Date: Wed, 5 Dec 2012 03:45:56 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Duped"  Chapter 6  (Gay Male / Authoritarian

DUPED

Chapter 6

"Processed into Slavery"

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): December 2012
Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

The characters and events in this story are purely fictitious and belong to
the writer's imagination.  Please respect the integrity of the story and
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Chapter 6: "Processed into Slavery"

Anwar and Malik waste little time in processing me into my new slavery.

Malik instructs the two guards who hold me between them in a vicelike grip
to take me to the preparation room. I am seized by blind panic as I
struggle to free myself. I beg Anwar to set me free but he is deaf to my
pleas and if anything, my pitiful entreaties amuse him; he laughs loudly at
my predicament. I dig my toes into the deep pile of the carpet trying to
find a firm toehold as I strain back from my captors. As I wrestle with
them, I see Miguel standing silently to one side watching the events of my
enslavement unfolding before him.

Obviously he finds the scene arousing; his hard erection pokes out at an
elevated angle from his heaving belly. In sharp contrast, my own erection
has dissipated and I am left with a limp-dick while all thoughts of fucking
Miguel have long gone and they have been replaced by my growing panic.

I wonder what he is thinking. Does he see a parallel between what is
happening to me and his own enslavement twelve months ago? He'd said he'd
been betrayed by an Arab "friend" much as Anwar has now betrayed me. Surely
he would understand the fear and panic I feel?

Desperately, I look around the room for a sign of sympathy - no matter how
small - but everywhere I am met with cold, hostile responses from the
Arabs. Only Miguel shows any sign of compassion; I see sorrow for my plight
in his troubled eyes. I am surprised by this as I remember that Miguel has
his own problems. Like me, he is to be sold on Saturday.

The overseers haul me - literally - from the viewing-room out across the
viewing salon and through a door into the inner regions of Malik's
slave-market. We move from the luxury of the previous rooms into a drab
area devoid of any colour and I find myself being bundled down a long
passage- way towards a door at the far end.

I look to see if Anwar is following. I hope he is as I'm sure if I appeal
to his better judgement he'll see this is all a dreadful mistake and order
my release. But he's not following and there's no sign of Anwar, Malik or
Mustapha. Only Hussein accompanies the overseers and I'm not to know that
the three older Arabs have retired to an inner courtyard to partake of
refreshments while I am prepared for their inspection. Hussein has
volunteered to oversee my transformation from a free man into a slave.

Hussein opens the door and stands back to give the overseers elbow space to
wrestle me through the doorway and into a small room of sinister
appearance. Terrified, I look around the room desperately searching for
some means of improbable escape. However, there isn't any and my eyes focus
on the room and its contents.

Unlike the previous rooms I'd been in, the walls here are unadorned and are
made of solid, unpainted stone blocks whose drab greyness matches the bare,
stone floor. The walls and the floor are covered with dark stains and I
wonder about these. Fearfully, I wonder if they are bloodstains.  I'm not
to know they were made by the fear-induced voiding of the bladders and
bowels of countless, hapless slaves who have been "processed" in this room.

Spaced strategically around the room are several timber benches and
trestles whose sinister uses I can only guess at. Attached to them are
chains and leather straps and it doesn't require much imagination to know
they are used to restrain some helpless victim as his captors work on
making his body ready for slavery.

On the walls are racks of implements that make my blood run cold. I can
only guess at their cruel uses and they remind me of the mediaeval torture
chambers you see on tours of ancient, European castles or in some B-grade
horror movie.

The overseers hustle me into the middle of the room and force me to my
knees. I look around wildly, wondering what is to happen next. Hussein and
the two overseers talk in Arabic and there is much laughter. Even though
they ignore me, I know instinctively their conversation is about me and I
sense their gloating at my fate.

Suddenly, I am overwhelmed and break into wild sobbing and pleading. I fall
onto all fours and crawl to Hussein and plead with him.

"Please Hussein, please! Help me, please? I thought we were friends. Why is
this happening to me?"

Hussein places his right foot against my ass and uses it to propel me
forward onto my nose.

"Silence; how dare you speak without permission! You thought we were
friends? Slave, it was presumptuous of you to ever think that we could be
friends." Hussein's tone is full of his contempt for me. "We were never
friends and we never could be. How arrogant you Occidentals are to think
that the Arab devalues himself to such an extent that he'd be your friend
and fawn over you.  I could never be friends with a Franj slave." He
sneers. "NEVER!"

An overseer roughly grabs my shoulders and forces me into a kneeling
position and then he towers over me. I feel threatened by his nearness and
to my horror; I see that he has armed himself with a long, flexible cane.
I shiver from the anticipation that it will inevitably be used on me.

How many times in my moments of wild, erotic fantasies have I imagined a
Master using his cane to both command and to discipline me? Then I'd
shivered uncontrollably with the pleasurable pain of my vivid imagination
and always my responsive cock had grown harder ensuring me of a most
satisfactory ejaculation. But they'd been mere flights of fantasy and not
the real thing. Now, as I see the overseer swish the cane through the air
and hear its sibilant hiss, I understand this isn't an erotic dream and
that I am now living my past dreams for real. Terrified, I kneel as the
overseer shouts at me.

"STAY ON YOUR KNEES, BOY! DO IT NOW!"

Wild-eyed, I look around me to see what the other overseer is doing. I see
him walking towards me carrying a pair of shears similar to those used by
farmers to hand shear their sheep and a smaller pair of barber's
clippers. Am I to have my hair cropped?

Even though I know there'll be little discomfort in having my hair cut, I
nevertheless face the loss of my hair with dread. I have a head of thick,
unruly hair with a blond fringe that hang down over my forehead - I have
been told this give me a boyish look - and I am extremely proud of it; in
fact my pride in my hair borders on vanity. I've always lavished great care
on my hair and haven't spared any expense in keeping it looking good. Now
I'm to lose it and in doing so, I'll also lose my identity as a free man.

From now on I'll wear a slave's shameful short crop and my head will be
indistinguishable from that of all other slaves. I am now to truly join
them in their uniform appearance and share in their naked anonymity.

The overseer wastes no time in shearing me. He roughly grabs my hair and
begins to hack it off - lock by lock - with his shears. He has little
regard for my feelings and strand by strand, he tugs it away from my scalp
and cuts. I hear the gentle snip of the shears and I feel my hair gently
falling down over my shoulders to the ground. The hair of which I'm so
proud now lies on the ground around me and with it is the bitter
realisation that never again will it be allowed to grow it so long. My
crowning glory is no more.

If it was possible for me to see my head, I would be dismayed at the
ragged, uneven cut of the shears. But the overseer isn't finished with me
yet. He pushes my head forward and runs his clippers over my scalp from the
nape of my neck to my front hairline and I'm left with a hair cover of
about half an inch. The room's air is cool on my shorn scalp and my head
feels strangely denuded. The overseer steps back and slowly circles around
me as he surveys his handiwork. Not completely satisfied, he again runs the
clippers over my scalp until he is sure that the remaining hair is of
uniform length.

Hussein crosses the room to where I'm kneeling and inspects me by running
his hands over my cropped head. I consider his actions are even more
humiliating than the actual cutting off of my hair and my sense of shame is
magnified by his comments to the overseers.

"It's an excellent job!  It's a very good cut and it suits him. Now he
looks just the same as all the other Franj slaves in the holding-pens
except for his body hair."

"Well, he's about to lose it too! That's the next task to perform on him
before he is presented to his Master!"

They speak in English and I know they do so to taunt me; this mention of
"before he is presented to his Master" impresses upon me that I am now a
slave. Is it only thirty minutes or less since I was enslaved? How can my
life have changed irrevocably in that short time-span; I have gone from a
proud, professional, free man to being Anwar's abject slave.

Once more the two overseers haul me to my feet and drag over to a long,
wooden bench. One takes hold of my upper body under my armpits and the
other grabs my feet. Then, struggling in their firm grasp, I am lifted
bodily and thrown down on the bench's surface with such force that I am
temporarily winded. The bench top feels cold and smooth on my back and ass;
I'm not to know that its surface has been worn smooth by the futile
struggling and darkened by the body oil - and worse - of all those new
slaves who have been processed before me.

Hussein steps forward to assist the two overseers. As one holds my feet in
a vicelike grip the other stretches my arms over my head and holds them
steady as Hussein tightens leather restraints around my wrists. Next, he
moves to my feet and as my legs are pulled apart as far as it is
anatomically possible he shackles my ankles.  I am immobilized and
spreadeagled ready for body shaving.

Hussein stands over me and looks down disdainfully on my prone
body. Instinctively, I struggle in my bonds. My body heaves as I arch my
back and pull back on the arm and leg restraints holding me to the
bench-top. Hussein reaches down and ruffles my chest hair and maliciously
tweaks my sensitive nipples. He laughs at my yelp of outraged discomfort.

The touch of his hands makes me struggle that much harder. He uses a finger
to trace over the treasure trial that connect s the hair on my chest to my
pubes. He pauses long enough to insert a fingertip into the deep indent of
my navel as he explores its depths. Next, I feel his hands move in between
my thighs as he examines my balls. I arch my back in a futile attempt to
escape this new assault on my dignity but he persists. Fearful of injury, I
give up the uneven struggle and lie passively as my balls are rolled
between his fingers, gently squeezed and "weighed" in his cupped hand.

He turns his attention to my tumescent cock which flops on my heaving
belly.  I feel him stretch it upwards away from my body as a test of its
length. I feel his finger mercilessly teasing my piss-slit and despite my
best efforts my cock betrays me and I feel the first stirrings of an
impending erection. Hussein lightly runs his fingers up and down the
sensitive underside of my penis and his exquisite torture quickly brings me
to full arousal. I can't see the small, pearl of my precum gleaming at my
piss-slit but I am aware of it. Hussein speaks to me.

"Slave, it's indeed fortunate for you that you are circumcised. You're to
be spared the knife."

This is an aspect I'd not thought about. Although, I do recall Anwar once
telling me that all uncircumcised, male slaves routinely have their
foreskins removed. I remember the rationale he'd given for this cruel
practice. It appears that Arabs prefer their male slaves to be
"clean-skins" as a visible sign of their servitude.

Fortunately, for me, I'd been a victim of infant circumcision; a decision
made by my parents and one which, from time to time, I'd deeply
resented. Many times, as I progressed through puberty, I looked enviously
at the uncircumcised cocks of my companions; somehow the retention of their
prepuces marked them as manlier than me in my eyes. I'd often felt cheated
that my foreskin had been taken from me and yet, today, I am very grateful
that my parents had made that choice shortly after my birth.

Hussein moves to my head and examines my eyes and ears. Next, he orders me
to open my mouth as he wants to inspect my teeth. I'm feeling rebellious
and refuse to obey. He pinches my nostrils together and forces me to
breathe through my mouth. As I gasp, I have learned my first lesson in
obedience. I understand that a slave is powerless in the in the hands of a
determined master.

As Hussein inspects me, the two overseers stand and wait until he's
finished. Once he is finished, they are ready to begin the messy task of
removing all my body hair and to make me "slave smooth" for my Master,
Anwar.

Each is equipped with hair clippers and scissors and as one begins at my
head the second starts at my feet. Nervously, I raise my head to watch what
is being done to me. I watch as the overseer working at the top of the
bench uses his clippers to shorten the hair on my chest and armpits. At the
same time, the second overseer uses his scissors to cut back my pubic hair
as close to the skin as possible. No time is waisted in preparing me for
their razors and with a few short minutes my body hair has been reduced to
prickly stubble.

Once the clipping of my hair is finished, buckets of cold water are thrown
over me until I am drenched and shivering and not altogether from the shock
of the cold water. By now my emotions are raw and my fear is increasing by
the minute and these, more than the cold water, make me tremble. Both
overseers are holding spray cans of shaving cream - of the type one buys at
the supermarket - which they use to liberally coat my torso and limbs. Once
the foam has coated my body they begin to shave me.

They use the old style cutthroat razor of the type used by barbers. Fearing
the worst, I lie perfectly still as the razors glide whisper-quiet over my
skin. Nevertheless, I do squirm as my armpits are shaved; I have always
been super sensitive in that area and it takes all my willpower not to
wriggle.

I feel the other razor removing my treasure-trail and my pubes. Tears fill
my eyes as I suffer the humiliation at the loss of so obvious a sign of my
manhood. I'd always been inordinately proud of my golden pubes which
matched the blond hair on my chest and head and I'd always kept them neat
and trimmed. Now I am losing them completely as a shameful badge of my new
slave status and I feel fingers expertly manoeuvring my cock and balls out
of harm's way as the razor does it efficient work.

Both overseers work quickly; obviously they are deft hands at preparing a
slave's body for presentation to either his master or a prospective
buyer. Within minutes my torso is hairless and now they switch their
attention to my limbs which are released from their bonds and quickly
shaved.

I'm still lying on the flat of my back and one overseer now takes hold of
my ankles and pulls my legs back over my shoulders to elevate my buttocks
and expose my ass-crack to the razor. Once more Hussein moves over to the
bench to examine me. I feel his hands hefting and weighing my balls before
he checks my scrotum for any residual hairs left by the razor. Obviously,
the overseer has done a good job for he comments on the "silky smoothness
of my ball-sac."

With my ass elevated and my ass-crack stretched wide open, I'm shamefully
aware that my anus is exposed to Hussein's view. I can feel the strain on
my sphincter as it pulses in time with my anxious heart-beats. Starting at
my balls, he traces a finger along my perineum and continues down through
the valley between my ass-cheeks to my anus. There he uses the finger to
excite me.

At first it's a gentle tickling followed by the prodding of his finger as
he pokes at the entrance to my "Golden Portal". He notes my quivering
response and smiles at my embarrassed blushing and tells me that.

"You have a sensitive ass, slave! That's good! It will be a good selling
point. The buyers always appreciate an asshole that responds positively to
the touch of a finger."

Obviously, Hussein is determined to go further! I gasp audibly as his
fingers thrusts through my sphincter and into my rectum. He'd not bothered
to lubricate me and his initial entry is painful. I squirm uncomfortably as
his finger seeks out my prostate. Eventually, he finds my pleasure nub and
at the first touch, I begin to "buck" uncontrollably. Hussein laughs and
using his free hand, he playfully slaps my ass and tells me.

"Steady, boy! Lie still!"

Nevertheless, he continues to use his finger to excite me.  Soon, my
discomfort gives way to waves of pleasure that envelop my body. At first,
the finger slowly works my hole before Hussein quickens the tempo of his
finger-fucking. I am helpless under his ministrations and soon I give way
to the enjoyment of the moment. I hear my soft pleasurable moans and I feel
the involuntary working of my anal muscles as they grip Hussein's finger in
a milking action. Momentarily, my fear is forgotten and my anxiety
dissipates. I am living for the moment and my cock responds in the only way
that it knows. I am massively aroused and my balls are withdrawn into my
tightened scrotum. They ache for release and I feel the first warnings of
an impending ejaculation as my cock spurts out my precum which dribbles
threadlike down onto my scrunched up belly and chest.

Then the finger is rudely withdrawn and I am left with a strange feeling of
emptiness. Hussein has taken me to the brink and left me suspended between
unfulfilled desire and frustration. I need to ejaculate but slowly my
erection begins to wilt. By way of explanation, Hussein tells me.

"Calm down, boy!  Let's save it for your Master!"

He steps away from me and watches as an overseer shaves the valley between
my buttocks.  My nervousness returns and I hold my breath as the razor
glides effortlessly over my ass-cheeks denuding them of the soft golden
down that covers them. I feel the second overseer spread those same
ass-cheeks and hold them apart as the razor removes the hair from within my
ass-cleft.  I feel the razor's close proximity to my ass-hole and
apprehensively I stop breathing as it whisks away the odd stray hair that
grows there.  Suddenly, the overseer declares.

"He's finished!"

And I relax and begin to breathe again.

My body is given one final inspection for any stray, residual hairs but
it's testimony to the overseers' expertise that none are found and I am
ordered to clamber down from the bench.

An overseer leads me to an open shower; I am ordered under it, handed a bar
of perfumed soap and told to wash myself thoroughly.  I'm unprepared for
the icy blast of the cold water that rains down on me; momentarily, the
cold takes my breath away and involuntarily I back away from the shower.

An overseer noisily slaps my ass several times and orders me back under the
shower. I hasten to obey and begin to wash myself. As I soap my body, I
catch glimpses of my new appearance. I see the hairless state of my chest
and belly and I am shocked by the absence of my pubes. My groin is now
hairless and my genitals suddenly appear "out of proportion" to what I
remembered them to me.  Without their nest of pubic hair, my balls appear
bigger and heavier and they seem to hang lower while my cock appears longer
and thicker than usual. Of course, I tell myself this isn't so and that
it's all and optical illusion. I am reminded of Sven's and Miguel's
appearances and I realize I now share in their slave smoothness.

After several minutes, I'm ordered out of the shower, given a towel and
ordered to dry my body. As I do so, I see Hussein hovering nearby with a
leather collar and chains. When I am dry, he shackles my wrists behind my
back and fastens the collar around my neck.

He leads me over to a full-length mirror and positions me in front of it
and commands me to look at myself. I'm shocked at the image looking back at
me; it is almost unrecognizable to the person I was just one hour ago. The
long, unruly hair on my head - once my pride and joy -is closely cropped
and my torso and limbs are now hairless. The body I see reflected back at
me is that of a new slave. As I look at my transformation, I am surprised
at how much I have changed. The absence of my body hair displays my
musculature more prominently and the glabrous state of my body makes me
appear more youthful. Rather than being twenty-five, I now have the
appearance of a much younger youth of eighteen or nineteen.

Hussein compliments me.

"You're looking good boy! You now look like the slave you were always meant
to be. Now it's time to present you to your Master."

Hussein clips a leather leash to my collar and I'm suddenly aware that,
despite my nudity, I now wear the accoutrements of the slave - a neck
collar and leash and wrist restraints. Hussein tugs at my leash as an
indication I am to follow behind him. He leads me out of the room then
along the corridor and back into the residential part of the building. As I
walk, I'm very conscious of my nakedness and there is a new sensation of
freedom as my hairless ass cheeks glide sensually against one
another. Whilst it is a strange sensation it is, however, not unpleasing.

Hussein takes me into a courtyard where, my Master, Anwar and Mustapha sit
with their host Malik under the shade of an orange tree. They are sipping
on sherbets and nibbling on plump, black figs and dates. Attending them are
two male slaves; one is Miguel who now wears a loincloth and one other
white slave also wearing an identical loin-cover.

As we enter, the three Arabs cease their conversation and look in my
direction. Hussein leads me to where the three are sitting, unfastens my
wrists and commands me to kneel with my nose to the pavement. My nerves are
fraught and I am fearful of these men who have enslaved me. I recall
Anwar's punishment of Sven on the night when he'd taken me to his home for
the first time and I know that my new Master is a very stern one. I have no
wish to anger him - or the other Arabs - and so I acquiesce to Hussein's
order to kneel and I drop to my knees and press my face to the ground.

I'm very conscious that my head is so much lower than my elevated ass and
that it's shamefully on display. My humiliation washes over me and colours
me scarlet. Suddenly, Hussein shouts out a new instruction.

"Spread your knees boy! The first lesson you must learn as a slave is to
always adopt the proper position of respect whenever you are in your
Master's presence. Now press your nose to the ground and place the palms of
your hands face down on the ground and level with your face. DO IT!"

The impatient tone of Hussein's voice warns me to obey - instantly - and I
do as he has instructed.  But he still hasn't finished with me and shouts a
further command.

"Spread your knees apart as far as possible so that your balls are hanging
down and your asshole is fully displayed. Remember slave, this position is
mandatory and failure to comply will see your Master severely punish you."

Hussein's present attitude is in sharp contrast to the recent friendship
he'd feigned for me. I recall those times when I'd thought I was his equal
- although on reflection I now see he'd never considered me as his equal -
and his friendship had been a cruel charade meant to put me at my ease and
to make it easier to entice me into slavery. Suddenly, I am very afraid of
him and I cringe before the onslaught of his commandments to me.

Apparently, I've not pleased Hussein. Hussein uses his foot to spread my
thighs even further apart than I thought was possible. I feel the strain as
my thighs are stretched to their limits and I feel the opening up of my
ass-hole to public scrutiny. He is now happy with my position and speaks to
Anwar.

"Anwar, allow me to present your new slave to you!"

Then he tells me to.

"Crawl on your hands and knees to your Master and kiss his feet in homage,
slave!"

As I crawl to my Master's feet, Hussein toes my ass and tells me.

"Move your lazy ass, boy! When you're given an order, you move quickly. NOW
MOVE YOURSELF!"

I'm overcome with emotion and I'm confused by all that is happening to me.
In the face of Hussein's anger, I hastily scramble the short distance to
Anwar's feet and kiss them. As a do so, my body is wracked by a great sob
and as my tears fall they darken his shoes.

My new Master speaks to me for the first time as his slave.

"Kneel slave and face me! Place your hands on top of your head and lower
your eyes to the ground."

I do as he has commanded and even though I can't see his face, I know
instinctively that he is visually appraising me. His next words confirm
that this is so.

"Thank you, Hussein! You have done well in preparing my new slave for
me. I'm absolutely delighted with him. How much better he looks as a naked
slave than the arrogant young Franj lawyer he was just one hour ago. Did he
cause you any trouble?"

"No, he gave us no trouble at all, Anwar!  He was most docile and
co-operative. I think he'll be the most obedient of slaves and please his
Master. And I agree with you. I think he looks good."

"Indeed he will. Hussein! It is in his nature to be a true slave. He once
told me this is so - a fact he recognized early in his life. Isn't that so,
Matt? You have always craved to be a true slave to the Arabs?"

How do I answer that? It's true that my slave nature fed my erotic
fantasies and transported me into many realms of imaginary slavery all of
which seemed real. But they were fanciful dreams divorced from
reality. What is happening to me isn't a dream; it has all the hallmarks of
a dreadful nightmare and one without a happy ending. Still Anwar has asked
me a question and I must answer. Shyly, I whisper.

"Yes!"

I meant no disrespect with the brevity of my answer but my voice was too
choked up with my emotion for me to form a longer reply. But my Master
didn't see it that way. Angrily, he leaned forward in his chair and slapped
my face with such force that I was knocked off-balance. As I regained my
kneeling position, he admonished me.

"Slave, show more respect! When you answer me you will call me
'Master'. And you will address all other Arabs as 'Master'.  You will
address non-Arabs as 'Sir'. And you always reply to a question in a loud,
clear tone of voice. Do you understand me?"

"YES MASTER!"

"Now that's better! I'll ask you once more. You have always craved to be a
true slave to the Arabs. Is that not so, slave?"

"Yes, Master!"

"Well then Matt, your wish has been granted you. You are now a slave to an
Arab Master and after Saturday's auction you'll have a new Arab Master."

"That's by no means guaranteed, Anwar." Malik interjects. "It's highly
possible that the slave will have a Black African Master rather than an
Arab one. I expect that he will be eagerly fought over in a bidding
war. Tomorrow, I have scheduled a private viewing of him with a billionaire
oil magnate from West Africa. He has been searching for just such a white
slave as this one and I spoke to him about your slave. He is most excited
and looking forward to having a test-run with the slave tomorrow."

"Indeed, Malik! With that level of interest, I suppose I can look forward
to a good return on my investment in this slave?"

"Anwar, my friend! I expect your slave to sell well. There's always great
interest in an educated white slave. Many masters like to break them of
their old lives and turn them into obedient, docile and unthinking
slaves. I think given his background, your new slave will engender much
interest. And surely you jest Anwar, when you speak of your investment in
this slave? He came to you free of cost, did he not?"

"That's not completely true, Malik. I did spend money in cultivating his
friendship. There were all the dinners at Mustapha's restaurant, nights out
to the theatre, the many gifts and the weekend tips to Paris and Vienna and
of course the cost of bringing him here to Maluchistan on a first-class
flight and the cost of his five-star hotel accommodation."

"Phstt!  They are mere incidental expenses and they'll be returned to you a
thousandfold on Saturday. Anwar, I know you will be present to see your
slave sold. When will you return to London?"

"I'm scheduled to fly back on Monday, Malik."

"Then tell us, Anwar?" Mustapha asks. "How will you explain your return
home without Matt being with you?"

"That's quite easy, Mustapha. I will simply explain that Matt liked the
Middle-East so much that he extended his stay here to explore the more
remote regions of Maluchistan. Why, I have even purchased an onward flight
for him and I have arranged for someone to journey in his place and to use
his travel documents.  For the record, he'll of course set out on his
'adventure' and simply disappear. As you know, he won't be the first
Westerner to vanish in the desert sands and the inevitable, tiresome
enquires will be made about his disappearance. However, as you know, these
always prove fruitless. Back in London, no blame will be attached to me and
I will be left to lament the loss of such a good friend and a promising,
young, business associate."

"Anwar, you are a sly, old fox!  You are as wily as ever!"

All four Arabs laugh loudly at my fate. Anwar's cunning plan ensures that I
am simply to disappear from the face of the earth into the maws of an
anonymous slavery. Without doubt, my friends and business associates in
London will wonder about my sudden disappearance and speculate about my
fate.  Eventually, they'll accept the inevitable and conclude that I am
dead. Why, in my mind's eye, I can even see them gathering in our favourite
"watering-hole" in London and downing a few beers in my honour. They'll
raise their glasses and drink a toast to "good, old Matt, wherever he may
be."

This news is devastating and I see the true hopelessness of my situation. I
am lost and there'll be no redemption for me. I have been duped and
betrayed. Anwar has seduced me with his friendship - and he was aided and
abetted in this by Mustapha and his son Hussein - and I silently curse all
three of them for their cruel betrayal of my trust. I damn all three of
them to perdition.

"Hussein, I have one final favour to ask of you to perform on my slave."

"Anwar, how can I help?"

"Would you kindly remove the leather collar from around Matt's neck and
replace it with this metal one that Malik has so graciously given to me?"

"It would be my pleasure, Anwar."

Hussein removes the leather collar from around my neck and briefly I am
free of its constriction. But my freedom is short-lived and Hussein quickly
fastens the heavy, metal collar around my throat. As he snaps the lock
shut, I shiver from the realization that a slave's collar is the one
article I am condemned to wear perpetually for the remainder of my days
despite my body's total nakedness.  The collar feels heavy around my neck
but it weighs far heavier on my soul.

"SLAVE, STAND UP! GET UPON YOUR FEET AND ASSUME THE DISPLAY POSITION!"

I'm quick to obey Anwar's sudden, shouted instructions and scramble to my
feet but the display position proves too difficult for me. I have seen Sven
stand in that position many times; it is after all the mandatory position
for a slave to adopt in his Master's presence and he maintains it until he
is either ordered to "stand at rest" or to assume another position.

Thinking back to Sven, I know what is required of me but it proves harder
to put into practice.  Nevertheless, I make a genuine effort to comply - or
so I think - and draw my body rigidly to attention, move my feet apart and
entwine my fingers behind my bowed head. My efforts however, aren't good
enough. Hussein takes charge once more and he angrily kicks my ankles
further apart and he only confuses me with his abusive tirade.

"Anwar, your slave shows an inability to learn and is slow to respond to an
order."

"Then teach him, Hussein! Malik, do you have a cane handy that Hussein can
borrow to use on my slave."

"Of course I do, Anwar!" Miguel, fetch my cane for Master Hussein."

Miguel hastens away to do his Master's bidding and returns within a few
minutes carrying a thin, rattan cane. He falls to his knees before Hussein
and holds the cane in both hands at arms' length in a manner of
supplication.

I look on in apprehension knowing that I am to feel the bite of the cane on
my body for the first time. I recall watching as Sven was caned by his
Master and I am under no illusions as to its effectiveness or the pain it
causes.  I shiver in dread anticipation.

Miguel's kneeling position and his outstretched arms serve to highlight his
superb body. Once more, his musculature is brought into sharp relief and
the loincloth he wears adds to his allure. Of course, I'm aware of what it
conceals; I'd been so close to fucking him when I'd been rudely torn from
him.  Momentarily, I relive that moment of frustration. I'd been so near
and yet so far.

I brace myself for the first cut of the cane. I hold my breath and
wait. Then, Malik intervenes on my behalf and cautions Hussein.

"Hussein, wield the cane with great caution! Take care not to damage the
slave. Remember he goes on display tomorrow and we don't want any deep
marking of his body. The buyers are quite happy to accept superficial
stripes on a slave. Indeed, a striped ass adds to their appeal. But any
deep bruising or possible permanent damage isn't acceptable to a potential
buyer."

"It will be as you wish, Malik! I will hold back in my use of the cane on
the slave and no damage will be done to him."

Hussein walks behind me and I hear the whine of his cane. I cry out in pain
as it cuts across my buttocks.

"Stand erect".  Pull your shoulders back. Thrust your chest out and suck
your belly in. There Anwar, your slave awaits your inspection!"

Each of these commands is re-enforced with a further cut of the cane and
weeping, I hasten to do his bidding. I have had my first lesson in slave
deportment. It is a hard lesson but aided by Hussein and his cane it is one
I quickly learned. From now on, I won't have any difficulty in assuming the
correct stance in front of my Master who rises from his chair and inspects
me.

Anwar stands before me with just inches separating us while Malik and
Mustapha lean forward in their seats to watch as their friend examines his
new slave. They run the tips of their tongues lasciviously over their lips
as Anwar reaches out and placed his hands on my chest. His touch
electrifies me. How many times since I have known Anwar have I longed to
feel his touch?  I have lost count of the number of times when I'd secretly
hoped for sex with Anwar. It had been a source of disappointment to me that
Anwar had never shown any sexual interest in me despite the fact that we
are both gay. I'd always supposed that Sven had satisfied all of Anwar's
sexual needs and I'd envied the slave his Master.

Now Anwar's hands are on my naked body but this isn't how I'd hoped it
would be. I'd always thought of sex with him as being between two
equals. Instead, it is as Master and slave. Despite the fact that I am now
his slave, I stand quivering at Anwar's touch like an unbroken, nervous
colt being handled for the first time. His fingers trace down over my
heaving chest to my nipples. As he playfully tweaks them, sparks of pure
pleasure surge through my body causing my heart to beat faster.

His hands roam down over my belly - pausing long enough for him to insert a
finger into my deep navel - and then to continue down to my now hairless
groin. He hefts my balls in a cupped hand as though he is weighing them in
the balance. Next, he toys with my cock and at the first touch, I am
mightily aroused. He delicately runs a finger along the underside of my
shaft awakening the myriad of nerve ends causing them to suddenly spring to
life.  He teases my piss-slit milking it for its copious precum which he
uses to lubricate his finger. Suddenly, he orders me to.

"Turn with your back to me slave! Now bend and spread!"

I obey and using that same lubricated finger, my Master enters me. I gasp
as his finger pushes past the last line of my defence. I am no match for
Anwar's determination and my sphincter relaxes to give him easy entrance
through my "golden portal". Slowly, he uses the thrusting finger to excite
me and as he does so, my balls withdraw back into my scrotum and, if it is
possible, my cock grows even harder. My anal muscles grip the invading
finger and with each contraction, I hear the sound of my soft, appreciative
moaning and I surrender to the pleasures of the moment.

I'm aware that Miguel and the other slave are watching intently. No doubt,
as slaves, they have experienced similar situations. I see Mustapha and
Malik are watching as well - I hear their lewd comments in the background -
and I'm vaguely aware that Hussein is hovering nearby.

Briefly, time stands still until Anwar withdraws his finger and
dismissively slaps my ass and orders me to.

"Stand and face the front!"

Mustapha is the first to speak.

"Tell me old friend. Does the slave have a tight-ass?"

"Indeed he does, Mustapha, indeed he does! The slave has a most
delightfully, tight ass with a very firm grip and I am most anxious to
sample it further. Malik, can I prevail on you for another favour?  Do I
have your permission to use one of your viewing-rooms where I can sample
the delights of my new slave's body?"

"Anwar, my old friend! My home is your home. You are most welcome to use
one of viewing-rooms.  Why don't we have Hussein take your slave - what's
his name again.......?"

"Matt! The slave's name is Matt!"

"Ah yes, that's it, Matt. Why not ask Hussein to take slave Matt back to
the test-room and prepare him for you while we share another sherbet and
talk about the arrangements for his sale?"

I listen in disbelief! Events are moving so quickly that my mind is finding
it difficult to process all that is happening to me. Less than two hours
ago, I was free and I'd entered these premises as a guest of Anwar
ostensibly to view a real slave-market, its associated holding-pens and
their unfortunate occupants. I have been cruelly betrayed and now I find
that I am a slave who has been stripped naked, body shaved, collared, caned
and humiliatingly inspected.

But worse is now to follow! My new Master, Anwar is to exercise his right
of ownership over me and to fuck me. And there is nothing that I can do
other than to submit to him.

My erotic fantasies over the years should have prepared me for this. How
many times in my dreams had I knelt naked before my imaginary, Arab
"Master" and longed for him to use me as his sex slave?  But that had been
merely fantasy and I am finding that grim reality is very much different.

As Hussein grabs my cock and leads me back to the viewing-room where just a
short time ago I'd started to fuck the slave, Miguel, my emotions give way
to my fears for the future and I begin to sob uncontrollably.


To be continued......

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