PASSING A story by Pete Brown (petebrownuk@yahoo.com) Part One - A journey to work, a surprise, a deal, and a party.
It was already going to be a good day I knew as I stood waiting for the early morning tube to the office. The big deal I'd had my people working on for some days was going to happen today, as my client assured me in a "secret" conversation last night (we're not supposed to talk to clients other than using the company phones and company computers because of the requirements of the Financial Authority to be able to trace everything to do with high value transactions). But George and I had known each other for some years, and in various jobs with different employers as we both clawed our way up the ladder I'd worked for him, and he'd worked for me, and we both knew that honest conversation between friends was exceedingly helpful in making goods deals happen!
Not only that, though, but it was one of those glorious autumn mornings that are possible even in London: the sun was shining and there was that wonderful "nip" in the air that says the heat and humidity of summer was at last over. Not so cold that I needed an overcoat, but cool enough to be bracing.
The tube sighed to a stop with the doors right in front of me (I know where to stand on the platform to get in at the right place which also positions me for the exit at Canary Wharf). I was first in as I usually am, so could take my choice of a number of empty seats, which is one of the reasons that I always travel in early (that and being in the office before my people, so I can get ahead of them by knowing what's been going on overnight). I'm a "morning person" at my brightest and best first thing, although I do admit that my abilities for dynamism and creativity fall off from about mid afternoon. When I was starting out I had to endure going to meetings that went on late into the evening, but now I'm in charge all meetings finish before 18:00, and I say we'll resume at 07:00 the next morning. I know that's then a huge advantage for me!
My day got even better as I sat down. Normally the tubes at this time in the morning are filled with what I think of as the "Ds and Es", an old expression I learned years ago when we still thought of social classes going down to D and E. No more, of course. But it's still a convenient shorthand for me for the assorted collection of the remaining "blue collar" workers, the poor amongst the most recent wave of immigrants (although some of the young east Europeans, Turks, and south Americans can be visually quite exciting), and students going off to a morning shift at a coffee bar or somewhere before going on to lectures.
There, right opposite me, a confident half-smile on his face, was a simply stunning male. Early twenties, white, very self-confident looking, deeply tanned as if he had just come back from vacation, with a thatch of dark blond hair that looked just "scruffy" enough to declare that it had been artfully (and expensively) cut by a high-class barber. He must have been just over six foot tall, I thought, and there didn't seem to be a trace of fat on his body; and his legs, casually sprawled out so that they obstructed half the gangway, were lean and muscled. He was evidently one of those men who like to go for a workout before turning up at the office, and who save time by travelling in to the city in their gym gear and change into their suits at the gym. His stuff was from one of those very expensive designer sports labels in that kind of shiny satin material that I find appealing. As I looked, I saw that his bronzed bare legs were covered in that same dark blond hair that was on his head, except that they had been bleached by the sun and so formed a kind of sheen of pale straw over the skin.
Realising that I was doing more than give a casual glance at this beauty I opened my paper as if to read (even after all these years I can't get used to reading the newspapers electronically). I started to flip through the articles but my brain wouldn't focus on them, but as I turned the pages I was able to get glimpses of him without my interest being too obvious. And the more I saw, the more he turned me on.
There was a very prominent bulge in the front of his shorts that suggested his cock was on an appropriate scale to the rest of him, and I sat there for a few moments speculating whether he'd be skinned (if he was an American he probably would be as I know most men there are still circumcised); but if he still had his skin, was it one of those wonderful ones that generally only just covers the cock head leaving the piss slit partially revealed? Or would it dribble off into what I consider to be an ugly appendage hanging all shrivelled when not erect? And as I mused on I thought about his balls - would they hang low in his sac, so that they ended well below the tip of his cock, or would they be a tight fit in his sac held high up, so that his cock rested on the top and caused it to look half erect even when he wasn't aroused? Either way I wouldn't care if I ever had him naked in front of me!
My speculation continued. His shorts were really quite short - unusual these days when men do not want to be mistaken for slaves - and I could see that therefore his tan must have come from wearing "proper" swimming gear for serious swimmers, and he was not one of those spoilsports who goes on the beach wearing shorts down to the knees! I could feel my own cock stiffening as I wondered if he might even be one of those men who is so keen on swimming that he still used tiny Speedos! Or perhaps at some private beach or a rich friend's swimming pool he might even swim and sun himself naked. It was almost uncomfortable as my cock firmed up so much that I really wanted to grab my crotch and try to make a bit more room for it in my underwear, and it got worse as I thought of that glorious hard bronzed flesh covered in sun oil, glistening in the heat and with, perhaps, sweat dripping from his armpits! And that kind of confident man would surely not be concerned to have a slave rub the oil into him.... all over. And probably a male slave, too, as he'd have nothing to be concerned about with his magnificent body almost certainly being vastly superior to that of the slave.
Given the very short shorts it was a bit surprising that his shirt had long sleeves - a T, or even better a singlet exposing his shoulders, would have been good. But it was at least made from the same stretchy-clingy material as his shorts so I could see his biceps flexing as he moved slightly. And there seemed to be quite big prominent nipples, something I like as I think they really make a man exciting, especially when set in big, dark aureoles. Surely he had the classic "six pack", too - something you don't see a lot of these days as so many men now only do office work and do not have the time to spend developing them. Ideally of course they'd come from hard manual labour, but in our society that kind of work is now almost always done by slaves.
All too soon the tube was racing along in the long tunnel before Canary Wharf and I began to fold my newspaper as he stood up - simply, no strain, just the power of his legs pushing him upwards. He hefted his haversack on to his back effortlessly, and I just couldn't help wondering what kind of suit he wore, and, more importantly, about his underwear that must be in there too. An Adonis like that surely would not have a T or a vest under his shirt as he'd want people to see his body under a tight shirt. And he might even favour very low-cut briefs with those short legs that give your cock plenty of room, rather than tight boxers.
I simply couldn't help but notice that he had the classic body shape - broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist in that delightful "V" some men have, and from there the flaring of his buttocks that seemed to be tightly clenched together before his powerful thighs began. What a ride all that promised - but I knew I had no chance, as a man like that would almost certainly spend his time fucking a string of beautiful, young, big-breasted women. And even if he did go with other men, they would be the same type as him - tall, confident, handsome, young "gym rats".....
He almost ran up the escalator, as you'd expect, even though they are very long at that station, and as I'd managed to get myself behind him as we left the train as I also ran (I'm not in bad condition!) so that I could watch the interplay of his legs, buttocks and body as he surged upwards. I knew I'd lose him at the barriers as I had to go to the office and could not spare the time to follow him to whatever gym he used in the complex (or perhaps it was a private one in the tower where he probably worked).
He fumbled for his travel pass at the barrier - I do hate it when people are not ready and impede the smooth flow - and I almost bumped in to him I was so close. But as he swung his haversack around having reached back in to it for the pass, his sleeve dropped slightly - and there, to my amazement, on the underside of his wrist was tattooed the set of eight numbers that could only be a SIN!
I was now almost beside myself with lust! I'd been thinking, unconsciously I suppose, as one does, that this expensively-dressed confident stallion must be a free man. But no - he was a slave. Someone's property. Someone perhaps like me actually owned all this handsome flesh and could order it to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Some men have all the luck! It was a bit surprising therefore that when he got to the bottom of the next set of escalators running up to the street that he did not defer to the other passengers, as slaves are supposed to, but instead strode on to carry on upwards as if the other passengers did not matter and he was as good as them.
Still, I had no time to waste and made my way to our office tower, and took the express lift up to the executive floor. I called George then on the "official" office phone to make sure the deal was still going ahead and there had been no flaws detected overnight, before getting out my private phone and pressing the buttons that triggered a number of private deals for me. George and I have secret codes for this, and we both think we deserve an additional bonus after all the work we put in setting these things up for our investors. It really doesn't harm anyone as the stock prices only move very little as our private trades go through early (and we anyway limit their size to avoid detection), and when the deal does go public there's a much larger effect that benefits everyone.
There was of course much excitement for the rest of the day amongst my staff, I was interviewed for the lunchtime news magazine on the BBC, and conducted a couple of press interviews for tomorrow's Financial Times. During the morning my PA suggested that there should be an "informal" get-together for all our staff who had been working so hard, and I told him to fix it for that evening to make maximum impact, and to contact George and invite those working on the deal over there, too. My PA's good like that - personally I can't be bothered with all these social things, but the younger workers seem to like it and it's good for morale - and so I rely on him to remind me. And he knows without bothering me with the details about how much to spend - I assumed that this deal would certainly warrant champagne and canapés and he'd manage to get one of the better bars around the place cleared for our private party.
I really wanted to go home at 18:00, but my PA had the executive car waiting to take me the few hundred yards to the luxury hotel whose "sky top" room had been reserved for us, he told me. I could easily have walked, but the car had apparently been ordered as there were press photographers waiting at the hotel to take one of those "atmosphere" shots of me turning up, for tomorrow's papers.
It wasn't too bad - George and I only had to endure a couple of photographs of us shaking hands in the lobby, and in the lift up to the top we exchanged a few private - very private - words about how our own personal fortunes had increased that days from our early dealings. Then of course it was all applause from the staff, and that endless, loud, incessant, meaningless "chatter" of a party were there are many young, confident "climbers" working the room, and plenty of alcohol to fuel it all. I'd been doing my "senior management" bit, congratulating my key people and hinting at large bonuses, when George broke in and said "...and I'd like you to meet Jason, who's one of my brightest young hopefuls, who thought of all this initially and who badgered management to make it happen. He's got a bright future with us, so no poaching him!"
There, to my astonishment, was the young man from the tube that morning, but now in one of those very, very fashionable (and very expensive) suits from one of the new designers - very slim legs, the waistband cut low so it looked to ride almost on top of the cock, and the jacked shaped to the torso, one button barely holding it closed. Only a super-confident perfectly honed man could possibly wear a suit like that, and I guess the tailors cut them for those privileged few as an advertisement, making their money from the other customers who vainly imagine they too look the perfection of manhood. There was a nod to convention in that the shirt was snowy white (and it was clear he did not wear anything underneath it) and he had an expensive Hermes tie that I recognised as I had a similar one in the "animals" range, but with a different background colour.
He stuck his hand out, saying "I've always wanted to meet you, sir..." I was struck dumb for a moment as it was so unexpected to see him like that, acting like a free man. I tore my eyes away from his crotch and chest and couldn't help but glance at his wrist as his hand was in front of me, looking for the tattooed SIN. But there was no sign of it, as his cuffs were fashionably long, up to the base of his hand, the better to display his elegant but expensive gold cuff links!
I managed to make the normal polite conversation asking him about his career, and telling him that if George ceased to treat him well he should consider asking me for a job, and all three of us laughed, as you do. Then the swirl of the party engulfed me again and I carried on touring the room, accepting congratulations, and so on. In a quiet moment at some point I asked George about Jason, asking for more details about his background. George told me that he'd applied to them, and they'd taken him on in a relatively low position a couple of years before, but he'd fought his way upwards, and taken all the right exams for the mandatory financial certifications, and so on, and so he assumed all the right checks had been done. "And, of course, he's got a real way with the ladies, and that always helps", he added. "He's got some glossy girl friend, I believe. But there are persistent rumours he's slept with some of the clients along the way, particularly the older, divorced ones who are looking for a handsome stud to amuse themselves with."
I left as early as was socially permissible, knowing the younger employees would probably enjoy it more anyway without senior management present, especially as I told my PA that the champagne could continue to flow. When I got back to my apartment Greg was of course waiting for me, looking anxious as I was so much later than usual. I like to think he's genuinely concerned for me, but, being just a little cynical, I suspect his concern is somewhat tinged with a worry about his own future. I'd bought him at a bargain price as the dealer claimed he was violent and unattainable, being returned from a previous owner as being dangerous. But I saw something in him and bothered to take the time to ask him a few questions.. It turned out that his three previous owners had all been rather cruel and unsuited to slave owning really, and all Greg had been trying to do was defend himself from their whips and other control instruments... and of course once the first owner had returned him he had a "reputation" and the next owner was watching for it, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, found it....
As he'd stood there in front of me at the dealer, naked, but somehow proudly defiant, I could see the marks of harsh usage on his belly, shoulders, and particularly his buttocks. Not only were there the welts and marks from the whip and the cane, but a hell of a lot of bruising, suggesting he'd been tied up and beaten with fists also. He was older than me by a few years, and some would say too old for a personal slave as he was then in his late thirties and the fashion is of course very much for young slaves. But there was something in the way he held his body that suggested a military background, and when I asked him, it seems he had been in the marines, but had been court-martialled for fucking an officer's wife, such an act being "not conducive for orderly relationships between officers and men". He'd not taken well to being enslaved for what he regarded as behaving normally, and indeed had been a little violent when his first buyer had attempted to use him sexually "but only enough to stop him ramming his cock up me", he added. "I didn't really give him the beating perverts like that deserve".
As I inspected him, I was being very careful because of all the damage, and as I ran my hands over his hard, flat belly and felt the power in his strong buttocks, I felt rather sorry for him, I suppose. They'd never taught him that being "straight" was something no longer applicable in his new life, and so he had reacted as many such so-called straight men would. "You understand what will happen to you if I don't buy you?", I asked him, and he shook his head.
"You're such a low price because of your reputation that they can only sell you for labouring down the mines, and you'll never come to the surface again. And with your history, they'll geld you first, to calm you down. And they'll get a whole group of guards to fuck you when you're no longer a full male, to get you used to it."
I could see all his muscles tense up as I said this, and went on, calmly and quietly, "On the other hand, you've got the good, hard body of a man who knows how to look after himself. And you're used to obeying orders as you were a marine. I am very busy building my career, and need a slave to look after the house, the garden, the car, all the stuff like that so I'm not bothered with it and have to spend no time on it. And I've got no time to spend chasing women, and all that entails. So I need a slave for sex, too."
"So you'll fuck me..?"
"Not very often. But I do like a warm, wet mouth around my cock. And if I`m excited, you can expect to gag and choke as I thrust deep down your throat."
He glared at me, and I gave a shrug "Well if you're not interested... I'll never force a slave to have sex. You have to ask me if you can be my slave, if I will buy you. Otherwise I guess it's down to the local hospital to have those balls off."
He stood there, immobile now, and I could almost see him thinking (he's bright enough, not as clever as me, of course, but aversely intelligent). "Please....", he stopped, and swallowed.
I waited, looking expectantly. "Please will you buy me?".
"That's not the kind of respect I'm after from a slave. How did you speak to officers? I'd have thought you would be respectful and obedient to your officers and betters."
"Please will you buy me... Sir?"
I shrugged. "I don't bargain with slaves. You know how I will use you. You have to ask for it all. Let's hear it again."
"Please, will you buy me, sir? And you can fuck me, sir? Please."
"Of course I can fuck you if I buy you. You'll be my slave. There's no permission from you required. Again....."
"Please will you buy me, sir. And will you fuck me, please, sir...?"
I could see it was a real effort for him to say that, but I felt that I had established the ground rules at least. I reached down and wrapped my fingers around his cock, and used my thumb to tease back his foreskin. He backed away, but did not swear or otherwise abuse me, although I could sense that if he hadn't been cuffed he would have reached out and stopped me. I stared into his eyes as I stroked him gently and the inevitable happened - he started to go hard, and soon his very pleasingly long, thick cock was lying across the palm of my hand.
"Properly fertile, are you? Plenty of cum?"
"I've never had any complaints from the women."
"Nor will you ever have them in the future. I expect my slave to stay away from sex with women as it causes to many problems. But I will let you wank yourself - I won't keep you in enforced chastity, as I think it's bad for a man."
I reached down and cupped his testicles with my other hand. He's "low slung", with the balls in a long sac with the end below the tip of his cock. They felt pleasingly heavy, and I could see him tense as my fingers separated them and squeezed each one in turn - I didn't after all want to buy a slave who might have testicular cancer, and I know a lot of men are too stupid not to do this simple test on themselves frequently.
There was only one think left to do, and calmly and quietly - although my heart was racing - I ordered him to turn round and bend from the waist. Was he resisting as I pulled his buttocks apart? He certainly was sweating heavily as I ran the tip of my finger along his crack, then teased his asshole. When my finger probed it his whole body tensed, and there was a delightful totally involuntary clenching of his buttocks. I sensed he was an anal virgin.
Anyway, forgetting that old history, five years on he's now worried I suppose that I might sell him. Or perhaps I might be assigned overseas, where slaves are not allowed. Or die. He recognises that his future health and happiness is totally dependent on mine as his owner, and so worries when things are not following my usual routine.
So there he was, holding the door open for me as he'd heard the lift door ping - there's a private direct lift up to the penthouse. He was dressed in his "house" clothes, that is to say a small pair of slave shorts, the kind I like, with those tiny legs that emphasise the thighs, and the waist cut so low that as well as his treasure trail there's a suggestion of his shaved pubes poking out, and at the rear the very top of his crack; and a tight sleeveless T that only just reaches down so that there are delicious glimpses of his belly when he moves, and where the arm holes are cut low so his pit hair can be glimpsed. He's barefoot around the house which kind of adds to the interest, as there's nothing to obstruct me seeing the hairs on the top of his long, thin toes.
He broke out into a smile as he saw I was in a good mood, and fussed around taking my coat, hat, gloves and stick to hang neatly in the coat cupboard. I also let him take off my suit jacket, but as it was late and almost time for bed, I kepi my trousers, shirt and shoes on, but did pull off my tie.
"Dinner, sir?"
I'd had two glasses of champagne and several of the canapés and do not eat to excess to keep my figure trim. "No, nothing".
His face fell, as he normally sits at the dining table with me and tells me odd snippets of what's going on in the building and the neighbourhood - he spends time with the building concierge I know but I don't particularly mind as it stops him getting bored, and provided the place is kept to my exacting standards, that's allowed. My own meals are delivered by one of the private gourmet caterers each day, but he mostly eats slave rations (or "chow" as it's familiarly known). And when I've had enough I usually allow him to finish the remains on my plate as a treat - I know they say you shouldn't feed dogs at the table, but he is after all a man not an animal in most respects, and it's a shame to waste food.
He looked so crestfallen and the champagne was getting to me so and making me feel generous, so I added "You can fetch me a glass of the Chateau Palmer, and you may as well eat the food yourself", which immediately cheered him up.
As he ate - he's learned to do so politely, however hungry he is - I outlined my plan for the morning and told him I would be leaving earlier than usual and that he was to accompany me. He actually looked pleased, as he likes any change from his rather dull routine, and I like to think he also enjoys doing additional special things for me.
I was tired, and had no intention of fucking him that night And after two glasses of champagne and a glass of excellent Bordeaux I really didn't feel like having an erection and getting Greg to do something about it. Yes, I know that's terrible - he's five years older than me, in his early forties now, and yet I bet the moment he fell into his bed in the small slave room adjoining the master bedroom he'd be wanking himself stupid!
END OF PART ONE