Passing

PASSING

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PASSING A story by Pete Brown (petebrownuk@yahoo.com)

Part Sixteen

Jason is dressed. A negotiation. Buying army slaves. I save Dave.

I went back to my flat the next morning to check up on my slaves. Jason appeared to have done really good work and we discussed his findings for a good hour. I decided I had enough information to act, and began to make a series of calls to get me to see the man I wanted to - It's not easy to get into executives' diaries at the best of times, and without the backing of my old firm, whose name was well known in the City and who anyway tended to strike an element of fear into companies because of our reputation for brokering take-overs, it was even harder. But finally, through a short series of linked "recommendations" I had thirty minutes in the diary I wanted in the late afternoon.

Jason would be a real help at the meeting I decided, but there was a need to have him look good. Going in to the City offices he would of course not be naked and would wear "office" slave clothes - cheap but presentable shorts and shirt - as so many City workers now did. However I wanted to make an impression, and personally would be wearing my best "City" suit, most expensive traditional black shoes, cashmere overcoat, silk ties, and so on. Jason needed to complement me as part of my image.

We therefore went off to Bond Street and I decided he should be dressed in something clearly expensive but not in any way ruinously so - he was meant to be my "junior" after all. So we went into the Hugo Boss store and the salesman at once approached me.

"No.", I told him. "Admirable though I'm sure your clothes are, I wear only bespoke. It's for my slave - I want him to be a little smarter. So we need everything - a good shirt in the latest cut: he's very slim as you can see so that needs to be emphasised and it should be tight - and of course a suit. A dark colour suitable for the City as he's not going partying! And a tie in the current fashionable shape - I could lend him one of my Hermes, but I am after a really fashionable look for him.

The salesman then ran a measuring tape over Jason who, I was pleased to see, went in to the "display" position as the free man went to look more closely at him. I assumed Greg had taught him to spread his legs, clasp his hands behind his neck, and gently thrust forward his chest and hips.

I selected what I considered to be an appropriate suit in a colour that, although dark, complemented Jason's light tone and blond hair, and a crisp pale blue cotton shirt. The salesman went to take Jason off to a changing room, but I stopped him. "No, time is short. I don't want to be dodging in and out of your back room to look him over. He's a slave, and can simply try things on out here." I turned to Jason and said simply "Get naked."

The salesman was clearly not used to fitting clothes onto his clients there in the open showroom, especially if, like Jason, they were entirely naked as I do not consider it necessary for my slaves to have underwear. The man fussed on about this, worried that in some way his stock might be "soiled", but I told him that my slaves were cleaner even than free men as they were required to take enemas. So Jason was soon standing there and the fashionable tight cut of the trousers and the expensive, thin fabric displayed the outline of his cock rather well, I thought. There was a lot of fussing around as he needed a belt - one with the maker's logo absurdly large on it, of course. And we needed to go further down the street for a suitably expensive and fashionable pair of shoes. Finally Dunhill's provided a smart document carrying case for Jason, which clearly shrieked "money"! All we needed then was a wristwatch - my own is of course ultra-slim from Patek Phillipe, but Jason's image demanded one of those very large modern ones about half the size of an old-time alarm clock. The recent boom in the City had meant that there was lots of money around from young traders, and I wasn't therefore surprised to be able to find something for a few thousand that passed the test - indeed, I believe it might be the kind that Sam wore.

Later when we arrived at the headquarters of Scabbard & Drass I was astonished to see that everyone was a free man! I had assumed that as the country's biggest slave dealer they might be in some way showcasing their goods. But perhaps they wanted to demonstrate that they were an immensely wealthy company.

The CFO's PA came down to meet us, and she was one of those very expensive true "assistants", not just a secretary with a big title. I noticed instantly the cut of her suit, the discrete but expensive earrings, and silk blouse. And when she spoke she had that wonderful upper-class Rodean and Oxford accent. She was able to make polite conversation all the way up to the executive offices, and I saw her looking discretely at Jason, who clearly passed her criteria for an up and coming business man who might make good husband material.

In the CFO's office he welcomed me and motioned us to chairs, but Jason stood discretely beside me and I said quietly "He will not be sitting. He's merely my 'aide memoire', my slave."

I saw the CFO give almost a double-take as he quickly sized up the way Jason looked and the way he was so very expensively dressed. Then he appeared to be amazingly distracted as he could not help but notice Jason's cock! My purpose had been achieved, as I had clearly established myself as someone who should be paid attention to if I could afford such an obviously expensive slave as Jason, and then afford to dress him like that.

We had a really good discussion, and he called off the remainder of his afternoon's meeting, telling his PA to "sort out and deal with all the trivia" as we discussed the operation of the Scabbard & Drass "Outlet". I won't bore you with the details but I spoke of the dilution of the brand, the very small numbers of S&D customers who would go to Leyton, and then my predictions of the amount this operation was hitting their bottom line. Although he argued with me, there was no escaping the facts revealed by Jason's detailed research. When I then made my offer to buy out Leyton, for cash, he nodded, as if convinced.

"This will need to go to the Board, of course."

"Would you like me to come and present my offer?"

"No, that will not be necessary. I will rather enjoy showing them the value of proper financial controls - some of them are always wanting to try fanciful schemes and when I rejected the initial business plan for the Outlet, I was overruled. Now, with this new evidence... And your offer."

"So I have your support, your enthusiastic support?"

He smiled. "Yes. But you can expect a tough negotiation when we address the amount by which your offer price will need to be increased after the Board has made a decision."

"It was my final...."

He laughed. "We are both experienced financiers and negotiators, and we both know that's not true. It will be good for me to get a higher offer even though the Board will agree on the basis of the current one. So expect tough times ahead."

We both laughed then, and shook hands. I noticed he studiously avoided Jason, but glanced again at him standing there in splendour. I wondered if as an Officer of S&D he was in some way not allowed to use the firm's slaves for his private use. And noted that in my next negotiation meeting Jason might figure - either as a tradable as part of the deal, or at least as a distraction to the CFO as I would have him naked. As we were leaving he told his PA to get him on the agenda of the next board meeting later that week, and to arrange a suitable time for me to come in to meet again following that.

Back at my flat I called Dave and said I was too tired to go back to Leyton that night, but reminded him that it was the Army sale at Colchester the next day and carefully "asked" if he was interested in accompanying me. He made some small objections about his work load, but I flattered him about needing his expertise. And then I mentioned we'd go in my car and perhaps have a good lunch or dinner as Greg would drive, and so we would both relax and enjoy a drink, he agreed. I know my car in the basement is always in good condition, but I then told Greg and Jason to go there and thoroughly valet it again, and spent the next couple of hours in blissful solitude - sometimes a man needs to be alone, even when he has such desirable slaves around him.

I was much amused to see Dave's look when we arrived at Dave's Slaves the following morning. Greg was in his smartest shorts, a T and a fleece body-warmer and was also wearing a chauffeur's peaked cap. He leapt out and opened the door to allow Dave to get in beside me in the back. Dave was obviously re-evaluating me once again, as my car, the latest, largest BMW, he would know cost hundreds of thousands and was itself probably worth a whole lot more than his entire stock!

It's whisper quiet of course and Greg kept meticulously to the speed limit on the A12 - there are cameras everywhere and I know some owners do order their slaves to speed as it is the driver who is punished, not the owner, but I did not want Greg to be whipped by the traffic cops. Dave and I therefore could have a really good business conversation about the visit to Colchester, and he once again told me that the soldiers they sell off for serious breeches of army discipline had little value as no buyer would risk having tough, trained fighters as slaves, especially when they were proven not to properly obey orders. "But we all know that slaves with hard, tough, muscled bodies fetch premium prices. So if we can buy cheap and then properly 'train' them so they are no risk, we can make an enormous profit", I replied.

"Look, I respect you when you're doing these financial things and so on, but I'm the slave trader", he told me confidently. "I've been in this game long enough to know that most of these men cannot be trained like that. If they could, the army would have 'broken' them already. They want soldiers who can obey orders, obey unquestionably. There's simply no way that we could do any better, and even if we could, the customers would not believe it."

"Well I think you're wrong. I've been planning, and there's a great business opportunity for us here. And it can be done, you know. Look at Greg there - as obedient a slave as anyone could want, and yet he was a sergeant in the forces. And you don't get to be a sergeant without being tough...."

"You're forgetting that he is was a sergeant. So he has some bit of intelligence - not much, as he wouldn't have ended up as a slave. But some. So he knows that his best current action is to be a good slave, and obey - especially when he has a good owner like you. But most of the stock the army sells off is, frankly, not very bright. They'll all be plain simple squaddies. And even if we buy them, treat them well, train them to be good slaves, they won't have the good sense to see that they're doing well. The moment they're sold and with a new owner they'll disobey, or try to escape... And we're liable, you know, as there's a mandatory six months guarantee under the new legislation."

Dave looked smug as he went on "But we'll see. There will be slaves there we might buy - ones who've been in catering, or admin, or distribution or jobs like that. And they're pretty ordinary - but stupid, to get enslaved. The ones you're thinking of with the ripped hard bodies are quite different. Mark my words. Trust Dave to know a good slave to buy when he sees one, and I can tell you that none of the front-line troops will be in any way suitable."

We agreed not to argue futilely about this, but to "wait and see", and I then told Dave about my expansion plans, being careful to ask him rather than to tell him about them, and to keep getting him to agree. "Softly, softly, catchee money" as the old saying goes, and I was careful to get Dave to agree to every tiny detail so that he almost failed to see the total plan until it was too late to be able to say "no" without looking silly, as he had agreed to so many fine points along the way.

It was a good journey though and there were no hold-ups and soon we were sweeping through the gates of the Colchester garrison. There were not all that many people there I thought - selling off young men should surely attract big crowds. But once we were in the display area I could see what Dave had been going on about. There were a few females, but the vast majority were males, and as Dave had forecast they were mostly "ordinary", having been doing non-combat roles. There was a door at the end though with a guard on it, and as we approached he blocked our way.

"Good morning, gentlemen. I have to remind you that beyond this door is the special display area for ex-combat slaves. The Army does not warrant that these slaves are 'broken' or suitable for any use where they will not be constantly secured. Any bids placed on the lots in this area are specifically excluded from the normal guarantees we give, and buyers do so at their own risk." He stopped and then went on in a different tone "I can see you gentlemen are men of the world though - and that's a cracking good slave you've got with you - so I don't need to warn you about the foul language and abuse you might get in there. It's definitely unsuitable for the ladies!"

I thanked him and we went through and it was exciting - yes, that's the word for it, exciting. Physically exciting to see so many tough looking young men in superb physical condition. And emotionally exciting to know that I could possess one or all of them if I wanted to - not only possess them in the sense of owning them, having complete and total control over them, but in the sense that I could use them sexually in whatever way I wanted and there was not a thing they could do to stop me!

There were about twenty individual offerings in single display cages rather like the ones Dave used, except that the men in them were all wearing Ts and shorts marked "Army". Once cage that drew my particular attention though had eight men in it, all in the same Ts and shorts, the difference between them and the others was that they began shouting and swearing the moment we went near. And as I went close to the cage one of them reached out and tried to grab me!

I won't repeat any of the foul language they used as Dave and I stood there looking at them, and I saw Dave nodding at me as if to say "I told you so."

They were fit, healthy and mostly good looking though, and the bulges in most of their shorts looked interesting. So I called the guard over and asked if there were facilities for inspecting the slaves in more detail. He asked me what I meant, and so I said "The usual, or course! I need to see their cocks to make sure they're properly in proportion to the rest of them, and their bums to make sure there's no anal damage...."

"I'm sorry, sir. The Army's policy is to show the men as you see them now. We do not order them to strip." His tone was not in any way apologetic, and it was as if he felt sorry for these stupid men who had not had the good sense to behave properly as soldiers.

I asked him why the eight men were enslaved and being sold. "It's a fucking disgrace, sir! They were doing a really tough job, fighting the rebels in the desert. Protecting the oil supply. Tough and dangerous - those rebels don't care about themselves. Their ju-ju in the sky tells them it's OK to blow yourself up, stuff like that. And these blokes were having to fight against them...."

"Well they seem to have survived."

"Yes, sir. But they lost a lot of their mates! And then when their tour of duty ended and they came home, those fucking liberals started those cases. Fucking fancy 'civil libertarian' lawyers. All hired by rebel money, I'll be bound. They said these blokes had been too tough - I kid you not! And then those stupid liberals at the UN - all foreigners - took an interest, and the case went to some international court full of bleeding-hearts who said our men had 'not respected the religious rights of the enemy'. Fucking hell - religious rights to blow yourself up and kill our men.... Anyway, they were found guilty, an enslaved. Fucking disgraceful They were doing their duty, obeying the orders of the UK Government to protect the oil...."

I'd have liked to know more, but a bell rang and he then politely asked if we were finished, as the sale was about to begin and it was the Army's practice to allow the slaves a few last minutes with their loved ones.

I was going to ask what the fuck was that, when Greg whispered "It was the same for me, sir. All these young blokes have wives or girlfriends - and most of them probably have at least one kid - and they're allowed in for fifteen minutes before the sale starts, to say goodbye."

"That sounds stupidly sentimental. And why don't these people simply buy their man if they care so much about them."

Greg looked at me almost as if I was stupid. "Well, the price - even though they're not expensive, most of these blokes didn't earn a lot, and with a wife, and a kid, they won't have any savings . They're probably in debt anyway. But then there's the law - you can't buy a relative, or someone who's fathered a kid on you."

I nodded, and as we moved along I saw a whole lot of women and squalling babies and kids, and some men too, waiting in the corridor. I guessed that these were the relatives, and pulled Dave and Greg with me to join them. "It may give us a chance to see more", I told them.

Once we were let in the army had clearly gone to some lengths to try and make the men's last minutes of freedom as nice as possible. There were tables and chairs, toys for the kids, and even a big tea urn with mugs and things, and plastic cups of orange squash. Most of the men rushed over to kiss and cuddle - interestingly, I noted, they did the kids first, and then the women. But some hung back, even though they seemed to be associated with a woman. Greg whispered to me "Those are the blokes who probably got into this shit because of the women - found out they'd been sleeping with a mate whilst he was away on foreign duties, that kind of thing."

"And one of them at least seems to have no one..."

"He was probably a closet homo", Greg told me. "I know it's legal and all that, and they've been in the Army for years and years now. But there's still problems if you tell all your mates in your squad. I mean they wouldn't want you touching them in the showers, would they? Or watching you as you dress and undress?"

"How delightfully old fashioned the Army seems, Greg!"

The three of us strolled around but I could see we were getting angry looks from some of the men. Well, I couldn't help staring, could I? It's erotic enough to see a near-naked slave with his clothed owner, but seeing these near-slaves in their shorts embracing clothed women added another dimension to it somehow.

"Perhaps we'd better go, sir.", Greg whispered to me. "Some of the blokes have seen us looking at them and probably have figured out we're looking to buy them. It could turn nasty..."

"Nonsense. There are guards here. And if they had any sense they'd know we were going to be looking at them in a whole lot more detail very soon...."

Dave now agreed with Greg, adding "These guards look like ordinary security men to me, and I don't reckon they'd be much of a match for these trained fighters. And they don't seem to have goads or anything.... And you know the men don't have a lot of sense to look into the future and know we'll see them: if they had any sense they wouldn't be in this situation anyway. So come on - Let's go and get a good seat."

There didn't seem to be all that many in the auction room - it wasn't called that, of course. Something stupidly "official" like "External visitors meeting". Dave and I got a good seat right in the front row, and Greg properly went and stood discretely at the back of the room.

"I told you this was a waste of time", Dave gloated. "Look, no one else wants to buy these men. They all know about their violence, the difficulty in training them...."

"And so the prices should be very, very low for prime-looking men like these, then", I countered.

I'd never actually been to a slave auction before so it was very, very interesting. And erotic, to think I was sitting there bidding to actually buy and own other men. My cock was straining against my trousers all the time, and I thought my underwear would be getting soaked in pre-cum. Making the journey all the way up to Colchester was probably worth it for this alone!

Regrettably the men were not ordered to get naked on the stage. The most that happened was that when the audience asked - which we soon did for every slave - it was ordered to take off its T shirt and stand there in just its shorts. And there seemed to be a difference in "protocol", too, as when Dave called out for the first one to turn around so we could see his ass, and to flex its muscles a bit, the auctioneer seemed almost shocked. "And no chance of getting it to wank", Dave added to me. "That's one of the good things about a live slave auction rather than seeing it over the web - there's something extra special about a free man having to get naked, and then seeing how they start to sweat when they have to show their muscles, and 'bend and spread' so you can see the ass properly. And most of them look so totally embarrassed and humiliated when the audience demands to see them wank. Still, I'll take you to a proper auction next week, if we are going to stock up."

"I can see it would be interesting. But we'll have enough stock to get going from this sale."

"You can't be serious...."

I didn't reply, as I held up the little "paddle" with our buyer's number on it, and got the slave knocked down to me at its opening price as there were no other bidders!

And so it went on - I bought all the eight slaves I had seen in the one cage for almost nothing. "This is fucking stupid!", Dave told me. "One of these would be enough to 'break'. But eight? And eight blokes who are part of the same unit, who know each other, have fought together, bonded... It's a complete waste of money. We'll have to dump them on to the market for miners..."

"What do you mean?"

"It's the buyer of last resort. The mines are always looking for cheap slaves, really cheap, as they don't last long. "

"But if they're impossible to control, they won't get any work out of them...."

Dave laughed. "You really don't understand about how employers can work slaves, do you? Look, they get the slaves. They put them in the pit cage and lower them to the bottom of the mine shaft, and that's it. They can work or not, as they choose."

"I still don't get it..."

"No guards, nothing. There's no way out except up in the pit cage, and slaves are never, repeat never, brought to the surface. The only thing that comes up in the cage is the output from the mine. And if there's no output, there's no food sent down. And if there's then still no output, they turn off the power. And slaves might want to starve to death, but they don't want to die in the complete darkness at the bottom of the mine. So they buy light and food for work." Dave looked a tiny bit doubtful at this, and went on "It's been judged not to be cruel, since there are no whips or anything. But it's a one-way street in the mines: you go there, you die there. And between times you work. Work hard, really hard."

"Well, Dave, I amy not know much about how to work slaves to death, but I do have ideas about delivering value. That's what business is about, you know: adding value to something, so you can then dispose of it at a higher price. And I - that is to say we - will be adding value to these eight so that they are trained, obedient, and sell at very high prices. Or, perhaps, we'll keep them as appreciating assets and simply rent them out. We'll need to look at the business plan when they're through training."

"And this training...?"

I slapped him on the back. "It's all psychology, Dave. Wait and see.... Now, let's go and pay, and collect our purchases."

The eight were all standing there in a mostly bare room when we went in. Some officer-type had a list of the men, together with their army numbers on their dog tags, and we were asked to verify that the eight were indeed those. There was a bit of a mix up then as it seems that the army sold its slaves and required a cheque - something I've not used for years - and had no facility for taking my credit card! There was a delay therefore as I had to go back into town and go into a bank and get a certified cheque from them. But it was good, as I got Greg to stop at a big DIY store so I could buy some cable ties, and then at a car hire place: I didn't want the slaves in my car, and there wasn't enough space anyway, so I hired one of the classic "white vans".

Unfortunately the car hire company's conditions did not allow Greg to drive, and I discovered just how uncomfortable life could be for slaves - most of these white vans are driven by slaves working, and so I suppose the manufacturers keep costs down by getting rid of all "inessentials" - no air conditioning, no radio, no very comfortable seats, and so on.

Back at the base the eight slaves were now standing in a bare room, still in Ts and shorts, and actually chatting to the guards - well, I suppose these men were mates. Dave and I went in, with Greg, and I decided I needed to show Dave that I could be a "proper" slave trader, just as he was. So I said quietly and calmly "Right, slaves. Get naked."

The men all stood there, simply ignoring me, and there were even some cries of "fuck off!". I nodded quietly to Dave, and unhooked his goad from his belt, pressed the button to eject the business end of the goad, and went and touched it to the bare arm of the nearest slave - who of course fell screaming and shouting to the floor, writhing in agony. The other seven grouped together and advanced on me, so keeping calm (even though I was terrified of these powerful men) I touched two or three more.

That stopped them, and the remaining four stood there looking in shock at their mates. So I touched them as well, even though they seemed to have understood the lesson - but I decided that it would do them all good to experience the pain from the goad.

"I say, sir!", the young officer in charge said to me "Was that necessary? These men were...."

"Do not interfere!", I told him. "These are not men. They are slaves. My slaves. And I will do with them as I please."

"But they are good soldiers, a little wild perhaps, but good, loyal men...."

"I do not want to listen to this rubbish. They were soldiers, good or not, I don't care. But they have ended up enslaved and I now own them. What happens to them now is entirely up to them - they may have learned to obey orders in the army, but for a slave it's a whole lot simpler: obey, or be punished."

The slaves were starting to recover now, and gradually got to their feet, helped their mates to do so, and all stood there rubbing at their arms and legs to try to lessen the pain.

"I told you to get naked", I said calmly. "Slaves obey. Obey first time, or get punished, as you have all experienced. Now unclothe."

Slowly and reluctantly they pulled off their Ts, and stood there in the shorts they had been auctioned in.

"This is the last time I will ever issue a command a second time. You were ordered to get naked. Now perhaps 'naked' means something different in the army, but for slaves, it's just that: naked, nude, bare... Whatever. Now, do it."

One of them defiantly pushed his shorts down and kicked them off his feet, then gave that little flick of his cock that men do to free it from where sweat has stuck it to their balls. He stood there glaring at me, and I stared back. Seeing this, the other seven did as he had done.

"Right. Just one more thing before we get you loaded up for transport." I turned to the defiant one and snapped "Turn around!", letting him see that I was still holding the slave goad. Again, as if defying me with his attitude, he did so, and I pulled his wrists together and pulled one of the cable ties around them so he was secured.

The other seven were easy after that, and I turned to the young officer. "Thank you. Our van is right outside, so do I need to sign anything else before I load my cargo?"

"Sir, these men are naked. And they're men, not animals as cargo. Surely...." He paused "Some of the other men at the base will be outside, and possibly some of these men's wives..."

"I assume there is enough discipline in your army so that none of the other soldiers cause a disturbance? If not, I think I can expect huge compensation, and the pick of them at the next auction... And as for the wives - well, I would imagine they have all seen their men naked before. But it doesn't matter anyway - you forget that these are slaves, and considerations such as modesty and shame do not apply to them any longer. And those women are not wives in fact - everyone knows that enslavement automatically dissolves all marriages and business contracts."

I told Greg to herd the men out to the van, and when the "leader" protested, rather than using the goad again I reached down and grabbed his cock and used it as a "handle" to lead him to towards the door. He shouted vile abuse - we would correct that later - and tried to hold back, but when you've got a man's cock like that it's no contest - you're always going to win.

There was jeering and booing as I led the slave to the van, opened the back doors, and pushed him in to sprawl on the metal floor. Dave had the next one, Greg the third, and the other five shuffled out without needing to be "led". There was not enough room of course and so they ended up with two layers of approximately four each, but all eight of them were shuffling around, whether to avoid the cold floor, or the hot bodies of each other it's not possible to say!

I'd kind of imagined that Dave would drive the van back to London with Greg as a "guard" in case muscle were needed on the way, but he gleefully pointed out that he wasn't on the hire agreement and so it had to me, but that he would, "generously", I think he said, agree to drive my car back! And in any case he wanted to call on a fellow dealer somewhere in the town for a chat, so it was really convenient.

I reluctantly agreed, and used my phone to modify my car insurance so that Dave was able to drive it today - for a huge additional premium! Then we set off.

If it was uncomfortable driving the van from the car hire place, the journey back down the motorway was pure hell! My bum was so sore on the seat, and without the air-conditioning it was hot, and if I opened the windows the noise meant that I could hardly think, let alone talk to Greg. Turning the mirror I could keep an eye on the slaves, and they seemed to be really uncomfortable too - they were constantly writhing around, and I mentioned this to Greg.

"Well, sir, It's not very comfortable..."

"If they kept still it would be better. It's hot enough already, and all that squirming around is making them sweat like pigs. If they were sensible the four biggest would lie on the floor, and the other four on top."

"They won't want to touch each other, sir...."

"They're soldiers. Or, rather , were soldiers. Surely during training and on exercises they'd be touching each other all the time."

"Yes, sir. But not naked, totally naked. Even when you're doing body contact combat training you wear shorts. Those lads won't be used to having their cocks and bums pressed against each other..."

"Oh come on, Greg. Surely they have communal showers and stuff. And they sleep in a bunk house, so they have to get dressed and undressed...."

"Yes, sir, but that's different. Army lads don't touch each others bums, or their cocks. Of course they see them, but that's all. No touching is the absolute rule, and any of them that tried anything would soon learn...."

"Learn what?"

"That the other lads don't like homo stuff, even though it's allowed in law."

"Well they're going to be in for a bit of a shock then, once they start my training programme to turn them into obedient slaves."

When we finally arrived back at Dave's Slaves I thought it best to get the niggas out to pull the slaves out from the van and "escort" them inside. I hadn't realised that Dave never let them out - they were always inside - and for men who lived and worked naked they seemed strangely shy to be out there in the street with passers-by watching them - not that they had anything to be ashamed of, as they are, as I have told you, really well hung. And in any case they're slaves, so being shy about your body is just stupid.

I had them all put into one large cage, just big enough so that they could all sit or lie down if they wanted to, but only just big enough so that they could not avoid making contact with each other. The cable ties were cut off so that they were "free", and they soon saw, and began to complain about, the hole in the corner that was where they were to piss and crap. Just as I was going to tell them that it didn't matter - they could piss and crap where they liked as the place was hosed down every morning, as I have told you and experienced myself, my phone rang.

It was the Essex police, enquiring whether my car had been stolen! I assured them it had not - well, at least it hadn't been, two hours ago when I had left it with my business partner, and they asked about its insurance, so I fiddled with my phone and sent them the updated insurance certificate so that they could see Dave's use was legal. Then the next words hit me like a bombshell - I could collect my car later today as the driver had been arrested on the motorway and was being held pending his enslavement hearing tomorrow!

I at once started to ask questions, but the policeman on the other end didn't seem to know much but muttered something about speeding. Surely you couldn't be enslaved for that? And it seemed to depend on all sorts of things, and so I asked where the car, and Dave, were and found out both were being held at the County police HQ, in Chelmsford.

The thought of driving the van back was too much, so I left Greg to look after the stock, caught a taxi to Liverpool Street Station, and one of the new frequent ultra high speed expresses to Chelmsford. It seemed that the police HQ was a couple of miles out of town according to my phone, so another cab at the station got me there, all in all, in about 45 minutes for leaving Dave's place.

They kept me waiting in reception, and I saw they were doing one of those "community" things - backing the Essex Orphan's Association, or something like that, which aimed to prevent teenagers who were orphaned, or abandoned by their parents who "could not cope", from falling into such bad habits that they got themselves enslaved. There was one of those "barometer" things on it, showing how much money had been raised in the last three months, week by week.

It seemed to be relatively easy to reclaim my car, as I could show them on my phone all the ownership papers and stuff, and the sergeant at the desk seemed to know all about what had happened, unlike the idiot who had first called me. "It's not just the speeding, you see", he told me. "But the drinking as well."

"I can understand my business partner speeding... But he never drinks too much!"

"He was doing 105, sir, and the motorway limit's 80. Now that's not illegal in itself as I'm sure you're aware. Five years ago there was all that fuss about rich men and politicians being held up by ordinary traffic, and the limit was raised to 100 for any car with the right mechanics to make it 'safe' - distance sensors, lots of power to get away from a potential collision, all that sort of stuff.... Obviously only in very, very expensive cars so it didn't affect most people. Your car qualifies, as I'm sure you know, sir. So at 105 he was still within the ten percent extra that these cars are allowed."

"So the problem is?"

"Well he was stopped as the traffic policeman was new and did not recognise the car as one of 'ours' belonging to the rich men around here. But then the officer smelled the drink, and your partner was breathalysed. And he had been drinking."

"But not a lot, surely..."

"No, sir. Not a lot at all. He kept saying he'd only had a half pint with a business acquaintance.. And that of course was a confession, which condemned him."

"I don't understand!"

"Well, sir, when the law was changed to allow gentlemen like you to speed, some members of parliament - the lefties, I suppose - felt it wasn't right to give rich and powerful men the power to override the limits for ordinary folk. 'Great wealth requires great responsibility', they claimed. So above the normal speed limit, and at the 105 in this case, the permitted alcohol level is zero. So your friend's half pint which would have been all right if he had been a normal driver of a normal car is totally illegal at his speed. And the penalty for driving under the influence of alcohol is of course enslavement. It's a kind of justice, I suppose - get too arrogant about your wealth, and you can end up a slave."

"Can I see him? I need to get a lawyer for him..."

"Not much point, sir. We have it all on camera. The stop, with the automatic recording of the police car's speed. Then the breathalyser, with the officer using all the right words and using the device perfectly. And then here at the station we had both urine and blood tests, properly administered by an authorised medical practitioner." He paused, smiling, and went on "We used to have a lot of problems with rich men getting fancy lawyers to find tiny loopholes in the way the law was administered, but not any more. We haven't had a case thrown out for two years since we tightened up on every little bit of the process. So I'm afraid to day, sir, that you can get whatever lawyer you like and it won' help - the case against your friend is watertight, and the law gives us the right to treat him as a slave even before his appearance at the formal enslavement - it's not even called a trial - tomorrow."

I was going to rage and shout and say this was all utterly stupid, but changed my approach as I knew the sergeant had all the cards in his hands. "Sergeant, I'd very much appreciate it if it would be possible for me to see my associate - former associate, I suppose I should say, now that he's a slave... Just to say goodbye."

He looked at me, seeming pleased that he'd bested me after his long explanation, hesitated for a few seconds in order to make me anxious, then said "We always like to oblige co-operative members of the public, sir" - the "sir" was rather sarcastic, I thought - and opened the counter to let me through into the back of the station.

I was shown into a bare waiting room, sat there for at least twenty minutes, presumably deliberately to make me realise I was nothing special. Then the door opened again and the sergeant brought Dave in. I gasped very audibly, and almost cried out as this Dave was no longer the Dave I knew, the confident Dave, slave trader. This was Dave as a slave, and clearly they had been at work on him already.

His hair had been cropped - and his pubes, I saw at once as he was stark naked. His hands were cuffed behind his back and his body was a mass of bruises, one eye was half closed with swelling, there were streaks of blood across his face and down his chest. There was a ball gag strapped around his nearly bald head, and streaks of drool were hanging down from the corners of his mouth.

"Cocky bastard this one", the sergeant said almost gleefully. "Wouldn't take his clothes off so we had to use a slave goad on him. He kept screaming and shouting so it's simple to stop that with a gag. Then he wouldn't sit still whilst we did his hair and stuff. We could have goaded him again I suppose, but a couple of the trainees have just done their 'reasonable force whilst resisting arrest' course and wanted to practice, so we let them loose on him. Nothing serious, no broken bones, no teeth knocked out, but all those bruises make it really painful for him - serves him right!"

"But those... Those.... 'Things'....."

"Oh, perfectly harmless. It's one of the standard ways of encouraging slaves to keep calm. Most men have sensitive nipples, so we hang those little weights on them. The teeth on the clips help, too - really sharp and painful - that's where the blood on the chest comes from, but his nipples will recover in time. But as you can see, he's keeping still, not throwing himself around, as movement causing the weights to swing...."

"That ring on his cock though...."

The sergeant laughed. "Funny, isn't it. We pull back the foreskin then squeeze that metal ring really tight around the head just behind the flange. It holds the 'skin back then so his head is always exposed - as I suppose it soon will be as most owners 'skin their slaves. It's always a bit of a laugh to see a free man, well, a man who was free, exposed like that. Most men don't show their cock heads off, even a the gym and places like that. Only their wives or girlfriends - or, I suppose, boy friends - get to see it. So it makes them feel insecure, ashamed, worried... It all helps to control them as they're thrown off balance. And it stops them masturbating of course in the cells - if their cock goes erect the ring, already so tight so it can't slip off, is really painful as it cuts into the skin."

"You're sure he's not seriously hurt? He as walking strangely when he came in..."

"Oh no, not hurt really. Not permanently. No broken bones, as I said - we have to keep them in good condition for the sale. He's walking like that as he's plugged - and I expect the guards gave him a large size one as he'd been so objectionable."

"You can't be serious - a butt plug? He never took anything up the ass..."

"Are you more than business acquaintances then, sir?", the sergeant asked impertinently. I was about to tell him to fucking mind his own business, but realised I needed to keep a humble approach.

I hung my head, half looked away, tried to blush, lowered my voice and said quietly "Well, we have... just occasionally... as mates, good friends... but nothing serious... just a little friendly wanking... all men do that sometimes..."

"Well not police officers, sir. We don't! We're all proper heterosexuals...."

I kept my calm, hearing the man's incipient homophobia. "Sergeant, help me out here, is there really nothing that can be done?"

"No, sir. The formal enslavement is tomorrow. It's an open and shut case. Court opens ten o'clock, and he'll be out in the slave transporter by five past."

"Surely there will be reporters, TV..."

He laughed. "No, of course not. Happens every week."

I looked carefully at him. "But not to a man who has friends in high places. Rich friends. Friends who know TV News producers. Friends who are concerned about the possible mistreatment of slaves, even if it could be argued - and please believe me I understand the need to control slaves as I am in the business myself - that some treatments were a little 'excessive'? Perhaps it wouldn't look too good on the news..."

"Are you threatening me, sir?"

"No, of course not. You and your men are doing your duty. Or, shall we say, doing your duty as you see it. I would have thought you would welcome the exposure to the wider public of the excellent work you are doing..."

He looked angry now, or frightened, Or both. But possibly a lot more of the first. So I went on in as conciliatory tone as I could "Look, sergeant, we both know actions are open to misinterpretation. And I'd hate all the good work you and your men have been doing in the community with raising money for the Essex Orphans to be cast aside over some silly rubbish about slaves...." He seemed to be calming and I went on "In fact the tragedy is that my associate himself is keenly interested in the treatment of wayward youth. He took a very unfortunate young boy, Timmy, off the slave market when he was fourteen, and now, at sixteen, Timmy lives with him like father and son..." (or like some fathers and some sons, pretty unusual ones, I thought to myself). "Look...."

I showed the sergeant pictures on my phone of Tim and Dave - not the VERY intimate ones of course, but a couple around Dave's living room with Dave and Tim watching the TV.

"You're telling me that he has this...."

"Slave, sergeant. Let's not mince words. The boy was enslaved at fourteen, but Dave bought him and cherished him, and now at sixteen, when as a 'mature' but still young slave... Dave has kept him. He could be sold, as there are men who like very young slaves, as I'm sure you know with your work with the charity...."

I pressed my phone, and Greg answered and I told him to get Tim. Thankfully he was 'respectably' dressed in shorts, and I handed the phone to the sergeant and said he could speak. As I did so I said carefully "Tim. Dave has been arrested and could end up as a slave. I've been saying how he treats young guys like you, how he cares for you...."

"Oh, sir. Please, no. Pleas don't let them enslave Dave, sir. He's like a father to me... Treats me so well... I couldn't have a better owner...."

"Convinced, sergeant?" I asked, taking the phone away before Tim said something stupid.

He nodded, and I went on "So we have my friend who did not know the law and did something foolish - not that that's any excuse, of course. We have your police station here doing really good work raising money. We have the possibility of a terrible 'misunderstanding' in the TV news. We have a good man looking after a wayward boy who, if the man is enslaved, will be sold off as all a slave's property reverts to the state...."

He nodded again. I thought I had him. So I went on "I too am interested in saving young men from slavery. In fact, I thought I might double the money you have raised over the last six months and donate it to the charity. Perhaps the donation could come from the station, as I do not like publicity. What a splendid achievement your station could show...."

I saw he'd in effect taken the bribe. He wasn't the kind of man who would take a personal bribe of course, but for the 'honour' of his work, and to do good, he was amenable. Now I had him, I had to make it possible so I continued "Of course if my associate is enslaved I will have to buy him. And so there won't be any money available for charitable donations...."

The man seemed to sag. "I do appreciate that, sir. But the fact is that there's all the evidence. And we're well along the process." He stopped and thought a moment and added "But even if we did find a flaw - a very tiny flaw that only we would see internally and an external fancy lawyer would never recognise - a minute error in the paperwork somewhere, and we decided that in the interests of efficiency and saving time it would be better to drop the case.... There would be the problem of your associate, sir. He might sue for wrongful arrest...."

I nodded, opened my phone, connected to the expensive (very expensive!) artificial intelligence law service I subscribe to, keyed in a few things, and showed the sergeant the screen. "See, a document completely absolving the Essex police from any responsibility or liability for anything that has happened to my associate. He would willingly sign this, I know. Shall I send it to you so you can have it printed?"

He nodded, and asked "And the donation?"

Remembering the experience at the army base I said "I don't suppose you take credit cards? I could go to the bank and get an unstoppable certified cheque? Perhaps two, one to the charity, and a smaller one to the police benevolent fund here at the station?"

He smiled. "Not long until the banks shut, sir. And I don't suppose you want your friend kept here overnight, worrying about what's going to happen to him tomorrow. And perhaps finding very unpleasant things happening to him during the night as we keep slaves together and if they attack him, and we have to go in and break up the fight, there could be all kinds of injuries. Even if we got in quickly, some of the slaves are real brutes, and the thought of using a free man...."

I could see that we were both now in complete agreement and had a clear understanding of the situation. Especially as he added "I will get a squad car to take you in to town, sir, and wait for you. It would be a tragedy if you had to wait for a taxi and then got stuck in traffic - no problem with that in a squad car."

So that's how it was, and it was quite interesting, really, observing the behaviour of the other traffic as the car scythed through it, siren screaming and lights blazing. And when I got back I handed over the two certified cheques to the sergeant, and he handed me a properly witnessed copy of the agreement, signed by Dave. Perfect!

The sergeant took me back into the bare room where I had seen Dave before and this time, in the middle of the room, was one of those "horses" that Dave has around the place - a leather top for the slave to lie on, and four stout legs with velcro at the bottom to secure a slave with.

We stood there, and Dave shuffled in. The sergeant went over to him and simply pulled the nipple claws off Dave, making no attempt to spring them open. Behind his gag Dave was screaming, I could tell, and fresh blood began to flow. "Put him on the horse", he told the guards.

"What's going on?"

"Well, sir, we have the release saying he's been treated properly. And we have your generous donations. But somehow it all seems not quite right. He did commit a crime, and he should be punished. And I'm sure you will agree, sir, that rich men should not be able to buy their way out of trouble. But even if you don't, it doesn't matter. You have saved your friend from slavery, but he needs to be punished, needs to remember to be more careful and respect the law in future. And particularly needs to know not to be foul and abusive to police officers!"

As they were saying this the guards threw Dave down on to the top of the horse and secured his wrists to the front two legs. "Leave his ankles - it's buckaroo", he told them.

Looking at me he went on "Interesting bit of psychology, sir. When a slave is 'horsed' and punished it seems the punishment has more effect if the slave is free to move his legs. If he's secured by wrists and ankles and can't move at all, he somehow thinks that it's inevitable, that there's nothing he can do about it. But with his legs free he can thrash around, push his bum this way and that, try to make the punishment stop - futile, of course, and so it makes him angry and frustrated, and the punishment is even worse. It's an old word, you know, from Australia, I think. They used to brand their cattle and sheep holding down one part of the animal which thrashed around and it's called a 'buckaroo'."

Dave was secured now, and the sergeant went on "I think we'll keep him gagged. I'm going to give him thirty strokes of the punishment cane - and no, sir, there's NOTHING you can do to stop this - and they generally scream so loud it upsets all the station!"

I stood there in impotent rage. This sergeant had outsmarted me! He had seemed to act the wise older man, sorrowfully doing his duty under the law. In fact he was "passing" himself - underneath he was a wily, skilful, mostly dishonest negotiator!

End Of Part Sixteen