Date: Thu, 14 Dec 2006 22:06:57 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Young Stud, Part One

YOUNG  STUD

By Pete Brown   petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Note:  Some of my readers may be grossly upset at the
cruel and unusual lifestyle to which young Steve is
subjected in this story.  Many would consider that the
slavery laws should be strengthened to prevent this
kind of abuse of young, virile men. But as  the work
that his owner commands him to perform is perfectly
legal in the southern slave states, I am afraid that
in the interests of accurately chronicling Steve's
progress some very distressing incidents need to be
recounted.  Those of you who find it disgusting to
read tales of men forced to indulge in sex with women
may wish to skip over some of the earlier parts, until
Steve at last gets to experience proper sex.

Part One

So, OK, I shouldn't have been drunk - but I was only
nineteen, and it was my first time "off the leash", so
to speak, away from my parents.  And they always said
that in Florida it didn't matter, as the State was so
concerned about tourist revenues.

I think they keep it well hushed up!  I've no idea how
many respectable Northern boys like me end up falling
foul of their laws down there, but you don't read
about it in the papers, or see any of it on TV, do
you?   Look, I'm not complaining about being found
guilty - I certainly had had far and away too many
beers. And it's true that, goaded on by my buddies -
former buddies, I might add - I did do that stupid
dare and tipped all that soap powder into the fountain
outside City Hall and then pretended to take a bath in
them.  It was hilarious - until the cops came, did a
lightning breath test on me, and arrested me.  All my
buddies scarpered, leaving me to take the can for it
all.

I didn't care at first as I was pretty much out of it,
and the cops particularly didn't like it when I threw
up all over their patrol car as we went off to the
police station.  They tossed me in a cell, of course,
and it was there, the next morning, that my troubles
really began.  I felt like shit - my stomach was all
upset and I had to use the lavatory a lot as the
contents of my stomach trickled out.  My head was
splitting, and I felt like being sick all the time.  I
was shivering and pale, and hunched up into the corner
of my cell, almost hoping to die, when they came for
me. I'd already vowed that I'd never drink so much
again, and when they grabbed me and frog-marched me
down the corridor I almost threw up over them again,
and my head felt as if it was gripped in a vice, I
knew that would be the sensible thing to do.

They didn't allow me to clean up or anything - I was
almost thrown into the Courtroom in my crumpled jeans
and T which had dried on me after the fountain, and
which had a few streaks of my vomit on them.  I must
have smelled foul, and my unshaven, deathly white face
and greasy hair probably didn't impress the judge
either.

I couldn't believe the speed with which it was all
over.  There was a public defender there, but he just
looked at me, asked me if the police reports were true
and that I'd been drunk and disorderly, and had
damaged public property, and when I kind of shrugged
and said yes, that was it.   I had to plead guilty,
there was no plea in mitigation or anything.  I nudged
the public defender to do something, but he stared
back at me and just said that as I'd said I was
guilty, what was the point?

I stood up when the judge told me to,  but then I
could hardly believe my ears when he said calmly
"Drunk and disorderly is a serious offence, and we
need to send a strong lesson to irresponsible young
men like you who come down here and disturb our calm
tranquility with your raucous behaviour.  I  would
normally hand out a swingeing fine, in the hope that
your parents, when they had to pay up, would punish
you properly.   But I cannot rule out the damage to
public property - it may have seemed innocent enough
to generate all those soap bubbles, but they caused
the pumps to run dry and seize up, and the whole
fountain will have to be torn apart and rebuilt.  Such
vandalism of community assets calls for the most
severe punishment that the law allows, and I am
pronouncing a sentence of enslavement on you."

With that, he banged his gavel and rose, and the usher
shouted "all rise", as he left the Court.    I turned
to the public defender in shock!  "Enslavement?  They
can't do that.... I'm from the North..... And, anyway,
for how long?"

He looked at me as if I was some sort of idiot.
"You're in Florida now, and subject to this State's
laws, and your State of origin is of no consequence.
And for how long?  For life, of course.  Once a slave,
always a slave.  I'd have thought that was obvious!
There'd be no point in having fixed lengths of
slavedom, would there?  What owner would want a prize
asset simply walking away after a few years?    And
what kind of punishment would enslavement be if we had
all that nonsense we have with prison terms, with
remissions, pleas, appeals to higher courts?  No, boy,
you're a slave now, as from the moment that gavel
banged.   And a slave you'll be for the rest of your
life."

I looked around in panic, thinking I might make a run
for it, but two guards were by now standing next to
me.  "Look, there must me some mistake....", I
stammered to the public defender.  "Call my folks.
Mom and dad will pay for the damage...."

"Silence, boy!", one of the guards snapped.  "Fucking
slaves speak only when spoken to."

I ignored him, and tugged at the public defender's
jacket as he turned to move away.  "No, wait,
please.... You've got to help me....."

That was my first experience of the slave prod - the
guard just touched it to me, and the next moment I was
rolling and thrashing around in the well  of the
Court, screaming and sobbing.  And as the twitching of
my limbs gradually subsided (although that terrible
residual pain remained, as those of you who have felt
the prod will know), I realised with sick horror that
my bowels had also let go, and there was a most
unpleasant wet feeling in my jeans.  Fortunately, I
guess, my earlier experiences as my stomach's contents
had trickled away in the jail cell meant there wasn't
much left, but, even so, it made me feel even worse.

The guards looked down at me and snapped "On your
feet, boy, unless you want another dose!  Slaves speak
only when spoken to,  as we said, and in no
circumstances do they ever touch a free man like
that!"

Turning to the public defender the bigger guard went
on "I'm sorry, sir - but he looked relatively docile
and I didn't think he'd be a danger.  Shall we send
him to the public whip master to instil a bit of
discipline into him?"

"Oh, there'll be time enough for that later, I expect.
 A lot of these young men are a bit wild at first, but
most owners expect that when they buy a newly-enslaved
young male like this one - especially one who looks so
obviously tough and strong.  Let's not spoil the new
owner's fun in breaking the boy by introducing him to
the whip now - and, in any case, as an officer of the
Court I do need to have regard to the value of the
State's assets:  a young, fresh male slave needs to
show well, and many buyers are put off by overt signs
of the whip as it signals that a slave has not
properly understood his position."

"As you say, sir", the guard responded, then he turned
to me once more and snapped "Hands behind your back,
boy."

I went to protest again, but saw the sharp metal tip
of the prod hovering in front ofd me and thought
better of it.  The guard snapped cuffs around my
wrists, telling his companion that I was much less of
a problem now, and they led me out.

There were four of us in the slave transporter.  Yes,
that's what I said on the side: "Live slaves in
transit."  What the fuck did it mean by "live slaves"
- did they transport dead ones around, too, I
wondered?  But it wasn't a bus or anything like that -
just an empty truck which we were herded in to, and
then the back doors were slammed shut and he heard a
metal bar being put across them so we kind of knew
that escape was impossible.  It was pitch black in
there, and I was heartily glad, I suppose:  I was
really ripe" with the dried sweat, vomit and crap all
adhering to my clothes, and at least the other guys
would not be able to see it was me.  Not that we
talked all that much - the others were, like me,
mostly stunned by what had happened to them.  Well,
all except for one older guy who told us that he'd
been expecting it, as his plea for consideration when
his business folded had been ignored, and he'd
therefore come to the Court expecting to leave it as a
slave.

It was really  grim in that truck - no aircon or
anything, and as the sun beat down on the metal, the
temperature inside rose and rose - it was like being
in an oven, literally!  I pulled off my T-shirt to try
to get cooler, and would have done the same with my
jeans except for my concern about the state of my
boxer shorts.  We couldn't do anything about it,
though, so we had to endure it, as although we tried
banging on the bulkhead separating us from the driver,
it had no effect - except that s speaker crackled into
life and told us that if we didn't stop the fucking
disturbance the driver and guard would stop and come
and "properly sort us out, and give us something to
complain about, with their prods."

I've no idea where the slave induction centre actually
was - it took us a couple of hours to get there, so it
could have been almost anywhere.  When the van stopped
and the doors were thrown open so we could stumble
out, we were at first all blinded by the sun.  And
then I saw we were in a fenced compound with a high
chain-link fence surrounding us, standing in front of
a low building, the sort of semi-warehouse,
semi-industrial unit you see all over the country.  We
were surrounded by guards - well, that's what I
suppose they were as they were all in the same dark
green khaki shorts and paler green polo shirts, and,
more importantly, they all had slave prods resting
comfortably in their hands. They ordered us to strip,
and when the older guy, the one who  had the  debt
problems hesitated, they simply prodded him and he
fell to the ground twitching and screaming.  I suppose
it was their lesson to us:  obey, or get hurt!

It was horrible standing there in the open, totally
exposed to anyone passing the mesh fence, but what
were we supposed to do?  And, as if to emphasise that
everything was different for us now, the guards
collected up our discarded clothes and  threw them
into a dumpster. That did seem very final, signalling
to us that things really had changed  They then came
along the four of us as we stood there naked, and made
us strip off our watches, rings, and stuff like that -
I had a small silver chain around my neck that my
girlfriend had given me as she said she liked the
contrast between that and my naked skin when we were
fucking, and they took that too.

I suppose I'd read some stuff in the "slave stories"
that were briefly popular back home about the initial
processing of slaves - you know, branding, tattooing,
shaving, putting rings through them, and all that
stuff - but it wasn't like that here.  The four of us
were made to shower, and then given rough shorts and
T-shirts, and locked into a holding cell, and that was
it.  I was beginning to feel better, if that doesn't
seem strange:  my stomach had settled and my headache
had gone, and after a shower my body was at least
fresh once again.  One of the guys had clearly been
embarrassed about having to shower communally - I
think he was some sort of Muslim or had some other
superstition as he yelled that it was contrary to the
prophet's law or something to appear naked in front of
other men, but the guards simply prodded him and threw
him under the water anyway.  I had nothing to be
worried about, of course - I've got a strong, muscular
body, properly in proportion, and anyway was used to
showering with my buddies after gym and soccer.

We got ordinary food - well, burgers and fries brought
in from outside and a bit worse for wear as they had
been standing around for some time - and then, one by
one, we were pulled out of the cell.  This was when I
was expecting the branding and stuff, and my ears were
straining to hear the agonised screams of the guy in
front, but it wasn't like that at all - all they
wanted to do was weight me, take my height and other
measurements like my chest and waist, and take a few
photographs which they said were the "sale catalogue".
 That sounded so odd - I mean, those of us from up
North just aren't used to the idea of a human being
featuring in a "sale catalogue".  I had to strip off
for the last photograph, although I was given a small
g-string to wear (a g-string suspiciously sweaty - I
thought it had been worn by the guy in front, too), as
the photographer said some recent law or other meant
that pictures like these which would be up on the 'net
had to be "properly modest"!  It was apparently OK to
show my bare butt, but not my dick and balls.   Not
that I didn't feel a bit foolish - I'm probably above
average down there (no - let's not be modest:  I know
from looking at my buddies in the showers that my dick
is way above average, and my balls are in proportion)
and the tiny white silk triangle barely covered me
properly (and I suspected that anyone cranking up the
magnification on their screens could clearly see the
outline of my dick and balls) .  I'm pretty hairy,
too, and the worse thing was the way my big bush of
wiry hair was straggling out all around the edges!

When  I was back in the holding cell and all of us had
been photographed, I plucked up my courage and
politely asked the guard if I could call my folks - if
they knew where I was, they could certainly come and
straighten things out.  Or, I suppose, at the very
worst, dad could buy me!  But the guard stared back
almost in disbelief, and remarked "Boy, you sure have
a lot to learn about being a slave.  Of course you
can't use a phone! A slave is only allowed to use a
phone on his owner's business.  And, boy, you'd also
better start to learn that you don't speak to a free
man unless you're answering a question!  Some owners
would have you caned for your insolence".

When we were left alone one of my "companions" almost
sneered "Little rich boy, are you?  Hoping mommy and
daddy are going to come and buy you?"

"No.... But my buddies will have told them by now that
I've bee n enslaved, and obviously they'll try to do
something....."

He gave a short laugh.  "They may have told them
you've been enslaved, but you were only arrested last
night, weren't you?  Your buddies will spend most of
the day trying to find out what happened to you before
they call your folks.  And then, when they eventually
find out and get around to making the call, there's
not a lot your folks can do...."

"...the guards said we'd be on the 'net, offered for
sale....."

"Yes, but in this State all new slaves are sold to
properly authorised dealers, as it's recognised that
they need more preparation, and training, and that a
new slave is an unsuitable purchase for a member of
the public.  So the website is only available to
dealers, and your folks can't search it or anything.
And, anyway, all the names are removed:  the only
identification on the site is your SIN.  And there are
hundreds of slaves for sale on it, so unless your
parents get down here and find a compliant dealer, and
then sit there paging through all the pictures,
they'll never find you.  After that, all transactions
are done with your SIN, as your free name is totally
erased from the records."

"SIN?"

"Slave Identification Number.  All of us have one, we
just don't know what it is yet.  They tattoo it onto
us when they sell us, as the buyer might want it put
somewhere special."

"You seem to now a lot about it...  What do you mean,
'where they put it'/"

"Of course I know stuff like this - everyone does.  My
family has a slave - it's just that I never thought
I'd end up as one!  Look, the law requires a slave's
SIN to e tattooed on his body, and most people choose
the upper arm, on the shoulder.  But if you're going
to use your slave for display, you might not want the
skin disfigured like that and so you'd have it done
under the armpit.  The underside of the wrist is
popular, too...  It makes it hard for a slave to do a
runner, as the moment he shakes hands with
someone...."

I nodded, but somewhere inside my stomach gave a
little lurch at the thought that I was going to be
permanently marked, just as if I was owned property.
Well, I suppose that's what a slave is, after all -
it's just that I'm not used to thinking about myself
like that.

It was difficult to sleep that night -  I was so
worried about what was going to happen.  I had thought
that mom and dad might rescue me, but from what the
other guy had told me, this seemed less and less
likely.  And I also remembered all that stuff I'd read
in the stories too, about being on display bare-assed
naked, and having dealers "examine" me....
Examinations that always seemed to involve fingers up
the ass!  So I didn't really have a good night, until,
as always seems to happen, I fell asleep so deeply
just before dawn that I had to be shaken awake.

More burgers for breakfast, then we were made to
shower again, and dressed in the same shorts we'd been
given the day before, and then we went on display.
They showed us bare chested, but at least I wasn't
nude, and it seemed a pretty leisurely affair:  the
four of us were left in our cell and buyers strolled
up and down outside, casually looking us over and
comparing us with the details they had in their
printed catalogues.  There were several cells of us,
and some of women, too, and they seemed to attract
more interest.  My "know it all" companion remarked
that here in the Miami area it was mostly whites and
latinos for sale, and male slaves like us were not
much in demand.  "Owners want males for hard physical
labour generally, and niggas are thought best for
that, especially as they are thought to be better in
the heat.  On the other hand, white and latino bitches
fetch much higher prices....."

I was shocked to hear him use the N word, and told him
so, and he just laughed.  "You've got a lot to learn,
boy!", he responded.  "Down here in the South we call
a spade a space, and a nigga a nigga.  Almost all the
slaves across the agricultural belt are niggas.  But
of course here in Florida, with the tourist trade, a
whitey or latino bitch with a nice body is much in
demand..."

Seeing my look of puzzlement, he added "You know....
Masseuses, cocktail waitresses, bed companions, that
sort of thing.  I'm surprised your daddy hasn't been
down here on a business trip - most conventions and
stuff like that are now held in the South, as even the
most respectable Northern businessman likes to
play...."

"My dad wouldn't do that!  We're liberals, and don't
believe in slavery.  And we'd certainly never use a
slave...."

He just laughed., and added "Anyway, we're all about
to find out what it's really like to be a slave.  They
don't waste any time here, as the auction's this
afternoon."

I was going to ask him more, but at that moment the
guard unlocked our cell, pointed at me, and snapped
"Out here, boy."

There in the corridor was a an older guy, clutching
his catalogue, his eyes raking me up and down as he
compared what he saw with what he was reading on the
page.  He was sort of distinguished looking, and I
thought he was probably about the same age as my dad -
forty two or so, although at first sight he looked a
lot leaner and fitter as dad had let himself go a bit
as he moved up the ladder at the office and worked
longer and longer hours.

"Are you really nineteen, boy?" He asked me, his tone
deep and firm, and somehow compelling.

"Yes... Just.... My birthday was last month....."

"Shut the fuck up!", the guard shouted.  "Answer a
free man's questions properly, with a  'yes' or 'no',
and address him as 'sir' or else you'll be one
nineteen year old who's writhing on the floor!".

The guy didn't seem to care, though, and looked at me
again.  "Do you do drugs?"

"NO!....", and then as the guard stiffened,  I added
"...sir."  It wasn't all that hard actually, as mom
and dad liked me to be well behaved, and when dad
brought people home from the office, or we were at the
golf club, he liked me to address them as 'sir'."

"Good.  How old's your girl friend?"

"The current one's eighteen sir!"  I realised he'd
assumed I had a girl friend.

"Oh, so you play the field a bit, do you?"

I blushed, as I had a bit of a reputation at school as
being a stud.  And as I was on the soccer team, a lot
of the girls wanted to go with me.

"When I was younger, sir...."

"So what kind of girl do you prefer?  Blondes,
brunettes?"

I grinned "Oh, kind of any sort, as long as she's got
a nice smile, a good body, and is pleasant...."

"....and co-operative?"

I grinned again.  "Well, sir, a young guy like me has
urges, and, well, she needs to understand that, and
co-operate...."

He nodded.  "So have you fucked many niggas?"

"Sir, there weren't a lot at my school.... There
aren't a lot in New Hampshire...."

"I take it the answer is 'no', then.  You're not
prejudiced, are you, boy?"

"NO, sir!  All my folks are liberal...."    I saw the
guard looking, and stopped short.

"Well then, so you're experienced at sex, and you look
pretty fit.... I think I'd better take a closer look
at you.  Drop those shorts."

This is, I suppose, the moment I'd been dreading.  Now
it was all about to come true, all that stuff I'd read
in the stories.  I fingered the button on the waist of
the shorts nervously, and the man watched me with a
faintly mused smile just showing on his face.

"You're not bashful are you, boy?  A stud like you,
who's been naked with all those girls he's fucked.  A
guy who looks as if he's an athlete, so he's used to
being naked with his buddies in the showers...  Have
you got something to be ashamed of?  Are the bits that
those shorts are covering not so big and strong as the
rest of you?"

I shrugged slightly, undid the button, and let the
rough cotton fall to the floor.  Then I stepped
forward, and stood in front of him totally naked.  I
was of course expecting him to reach for my dick and
begin to fondle my balls, as they do in all the
stories, but he made no move.  He stared at me, sure,
but then muttered "You'll do.", and turned and walked
away.

The guard motioned for me to dress, and locked me back
in the cell with the others.

There's one thing that the stories are right about,
though:  when I was put up on the auction stage later
that day I was totally naked.  I had to stand there in
front of about thirty dealers - men and women -
utterly exposed, as the auctioneer called out "Young
buck, nineteen years old, in good physical condition
as you can see, ladies and gentlemen,  The slave is
newly enslaved and therefore as is customary no
warranty is given as he had not been subject to any
testing or training:  that is the responsibility of
the new owner.  Suitable marking, as required by law,
is included in the price.  Now, what am I bid?  Who'll
open at twenty thousand new dollars?"

When the bidding seemed slow he ordered me to turn
around and drew attention to my long thighs and
muscular butt.  I felt myself blushing as he called
out "Look, ladies and gentleman... It's rare be see a
young whitey so spectacularly well made.  He could
almost be a nigga, with those wonderfully rounded butt
muscles carried high like that.  And, ladies, look at
the little dimples at the base of his spine....
Wouldn't that be pleasing in bed?"

There was a ripple of polite laughter, and the
horrible thought struck me that I might be bought by
some old hag for sexual pleasure!  But before I could
do anything, I was ordered to turn around, and told to
spread my legs and raise my arms in the air, so  I was
making a kind of "X" shape.

"Now come on, ladies and gentlemen", the auctioneer's
voice boomed out.  "Have you ever seen anything like
that?  Not a trace of fat.  And look at the definition
of those belly muscles.... And I'm sure I hardly need
to point out that it's rare to see tackle like that -
see how the balls hang low, beyond the end of the
dick... Some achievement, I'm sure you'll agree, when
the dick itself is such an obviously prime piece of
meat...."

I was blushing furiously now, and desperately wanted
to drop my hands and at least cover myself as best I
could.  But out of the corner of my eye, at the edge
of the stage, I could see a guard with his prod at the
ready, and I just didn't want to risk being hurt
again.

Fortunately, though, the bidding was then relatively
brisk, and it took less than two minutes to sell me!
I stood there almost bemused at the way that I, a free
man a day ago, had now been sold, just like some
animal.  But the auctioneer was eager to get on with
things and curtly ordered me off the stage.  I stood
there, still a bit in shock at the thought of being
sold,  and the auctioneer gave me a huge open-handed
slap on my butt and told me to hurry along.  The crack
of his flesh against mine sent a small ripple of
amusement going amongst the audience, and blushing
more than ever, I scurried off, now desperately trying
to cover myself with my hands.

There were guards there, of course, and I was shoved
into a cage, still entirely naked.  Still, at least I
didn't have to press against the other guys as we were
all in separate cages.  I soon found out why - one by
one the new owners of these men came down and
collected them:  I suddenly realised that I'd got into
the way of thinking about me and these people as
"slaves", as otherwise why would I think of the
collectors as "owners"?  Most of the owners looked a
pretty tough lot as I suppose dealers were used to
dealing with the newly-enslaved and were prepared for
some resistance and trouble.  All of them sported
small things that looked like riding crops, and shiny
metal slave prods, and I couldn't help but see that
one of them began to beat his slave across his bare
ass as soon as the guards had pushed the hapless
victim out of the cage.

I wondered what my owner would be like, and stood
there trembling in anticipation and worry (and the
cold, actually - the  air conditioning was on, and
buck naked you do get very cold).  I was standing
there with my arms crossed over my chest rubbing my
hands up and down my ribs to try to get a bit warmer
when I heard a guard snap "Turn around, boy, and stand
still!"

There in front of me was  the older guy who'd asked me
all those questions before the auction.  Behind him,
though, was another guy: tall and very well muscled
(and when I say tall, I do mean it - I'm 6'1" and
being tall myself I tend to notice it when other guys
are taller than me).  He looked to be in his late
twenties and in fantastic shape - he had that glow of
good health that guys who work out and take care of
themselves had - and he was smiling at me.

The older man's eyes raked me up and down as they had
before the auction, and he nodded slightly as he said
to me "You're mine now, boy.  You will refer to me as
'Boss'.  And you are Steven, I see from the file.
Well in future you're Steve - I prefer short,
masculine names."

It's no problem to me, actually - only mom and dad
called me Steven, as I was always Steve to all my
buddies, and I nodded.  I was about to say something
when the guard looked at him and said "Included in the
price is the mandatory tattooing of his SIN onto him -
you have a choice of location as some owners like it
to be very prominent, and some want it completely
hidden in normal usage.  We can also carry out any
other procedures you want at the same time....
Vasectomy, circumcision, even castration....  We have
a fully trained nurse who's qualified for all those
operations on slaves."

The man looked at me, and smiled.  "Don't  look so
worried, Steve!  The last thing you'll be having is a
vasectomy, or the loss of your balls, will he Jeff?"

The big guy's faint smile broke into a broad grin as
he answered promptly "No, boss!"

"I'm not so sure about the circumcision, though."  My
owner peered at my dick as he said this, and went on
"He's not got a horrible long flap overhanging the
end, and I quite like the way his piss slit is peeping
though even when he's all shrunk up with the cold.
But, on the other hand, especially in your line of
business, the traditional 'high and tight' is so much
sleeker.  You'd agree with that, wouldn't you, Jeff?"

The big guy smiled again.   "Well, Boss, it's true
that it's easier to shower and everything, and I
suppose it looks better when you're not erect.... But
a young guy like this.... Well, it seems a shame to
spoil his pleasure as it's not so much fun jerking off
without your 'skin...."

"Oh, come on, Jeff!  When's he going to be jerking off
in future?"

"Sure, Boss.... But mightn't it be better to wait and
see how he works?  I mean, if you have to sell him if
he's unsuitable, then you'd get a better price with
him still 'au naturel', especially since, as you say,
his 'skin kind of enhances the general look of his
dick.  You could always have it done later...."

My owner nodded, and the guard then asked again "Where
do you want the SIN, sir?"

My owner didn't hesitate for a moment.  I got to learn
that in matters like this he was always totally
decisive. "On his neck, under the left jaw line, so
it's visible even if he's wearing a shirt with a
collar.  And again on the inside of the right forearm
- in big, bold numbers running vertically down from
the elbow so that there can be no doubt that he's a
slave.  And have his name - Steve, that is, not Steven
as in the records - in letters across his back, to
fill it from shoulder to shoulder."

The guard had a small pad out and made a note of this,
and asked "And a collar?  Rings in his tits, or nose,
or dick?"

"No.", my owner said.  "Those rings are dangerous in
my line of business, as they can be wrenched out and
damage him.  And I don't like my slaves to have
collars - when they're naked, I like them totally
naked.  I do however want him branded - the
traditional large 'S' prominently on the left
buttock."

"No, please....", I stuttered.  I hated the thought of
being disfigured with a tattoo, but the idea that
they'd scar my flesh permanently was more than I could
bear.

My owner at once snapped "Be silent!  So far I've been
very tolerant of you, but you need to remember that
slaves speak only when spoken to."

"But Boss..... You're talking about disfiguring
me...."

My owner turned towards the big man who had been
following him.  "Jeff, if this boy speaks out of turn
again you are to grab hold of him and punish him."

Jeff said immediately "Yes, Boss", then looked at me
kind of pleadingly, as if he knew that he'd have to do
as he'd been told, but that he didn't want to.

But my owner was still speaking, looking sternly at
me.  "This is your last chance, boy.  I like my slaves
to be happy and contented, pleased to serve me and to
obey me willingly.  But I've had this problem with
young men before - you can' adjust to the fact that
your life has changed totally, and that you no longer
have the power to run around do just as you please -
your only function now is to order your life to please
me.  I don't want to have to have you punished, but I
will certainly do so:  it's been my experience that
harsh physical punishment is the best thing in the
circumstances -  it gets you to the proper point
quickly, and means that there is no long period of
misery and unhappiness when you are not obeying me and
when my temper is tried.  Do you understand?"

I thought about it, and could see that I had little
choice, in the circumstances - here I was, totally
naked, with the guard standing there with his prod,
and with this big guy Jeff apparently under my owner's
total control as well.  So I muttered "Yes, Boss."

"Good!  I dislike having my slaves unhappy, as I like
all those around me to be living rich, fulfilled
lives.  But if I need to have you spanked, caned or
even whipped to get you to that point, I will not
hesitate.  Now you were objecting to the thought of
being branded, but you are in fact fortunate..."  He
turned to the guard with his clipboard and said
quietly "As I was saying, a large 'S' on the left
buttock - but do it cold, with the liquid nitrogen
rather than the heated branding iron:  it's my
experience that it heals sooner.  And give him a
painkiller first."

The guard wrote some stuff on his clipboard, nodding
as he did so.  My owner spoke again:  "And finally,
chip him - without a collar he is perhaps a little
more likely to try to escape before he has fully
adjusted to his new role."

"In the neck, sir?"

"No.   I had a slave chipped there once, and ever
after, whenever I felt his neck I could just make out
the trace of it under the skin.  And that was after
exercise had built up the neck muscles properly, too,
so there was potentially lots of muscle to mask it.  I
prefer it buried deep under the shoulder blade - but
make certain that the veterinarian understands that I
do not want any mark or scarring at the entry point -
this slave has a beautiful smooth back, which will be
even better as he finally matures and gets his 'adult'
muscles, and I do not want it sullied by any marks."

The guard nodded again, and my owner turned towards
the big man.  "Anything I've forgotten, Jeff?"

"The  'sack and crack', Boss?  I can show him how to
trim his pubes in the way you like, but it's hard to
keep that perfect smoothness you like using only the
razor...."

"You're right!  Yes, order a waxing for him to smooth
his balls and ass.  And we won't be here to pick him
up for four days as I have some travel commitments,
which I suppose doesn't matter as his brand heals....
But let's not waste the time:  schedule extensive
sunbed sessions for him, as many as possible without
burning the skin.... Well, without burning the skin
too much .... I dislike that stark band of white
around his loins.  There probably won't be sufficient
time to get all of him to that agreeable tan he's
exhibiting on his chest and legs, but it will be a
start."

"Yes, sir", the guard responded, writing more on his
clipboard.  And then my owner - how soon I had begun
to tag him as that in my head automatically:  it
seemed I was really accepting my new status  - looked
at me again.

"Now, Steve, begin to think about how you're going to
change your approach to life so that you function
properly as my slave.  I'll be back to collect you in
four days, as you heard... Although it could be five
or six, if my business detains me.  And when I do pick
you up, as well as the physical things I've ordered
for you, I want to observe a proper attitude:  it is
possible, you know - when I bought him, Jeff here was
rebellious and didn't take kindly to accepting my
orders.  It was not particularly pleasant for him to
have that rebellion beaten out of him, but look at him
now:  he's a slave who understands what he is, and
he's finding his life fulfilling and enjoyable, aren't
you, Jeff?"

"Yes, Boss", the big man replied instantly, and there
was something in his tone that made it clear that he
wasn't bullshitting.  I looked at him again as I
suppose it hadn't occurred to me until now that he was
a slave too, and noticed now that he had numbers below
his jaw line, just as my owner had ordered for me.
And when he began to move to follow my owner out and
his hands, previously clasped behind his back, came
into view, I could also see the big black numbers
inside his forearm.

End Of Part One