Disappearances

DISAPPEARANCES

by Bill Smith

[If you are new to the DISAPPEARANCES series, the story below story needs to be read in the context of the introduction which was previously posted with Case. No. 1. As usual, I would appreciate your comments on this story at anonymous4371@juno.com. Thanks. Bill Smith]

Case No. 4:

I was 18 when I was kicked out of my last foster home and told my life was my own responsibility from now on. My parents had been junkies for years and didn't have a clue as to where my last two foster homes had been and could care less.

On my own at last, I applied for a job advertised as needing a "willing attitude, an adventuresome spirit, and a strong body." The interviewer seemed interested in me, especially when he asked to see my muscles and I gladly removed my shirt to show off my physique. He asked me about my family and when I told him I had no family or even friends, he said I was perfect for the job in that it was overseas and far away. I signed the papers the minute he said I'd get no less than $500 a week plus all expenses if I was willing to travel out of the country for an assignment. He gave me a plane ticket for Namibia along with a faked passport once a picture was made of my mug. I'd never even heard of Namibia or wherever it was, but $500 a week free and clear didn't put me in the mood for asking questions. That very night I was winging my way to a new and most profitable life.

When I landed, a man with a poster in his hand greeted me and led me to a small bus with about 20 others young men in it. We were all excited and talked up a storm as the bus took us from the airport at Windhoek to a small compound miles and miles from anywhere, far from the nearest paved road and smack dab in a desert with nothing else in sight. One thing I had found out was that everyone in that bus was just like myself: young, good-looking, and with no family ties of any type. We were fed a great meal and assigned a bed in a small barracks.

The next morning I awoke naked, shackled, my body shaved of all hair, and a metal collar locked around my neck. All of my colleagues were in exactly the same boat. We'd obviously been drugged at our evening meal the night before. That day, we were marched, one by one, onto a platform, displayed and sold.

"I supposed we'll get a chance to talk, Elizabeth, on the charter flight back." His comments were to the stern looking woman who had bought two extremely handsome lads that looked too young to have actually been in a sale of prime males.

"Yes, we're all going back together I understand," the women said pleasantly. "That will include Jake, Maltida, Enrico, Bill, Miguel, Mohammed, and Washington. Actually, Washington and Mo are just delivering the goods since they're just contract agents and then will go on home from there, but Jake, Maltida, Enrico, Bill and Miguel, along with you and me of course, are all on our way to Santa Domingo that's so convenient for our usual Caribbean and Florida clients. Looks like we'll have nine up front and 13 in the cages back in the cargo area on this trip - it will be a tight fit in the CessnaJet we've chartered but we'll be in Santa Domingo in seven hours even tipping the scales a little." Looking around at the shackled slaves beside this group of buyers, she added, "the market was a little thin compared to last month and the offerings are getting younger and younger if you ask me, Brent, but the trip was probably still worthwhile if you need some white boys to balance out your offerings."

"I only found one worth buying on this trip," Brent responded, "but I got him cheap enough so the trip was worthwhile. Mohammed got himself a blond that's hung real heavy - that's what I was really looking for. I'm going to see if I can buy him from Mo on the way over."

"Why not try to wangle him away from Mohammed right now and save him the long trip to the Dominican Republic and then have to get himself all the way back to Yemen. Brent, offer him a decent profit for his trouble and offer to buy him a direct first class ticket to anywhere he wants in Yemen. He can always buy up some scrubs left over for the Yemeni market in Aden or Sa'ani to make his trip worthwhile. Those Yemenis like these white boys even when they're not the best looking of the lot. They're more interested in a white boy's butt than his face anyway if the price is right," she laughed.

The man named Brent did just that without hesitation and approached the white robed handsome Arab man immediately who still held the blond's collar leash in his hand as he again felt the collared boy's large genitals and stimulated them into another full erection oblivious to all the people surrounding the 'slave' and his new 'owner.'

"The light haired boy is well equipped, Mohammed" Brent commended as his greeted his long time fellow merchant of human flesh. "Actually, he's really the type I came over here to buy but it seems you beat me to this one, and the paucity of the market today certainly limits one's choices. All I could find is this boy here," he jerked my leash sharply so my head shot up, "but he looks to be Greek if anything."

"Yes, he does look Greek," Mohammed assessed my features, "although he's a little bigger than the typical Greek boy," he added looking pointedly at my manhood.

"Rather than face a long trip to the Dominican Republic to deliver the blond to whoever you have contracted with, why don't you tell them you couldn't find anything to their liking and sell the boy to me for a substantial profit within the hour. Not only would you save a couple of trying days on the airplane, but you could be home tonight awaiting delivery the very next week of four or five scrub slaves you could buy up easily in the near future with this little windfall. As you know, Mohammed, what we called scrub slaves in the trade still fetch a good price in that barren desert you call home, especially if you buy some that are young and biddable with some decent training."

"Ah, my friend Brent, you forget I was contracted to buy a blond catamite for the very rich buyer in Miami - an old man with particular tastes in young boys. He would be most disappointed if he had to wait until another market opens to find what he wants, especially with all the risks he may encounter having to smuggle a slaveboy into Miami from Santa Domingo."

"I'm sure he is paying you the standard 15% finder's fees plus all your expenses. Shall we say I double that fee and pay you 130% of what I know you paid for the boy and throw in a first class ticket back to your home in Aden? That would give you plenty to buy up some scrubs for the home market at the next big sale and save you all that tiresome traveling. I'm sure your client in Miami would understand, especially if you promised to find him an exceptional blond boy at next month's market in Istanbul where the prized Circassian blonds you Arabs are so fond of will be plentiful according to the advance notices. Seems the slavers in those areas have been particularly busy kidnaping the best of the lot recently."

"You are a conniving bastard, my friend Brent," Mohammed replied with a glint in his eye. "Just pay me 150% of what I paid for the blond boy and forget the plane ticket. That way I'll make enough to buy something decent at the Istanbul auction."

"You drive a hard bargain, but how can I resist?" Brent shook Mo's hand in agreement.

" I just pray the rumors of those Circassian boys being up for sale prove to be true. Some rich sheiks in my 'barren desert' as you call it are willing to pay plenty for a Circassian boy in their bed." Mohammed stated.

"As I understand, you own a young Circassian blond for your own use, Mo," I winked. "Are they as good as everyone says?"

"Better," Mo replied. "I wish he were here with us as we speak," he added as he rubbed his crotch beneath his robe.

"Does that 'with us' imply that you would share the boy's pleasures?" I teased.

"Of course," Mo beamed. "For a price, of course, but he's worth every penny of it."

Mohammed and Brent quickly moved to the corner where I and the other slaves assembled for the flight to the Dominican Republic were still standing in a corner.

Brent now had two leashes in his hand, one leading to my collar and another to the handsome blond he had acquired.

"Well, I see you followed my advice," Elizabeth laughed as she reached down and stroked the blond slave's thick shaft as he turned bright red in embarrassment at having a woman feel his manhood right there in front of everyone. What did he cost you?"

"150% of what he paid for him less than an hour ago," Brent replied. "A damn good profit. He's planning to use the profit to buy one or two Circassian slaves rumored to be available at the market in Istanbul next month and sell them back in Aden to anyone able to afford them."

"I'm sure he can once he gets their holes opened up properly and they get used to being fucked several times a day," she laughed. "Most light-skinned boys kidnaped out of the Black Sea areas end up as fuck boys as much as anything once they're in the Arabian Peninsula, no matter how ugly they might be," she laughed as the blond slave and myself turned beet red in embarrassment and looked at the ground in pity for the purported plight of whatever Circassian boys were kidnaped like ourselves and now destined to be shipped off to the sand and unbearable heat of the lowest tip of the Arabian Peninsula.

"You milked this boy to make sure he juices properly?" Elizabeth asked as she continued to stroke the naked blond boy next to me, tears running down his cheeks in his abject humiliation at being treated no different than a stud horse.

"I saw Mo do it before he bought him," Brent answered. "He never buys anything without checking it out pretty carefully beforehand."

"Don't worry about it, Brent," Elizabeth counseled. "By the time they actually get sold off, they've usually been milked dry," she chuckled. "Think how many look them over before they finally get an owner."

An auction employee informed us the charter plane was ready to load now and we needed to get ourselves out to the airstrip and our new properties caged.

Within minutes, I was jammed into a small cage where I could neither stand up or lie down full length and watched as three more filled cages were stacked on top of mine. Soon all thirteen freshly kidnaped young men had been fitted into the storage area of the small plane and each was given an injection in their butt by the pilot. Within minutes, all of us slumped to the sides of our cages and were totally unconscious. We never had a chance to talk to each other, eat, or piss before we blacked out. The next thing we knew we were lying in our own piss, felt the cramps in our muscles from the close confinement, and our cages were no longer on an airplane but in a small ancient warehouse in some place we had never seen before. We soon were focusing our eyes on the people who had led us out by leashes to the small jet plane back where we had been assembled after being kidnaped from our home countries and then 'sold.'

Each came forward one by one to claim their merchandise - us! The handsome lad right next to me had a older woman holding his neck leash; a man in back was dragged away by a black man; and a man in front had an Italian man no older than himself leading him away. Some Americans took others in tow; a stern looking woman had a leash in each hand, both attached to extremely handsome boys no older than 18 or so; a dark rotund man looking like he came from Latin America had another couple of young boys in tow; and a dark skinned man I heard say he was from Los Angeles had a very muscular bright blue- eyed man that looked to be in his early twenties on his leash.

Each agent was now going to get their merchandise in the hands of their new owners as soon as possible whether it be there in the Dominican Republic, in Florida, the Virgin Islands, Aruba, Columbia, Mexico, St. Barts, or wherever rich men and women could afford to assuage their taste in human flesh they could actually own. Only when they were safely locked away in their new owner's estates and villas would the agents get their full commission on the recent purchases.

Once delivered to their new owners, some of the slaves would be enrolled in training schools where they would quickly learn the details of what being a slave in today's world actually involved: the basic postures appropriate when in a master's presence, the allowable verbal responses to a master's commands, the grooming and exercise requirements to keep the purchased body attractive and in top shape, the dietary requirements for a contemporary slave, and, of course, the sexual duties expected of any slave nowadays in bringing their owner or his or her friends maximum pleasure. For some, this would involve overcoming their shame and humiliation at being naked and totally exposed most of the time, for most it would involve learning their own needs, interests and desires were of no importance - it was the needs, even whims, of their owner that were paramount now. For many young male slaves, it would often be their introduction to man-on-man sex regardless of what they may have been taught or felt about it in their past life; for males sold to mistresses, it usually involved learning to fully satisfy a female without experiencing a debilitating orgasm themselves - a true exercise in self-control most likely absence in their sex life up to being enslaved. For many, it would involve learning to sexually satisfy an owner of the same sex for the first time or, for males sold to women, learning to fully satisfy their new owner instead of themselves. Almost all those new to slavery, male and female, had to learn to tolerate having the most private parts of their bodies fondled and stroked at all times of the day, in both public and private places, and by anyone with their master or mistress' permission. Learning to meet all these expectations instantly and without question took time no matter how effective the training or what punishments for transgressions were employed - anywhere from a few weeks to those somewhat submissive to start with and intolerant of much pain to months for those fiercely independent, fighting their slavery every step of the way, and those so insensitive to pain they pretended martyr-like qualities in their struggles to remain the person they had been prior to being transformed into a piece of property.

Other owners didn't like turning this task over to others and often enjoyed "breaking" a slave to the new demands imposed on him. Still others avoided the whole training necessity by buying only slaves who had already been thoroughly broken by a long series of previous owners. For this latter group, the relatively rare bred slaves, those born into slavery, were worth the premium they cost in that the training had started at birth and never let up after that.

As it turned out, Brent had been the agent for a very wealthy drug lord in Columbia who already had 15 slaves on his huge estate hidden way back in the mountains beyond Bogota where naked slaves at your disposal wouldn't seem terribly unusual. He had commissioned a slave just like myself as an addition to the estate: young, handsome, preferably American or English, with a nice very muscular physique, smooth ivory skin, blue eyes, light colored hair, and a long, thick, well shaped circumcised shaft that was easy to arouse.

The drug czar had sent his private jet to Santa Domingo to whisk both Brent and me to his own airstrip. Brent would receive his commission if the 'goods' were satisfactory and the jet would take him back to the Miami airport after a sociable drink or so with his client.

I was taken immediately to the airstrip. This involved getting me to crawl into the trunk of a hired limousine while still naked except for my slave collar with both the urging of the electric prod in Brent's hand and the muscles of the big black chauffeur who was obviously used to delivering goods from this consignment center without asking any questions. Once at the airstrip, the chauffeur simply lifted me from the trunk into the even smaller baggage compartment of the small jet.

Brent seemed to know the heavily muscled chauffeur as well as the jet's pilot and carried on a lively conversation with both where I was never mentioned and no questions were raised as to who or what I was.

Within 90 minutes I felt the plane's wheels hit solid pavement and shortly after that I felt Brent's leash reattached to my collar and with a strong jerk on my neck, he ordered me to extract myself from the cramped compartment. This time, I was shoved into a slave cage in the back of a brand new Cadillac Escalade while Brent smoothly switched to Spanish with the new driver. Five minutes later, I was out of my cage and ushered to the front veranda of a huge manor home where Brent shoved me to my knees and forced my head down in a low bow with the heel of his boot.

"Here's your new property, Senor Carlos," Brent bowed his head himself in respect for his wealthy client. "I hope you find he meets your expectations."

"Brent," the handsome man in his mid-30s replied with a tinkle in his eye, "you know better than I you can't tell much until a slave is fully trained. But," he chuckled, "there is no use going to all the trouble of training them if they're not appealing to start with. Let's have a look at the property."

Brent's foot left my neck and he jerked me to my feet with a tug of the neck leash so strong I ended up choking as I attempted to stand upright.

"Nice skin and the blue eyes and hair are just as I ordered," Carlos said as he immediately stepped forward and ran both his hands over my shoulder and neck muscles, across my pectorals, and quickly across my abdominal muscles before twirling me around and palming my butt checks in his hands before squeezing my thigh muscles. It was the same technique I had seen thoroughbred horses assessed on TV before they were auctioned off down in Kentucky somewhere.

That's exactly what I felt like as I stood there naked with his hands roaming across my body - a horse, especially with a collar around my neck and a leash running to Brent's hand. I turned bright red in embarrassment at this animal-like inspection.

"Nicely put together considering how young he is - he'll fill out some over the next few years with proper food and exercise," Carlos commented. Next, he felt my facial features including my cheek bones, my jaw line, and even stuck his middle finger into my mouth to check out I had all my teeth in place. I gagged slightly at this most unexpected entry but it happened so quickly I didn't have time to bite the finger and I doubt if I would have over time, given the fact I was totally in this man's power from now on if he accepted delivery of what he had bought. My impression so far of this super-confident self-assured 'master' was that he would have had every tooth in my head pulled in the most painful manner possible if I even scraped his finger, let alone bite it. He checked my eyes out, lifting my eyelids checking for disease I suppose, and then quickly grabbed my balls with his left hand, churned them around in his hand as I gasped in surprise and humiliation, and just as quickly gripped my prick with his right hand and began stroking it roughly as I yelped in astonishment and protest.

"Calm down, slave," Brent ordered as he jerked sharply on my collar leash. "Your new owner is only checking out what he's bought."

"Not quite yet, Brent, but with the commission involved in this sale, I can see why you're putting 'bought' in the past tense," he laughed as he continued churning my balls and stroking my swelling shaft as Brent reached over and pressed his stun gun against the middle of my shoulders from the back to make sure I was cooperating in the 'inspection' whispering in my ear to thrust my pelvis out for Senor Carlos' convenience in handling me or I'd get a full jolt from the gun.

Having sampled a mild jolt of the stun gun while being loaded for shipment to Santa Domingo - an experience I would never forget to my dying days - I promptly thrust my pelvis out and held it there as the Senor pumped me to a full erection complete with pre-cum drippings.

"A nice display," Senor Carlos said as he wiped his hands off in my hair. "You don't see an organ that big that excites so quickly on most lighted skinned slaves," he added professionally. "That's why the demand for black slaves stays steady century after century in my opinion, but white slaves are so clean-looking, don't you think, Brent?"

"Well, I guess so....," Brent smirked, "although I'm hardly the one to ask."

"No, I guess not. From what I've heard, you're into black meat and mainly female at that - is that right, Brent?" Carlos asked.

"Essentially, Senor Carlos, although, as you no doubt have also heard, I'm not adverse to bedding down a nice-looking well-trained male slave from time to time and occasionally that will include a particularly handsome white boy."

"Then I can assume you haven't sampled this slaveboy yet, Brent?" Senor Carlos asked.

"That's right, Senor Carlos, although I admit I was quite turned on just now as he was about to juice for you."

"Yes, I noticed," Senor Carlos said as he stared at the front of Brent's trousers, still tented from his erection.

Brent blushed himself as he realized this drug lord missed practically nothing when it came to human behavior. He had never made the mistake of trying to outwit or fool his Columbian client.

Senor Carlos drew an envelope out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Brent. "It's all there, exactly as we agreed upon. The boy will fit in well here once he's properly trained and has been taught to appreciate how lucky he is for a slave boy in today's markets."

"Are you going to have some of your older, more experienced slaves train him?" Brent asked.

"Yes," Senor Carlos answered. "They've trained many a new addition before and have always done a good job. This boy will be fully trained to accept all his duties, including my bed, within a mere 60 days under their tutelage. Within three months he will not only be doing what is expected, but doing it with a willingness and appreciation he couldn't imagine at this point." Carlos against reached down and churned his new slave's balls in his hands as I again moaned and jerked around a bit in protest.

"Thanks for the business, Senor Carlos," Brent said sincerely. "Any business you might have in the future will certainly be appreciated. I always enjoy working with a client I can rely on and guarantees his payment in cash if totally satisfied."

"Yes, cash is always appreciated in our line of work," Carlos responded. "And, Brent, I am sure our business dealings aren't over. Both of us are in the prime of our careers and, at least speaking for myself, my sexual needs will probably go on, hopefully, for a few more decades at least. I have found slaves best for that purpose overall - there are no obligations or commitments when a slave is in your bed. They are there to satisfy you the best they know how and expect nothing. When you tire of them, I can easily sell them off, often at a profit; when they get old and ugly, I can send them to the cocaine factories for the work left in their bodies; and when they fail to please me totally, a good beating or a few days without food usually gets them back on track.

Tell me any other way of meeting my sex needs with so few complications.

"Marriage sucks,"Brent admitted. "And hiring on a concubine doesn't make sense when you can buy a slave even easier."

"Exactly," Senor Carlos said as he lifted his finger and two magnificently built black slaves, resplendent in gold collars and matching tit and genital rings, appeared out of nowhere and led the new acquisition - me - away to start his training.

"The SUV will take you back to the plane, Brent. Good to see you again," Senor Carlos shook Brent's hand in farewell.

Brent never looked back at the property he had just delivered to start a whole new life as a sexual slave deep in the Columbian jungles. He was already planning the delivery of the prized blond slave he'd acquired from Mo. The client he was peddling him to had an absolute passion for young blond slaves that were handsome and well hung. Perhaps, Brent mused, because he was so black himself. His client could certainly afford the blond's steep price - after all, Brent didn't have too many clients that were dictators of an entire country.

But this black general sported a whole harem of blond slaves who he showed off whenever he could to the envy and admiration of those less powerful. Of course, they weren't labeled a harem or displayed in all their glory publicly - the dignity of the presidential office had to be maintained. No, they were called the "Presidential Militia" and wore such fancy, colorful uniforms it was rumored they had been specially designed by Versace himself while he was still alive. Each uniform was custom tailored and skin-tight to show off each blond boy's well muscled physique, his well rounded butt, and prominently display his ample endowment - so well, in fact, members of the "Presidential Militia" felt more displayed clothed than they did stark naked, the condition their permanently shaved bodies were always kept in the minute they weren't exposed to the public's eye and inside the Dictator's private quarters. In uniform, the only hint of their actual status was the thin but tight-fitting silver collar around each of their necks which was explained away as being a special "gift" from the President each militiaman treasured too much not to wear. Brent knew if he could sell him the new blond he'd recently acquired, it would be at least the 15th blond boy the pock- faced black dictator in his early forties kept in the special militia for his amusement. Brent also knew the minute the black dictator laid eyes on the naked blond, he wold buy him for his bed - the man was insatiable!

SIX MONTHS LATER:

The black general generated income by selling drugs on the side. His main supplier was my Columbian owner. The day he arrived to pick up a planeload of drugs directly from the source, he brought one of his favorite slaves with him to keep him amused on the Army plane he utilized. I instantly recognized the strikingly handsome blond boy despite the very fancy uniform he wore. We'd first met that first night in Namibia all those months ago and he had been bought at the Namibian auction by the Yemeni slave dealer called Mohammed who sold him the very next day to the Caribbean dealer who had bought me. Despite being clothed, he was obviously still a slave as the metal collar around his neck revealed and I was delighted he gave me a quick smile that told me he also recognized me, aided probably by the fact I looked the same as he had last seen me - totally naked outside my body adornments.

My master and the dictator quickly concluded their business as suitcases of cash sealed the deal and orders were given for all of my master's slaves, as well as the one the general brought with him, to start loading up the general's airplane with the tons of drugs purchased that day.

That gave me a chance to carry on a whispered conversation with my blond haired friend despite the close eye of the whip wielding overseer directing the loading operation. He told me about his life as a "militia" member being displayed in his fancy revealing uniform and being called to the bed of his ugly black owner at least twice a week. He actually welcomed being frequently "loaned" out to visiting dignitaries and government officials in that it broke the monotony and he met a lot of interesting people that way, albeit while he was sucking them off or they were ramming their rods up his ass. But, he smiled, he was well fed, envied by all the other slaves in that small country, and enjoyed the prestige of being in the elite militia group whose membership were all boys about like himself: no kinship ties, miserable childhoods, nice bodies coupled with striking good looks, no education or training to offer outside use of their bodies, and a shared view that slavery wasn't any worse, and probably better, than the alternatives they faced if they remained free. Overall, the 'militia' considered themselves fortunate and my blond friend had never heard any talk of escape or even any serious complaining. On this trip, the general had fucked him twice on the plane and he had been ordered to suck off the pilot once, but he doubted that would be repeated on the return trip, stinking as he now did from all this hard work in the tropical heat. He had been surprised, though, that he hadn't been offered to the drug lord before being sent out to help load the plane - the general could be rude and arrogant sometimes, he noted.

As we lifted bale after bale into the plane, I told him about my sale to the drug lord and the training I had received from his older slaves who paid little attention to my initial resistance and having to be forced to do much of anything asked of me. The black slaves put in charge of training me weren't reluctant to use the electric prod at the slightest hesitancy on my part in meeting their commands, raped me so many times each day I actually got used to it, and learned that both food and water depended on my complete and instantaneous cooperation in anything they had in mind for me to do - no matter what. I admitted that within a mere two months, I was doing almost everything they asked with just some small signals of disgust or revulsion, but after three months I just seemed to give up and accept my slavery in that their didn't seem to be any viable alternative and I was getting tired of the electric prod and chronic hunger and my ass and throat weren't sore all the time anymore. Since then, my life had improved. My "trainers" stopped fucking me altogether once I was turned over for my master's use, I was fed and housed well, only beaten when I deserved it (generally for not paying apt attention to my master's every whim), and even with my master loaning me out routinely to any and all house guests and frequent customers, I still got fucked less than three or four times a day unless he staged a big party of something.

"Best of all," I whispered even quieter to my fellow slave, "some of my master's friends and customers are women who aren't shy about bedding down a slaveboy they're attracted to. I've been humping them almost as much as others have been humping me. Under their heavy direction, of course, but still - it's a nice bonus."

"You are one lucky bastard," the blond slave exclaimed. "I've never had a woman since I was sold and, frankly, never expect to have one as long as I'm state property so to speak. The closest I got once was when some young ambassador I was loaned to told me to fuck him instead of the other way around. I couldn't believe it at the time but hopped right to it of course. I'm the only one in the militia I know of who has had that opportunity."

"You," the overseer said with a crack of his whip at my blond acquaintance. "Stop all that babbling and get your ass back to the manor house. Seems your master's finally found his manners and is going to offer you to the man of the house. You'll find the enema equipment, the showers, and some lube to the right of the slave's entrance. Be sure to douche and shower again as soon as he's through with you. Leave that stinking uniform here with me and I'll have it laundered while you're busy so you'll smell nice and sweet on your return trip."

"Yes, sir," the blond said as he quickly stripped out of the fancy uniform, now wet with sweat. Turning to me, he whispered, "so much for not getting fucked on the return trip."

"Or getting a sample of what I go through most every night at least once," I whispered back. "But, don't worry. At least, my master is pretty gentle considering the size of his prick."

"Hell, I'm used to black pricks most of the time. I'm so stretched now I could probably handle a horse," the blond boy snickered quietly as he took his last piece of clothing off and headed toward the slave's entrance of the manor house as I appreciated the fact slavery had only improved his bodily appeal.

Hours later, the plane was finally loaded and I headed for the showers myself along with my master's other sweaty slaves. I was surprised to see my blond friend drying himself from a shower as we entered.

"Your master sure knows how to extract the last ounce of pleasure out of a slave boy," he laughed. "I can't remember the last time I was fucked three hours straight. How he keeps from shooting off in all that time is beyond me. My ass hasn't been this sore in months," he chuckled.

"Think of that every night," I reminded him of my plight.

"Yeah, but I don't get a woman now and then," he shot back. "That would be worth a constant sore ass."

"Not when they're telling you every move to make - how fast, how deep, what positions, and all the rest - it really makes you feel like a slave all the time you're pumping them - especially when you can't shoot off in that they want to use you all night usually. That's the really hard part - for me, at least."

"I'd still like to try it," the blond said. "Always taking it up the ass makes you feel like a slave too if you've forgotten."

Just then the overseer stepped inside and everyone got quiet instantly.

"You've given yourself several good enemas and then greased your chute properly?" he harshly asked the blond slave.

"Yes, master," he answered, bending over to display the grease oozing out of his hole.

"Good," the overseer replied. "Your master told me to make sure so it's obvious he's got plans for you on your way back home. Now get your ass back to the plane in that he'll be ready to go anytime now."

"Yes, sir," the blond answered. As he left he winked at me, adding in a mimicking tone, "But master, my ass is sore as hell now after the reaming I just got."

"Who gives a shit, slave?" was the overseer's prompt reply. "What do you think pretty slaves do to earn their keep? Just stand around and smile in some silly costume?"

That was the last time I ever saw the blond slave I had been originally been sold with. The next time "El President" arrived to buy drugs, he had another one of his "Presidential Militia" with him, just as blond and just as pretty and just as hung as the one I had once known. But the new blond did tell me my acquaintance was "doing fine" rubbing his ass through the fancy uniform to tell me exactly what he meant with that phrase and asked if I was the slave that got to "fuck women masters." I started to explain that wasn't all it was cracked up to be, but before I got a chance, he was told to strip and after my master felt him all over, my master decided to bed him down and he was led off to my master's bed, still warm, I supposed, from when he had used me just an hour or so before their arrival.

TEN YEARS LATER:

Now 28, the special exercises and good diet my Columbian master had prescribed for all of his slaves, had assured I looked as good, if not better, than when he had bought me ten years ago. My training had been so thorough I felt totally at ease with myself and my new life. I held deep respect for my master - after all, he was one of the leading businessmen of his country; I liked my fellow slaves who, like me, weren't subject to frequent turnover; and realized I was better taken care of then I could have ever managed myself. True, I got used a lot, and true, I got worked hard as a houseboy when I wasn't in someone's bed, but overall I was never hungry, was seldom subjected to disciplinary whippings anymore, was almost coddled when it came to having my body taken care of so I was never sick or had untreated injuries of any type, and never had to worry about making wrong decisions as I would if I had remained free. My master was demanding but genuinely seemed to enjoy having me as his possession and I had almost become a legend among his women customers who, he teased, kept buying from him just so they could get me in their beds. I was inured to the sexual use of my body on demand: being fucked was seldom painful any more no matter how long and hard; I had actually learned to like the taste of fresh cum, and a good, solid fucking often now led to a good emptying of my own balls now that I had learned to appreciate it. Even fucking cunt under explicit direction was more or less enjoyable now that I had learned how to keep from shooting off in them without constant nervous vigilance. I especially took pride in the way the women "requested" me and openly fondled every part of my body in appreciation once they had me in their bed.

The oldest among my master's slaves was about 60 now and hadn't been used sexually for over 15 years now, but he was kept on as a loyal and able house steward. He was even clothed now in that his body wasn't terribly attractive anymore. He was our direct supervisor of course and proved to be a good one: he was fair, consistent, but demanding, knowing how to get the maximum cooperation out of his charges with the least amount of fuss. He was almost impossible to 'con' in that he had done everything we were asked to do many times over, no matter how much we might not really like to do a particular thing, and simply laughed at us when we tried to wiggle out of an assigned task and reached for his electric prod or, more likely, marked us down to miss the next meal. Each time we met with him for the day's assignments, we saw ourselves in our old age and knew if we were damn lucky to have an owner so loyal to slaves who had served him well once they had lost their bodily appeal.

THIRTY FIVE YEARS:

Today, my master, now in his late seventies, appointed me chief steward and gave me the first clothing I've had since I came into his ownership 35 years ago. It felt strange to have material rubbing against my skin once again but I still retained my collar to denote I was still his property. I know exactly what to do in my new job - no surprises there, but I'm happy my master is still satisfied with the purchase he made so many years ago and that I will probably live the same good life I've enjoyed so far up until the time I die, hopefully before my master meets his reward. If so, I'll never probably have to go through the whole process of having a new master buy me, something I, and, I know, all his other slaves have always dreaded in the back of our minds.

My only question is: when I die, whose slave will I be in Heaven if my master isn't already there? And if he is there already, will I be sure I'll end up his slave and not someone else's? Strangely, no matter how hard I tried, it was impossible for me to conceive of a Heaven that didn't have slaves, or that I wouldn't be a slave in any afterlife that was out there. I guess once you're well trained and have fully accepted your slavery, it holds not just for this life but follows you into the great beyond.