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Sold Three Times by T. Edward Hutchinson
Mark looked up to his older cousin, Tony, a fact that did not particularly please the younger boy's parents. But what could they do, Tony was his beloved sister's child and they lived next door. The eighteen year old was a little wild, a recent high school graduate with no plans for further education, doing odd jobs in the neighborhood, and hanging out with other young men at loose ends. Mark on the other hand was doing well in school, about to begin his junior year.
When they were together they were sometimes taken for brothers. They both had jet black hair, thick and curly, and dark brown eyes. Tony was handsome in a brooding fashion. At sixteen Mark was cuter and would never be as tall as Tony, who was 5' 10." Tony was always promising his cousin that they would go out on the town together and look for girls, but he didn't get around to it. Not for the first four weeks of summer anyway. But things might change, Tony had made an almost promise for the coming Saturday night. He would pick Mark up after supper, he said.
Tony's cologne perfumed the air of the dining room, the family lingering over their coffee. He shook hands with his uncle, kissed his aunt, waved vaguely at the younger children, threw his arm over Mark's shoulders and they were off as quickly as politely possible. Looking for girls, bantering lightly as they went in pursuit. They soon encountered three young women about Tony's age, slight acquaintances with whom he immediately began to flirt. It seemed to Mark that the girls did not notice that he was there.
When their efforts to peel Tony away from the kid didn't work, they broke things off in a storm of giggles that excluded the two cousins. "Never mind," Tony consoled Mark, "there are plenty of others." He suggested they go to a bar he knew where they could get served.
"Really?" Mark was dubious.
"Yeah, it's a private club. They know me there."
Tony led the way into a section of the city that was home to warehouses and factories. Mark felt uncomfortable in the dark, mostly empty streets. It seemed an unlikely location for a private club. Eventually Tony stopped at a door close to the left hand corner of a small brick structure, pressed a buzzer, and said his name into an intercom. They heard a click, Tony opened the door and they entered the bar.
It was a long, narrow room running the width of the building. There were no booths or tables, just the bar with its row of stools. Everything was old but in good shape, perhaps dating from the 1930s when the area still had residents. There was only one customer at the far end who was studying his half full glass. The cousins sat a couple of stools from the left end of the bar. An aging bartender approached, "What'll ya have?"
"Gin and tonic?" Tony suggested to Mark.
"Sure," the teenager agreed.
"Two," Tony ordered.
"Commin'up."
The boy's were silent for a while, tasted their drinks. "So, you get laid yet?" Tony teased his cousin. It was a running taunt, he liked to embarrass the kid. "You gotta' girl friend?"
"Twice just this week," Mark bragged, knowing that it wouldn't be believed and blushing. Mark liked boys and wasn't getting any that way either. He was too shy, too quiet. He suspected that Tony had it figured out.
"When we leave here we'll see if we can find a broad for you."
Time dragged. "Actually, I'm feeling a little sick," Mark complained.
"Drink up. I'll walk you home."
"You don't have to do that. Once we're in the center of town I can get back on my own. I don't want to spoil your night out."
"Well, if you think so."
Mark finished off what was left in his glass. He nearly fell when tried to get down from the bar stool. "Wow, I'm really dizzy."
"It can't be the booze, you only had one. You better sit back down."
The bartender saw the boy stumble and came over. "What's the problem?"
"Maybe we need a cab," Tony postulated.
The bartender went through a door behind the bar and moments later a portly middle aged fellow came out. "Hi Tony, your friend sick?"
"My cousin. Yeah. Looks that way."
"How about I give you guys a ride home. I just have to make one stop on the way, that's all."
"That would be really good. Thanks a lot, Mr. Silva."
"Bring him out through the office."
The bartender raised a panel at the end of the bar. Tony helped Mark to walk through that and the door to the office and settled him into a chair while Mr. Silva collected his keys and a brief case. Then they went out a side door where the man's Cadillac was parked.
"You boys get in back. Make sure he doesn't puke in the car. Tell me if he feels like it and I'll pull over. Put him next to the window and and open it. He can stick his head out if he has to."
The word 'puke' made Mark feel sicker.
They drove for about fifteen minutes to a building near the outskirts of the city. Mark didn't understand why the man hadn't just dropped him off first, but the fellow was doing them a favor. He could hardly complain.
There was a large parking lot, but it held less than fifty cars. It looked like the place might have once been a car dealership, perhaps previously owned cars. They parked at the side of the building.
"Come on, I don't want you waiting in the car."
Tony helped Mark to a side door. They entered a brightly lit reception area. Tony parked his cousin on a couch that was just inside the waiting room. Other than that there was a large desk across from the couch and several upholstered arm chairs. A young man in a suit sat behind the desk.
Mr. Silva went through a door in the back of the room bringing his briefcase with him.
"Your friend doesn't look well," the fellow at the desk observed.
"Yeah, he got really dizzy and feels nauseous."
"Maybe we can help," he picked up the phone on the desk and spoke to someone. A few minutes later another man in a suit entered from a door at the left side of the room. He brought Mark a couple of pills and a glass with a small amount of brown liquid.
"The pills will make you feel OK in a few minutes. This is Southern Comfort, it's sweet so kids love it. Still it will burn a little so swallow it right down. Then the pills work faster. You want to feel better, right?"
Mark nodded his head and did as instructed. The two men chatted with Tony, sports mostly, while waiting for the medication to take effect. The second man sat down on the couch next to Mark. A third man in a suit entered the room, spoke to Tony for a minute, then ushered him through the door that Mr. Silva had used. After that he took a long look at Mark. "How are you feeling now?" he wanted to know.
Mark appeared to be in a daze, but roused himself enough to answer. "I feel fine now, really great actually. I don't think I can move though. It's like my arms and legs are numb or something. Pretty weird, huh?" the teenager commented, a goofy smile on his face.
"That will ware off in a while. Don't worry about it."
"Sure, no problem."
The man to Mark's left spoke, "You're a very good looking boy, you know that don't you?"
"I guess, if you say so."
"You don't mind if we take a good look at you, do you?"
"No, whatever," Mark responded. A minute later the youth appeared to be in a stupor.
In the room behind the desk Tony, Mr. Silva and Mr. McManus looked at a large video surveillance monitor on the wall. In high definition they watched the two men professionally strip and thoroughly examine Tony's cousin. One of the men inserted an object similar to a butt plug. "Level five is the maximum spread. It would be reasonable to claim that the kid has probably never been used. There are no notable imperfections."
"It looks like we have a deal," Mr. McManus announced.
The deal was that Tony would sell Mark to Mr. Silva in exchange for forgiveness of his gambling debts to him. Also he would take on jobs that Mr. Silva would assign to him and be paid for performance of those tasks.
Mr. Silva would sell Mark to Mr. McManus. Tony was sent out of the room and the two men agreed on a price that was substantially more than Tony's gambling debts. Mr. McManus then collected Tony and they left the establishment.
Mark was strapped into a wheelchair, taken through the door at the side of the waiting room then down one passage to a second that branched off to the right and into a long rectangular, brightly lit room painted white. There were twelve plexiglass cubicles (without tops) numbered one to twelve. Mark was placed in number four, propped up in the right rear corner. A dossier hung from a chain outside the cubicle providing physical statistics, provenance, photographs and a brief biography.
Cubicles one through three, five and six were already occupied. There were in all four girls and two boys between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. The rest of them were empty. All the youngsters were similarly lethargic.
Mr. Silver drove back to his bar and office. The kid could walk back home. He used the time filling Tony in on his primary mission. He was to scour the city and its suburban high schools for kids to sell. Teenagers were the safest because they so often ran away, girls going off with an older boyfriend and getting away from their mothers, boys getting away from their fathers, specially gay boys. The police would tell parents to be patient, that the kids would almost always turn up. They would ask the parents if they knew of anything troubling the youngster. They were teens, there was forever something troubling them; mood swings, arguments, peer problems, pot and alcohol use, on and on. So there was always a reason to suspect a runaway situation and in the absence of evidence of foul play or a history of suicidal thoughts they weren't about to drain the reservoir or send scuba teams to the river.
He was to look for docile youngsters, loners, followers not leaders, definitely not macho guys like himself. The more attractive the better, but he shouldn't bother with any uglies or disabled unless there was a special request for one. Special requests should take priority though, a redhead with freckles or an amputee for example, because then there was sure to be a motivated buyer for the item. Once he had a target selected he should cultivate a relationship with the youth to get information and to be able to set the teen up to be taken, like he did with Mark. They were impressed that he was willing to betray a family member.
A door opened across from the line of cubicles. About two dozen adults, mostly men, entered the room and began circulating around the plexiglass cells, viewing the merchandise and sometimes reading, sometimes skimming, the dossiers. Mark was dimly aware of people looking at him, it did not signify anything to him. This happens, that happens, he doesn't comprehend that it has anything to do with him.
They all left, the men in suits came and went. Finally they took him out of his cubicle and put him in the wheelchair. They went through a passage, into a small dark space and he was put into another clear cell. Black curtains rose from the front and sides of his new home, a spot light shined down on him. He was on a raised stage above the level of an audience. To his right a man with a microphone in his hand was making a speech. At first it was words, but then it was numbers.
The curtains fell again and the light went out. They put him back in his wheelchair and they proceeded through several passages to a small, brightly illuminated, white room. He was lifted onto a table and men in suits put clothes on him, a two piece track suit and running shoes. There were others in the room. One of them was a cowboy. Mark chuckled softly. The back of the pants were pulled down and a suppository was inserted. A couple of minutes later he lost consciousness.
The inert body of Mark was strapped into the wheelchair and rolled from the shipping room through a door to the outside of the building. He was placed in the back of a limousine and slumped next to the cowboy. Two men in suits were up front. The big, black car was driven to the airport, through a guarded gate and into a hanger. Mark was brought aboard a medium sized private jet. A half hour later he began to wake up.
The teenager was stirring, mumbling, rubbing his eyes. The cowboy handed him a cup of coffee.
"This may help," he postulated. "Extra milk and sugar, do you like it that way?" He ruffled the kid's hair.
"Umph," Mark muttered. He managed a few sips of the steaming liquid. Then, "Where am I? Where are we going? Why am I here?"
"What do you remember?"
"I was with my cousin at a bar. I got sick. We were supposed to get a ride home, but we had to stop someplace. It all gets fuzzy after that."
"This is your dossier, read the first page and scan through the rest of it. Then I'll answer any questions you have."
"This says Tony sold me to some guy and that guy sold me to the auction house. I suppose they sold me to some guy."
"I'm the 'some guy,' Wes Kincaid."
"Tony wouldn't do that."
"Where do you think the photos and the information in the dossier came from? Who could have done that other than your cousin? Your parents, maybe? By the way, I got most of that information two weeks ago in response to a request I made to the folks who run the auctions."
"Jesus, Joseph and Mary!"
"Comes as a shock doesn't it. More coffee?"
"You can't own anyone, it isn't legal."
"You're half right, it isn't legal. But if you control the use of something, then you own it, it's a possession legal or not. And if you don't control something, you don't own it regardless of what a piece of paper might say. I control you, so I own you."
"Are you saying I'm a slave?"
"The word, slave, has connotations that aren't appropriate to this situation. Possession is a better word, you are a possession of mine like a painting or a horse."
"And if I resist you're going to beat me?"
"Beating is not the most effective. I don't want to harm my possessions. So I would just keep you as drugged up as you make necessary. Do you like being drugged up?"
"Nooo."
"Then it's in your interests to cooperate."
"Huh!"
"More coffee?"
"Yeah."
At that, one of the two men in suits, who had been sitting across from Mark, went to a galley and brought back another cup, extra milk and sugar.
"What do you want me for?"
"Guess."
"Oh."
"Do you find me disgusting to look at?" Wes Kincaid was 45, tall, lean, bronzed, and just short of handsome."
"No."
"I don't find you disgusting either. Unzip your top."
There was a brief hesitation for Mark to remember the drugged state alternative, after which he complied.
"Hand me the dossier." I'm going to put this away, we're not going to look at it again. It represents your old life and you are entering a new one, reborn in a way. I'm giving you a new name to go with it. Now and for the future you are Bobby. "Put your thumbs inside your waist band and pull outward."
"Good boy." Wes slid his hand inside Bobby's pants and cupped the boy's genitals. The boy blushed and felt embarrassed because the men in suits were looking at him while this action was performed. Wes felt the boy's dick stiffen. Whether that was due to being touched or watched or both neither one of them knew.
At the airport in Wyoming they transferred into a small six-seater for the last leg to Wes's ranch. At the steps to the sprawling log mansion they were met by two men in western outfits who took charge of the luggage. A thirty something man in a western styled leisure suit welcomed Wes then said, "Welcome home Bobby."
Wes introduced the teenager to Robert, who was the manager of the house. "He will be looking after you," he informed the youth. Wes and the two men in suits left to see to their projects for the day. The thirty something man took Bobby to a second floor bedroom with it's own bath and told the youth to strip, take a shower, get into bed and get some sleep. "You have had a hectic time of it and are probably a lot more tired than you realize."
When Bobby emerged from the bathroom the track suit and running shoes were no where to be found. It did not surprise him that he was expected to sleep in the buff. He sunk into the comfort of a luxurious bed, doubtful that sleep would come so early in the day. 'My god,' he thought to himself, 'I was sold three times in something like three hours. How could that happen? But, obviously, it had. What was he to make of it? What should he do?' He let his mind rest for a bit. 'Wait and see. Watch and learn. Then make a plan.' Wes would have smiled if he knew the boy's thoughts moved in the right direction.
Bobby was woken by a man bringing him lunch on a tray. The food made him sleepy again. He set the empty tray on the bureau and got back into bed, nodded off quickly this time. He woke again when Wes came into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He was wearing a plaid robe and smelled of soap. He pulled the bed clothes half way down the boy's body and touched him gently. "This has to be done sometime, Bobby. I'm going to make it as easy on you as I can."
The teenager slept again and was roused by the fellow who had brought him his lunch. This time he had clothes for the youth, his first western outfit. Once he was dressed he was escorted to a first floor lounge where a group of men and one woman were enjoying drinks and hors d'oeuvres. From the decimation of the snacks Bobby concluded that they had started some time ago. It also appeared that introductions were considered to be unnecessary.
He was shown to a chair next to Wes and given spicy tomato juice and a sampling of the treats. He didn't have time to finish them because they were soon called to the dining room. Wes took Bobby by the hand and led him in. There were two settings at the head of the large table, one for the man and one for the boy. The people who served the meal were as attentive to Bobby as they were to Wes.
From observation Bobby concluded that the group was a mix of employees, friends and business associates of Wes some of whom were staying at the ranch. He felt like a little kid at an adults' party with no one his own age to talk to. It was all too new and overwhelming for him to participate in the table talk. The teenager was glad that no one sought to ask him questions about himself, to draw him in. Wes put a friendly, reassuring hand on him from time to time. That was enough to keep him from feeling entirely out of place.
After the meal, Wes took the youngster back to his bedroom and wished him a good night. Then the man left to rejoin his guests. Bobby fell asleep watching TV.
An alarm woke the youngster up at six. "Up and at 'em," the young man who entered his room insisted. "We breakfast early here on the ranch. When you get yourself put together come down to the dining room. You know the way."
Wes was already there and seated. He motioned Bobby over to him. "Fix your coffee at the sideboard." He patted the seat next to him indicating where he wanted the teenager to sit. Other folks arrived one by one, platters of food were put on the table, scrambled eggs, biscuits, an assortment of meats (sausage, bacon, small steaks), home fries, and a bowl of grits. It was noisy with cross talk.
"When your done eating go outside and Bob will explain your duties for today," the man directed the boy.
"Where do I find him?"
"He'll be on the lookout and he'll find you. You don't need to worry about that."
When the youngster went out on the front porch a young man at the bottom of the stairs beckoned him over and introduced himself. Bobby was struck by how much the fellow looked like a mid twenties version of Tony. "You're going to help me look after the horses," he informed the kid. "Come on, the stable is this way. Also, I'm going to teach you to ride. But that won't start until next week, for obvious reasons. Wes is going to want you with him when he rides."
A curious thought occurred to the teen. Robert looked like a mid thirties version of Bob, though the house manager was starting to lose his hair in front. "Is Robert your bother?" he asked, "You look so much alike."
"No, we're not blood related, though we're both Kincaids. So are you. There are four Kincaids here, you, me, Robert ... and Wes of course."
A few weeks later Wes went away on a four day business trip. Bobby felt irritable and unsettled. He missed the man sure, but he was shocked to discover how much he missed having Wes's dick inside of him.
His cousin Tony didn't intend to do him a favor, he mused.