slaves are supposed to, but instead strode on to
carry on upwards as if the other passengers did not matter and he was as
good as them.

Still, I had no time to waste and made my way to our office tower, and took
the express lift up to the executive floor. I called George then on the
"official" office phone to make sure the deal was still going ahead and
there had been no flaws detected overnight, before getting out my private
phone and pressing the buttons that triggered a number of private deals for
me. George and I have secret codes for this, and we both think we deserve
an additional bonus after all the work we put in setting these things up
for our investors. It really doesn't harm anyone as the stock prices only
move very little as our private trades go through early (and we anyway
limit their size to avoid detection), and when the deal does go public
there's a much larger effect that benefits everyone.

There was of course much excitement for the rest of the day amongst my
staff, I was interviewed for the lunchtime news magazine on the BBC, and
conducted a couple of press interviews for tomorrow's Financial
Times. During the morning my PA suggested that there should be an
"informal" get-together for all our staff who had been working so hard, and
I told him to fix it for that evening to make maximum impact, and to
contact George and invite those working on the deal over there, too. My
PA's good like that - personally I can't be bothered with all these social
things, but the younger workers seem to like it and it's good for morale -
and so I rely on him to remind me. And he knows without bothering me with
the details about how much to spend - I assumed that this deal would
certainly warrant champagne and canapés and he'd manage to get one of
the better bars around the place cleared for our private party.

I really wanted to go home at 18:00, but my PA had the executive car
waiting to take me the few hundred yards to the luxury hotel whose "sky
top" room had been reserved for us, he told me. I could easily have
walked, but the car had apparently been ordered as there were press
photographers waiting at the hotel to take one of those "atmosphere" shots
of me turning up, for tomorrow's papers.

It wasn't too bad - George and I only had to endure a couple of photographs
of us shaking hands in the lobby, and in the lift up to the top we
exchanged a few private - very private - words about how our own personal
fortunes had increased that days from our early dealings. Then of course
it was all applause from the staff, and that endless, loud, incessant,
meaningless "chatter" of a party were there are many young, confident
"climbers" working the room, and plenty of alcohol to fuel it all. I'd
been doing my "senior management" bit, congratulating my key people and
hinting at large bonuses, when George broke in and said "...and I'd like
you to meet Jason, who's one of my brightest young hopefuls, who thought of
all this initially and who badgered management to make it happen. He's got
a bright future with us, so no poaching him!"

There, to my astonishment, was the young man from the tube that morning,
but now in one of those very, very fashionable (and very expensive) suits
from one of the new designers - very slim legs, the waistband cut low so it
looked to ride almost on top of the cock, and the jacked shaped to the
torso, one button barely holding it closed. Only a super-confident
perfectly honed man could possibly wear a suit like that, and I guess the
tailors cut them for those privileged few as an advertisement, making their
money from the other customers who vainly imagine they too look the
perfection of manhood. There was a nod to convention in that the shirt was
snowy white (and it was clear he did not wear anything underneath it) and
he had an expensive Hermes tie that I recognised as I had a similar one in
the "a****ls" range, but with a different background colour.

He stuck his hand out, saying "I've always wanted to meet you, sir..." I
was struck dumb for a moment as it was so unexpected to see him like that,
acting like a free man. I tore my eyes away from his crotch and chest and
couldn't help but glance at his wrist as his hand was in front of me,
looking for the tattooed SIN. But there was no sign of it, as his cuffs
were fashionably long, up to the base of his hand, the better to display
his elegant but expensive gold cuff links!

I managed to make the normal polite conversation asking him about his
career, and telling him that if George ceased to treat him well he should
consider asking me for a job, and all three of us laughed, as you do. Then
the swirl of the party engulfed me again and I carried on touring the room,
accepting congratulations, and so on. In a quiet moment at some point I
asked George about Jason, asking for more details about his background.
George told me that he'd applied to them, and they'd taken him on in a
relatively low position a couple of years before, but he'd fought his way
upwards, and taken all the right exams for the mandatory financial
certifications, and so on, and so he assumed all the right checks had been
done. "And, of course, he's got a real way with the ladies, and that
always helps", he added. "He's got some glossy girl friend, I believe. But
there are persistent rumours he's slept with some of the clients along the
way, particularly the older, divorced ones who are looking for a handsome
stud to amuse themselves with."

I left as early as was socially permissible, knowing the younger employees
would probably enjoy it more anyway without senior management present,
especially as I told my PA that the champagne could continue to flow. When
I got back to my apartment Greg was of course waiting for me, looking
anxious as I was so much later than usual. I like to think he's genuinely
concerned for me, but, being just a little cynical, I suspect his concern
is somewhat tinged with a worry about his own future. I'd bought him at a
bargain price as the dealer claimed he was violent and unattainable, being
returned from a previous owner as being dangerous. But I saw something in
him and bothered to take the time to ask him a few questions.. It turned
out that his three previous owners had all been rather cruel and unsuited
to slave owning really, and all Greg had been trying to do was defend
himself from their whips and other control instruments... and of course
once the first owner had returned him he had a "reputation" and the next
owner was watching for it, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, found it....

As he'd stood there in front of me at the dealer, naked, but somehow
proudly defiant, I could see the marks of harsh usage on his belly,
shoulders, and particularly his buttocks. Not only were there the welts
and marks from the whip and the cane, but a hell of a lot of bruising,
suggesting he'd been tied up and beaten with fists also. He was older than
me by a few years, and some would say too old for a personal slave as he
was then in his late thirties and the fashion is of course very much for
young slaves. But there was something in the way he held his body that
suggested a military background, and when I asked him, it seems he had been
in the marines, but had been court-martialled for fucking an officer's
wife, such an act being "not conducive for orderly relationships between
officers and men". He'd not taken well to being enslaved for what he
regarded as behaving normally, and indeed had been a little violent when
his first buyer had attempted to use him sexually "but only enough to stop
him ramming his cock up me", he added. "I didn't really give him the
beating perverts like that deserve".

As I inspected him, I was being very careful because of all the damage, and
as I ran my hands over his hard, flat belly and felt the power in his
strong buttocks, I felt rather sorry for him, I suppose. They'd never
taught him that being "straight" was something no longer applicable in his
new life, and so he had reacted as many such so-called straight men would.
"You understand what will happen to you if I don't buy you?", I asked him,
and he shook his head.

"You're such a low price because of your reputation that they can only sell
you for labouring down the mines, and you'll never come to the surface
again. And with your history, they'll geld you first, to calm you down.
And they'll get a whole group of guards to fuck you when you're no longer a
full male, to get you used to it."

I could see all his muscles tense up as I said this, and went on, calmly
and quietly, "On the other hand, you've got the good, hard body of a man
who knows how to look after himself. And you're used to obeying orders as
you were a marine. I am very busy building my career, and need a slave to
look after the house, the garden, the car, all the stuff like that so I'm
not bothered with it and have to spend no time on it. And I've got no time
to spend chasing women, and all that entails. So I need a slave for sex,
too."

"So you'll fuck me..?"

"Not very often. But I do like a warm, wet mouth around my cock. And if
I`m excited, you can expect to gag and choke as I thrust deep down your
throat."

He glared at me, and I gave a shrug "Well if you're not interested... I'll
never force a slave to have sex. You have to ask me if you can be my
slave, if I will buy you. Otherwise I guess it's down to the local
hospital to have those balls off."

He stood there, immobile now, and I could almost see him thinking (he's
bright enough, not as clever as me, of course, but aversely intelligent).
"Please....", he stopped, and swallowed.

I waited, looking expectantly. "Please will you buy me?".

"That's not the kind of respect I'm after from a slave. How did you speak
to officers? I'd have thought you would be respectful and obedient to your
officers and betters."

"Please will you buy me... Sir?"

I shrugged. "I don't bargain with slaves. You know how I will use you.
You have to ask for it all. Let's hear it again."

"Please, will you buy me, sir? And you can fuck me, sir? Please."

"Of course I can fuck you if I buy you. You'll be my slave. There's no
permission from you required. Again....."

"Please will you buy me, sir. And will you fuck me, please, sir...?"

I could see it was a real effort for him to say that, but I felt that I had
established the ground rules at least. I reached down and wrapped my
fingers around his cock, and used my thumb to tease back his foreskin. He
backed away, but did not swear or otherwise abuse me, although I could
sense that if he hadn't been cuffed he would have reached out and stopped
me. I stared into his eyes as I stroked him gently and the inevitable
happened - he started to go hard, and soon his very pleasingly long, thick
cock was lying across the palm of my hand.

"Properly fertile, are you? Plenty of cum?"

"I've never had any complaints from the women."

"Nor will you ever have them in the future. I expect my slave to stay away
from sex with women as it causes to many problems. But I will let you wank
yourself - I won't keep you in enforced chastity, as I think it's bad for a
man."

I reached down and cupped his testicles with my other hand. He's "low
slung", with the balls in a long sac with the end below the tip of his
cock. They felt pleasingly heavy, and I could see him tense as my fingers
separated them and squeezed each one in turn - I didn't after all want to
buy a slave who might have testicular cancer, and I know a lot of men are
too stupid not to do this simple test on themselves frequently.

There was only one think left to do, and calmly and quietly - although my
heart was racing - I ordered him to turn round and bend from the waist.
Was he resisting as I pulled his buttocks apart? He certainly was sweating
heavily as I ran the tip of my finger along his crack, then teased his
asshole. When my finger probed it his whole body tensed, and there was a
delightful totally involuntary clenching of his buttocks. I sensed he was
an anal virgin.

Anyway, forgetting that old history, five years on he's now worried I
suppose that I might sell him. Or perhaps I might be assigned overseas,
where slaves are not allowed. Or die. He recognises that his future health
and happiness is totally dependent on mine as his owner, and so worries
when things are not following my usual routine.

So there he was, holding the door open for me as he'd heard the lift door
ping - there's a private direct lift up to the penthouse. He was dressed
in his "house" clothes, that is to say a small pair of slave shorts, the
kind I like, with those tiny legs that emphasise the thighs, and the waist
cut so low that as well as his treasure trail there's a suggestion of his
shaved pubes poking out, and at the rear the very top of his crack; and a
tight sleeveless T that only just reaches down so that there are delicious
glimpses of his belly when he moves, and where the arm holes are cut low so
his pit hair can be glimpsed. He's barefoot around the house which kind of
adds to the interest, as there's nothing to obstruct me seeing the hairs on
the top of his long, thin toes.

He broke out into a smile as he saw I was in a good mood, and fussed around
taking my coat, hat, gloves and stick to hang neatly in the coat cupboard.
I also let him take off my suit jacket, but as it was late and almost time
for bed, I kepi my trousers, shirt and shoes on, but did pull off my tie.

"Dinner, sir?"

I'd had two glasses of champagne and several of the canapés and do not
eat to excess to keep my figure trim. "No, nothing".

His face fell, as he normally sits at the dining table with me and tells me
odd snippets of what's going on in the building and the neighbourhood - he
spends time with the building concierge I know but I don't particularly
mind as it stops him getting bored, and provided the place is kept to my
exacting standards, that's allowed. My own meals are delivered by one of
the private gourmet caterers each day, but he mostly eats slave rations (or
"chow" as it's familiarly known). And when I've had enough I usually allow
him to finish the remains on my plate as a treat - I know they say you
shouldn't feed dogs at the table, but he is after all a man not an a****l
in most respects, and it's a shame to waste food.

He looked so crestfallen and the champagne was getting to me so and making
me feel generous, so I added "You can fetch me a glass of the Chateau
Palmer, and you may as well eat the food yourself", which immediately
cheered him up.

As he ate - he's learned to do so politely, however hungry he is - I
outlined my plan for the morning and told him I would be leaving earlier
than usual and that he was to accompany me. He actually looked pleased, as
he likes any change from his rather dull routine, and I like to think he
also enjoys doing additional special things for me.

I was tired, and had no intention of fucking him that night And after two
glasses of champagne and a glass of excellent Bordeaux I really didn't feel
like having an erection and getting Greg to do something about it. Yes, I
know that's terrible - he's five years older than me, in his early forties
now, and yet I bet the moment he fell into his bed in the small slave room
adjoining the master bedroom he'd be wanking himself stupid!








The next morning Greg and I sat in the kitchen eating breakfast - for me my
usual bowl of All-Bran and skimmed milk as I like to keep my bowels
"regular", and for him some of the slave chow. He'd rather have sausage
and bacon and stuff, but it's not good for you and so this kind of food
never comes in to the house - although I suspect that the building
concierge does give them to him sometimes. But there's no point in trying
to micro-manage a slave's life - you can't have TV cameras everywhere. And,
anyway, I could hardly keep on punishing him, could I, and my only ultimate
sanction would be to sell him and I've kind of got used to him and he suits
me.

It only took him a moment to get ready to accompany me to the tube as he
quite often goes running in the morning and he had his kit on - the same as
his indoor wear, actually: the small slave shorts and tight T. He tells me
he thinks it's humiliating to have to show so much of his body when the
rest of the people in the streets are in their office clothes, but I think
secretly he likes to be admired as he is in such obviously good condition
and every other man about his age must secretly envy him. All he needed to
do was pull on and lace up his heavy boots: yes, that's what he wears
whenever he goes out, and especially when he's going running. I've offered
to buy him proper trainers, but he says that the marines always do their
training and running in combat boots and he wants to carry on like that to
remind him of "real life", whatever that means!

Before we went out of the door I told him to kneel, as it's then easier for
me to clip a daily travel token for the tube on to his collar. Londoners
will know slaves are only allowed daily tokens and cannot be given weekly
or monthly tickets by their owners - they say it's to prevent slaves
"vanishing", able to travel anywhere for a long time. But it seems to me
nonsensical: if a slave is going to make a run for freedom he can do it
within the day anyway. As I have allowed Greg to have a chain collar it's
no big deal to fix the token to one of the links - when I first got him and
saw how active he was it seemed sensible to have a chain welded on rather
than the more fashionable solid steel collars - these can so easily chafe
the skin or cause sores and blistering where they rest on the collar bone
and are not tight, and if you make them too tight so they fit high on the
neck the slave can be inhibited from breathing and working. I don't want
to have to keep calling in a slave doctor to treat sores, and a chain is so
much more of a sensible solution. And it was actually quite interesting to
select the right-sized links to complement Greg's muscular neck and
physique generally, and then see it welded into place - it showed him he
really is owned by me, I think..

There's not a lot of people going in to Westminster Station in the morning
as property around there is so very, very expensive (even for London) and
it's mostly only rich foreigners who can afford it. But it suits me to
live there as it's very central, I like St James' Park, the river, the
ability to walk to very good places to eat and the National Gallery, and so
on. But down on the platforms it's very crowded with people changing off
the other lines and heading out to Canary Wharf - I travel in early, as
I've said, and usually get a seat. But it's only very few stops and only
takes about ten minutes, so it's no great inconvenience. Mind you on
occasion I have to demand that a slave stands up and give me a seat - it
seems as if the common rules of decency are breaking down somewhat.

We arrived on the platform about ten minutes earlier than I usually do as I
wasn't sure that Jason would be a regular traveller (I had not seen him
before), or even if he would sit in the "right" carriage. I didn't want to
travel with him if I saw him as I did not want to have to make
conversation, so I stood at the back of the platform watching the tubes
arrive - they're very frequent, about every two minutes, and after five had
gone and I was planning to give up, my luck changed and there as the next
one slid to a halt was Jason.

I pointed him out to Greg, then tried to make myself inconspicuous as Greg
boarded - even though there were spare seats I was gratified to see Greg
stood by the doors, as slaves should. I let one more train go so there
would be no possibility of seeing Jason at Canary Wharf, then took the next
one to start my day as usual.

Greg was not back when I got home that evening, but I did not worry as I
had given him explicit instructions as to what to do, and it's not a big
deal to have to heat my gourmet dinner for myself. In fact I was in bed
when he finally got in, looking really tired and rather cold actually, and
I told him to get some chow inside him and to get cleaned up before he
reported on the day. He went off out of my bedroom looking really
exhausted, but seemed to brighten up when I shouted after him that I had
left the dessert from my dinner and he could have it.

A few minutes later he came out of the shower into my bedroom with a towel
d****d loosely around his hips - he's allowed to use any of the towels I
have used and discarded on the floor. There's something very sexy about a
man wearing a towel, I think, but there's something even better, and it's
why I let Greg wear shorts an a T around the house rather than being naked:
I flicked my fingers and he let the towel fall, so I could see all of him
in his natural state (except for his collar, which somehow makes it even
more exciting). If I made him live and work naked, I wouldn't have the
pleasure of ordering him to unclothe in front of me.

I lay there comfortably as he stood in front of me and recounted what had
happened: he'd followed Jason from Canary Wharf Station to his gym, then
had to wait outside until Jason came out in his suit and so on, dressed for
the office. Then he'd trailed him there, and waited all day for Jason to
at last emerge. Greg really laid it on a bit thick, complaining about the
boredom of standing around for hours, not really daring to go far in case
Jason came out early, of getting cold as the weather wasn't all that warm
and he was nearly naked, and of being hungry. He did let slip though that a
party of women going out for a celebration lunch had taken pity on him and
had bought him a sandwich on the way back. It was pretty humiliating
though, he said, as they wanted to be photographed with him with them
running their hands all over him to "remember the lunch". He went on "And
you know how it is, sir, with women all over me, the smell of them, the
touch of their hands, well I couldn't help throwing an erection, could I?
And in my shorts, there's no way of hiding it. They all screamed with
laughter, and wanted to photograph me all over again, especially the damp
patch on my shorts where I was leaking pre-cum a bit. I mean, it's not
right, is it, for a man to be treated like that?"

"No, I suppose it isn't right for a man, Greg. But it sounds to me as if
you're forgetting you're a slave, and different standards apply. Now,
continue...."

"Well, sir, he came out about 19:00 with this stunning girl on his arm, and
they went to get something to eat in that restaurant that looks out over
Canada Square. It was really difficult as I couldn't follow them in, and
there's not a lot of slaves around at that time of night, and I thought I
might look conspicuous, so..."

"Yes, yes... Get to the point..."

"They came out about 21:30 and took the tube, with me following. She was
panting for it, sir, and he was going along with it - almost shocking it
was, how he held her and stroked her on the tube..."

"And you were erect again, I suppose?"

Greg just smiled and shrugged. "Anyway I followed them home then and I
guess it's his place, so I have the address. And the slave on the door of
the building said he was always going in and out, but the woman had only
been there for about a week.... So I'm pretty certain....."

"And now you're back here. Well done. Now get to bed."

He looked almost relieved, and I'm still not sure he likes sucking
cock. But as he went out I could enjoy his body and those lovely buttocks
as he went to his own small room. Almost the only problem with my
apartment is that whilst the walls everywhere else are really thick and
made of poured concrete so no sound gets through, the partition between my
bedroom and the slave room is tiny - I suspect it was added as an
after-though. So as I lay there I could hear Greg get into bed, and then
that heavy breathing, the rustling of the bed cover, the slap of flesh on
flesh, and finally a deep sigh as Greg wanked himself to climax. Still, I
didn't really mind - it must have been tough today for him, especially
seeing all those women.

The next day was pretty much routine - I had some staff meetings and a
lunch with an important client. I could not focus completely on what I was
doing as part of my brain was planning the activities that night.

As he'd been instructed to, Greg was out shadowing Jason, and it wasn't
until about 21:30 that he finally managed to find a phone to call me and
tell me that Jason was home for the night, without a woman. It really is a
nuisance having that prohibition on slaves not being allowed mobile phones,
especially as all the call boxes have disappeared from London as they said
they were uneconomic. I have been accosted by slaves sometimes begging to
be allowed to call their owners, and I guess Greg must have done the same.

We met at Alex's apartment block and I buzzed to be let in. As he opened
his door Alex looked genuinely surprised to see me - as he should be -
alarmed, almost.

"Good evening, sir..."" He stuttered. "I wasn't expecting visitors... Come
on in...."

The apartment was simply but expensively furnished in the modern minimalist
style. I took off my coat, and sat down. "A drink...?" He asked, still
looking confused. He'd changed in to jeans and I saw with interest that
even by himself he had on a long-sleeved casual shirt covering his wrists.

I shook my head to decline his offer of a drink - I don't drink with
slaves! "When we met earlier in the week our mutual acquaintance - your
director, I suppose I should say, and my old colleague - sang your praises
generally and especially about the work you'd done in identifying and
driving through the deal...."

He seemed to relax. "Yes, indeed, sir...."

"It was an excellent piece of work and I wanted to come and congratulate
you on it personally.." As I said this, I stretched out my hand as if to
make a handshake, and I guess by reflex Jason did the same. As I shook his
hand I grabbed his forearm with my other hand and yanked his sleeve
upwards. There were those telltale tattoos.

It was as if time stood still. Jason looked at them, looked at me looking
at them, and finally stammered "A bit stupid, really, a joke at the rugger
club that went a bit too far...."

I said nothing, but let go of his hand and took out my phone. I'd already
set it up to access the public the slave register database so all I had to
do was snap the numbers and press send. With the excellent mobile service
we all now enjoy it can't have been more than a couple of seconds before
the screen showed me the information.

"So, Jason Allbright", I read out. "Enslaved shortly after his 18th
birthday. Nothing serious, I suppose - no v******e, but some girl took
exception to you fooling around with her. Pretty good school record, about
to go up to Cambridge.... But sold at the central London slave auction
rooms instead..... Reported absconded by his owner after only six
months.... Then no reported sightings for six years. And all this
information from a number tattooed on Jason Wicks, financial whiz-k**.... A
pretty bright guy by all accounts, breezing through all the financial exams
as he should have, if he would have been good enough to go to Cambridge..."

"No, it's not me..."

"Don't be stupid! Of course it is. There's even a picture here...."

"That must be an old picture, taken years ago. It's not like me...."

"Strip off. There's a full body image of this Jason Allbright that I can
compare with you."

"No way..."

I motioned to Greg, who with that economical way of moving he has grabbed
Jason. He fought, briefly - and even though he was very fit and spent a
lot of time at the gym he hadn't had the combat experience Greg had. And,
as the old saying goes, youth and enthusiasm is no match for old age and
experience. Very quickly Greg held him in one of those choke holds, I
suppose you'd call them. I stepped forward and ripped open Jason's shirt,
the buttons flying across the floor - I've never actually done that before
and always thought it's a bit of a cliché, but it was strangely
satisfying. He did indeed have nice big dark aureoles contrasting nicely
with his tanned skin.

He spat at me! I suppose it's the only thing he could do as Greg held him
immobile. And I was surprised at my reaction, as I'm not a physically
violent man normally: I slapped him hard, very hard, very hard indeed,
across his face. His head slumped to one side, and there was a satisfying
trickle of blood from his nose.

As he slumped there in Greg's hold I reached down and undid his belt and
fly, and pushed his trousers down to below his knees. My cock twitched as
I saw I'd been right in my assumption that a man like his would not wear
restricting boxers, but low-slung looser trunks, not unlike slave shorts.
"So, the big reveal...", I muttered, and yanked the trunks down too.

I then held the phone u to his face. "No doubt about it, I think! That
long cock held high on top of your balls is a dead give-away. You are
indeed the `missing' slave, Jason Allbright."

"NO!....!

"Listen Jason, and listen carefully. All I have to do is press this button
on the `missing slave' page and the SP - the slave police - will be here in
moments. And I suppose you know he penalty for slaves who abscond....?"

He stood there, motionless, and silent. Kind of insolently silent, I
think.

"You're quite a man for the ladies, I'm told. No more of that, of
course. They don't want any risk of some foolish owner breeding defiance
into slaves, so those balls will go. They say it `calms' slaves. And then
a nice job where there's no possibility of escape. Down the mines? I
understand they're opening up all the deep Yorkshire pits again as the
economics change - energy prices going higher and higher, and labour costs
going down and down because of slaves.... I'm told they put you down the
pit and you never come up again. The slaves have to `buy' their food in
exchange for the coal that goes up to the surface. Doesn't sound much fun,
does it, Jason?"

He shook his head. "Well I understand you like deals, so here's mine: you
will become my slave, rather than a runaway."

"...And?"

"No `and'. You will become my slave. Full stop. I suppose in return I
won't report you to the authorities, so you'll get to keep your balls. And
working for me is better than mining..."

He glared at me, but I could tell from his body language that he was
defeated. I gestured at Greg to let him go, and he reached down to pull up
his underwear.

"No! Strip completely. I want a proper inspection of my new property."

Greg and I stood there and watched as slowly and almost wearily he slipped
off his shoes, then stepped out of his jeans and underwear on the floor,
and fumbled to remove the remains of his shirt.

"Pretty good, isn't he, Greg? Makes a nice contrast with you! He's a bit
taller than you, but you're more `solid'. Nice long legs, though. And a
good cock - I like the way it sits high like that, makes him look half-hard
all the time, whereas your balls are low-slung. And you're very hairy, and
dark - and he's blond, and not all that much body hair.... Except around
his pubes. I expect he flashes them around in his gym to show he's a free
man... Or should I say `flashed', as there'll be no more free man's gym for
him!"

Greg nodded, but said nothing. He understands my ways.

"I think we ought to have you look more like a slave, Jason. Go to the
bathroom and trim those pubes and shave your balls.... Like a slave..."

"No fucking way...", he began, but I nodded at Jason who knew this might
happen as we had discussed. He grabbed Jason, pulled him over, sat down,
threw Jason across his knees and began to slap his buttocks, hard. And I
guess "hard" for someone with the power and strength of Greg is "very
hard". Jason struggled, but Greg had his neck in a vicelike grip and he
couldn't get free. Soon Jason was wailing, then sobbing, whether from the
pain, or the humiliation, or both, I don't know and I don't much care. I'm
not a violent man as I said, but slaves do need to understand the
consequences of failing to obey.

After a time I signalled to Greg to stop, and he dumped Jason off his knees
onto the floor, where he lay sobbing.

"Now, into the bathroom. That trim and shave. And do your ass whilst
you're about it. And you'd better go and help him, Greg - it will be
quicker if you shave his ass until he gets used to doing it."

I caught up on the movements in the markets as the two slaves went off, and
I heard a few muffled shouts and cries as I assume Greg made Jason behave.
Then they appeared before me again, with Greg having a faint smile on his
face.

"There, Jason. What a difference that makes, doesn't it? They do say all
you have to do to turn a free man into a slave is strip him, spank him, and
shave him.... And fuck him, or course."

Greg was now grinning as I said the last few words. But I continued "I
think we'll save the last step until later. Now, let's have your keys, and
we'll go off to your new home. You won't need any of the stuff here as
I'll probably have you dress like Greg, so we can get the place cleared out
later."

I moved towards the door, and Greg pushed at him to follow me. Jason bent
down to pick up his jeans.

"No, stay naked. You've been masquerading as a free man long enough, so
now's a good time to make up for it."

"Please....", he almost whimpered. I stood close to him and ruffled that
artfully cut hair of his - no more of that, I thought, I'd probably have
him cropped like Greg. He flinched under my fingers. "Slaves go naked
unless their owners want otherwise."

Greg coughed respectfully. "Sir, the new ordinance... No naked slaves on
the tube..."

"Thank you, Greg. I'd forgotten. And I don't want to fall foul of the
slave regulations at this point."

I pushed the button on my phone to summon a minicab, and we were soon all
heading back to Westminster. The driver was a free man and kept
congratulating me on having such fine slaves, and wishing he could own one.
Annoying, really. Next time I must make sure I specify a slave driver as
they can be ordered to be silent.























When we got back to our building I paid the driver cash - a really rare
thing for me, but I judged it prudent not to have too many electronic
records of my visit to Jason. Greg and Jason had to take the slave
elevator of course and so I was in the apartment before them. Had I thought
about it I should have ordered them to take the stairs - Greg sometimes
does anyway to really work out his legs and lungs as we are so high, and it
would have been good to see what kind of state Jason was in after a forced
exercise like that - I suspected his gym-toned muscles would not be in
nearly such good condition as Greg's more "street hardened" ones were. And
he would be totally exhausted even though he was almost 15 years younger
than Greg: it might make him think about what "old" means!

As they came through the door it was sort of touching and yet amusing to
see how Jason was cupping his cock and balls in his hands - it makes for a
really awkward, some would say funny, posture I always think. And it was so
stupid, as he has absolutely nothing to be ashamed of as most men would
envy his tackle.

"So, stripped, spanked, clipped.... We know what's next, don't we, Jason?
The thing that really turns a free man in to a slave, even though of course
you are a slave anyway?"

"You don't fuck me..."

Greg hit him. Not hard. Just a hefty slap across the face. I think it was
more the shock than the power that sent Jason reeling. It was good to see
him looking out for my interests, I suppose.

"You address his as `Sir'. Always. Understand? And you never tell him
what do. You're a fucking slave, boy, and if he wants to fuck you, he
will."

"Thank you, Greg. He's right, Jason. But I think I'll postpone the final
step as it's been rather an exciting day already. Although perhaps a
little entertainment might amuse me.... Greg, you fuck him."

I laughed inwardly as I saw Greg flinch. I've told you he still thinks of
himself as "straight", and although he has now reconciled himself to
sucking my cock, that's as far as it goes. I had fucked him when I first
bought him, but not after that, and there had never been any suggestion
that he showed any interest in any of the other male slaves in the
building. It would be interesting to see how he got out of this,
considering he'd just slapped Jason to remind him that I had to be obeyed.
"Uh, sir... Uh, these free men... They play around, sir. Perhaps he
should be tested first? He may have a disease... We know he's had lots of
women, that one yesterday, sir, he must have fucked her and.... And then
the expense, sir, if you had to have both of us treated for something... I
mean, Jason's not on your insurance policy yet, is he, sir?"

Well done, I thought. Appealing to my concerns about money. Although I've
got lots and lots, I never waste any!

"You're right, Greg. Thank you. I can watch you fuck him when he's been
to the doctor. But I do need a little entertainment, I suppose.... Shuck
off your clothes so I can take a closer look at you together."

He'd almost breathed a sigh of relief when I'd started saying that, but
began to look worried at the end. I wonder what he thought I had in
mind. - as I've said, he sucks my cock, but I did wonder if he would suck
Jason's. It would be interesting to find out, but perhaps not now.

The two of them stood there looking at me, Jason still half-covering his
cock, but Greg standing normally - he wasn't naked much around the house as
I've said, but he isn't ashamed of his body and I do see if every day as
you know.

"I'm not sure which of you is the taller. Stand back to back so I can
see."

The two men shuffled a little closer together and stood there silently.
"No, it's no good. You need to be closer. Push your buttocks and
shoulders together so I can get a proper comparison..."

They did so, and I felt my own cock start to stiffen as I thought about how
it feels to have your skin pressing close to another man. And with your
shoulders and bottom pressed hard against each other... You'd feel the
warmth, the sweat... I left them standing there for a minute or so - it
wasn't necessary at all really as Jason is clearly the taller by an inch or
so, but to compensate, Greg is generally thicker and more muscular. But
making them stand close like that was somehow exciting.

"Good. Now which of you has the longer cock, I wonder? Stand close
together and measure your cocks against each other."

If I'd wanted to start forging a bond between the slaves I couldn't have
done better. Jason's look was pure hatred, and I'm not sure whether Greg's
was outrage, or sadness, or resignation. But clearly they were both pissed
off. But they obeyed, turned and shuffled forward, and it really was
amusing to see them jockeying around each other, knowing they had to touch
but doing everything they could to try and make it as little as
possible. It was as if there was almost a cigarette paper's thickness that
should be kept between them. They'd even put a hand on each other's
shoulders to steady themselves, or was it to try to maintain a distance
between them?

"No, no. It's not working. Your cock hangs down, Greg, and Jason's looks
as if it's half erect, stuck on top of his balls like that. I'll have to
settle with judging them when you're erect, as that evens things out. So
get hard, both of you".

I think Jason would have defied me had he not been afraid f a further slap
from Greg. And certainly Greg wanted to disobey - it's not as if I haven't
seen his erect cock many, many times of course, but he clearly didn't like
it in the presence of Jason. But he did as I had ordered, and he started
to stroke himself. And then, slowly, and very, very hesitantly, Jason
reached down for his cock too and began to masturbate too.

When both of them were erect - it had been a bit of an effort, I think, as
it had taken some time and they were both breathing hard - I told them to
stand facing each other and then to move forward until the tip of one cock
touched the belly of the other man - the one to touch first would be the
longer.

They shuffled forward again, and once more had a hand on each other's
shoulder - now a bit sweaty, I observed.

"No, it isn't working. You're flopping around too much. Greg, get a grip
- wrap your hand around both of your cocks..."

Once more that look of near defiance, frustration, anger almost. But he
did as he was told. It was interesting to see that both men were now very,
very stiff. And there was the merest shimmer of a drop of something on the
end of Greg's cock... Surely not pre-cum? I noted it, but decided not to
say anything... yet. My own cock was really straining now as I looked at
the two men, both such delightful specimens of manhood, and both doing
something they didn't want to, so showing my control over them. I could
almost imagine the feeling of a hot cock pressed against another, and how
the tip would tingle as it brushed the other's pubes. And their noses would
be full of the scent of each other, that special scent of sweat from the
genitals, so much more pungent than the rest of the sweat that was coming
off them. I was almost tempted to throw off my own clothes and join them -
and shivered a little with excitement as I imagined how we'd stand in a
triangle, arms around each other's shudders, and cocks bobbing up and down
as we manoeuvred, feeling the sweat rolling down from our armpits in those
little cold rivulets as it does. But then my good sense got the better of
me - I needed to maintain control here.

"OK, that's enough". Both men backed away from each other as I spoke.
"Jason's the longer, as I suppose I ought to expect as he's taller and
thinner. But Greg's is the thicker. But both well above average, I
reckon. And they make a nice contrast".

I was toying with the idea of having them masturbate for me - possibly
wanking each other - and comparing their cum loads. But then I thought
that would be tough on Greg, and unfair. After all, as I knew myself, the
volume of your cum goes down as you get older. And even though that's a
fact and we all know it, probably Greg would not really accept that it was
only natural that he hadn't performed as well as Jason would. Perhaps I'd
put him through enough today.

"Right, bedtime, I think."

"Where's Jason sleeping, sir?"

"In the slave bedroom of course, Greg."

"But I'm in there...."

"Yes. You're both in there."

I knew what he wanted to say. That it was only just big enough for
him. That they'd be too close together.

"It's not very big, sir."

"Big enough. You're always telling me about those marine patrols of yours,
how you buddied up to your mate in a small tent.... Pretend you're still
free and back out on manoeuvres."

They could see there was no point in arguing with me, so that was that.

I got a lot of pleasure that evening though as I lay in my bed listening to
the muffled bumping noises and moans and cries through the wall of the
slave room - as far as I could make out Jason did not want to get into the
bed and Greg insisted he did as I had ordered it. My cock was ramrod hard
as I thought of the two men lying there naked pressed so tightly together -
not that they would be having sex as Greg clearly did not want to, but
simply the thought of how they would undoubtedly have erections and in that
small space there's no way they could avoid each other. Usually I have
Greg suck me off as you know, but that night it was a real pleasure to
stroke myself to orgasm as I speculated on what was happening next door.

Evidently they'd worked something our as it was OK the next morning and
they seemed to be getting on together, and I saw that Greg had evidently
given one of his sets of shorts and a T to Jason to wear. Jason's legs,
which had first caught my attention on the tube, looked even longer and
more desirable in the very short shorts.

"So today.... Greg, business as usual for you. Get some exercise, do the
chores. And keep an eye on Jason, a close eye! He's not to leave the
flat, not at all, not for any reason at all. Is that clear?"

I liked the way I had subtly given control over Jason to Greg, who promptly
said "Yes, sir."

"But I want Jason worked too - he can't go out running, but both of you can
work out in here. I'll expect to see you both exhausted tonight."

"Yes, sir" again from Greg.

"I could go to the gym..." Jason started.

"You heard me, Jason You are not to go out. You absconded once, and until
I have put some measures in place, I do not want to risk you doing so
again. Greg will guard you."

"Sir, please..." Jason continued, in spite of the dangerously angry looks
he was starting to get fro Greg. "Please, couldn't I go back to work? We
could go back to my apartment, I could dress, I....."

"Certainly not! Slaves are not allowed to work in financial services, it's
against the law. You cannot sign all the declarations and bonds needed to
allow you to trade - slaves are not legally free men and so cannot enter in
to agreements."

"George didn't mind. I'm great at my job, and he was happy to...."

"You mean he knew you were not a free man?"

"He noticed my SIN tattoo one day soon after I'd started there, just as you
did, but he wanted work out of me..."

Well this was new information. Information that would potentially be very
useful to me in my next dealings with George. Allowing a slave to continue
passing - personification I suppose we ought to call it to give it its real
name to avoid that stupid Americanism for death - was a serious crime,
possibly enough to get George enslaved. But certainly enough to cause a
huge scandal and do harm to his business, that he'd certainly want to
avoid. I suppose I was in a bit of a similar position, knowing of the
personification, but there was absolutely no way I was going to make it
worse.

"Well I will not let you return to the office. And you need to learn that
when I say no, I mean it. I'm in a good mood this morning though and so I
am not going to tell Greg to punish you. But whilst you're here as my slave
you will listen carefully to what I say, never argue with me, never
contradict me..."

"I'm not your slave..."

I nodded to Greg, and he slapped Jason's face, hard - hard enough, as he
had yesterday, to send Jason reeling. "You were told never to contradict
your owner", Greg snapped, and there was a look of almost pure hate on
Jason's face. I wondered if he was going to spring up and attack Greg, but
as he saw Greg's powerful body standing half over him, he thought better of
it. Smart lad!

I left then and on my walk to the tube, on the tube, and walking to the
office I thought about the situation. I was thrilled to have "captured"
Jason as a slave. It's not the money - I could go to the Canary Wharf
branch of Scabbard & Drass and buy a young slave with his good looks and
sexy body any time I wanted to. No, it was the "thrill of the chase", and
knowing that I had this slave because of my own actions. My cock was
stiff, and I could begin to appreciate how k**nappers feel when they take
someone from the streets against their will. But, equally, I am somewhat
cautious and began to think about the consequences: I was harbouring an
escaped slave, and it might also be seen that by not reporting it
immediately I was complicit in George's crime of allowing the
personification, something that could get us both disbarred from working in
the financial industry (and possibly put in jail, or even enslaved!) I
needed to regularise the situation somehow, but releasing Jason now, or
turning him in to the authorities, wouldn't be enough - it could be argued
that too much time had passed. And Jason was angry and would certainly
concoct some story to make my involvement appear even worse!

Even though I am always very early to arrive at the office - something you
would imagine my staff would have noticed and emulated - as usual it was
only my PA who was there. That's good, though, as I like to "go through
things" with him before the others start to appear so that I am properly
informed of what's going on, something my staff seem constantly surprised
about, but which contributes massively to my reputation as a very skilled
operator indeed.

"Morning, sir", Sam said in his usual cheery way. He's one of those men
who never seems worried and is always cheerful, almost irritatingly so on
some occasions. He almost seems to worship me as he's so grateful to me
for having taken him on. Jobs are hard to come by at the top end of our
sector, as we are, and I know he hopes that having "got in" one day he'll
be allowed to move on and be one of the dealers or traders. Not a hope of
this, of course, as he's too valuable to me as my PA! I did admire him and
actually like him, as much as a man in my position can admire and like a
very junior employee. He'd shown a huge amount of initiative in trying to
get to see me to ask for work, constantly pestering my old PA, who of
course would never put his calls through, and who filtered out his e-mails
to me before I reviewed my inbox. So he then took to sitting in reception
for several days so that I saw him there as I went in, went out to lunch or
to business meetings, or left for home in the evenings. My PA said the
building management was complaining, and she smiled as she said "Silly boy,
he doesn't know what he'd be letting himself in for, working for you..."

We had a good relationship and she could say things like that as I knew
(or, anyway, thought) that she was making a joke. "So how does he know
you're leaving, anyway?"

"Oh Sam knows everything! He's my sister's current husband's son, and he's
always asking questions. And he's a nice lad, too - a real hard worker, my
sister says. Down on his luck a bit - some slight trouble with the police
in his late teens, but not enough to get him jailed or enslaved - to do
with some girl or other, as he's a real sex bomb, or likes to think he is.
So they wouldn't have him in any university - he's really bright and had
all the right qualifications from school, but with even a suggestion of a
sex thing he couldn't be allowed on campus: you know how those women
students unions are these days, no university will risk offending them by
giving a lad like Sam a place. So he's stuck in dean-end jobs, the kind
where he's basically filling-in for slaves when they're sick or something.:
filling shelves in Tesco, working on delivery trucks, even some labouring
on building sites, although he's not all that strong physically...." She
paused and smiled again "...even though he's got a nicely muscled body, he
lacks the power, being so slight. Still, I can see why the girls like
him..."

I'd almost had enough of this chatter as we had things to do, but I said
"Well he doesn't sound as if he'd be a good PA even so. Labouring jobs..."

"Well I don't know. He works hard, as I said. And he's very reliable. And
clever, too. And he's worked away at night taking free classes at some
institute or other to learn spreadsheets and things - whe