Willing Slave

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 1

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

I've heard stories about the "old" world, the one before the combination of the war that burnt most of the oil fields, the new mystery virus, and the global warming catastrophe changed "the old order" irrevocably. Millions - or probably billions - starved. And there seemed to be no way of re-starting the shattered economies of even the mightiest industrial powers.

At first, when the Lottery was first proposed, it was almost laughed out of existence it seemed so preposterous. But Telford, his generation's most formidable economist, continued to work on the theory and, as everything else failed, some countries decided to at least give it a try. He did of course ultimately get his Nobel laureate, and had the satisfaction of seeing the initial opposition almost completely vanquished.

Of course the transition to the world we now know was tough - in those early years, they say, many families simply refused to give up their sons if they lost the Lottery. But now such a position is of course unthinkable - as unthinkable as even considering lighting a cigarette in a public place, or of giving birth to more than the allotted quota of children. It must have been tough, though, and I suppose I'm glad that after fifty years the system now works so well that those in it, like me, are guaranteed humane treatment and the whole of society understands what is expected of us all.

Because both mom and dad have college degrees and he's a powerful businessman, they were licensed for four kids in total (those who fail to graduate from high school are of course totally denied breeding rights), and they had me and my three brothers - I'm the second oldest. Although we are all meant to have adapted to the Lottery, I think I can say candidly that it did hurt me a bit when mom and dad and my elder brother all were so happy that my two younger brothers were not selected as they got to their first birthdays. You're supposed to think that you're doing your bit for society - no, for mankind - if a kid gets picked (as I had been on my first birthday) and so there's no cause for parties or anything either way - in theory!

Telford's theory was that we could no longer afford to sustain the lifestyle that we'd all come to enjoy for everyone. Rigid limits to population growth would be needed, but that these would only work within defined parameters - a total ban on reproduction in some years, for example, might be so widely flouted as to be unenforceable. But a "sensible", "modest", rationing system of the kind we had implemented received overwhelming public support, and those breaking the code understood the death penalty awaited them (and the illegal offspring). However even with all this, there were still too many people, and insufficient resources after the oil crisis, to properly service their requirements. Hence the second part of Telford's plan - the enslavement of every fifth male born, and his use as a work animal.

At a stroke Telford removed a huge number of citizens who needed a rich life style, as slaves would expect no special housing, vacations, food, consumer goods, and so on. And at the same time they would be used to replace some of the resources lost as a result of the energy crisis: in a modern plant, for example, energy-hungry robots no longer "man" the production lines - this has all reverted to slaves. In many ways our major manufacturing plans now look more like those pictured at the start of the 20th century, rather than those quaint "hi tech" things you see at the start of the 21st century. Slave muscle turned out to be so much more flexible, and so much cheaper, than machines and the world recovery started rolling.

Our births are tightly regulated because of the parental "rationing" system, and so it is easy to assign a citizen serial number to every child at birth. In the month of its first birthday, every male child's serial enters the lottery, and 20% of those are randomly selected to grow up to be slaves. Women are not, of course, enslaved as in general they cannot provide the raw muscle power that the economy needs (and in any case, the removal of 20% of males from the potential breeding pool results in the scramble for husbands that is such a feature of modern life - those men who are not enslaved and who choose to breed relish the choice they have, and have no wish to see the numbers of free women reduced).

A sceptical population initially thought that the lottery could never be "fair" and that the rich and powerful would ensure that their sons were never selected as future slaves. But a post on the Lottery Board is now so prestigious that those overseeing the process would never do anything to jeopardise the complete impartiality of the system. Sons of senators, politicians, judges, and even of rich businessmen like my father were, and continue to be, selected. Indeed, no politician could hope to win office if at least one of his sons had not been selected in the lottery - although the Lottery Board is equally vigilant to ensure that there is no more chance of them being able to get them selected, as there is of getting someone not selected.

I grew up therefore knowing that I was different from my brothers, and that my destiny was to live life as a slave from my sixteenth birthday. Not everyone in our neighbourhood and circle of friends had as many boys as mom and dad, and not all of them had a slave growing up in the family. Nevertheless it was not rare, and I can honestly say that there was never any prejudice shown to me as a kid by my parents' friends, or other kids.

In some ways life as a slave boy is actually more fun than that of a free boy. For one thing, after the initial year of school where you learn to read and to do simple arithmetic, there is no education and all your time is your own. Another of Telford's theories was that it was a waste of the public resource to squander education on slaves who would never need it as, by definition, all slave employment was purely manual. A full education, he argued, would not only cost the state resources it could ill afford, but could make the slave unhappy. So I had a golden childhood - watching my brothers going off to school every day, whilst I stayed at home and played, or watched TV. And in the evenings I did not have mountains of homework, and my vacations were not filled with horrendous "projects" (the free knew that they had to work at school now, and school standards were high, and rigorously enforced. Free men worked in offices and society needed them to work hard - all manual labour was done by slaves. But to have a "good" job in a "nice" office, you had to have all the right qualifications and so on, so competition at school and college was fierce and unrelenting).

We lived in a progressive neighbourhood, and our Town voted part of its property taxes to set up and run slave schools - actually, that's not as altruistic as it sounds, as mom and dad both worked and mom's career would have been distorted if I'd been at home all the time). There's no learning, of course, but there's a big emphasis on sports, games, and fitness. Most parents recognised that it did their slave sons no favours to allow them to sit around all day and get fat and unfit - a slave's life was known to be one of hard manual labour, and most parents saw it as giving their kid the best start in life they could by making sure he led an active life and grew a healthy, fit body. By the time I was sixteen I was much stronger, tougher and more muscled than even my elder brother (and he was on the Football Team at school). That's another reason why slave boys were treated with respect, I suppose - they could beat the shit out of free boys, if they wanted to.

In these much harsher times as far as sex is concerned, there's no longer any dating or anything whilst guys are still at school - you go to school to work. And although the slave boys are around and available, no free woman (i.e. all the girls) would consider dating him - what would be the point, after all? If they had sex and she got pregnant, the death penalty awaited. And if she didn't get pregnant, the relationship was in any case going nowhere as the slave boy's sixteenth birthday loomed. But I loved sport and liked being fit, and my childhood passed very happily - mom and dad genuinely treated all of us boys the same, and never avoided buying me new clothes, or "stuff" just because it would all be irrelevant on my sixteenth birthday.

I remember my enslavement eve party - held, as traditional, on the night before the slave had to report to his local slave centre. It was like Christmas, Thanksgiving, Graduation, Bar Mitzvah, Wedding... all rolled in to one. All my friends and relations were invited, and after the festivities they all formally came and wished me "good bye". Once you enter the slave centre, of course, all your former ties with your family are completely severed, and you must expect never to see them again - indeed, special steps are taken in the records to make it almost impossible to trace where a slave boy went after his initial reception into a slave centre, and slaves in training are moved across the country, and even between countries, to minimise the chance of them interacting with those from their former lives.

The next morning my brothers hugged me on the steps of the house, as it had been decided that only mom and dad would take me to our local centre. I gave them my last few possessions (my youngest brother had long coveted my watch), and we drove off. Parents can come in to the centre's reception area, but I said goodbye to mom and dad in the street, and walked proudly by myself up the long path to the entrance doors. You've been preparing for this all your life, as you know that this "goodbye" is going to happen, but it still doesn't make it easy - if I hadn't been a fine strapping lad, almost a man, I think I'd have cried. That's one of the reasons, I suppose, why I wanted that last walk alone - I wanted to look like a proper man when I arrived, and any tiny tears would have a chance to dry.

The law's really strict about turning up - as I've told you, there are no exceptions. There used to be cases of families sending their slave sons to Canada, but now the Canadians, and most of the rest of the civilised world, have adopted the same system, all that will happen is that you'll be found, and sent back. A citizen can't get a job, a bank account or credit card, a driving licence, a passport, medical service, or anything without a valid citizen identification number, and there's no way a "fugitive" can any longer function in our society. Some do try, of course, but when a slave fails to turn up at the appointed centre, the fines they levy on the family are so huge that parents and siblings go out of their way to make sure slave brothers do their duty.

My centre was in the next large town, and I didn't know any of the other guys there that morning (the centres operate seven days a week, as you report on the day of your birthday). Ten of us were there, and the Superintendent first told us to strip off our remaining clothes.

I'm not at all body shy, of course - I have after all got three brothers. But part of the thing about slave school is that you play a lot of sport, and so you get used to seeing other guys naked - there's none of those private showers and stuff like in "free" schools - at slave school you all change and shower together. We all stood there, really feeling rather foolish - it's one thing to change after a game, but another to be standing their with your fellows all naked, and all not knowing what was going to happen to you.

As we looked at each other, I was glad I was about the biggest and toughest looking. All the guys were quite fit, but I stood out, I think. The obligatory showering and cleaning came next, and anyone who's been at slave school will be familiar with the way you are supposed to wash every part of you squeaky clean.

After that they give you a medical - a thorough, and I do mean thorough, medical. As well as all the usual stuff like blood and urine samples, X-rays, and ECGs, we all had to do a programme of harsh exercises so that they could observe how well our hearts and lungs stood up to the stress of hard work. They fed us at lunchtime - my first real meal of just slave chow! Mom used to serve it to all of us occasionally, as she wanted me to know what to expect for the rest of my life, and didn't think it fair to make me eat that when my brothers were having steak and pizza. They all used to groan and pretend to be upset at me, but mom always made sure that there was a good desert, or ice cream afterwards. At the centre, of course, it was just the chow, and we all sat there silently chewing it down in the normal way that slaves eat, from our bare hands.

One of us was judged not to be in good condition - they ran all the tests quickly whilst we were eating, and he was taken off to a regional centre for further assessment. There's no dodging the enslavement because of poor health, of course - if you're really so bad that you can't be found any job, they put you in the organ banks so that at least your parts are of some use to the community.

The Director of the place then came and addressed us, as we stood there naked. "Right, men, this is your last chance. If any of you believe you have been incorrectly enslaved, the law gives you one final opportunity to tell me: I am then required to investigate, and search the slave database for your citizen identification number. However, if as is usual, all you men believe you are indeed slaves, having been selected in the Lottery, we can begin...."

He looked at us expectantly, but no one objected. As I said, you know from your first birthday if you're destined to be a slave, and there's really no argument, so we all just shrugged.

"Right", he continued. "You will now get new slave names - slaves are known by their slave names, and it will help you to distance yourself from your old life.

Then we will mark you with your new SINs - that's Slave Identification Number - as you no longer have a citizen identification number: your file there is marked 'terminated as a citizen'. That marking is permanent and indelible, and is the way that you will quickly be identified as a slave should you ever try to escape - not, I'm sure, that any of you would be so foolish. We'll trim your hair and so on to make you look better, then, finally, we'll give you a vasectomy - there is of course no question of a slave ever being allowed to breed and we take this extra precaution just to make sure."

I must say that I'd never heard about the last bit! I knew about the SINs of course as the slaves you see around all display them, but being tied off - well, I suppose it didn't matter really, as I'd still be able to wank.

When it was my turn to get a new name, I was told I would in future be called "Steve". Most slave names are like that - short, powerful names that your master can call out easily. It was explained to us that once we were used to it, it would be better for us - so many guys who were enslaved had long names, or foreign names, that it was judged easier to simply rename us all for the convenience of our new owners. And, they pointed out, it made it much harder for any family to track us down, as all reference to our previous names was lost.

It was horrible lying on the leather-topped table whilst they tattooed my SIN on my left ass cheek together with a "US Government" stamp - I don't think anyone really knows just how much a tattoo needle can hurt. Then as you'd expect, I had to sit there whilst they did it again on my right shoulder - most slaves wear work clothes, of course, so their ass marks are not usually visible. But it's easy enough for anyone just to lift a slave's sleeve and read their SIN and their name. Actually, in our fairly conservative town, I think I'd only ever seen one ass mark as owners kept their slaves clothed. But the pool guy who came always stripped off totally do dive in and inspect for leaks, or clean difficult marks off the bottom, and he of course had his ass marked.

I was expecting to be trimmed - I'd always kept my hair short, but some of the guys almost wept when their curly hair was shorn off to leave us all with a uniform half inch on our heads. But I wasn't expecting to have the length of my pits reduced, or for them to take the clippers to my pubes - they reduced the length of all of it, and shaved away a bit at the sides. Then, as the final indignity, they ran the clippers up and down my balls, before getting a razor and shaving them smooth. Well, I thought that was the final indignity - having to stand there gripping my ankles whilst they shaved down my ass crack was pretty dire, too. The guy who was doing this seemed to really enjoy handling us - I'm sure he moved my dick around a whole lot more than he really needed to in order to be able to shave my balls! He's lucky I didn't shoot over him - as it was, I was really fighting to stop myself having an erection.

They got a proper doctor in to do the vasectomies - he was a real expert, I guess, if he was a contractor to the slave centre here: he must do hundreds a year. It didn't hurt a bit - we got a pain killing injection, then he did what he called a "key hole tie" so there was almost no mark on me when he'd done, just a few drops of blood at the side of my ac, and they stuck a plaster on that. "That's it, boy. Send the next one in", he said cheerfully when he'd done me. "It shouldn't hurt, except you might feel a bit tender for the next couple of days - it's set you up well, though, as most sacs increase in size by about ten percent after a vasectomy - not that you really need it!"

It was all over by about four o'clock, and the Director guy came and talked to us again. He told us that we were the last "batch" of slaves that week, and that tomorrow the current stock at the centre would be put up for auction. We were the "lucky" ones, he told us, as we hadn't had to wait around all week for enough slaves to be accumulated to make it worth while for the buyers to attend the auction.

We were allowed to sit around and watch TV with the other guys then, and I suppose that was my first experience of real communal living: all forty or so of us in one room, watching a programme that they chose for us. There wasn't a zapper to flip channels or anything, and we had to watch a boring old compilation of comedy programmes. Still, with us all sitting around naked, I guess it's a good thing that some of the raunchy music videos weren't on or most of us would have had a problem hiding our erections.

Still naked, we then bedded down for the night - just an ordinary dormitory as you'd find at any school or army base: neat rows of beds, close together. We weren't locked in or anything, as they knew we weren't going to escape - in fact, most slaves are never locked in as there's nowhere for them to run to, no way they can avoid being quickly identified as slaves and returned to their owners for punishment. When we went into the men's room we all got a bit of a shock: well, you're used to "trough" urinals at school, aren't you, and those dividers between urinals are only in places like public rest rooms in restaurants - most guys don't mind pissing right up close next to another guy. But here there was a row of lavatories along a wall, with no partitions or cubicles, or anything - we were expected to crap communally, too. Thank god I didn't need to go, as some of the guys did. I decided that I'd wake up in the night, and sneak in there when I could be alone, then hope that no one else had the same idea.

It was really difficult, being so close to the guys on either side of me in their beds. I always like to wank when I get into bed, as it helps me sleep. But I was afraid that if I started to jerk off, they'd hear the slapping of my hand against my dick, and/or see the sheets moving! There was another problem, too - I didn't have anything to jerk off in to. Usually I take some toilet tissue with me, but I hadn't collected any from the men's room, and I didn't like to go out there now as coming back with a handful of tissue would look a bit obvious, wouldn't it? My dick was rock hard, though, and I thought about just jerking off and letting the semen stain the sheets - but then, perhaps they'd look in the morning, and punish me! The Director hadn't said anything about punishment, but I knew that "justified" punishment was perfectly legal and most masters sensibly punished their slaves for breaking house rules.

As I was lying there trying to decide what to do, I heard that faint, unmistakable "slap, slap" as the guy next to me started to jerk himself off. Very quietly I whispered "Hey, man...."

The noise stopped, and he hissed back "Yes?"

"Look... You're jerking off, right?"

"Sure. I've been here a week. If I didn't let the juice out, my balls would have been blown off."

"So what do you do.... You know... What do you do with the cum?"

"Same as I've always done."

"Where did you get the tissue from?"

"Tissue?"

"You know, to catch it."

"We didn't do that at home. Dad taught me that a man always catches his cum in his hand, then just licks it up. So that's what I do."

"That's gross!"

"Well, it's a good system for now, here." He turned over, and I heard him start beating his meat again.

I was desperate now. Not only was I rock hard, but the thought of another guy getting relief when I couldn't was terrible. There was nothing for it - I started jerking off, and, as I shot, I pointed my dick down at the bottom sheet so that it made as small a pool as possible. No way was I going to eat cum.

The next morning they fed us more slave chow, then we all had to shower and those of us who needed it shaved our chins. All forty or so of us were then assembled in from of the Director, who addressed us.

"You are on display here this morning, then this afternoon you are being auctioned. There's nothing to be afraid of or worried about - there's not much of a direct market for sixteen year olds. It's possible that one of the big hotels in the Town might come along and take a couple of you as pageboys - but I think they bought last week, and so it's unlikely. And so most of you will be bought by one of the big slave training schools who will then complete your education, and give you the skills you need to be a really productive slave. Those of you who are going to work in industrial plants will get health and safety training, for example. Farm workers will be taught the rudiments of animal husbandry or plant care. Those destined for personal service will be taught hairdressing, and so on. All you have to do is stand still, and be polite, if any of the buyers choose to examine you in detail. On no account may you speak, unless the buyers ask a direct question. Just stand there, silent and still, and pretend you're just items in a showroom being offered for sale - which, in fact, is what you are!"

I was getting used to being naked with all the other guys now, and so I wasn't worried when we were taken through, all together, into the display room. It was just a huge open room, carpeted with cheap carpet, but running across the carpet were painted lines marking out a kind of grid pattern. The Director told us that we were all to stand in one square of the grid, and that we were not to leave it for the duration of the sale - the buyers would circulate around us and, when the auction started, the auctioneer would come around as well. I suppose it's like those fish auctions you see on the quayside, where all the boxes of miscellaneous fish are laid out, and the buyers and the auctioneer walk around from one to the other.

Actually, it's tough - you try standing in one reasonably confined space for any length of time. We were told we had to stand, and were not allowed to sit, and two things happen - you get bored, and you get tired: you naturally want to walk around or run or something, and just standing reasonably still is a big problem. It was a bit of a relief, therefore, when the buyers came - well, at least it was interesting.

You hear a lot of stories about the way slaves are "handled" and inspected at auctions - at slave school we used to wonder what it would be like to have to bend over and have our asses fingered as there's a certain type of writer who always talks about "virgin ass holes" and how buyers are inspecting for that. Well, that didn't happen here - the buyers just looked like businessmen, in their suits, shirts and ties, and they tended to carry clipboards which they were noting things down on. They looked almost bored as they made the rounds of us as we all stood there, really just ticking our names and SINs off on a printed list that the auctioneers had provided them with. I suppose the idea was to make sure they didn't bid on any obviously "wrong" lad - they didn't care if we were good or average, but were only concerned to avoid bidding on any lads who might have got through the system with some major defect, or who were fat and flabby, or anything. They hardly looked at us in detail at all, and I didn't see any cocks being fondled, or any nipples being tweaked, or any of that other stuff that buyers are supposed to do to slaves. I guess that if you're buying "in bulk" with the intention of doing a lot more training, small individual differences don't count.

I'm those few inches taller than most guys my age, so I had a reasonably good view of what was happening. There seemed to be about four sets of buyers circulating, and they seemed to be very thorough, coming to all of us in turn for their quick visual inspection. In spite of not being touched at all, it was still quite a strange experience to have men looking you over and knowing that they were going to be bidding money for you. We were all used to the idea that we'd be sold - I'd known ever since I was a little kid - but somehow this is the first time that the true reality of it struck home to me. It's one thing to have all your family and friends keep telling you that you'll be sold at sixteen, and quite another to stand there naked with the prospective buyers prowling around looking at you and deciding how much they're prepared to pay!

There was a big clock on the far wall of the room, and we'd been there on display for about an hour and a half so far. Foolishly I hadn't stop to piss after taking a huge drink of water with my breakfast of slave chow, and I started to feel those little messages from my bladder saying I'd like to go. After two hours I knew I really had to go - but what to do? Here I was almost in the centre of a room full of other naked guys, and there was no way of getting out, and no one to tell. I thought of just striding to the door and telling one of the personnel from the slave centre about my need, but then it occurred to me that they might mark me down as "unruly" or something for disobeying the order to stay in my square. And I did remember that slaves who could not be sold would end up in the organ banks - so I didn't want to have even the slightest risk of getting a bad reputation at this stage.

As the little messages from my bladder increased, my dick did what it could to help - I felt myself getting a piss hard-on! When we were all taken and made to stand around I'd worried that I'd have constant erections - I usually had at least five an hour, after all, like most sexually mature lads do at my age. As I stood there I was terrified all the time about my dick going hard and my 'skin pulling back, but it never happened: I suppose something in my brain told me that his was like being in the locker room and communal showers at slave school, where I never say any of the other lads with a hard-on either. But now, in response to the need for piss, my dick was swelling and rising - and I knew, even without looking down, that it was now standing hard upright, almost parallel with my belly! Even though I've got a long, fat dick, when I'm erect it really does reach for the sky, and it's not content to just go out at right angles. My age, and the fact that I do a lot of exercise so I've got really tight, flat belly muscles probably make it like that, but now it was a real liability as there was just nothing I could do about it.

As the next set of buyers approached along the line which I was in, I desperately tried to make my erection subside. Then, when they were almost next to me, in desperation I moved my hands in front of me to shield myself from their gaze - it wasn't all that effective, as even though I've got big hands, to go with my body generally, my dick is even bigger when it's rampant.

"Put this one down as a bit shy", one buyer said to the other. "Pity really, as he's got a great body otherwise, but we don't need slaves who don't accept that they're just work animals and think they can have the sensibilities of men."

The other man tugged gently at my arms and pulled me to one side, then they both laughed when they saw my dick.

"Ah, this one really does have a good body! Let's bid on him anyway - I remember myself at 16 when I wasn't shy at all, unless my dick wanted to show off."

They read my SIN from my shoulder and ticked it off the list, and were about to move on when the first buyer came back and said "Why are you erect, boy? Does the sight of all these other men naked turn you on? Have you been playing around with other lads, trying out sex?"

Of course I hadn't! In our society you didn't have sex until you were married, which was never going to happen to me. None of the girls would think of allowing themselves to be fucked in case they got pregnant, and especially not by a lad who was going to spend his life as a slave. And none of the lads at my slave school were in to gay sex, and neither was my older brother. So the idea that I might have been trying out sex was just ridiculous.

"No, sir. I've never had sex. It's just.... Well.... I'm bursting to piss. This is just a morning piss hard-on, but it's a few hours late."

Both men roared with laughter, and when they got to the end of the row I was in, they went and spoke to the attendant from the salve centre. A couple of minutes later I saw the guy coming down the line towards me, carrying an ordinary plastic bucket.

He put it on the floor and said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, "Empty your bladder into this, boy, so we can show you off properly."

Well, desperate though I was to piss, I couldn't do it at first! I'm not piss-shy or anything, as I'm used to communal urinals in locker rooms and so on, but with the other lads all around me standing there and grinning, and with the attendant watching, I just couldn't make it happen. To make it worse, the attendant had his hands on his hips, and was tapping his foot up and down in impatience - the more he seemed to be trying to hurry me, the less able I felt to get he stream started.

It was so painful, though, that after I'd forced my dick to pint downwards and I'd strained and strained, a little squirt came out. And once it had started, there was no stopping, as you know. A great stream of piss shot into the bucket, and this, too, was awful: the sound of my stream of piss hitting the plastic echoed and reverberated around the room, so that everyone would know what was going on! I hated having the attendant watch as I expressed the last few drops of piss out of my dick, too - with a 'skin, you have to be really careful, and I didn't want to have any unpleasantness with dried piss under my 'skin in case any of the buyers did do one of those mythical inspections. I was bright red after it was all over, and my blush covered not only my face but my neck and shoulders, too. In the coolish air of the room I even felt a bit chilly, a I realised I'd broken out in a light sweat with my embarrassment. Little did I know that in my later life I wouldn't even have the dignity of a bucket to piss in to most of the time I was working!

As the attendant went out, a couple of the other lads timidly shouted out to him, and I heard other streams landing in the bucket - I can't have been the only one in the same predicament.

Five or six groups of buyers had been around eventually, and the clock told us that it was almost auction time. They'd all been the relatively faceless "grey" businessmen, and I'd got used to being almost ignored as they ticked me off on their little check lists. Coming down the row towards me now though wear a couple of guys who were just not in the same mould - they were both tall, like me, and unlike all the "suits" we'd seen so far, they were in blue jeans and tight T shirts. They were bronzed, muscular and kind of weather-beaten, as if they spent their whole life out of doors.

"This is the one", one said to the other. "He's a head taller than most of the rest. Let's check out his legs."

The other one dropped to his knees in front of me, looked up, and said in a not unkindly way "Spread your legs, boy - about a foot apart."

Oh God, I thought. This is it. They're going to start that asshole stuff. Please don't let it hurt... But he didn't finger my hole. All he did was rub his hands up and down my calves and my thighs, and they were quite rough - he had callouses at the base of his fingers, and they ruffled the hairs on my legs as the probed and tested my musculature.

He got to his feet, and said "Turn around", and I did as I was told, so my back was to him. His hands ran over my shoulders first, then down my back - one hand on either side, with his fingers probing around into my ribs. Then he spent a lot of time pressing my ass muscles - cupping my butt, and testing and stretching the big muscles there almost as if he wanted to see how resilient they were. Any minute now, I thought... He's going to tell me to grab my ankles, and then he'll explore my hole.

"Face me again, boy". Ah, he wasn't going to do that?

I rotated, and he ran his hands lightly now down over my pecs, but he didn't pay particular attention to my nipples or anything. He looked hard at my cock, hanging there in front of me, but didn't touch it.

"This one would make a good buy", he said to his companion. "He's got the right body shape - good long legs and a nice balance between leg length and body length. That's what the market is looking for. And he's already got a good butt - look how it flares out from his narrow waist, and there's already a lot of power in the muscles to drive those legs. Nice dick, too - absolutely in proportion to the rest of him, with nice low-hangers setting the whole thing off."

"Yes", the other agreed. "He's already in good shape.

A bit immature, as you expect at 16, but with some hard training he looks as if he'll fill out nicely. By eighteen I think he'd be a really fine specimen, and we'd get a good price for him. So let's go for it."

With that, without saying a word to me directly, they strode off.

Who were they, and why had they been so particularly interested in me compared with the other naked guys who surrounded me? And why were they so concerned about my butt and my legs? I didn't have much time to ponder this, as the PA system announced that bidding was about to commence.

End of part 1

THE WILLING SLAVE, Part 2

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Well the auction was not as bad as I thought it would be. In spite of having known about it for years, I found myself strangely unprepared to be "sold off". Standing there naked, surrounded by the other guys who were also being sold, it made me feel as if I was less than a human - well, in one way, I suppose, I was. Slaves have no "human" rights after all, and it's part of their lot to be traded, exchanged, and auctioned. But it's one thing to know this intellectually, and another to be standing there, humiliatingly displayed naked, so that buyers can bid for you.

The auctioneer came around to each of our marked off squares in turn and the bidding was very swift - not more than a few moments for each lad. There were only four of five buyers, and they all seemed to know each other and the auctioneer, and everything went very quickly. There almost seemed to be an agreed price for healthy young lads like us, and once this price was reached, the other bidders dropped out and the auctioneer moved on.

When they got to me, though, the two men in Jeans who had examined me so closely turned up, too, and my price did not stop at the "agreed" level - the two guys bid against the "suits" and I went for almost double the "normal" rate. I think they would have gone on bidding much higher, but the "suits" dropped out, saying it wasn't worth paying so much for me to become an agricultural labourer, as there were plenty of other slaves coming through the system at "normal" prices. The auctioneer asked the two men for their names, and they said "Double J Ranch", and he used a magic marker to scrawl on my naked belly two big "J" characters - I hated being marked like this, just as if I was an animal, but if that's what your master wants, that's what a slave gets, I suppose.

Afterwards when all of us had been sold, the buyers left and the Director of the place came in and told us to form a line. We were then moved past, one by one, a table where a record keeper sat who noted down the scrawled marks on our bellies, looked at our SINs, referred to the list of auction prices, and was evidently making up invoices for the buyers. Most of the other guys had been bought by two of the buyers, and I saw them being separated off and going out into the courtyard at the back where, still naked, they were loaded into small buses.

The two men who had bought me were at the table, told the record keeper they had only bought one slave, and handed over a credit card to be processed. It all seemed so normal - almost like a check-out at a store:

you picked up your goods, me, and you handed over your credit card.

"Shall I add in twenty for a uniform, sir?"

"No - he can go naked."

"A Town ordinance forbids naked slaves in the central areas here, sir, so unless you have private transportation arranged, you will need to have the slave clothed. We offer a standard uniform at very reasonable prices...."

My owners nodded in agreement, the card was processed, and they were told to take me over to a window in the corner where I was handed my "uniform". It's odd, I suppose - I was already thinking of these men as my "owners" - they'd come along here and actually purchased me. I now truly knew I was no longer a "man", as I was a slave, a piece of property which these men now owned.

I'd seen slaves around of course working away on manual jobs in the area where we lived, and now I was given he same "uniform" that slaves almost universally wore - you know, the loose-fitting shorts with an elastic waistband in a cheap grey synthetic material, the loose singlet in the same fabric, cut so that my name and SIN on my shoulder was exposed, and the cheap plastic slave sandals. No underwear, of course, or socks: everything just designed for cheapness and utility. It felt odd to see myself in a mirror on the wall as I followed my owners out - with my newly-cropped hair and my "uniform", I really did look like a slave. I'd been transformed from a normal sixteen year old lad into a sixteen year old slave - it had never occurred to me that a man's position could so clearly be marked by his haircut and his clothes.

I followed the men and we walked a few blocks through the streets to a hotel near the bus station. The men had already taken a room, and we walked up the four flights to it - I'm told that in olden times the elevators were always in use, but with the energy crisis now you need to pay extra if you want to use them, and these men had obviously decided that the charge was not worth while. The room was just as you'd expect - bathroom in one corner, big double bed, a couch, and a TV.

Once we were in and they'd closed the doors, the one who I judged to be slightly older turned to me and said "Right, slave.... Steve, isn't it...?"

"Yes."

"Boy, you'd better learn to speak properly now you're a slave. On our ranch, in training, slaves always answer with a sir at the front of the sentence, and a sir at the end. Now, try it..."

I swallowed as my mouth had gone dry as he spoke. This was a new element of my life as a slave that I hadn't thought about.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Good, Steve. Now, let me tell you that I am Master Dave and this other gentleman is Master Jay. We have been on a scouting expedition to buy new lads for training at our ranch, and we will ship you there, starting tomorrow. The journey will take three days, as our ranch is in Wyoming. Have you ever been there?"

"Sir, no, sir." Actually, I hadn't really been out of our state - one effect of the energy crisis was to have driven up travel costs to such an extent that only the very rich could afford to travel long distances, and things like vacations were now mostly spent close to home. My estimation of these two men went up - if they had been travelling around, this far from home, they must be very successful businessmen. The prospect of travel, seeing more of our country, was actually very exciting.

"We run a training ranch, and we specialise in taking young slaves of sixteen like you and turning them into properly trained, strong, workers. We usually keep you for two years, and sell you on when you're eighteen. At our ranch we're fair, but firm, masters - provided you work hard at your training, and obey all orders exactly, you will not be punished. We do not indulge in sadistic beatings of our slaves merely for pleasure, but if you do break our rules, or if you do not really work hard and enthusiastically at the exercises you are given, you can expect to be beaten, severely. You will be properly fed, adequately housed in the slave quarters, and receive good medical care. The life you will lead will be a healthy, outdoor one, and all the other slaves we select for training are, like you, strong-looking fit lads who look as if they enjoy using their bodies and who have clearly exercised hard anyway. Would you say that applied to you?"

"Sir, yes, sir. I worked out every day, swam, and played football."

"Good. We try to pick exceptional slaves at your age with the potential to grow into exceptional, mature slaves at eighteen. You will find that your body fills out, your muscles grow, and you will develop a capacity for sustained hard work. You are fortunate in that we are specialists - our work is known throughout the country, and slaves who are sourced from our ranch always command premium prices as buyers know that the slaves have received the finest training available. And as a very expensive slave you can expect to be treated well by your owner - if a man buys a really expensive designer suit, he takes care of it and hangs it on a hanger every night, and has it dry cleaned: if he buys a cheap pair of Jeans, he throws them on the floor at night, and does all sorts of work in them. It's just the same with slaves - you will be the designer suit that the owner takes exceptional care of as you have cost him so much to buy. Master Jay and I are now going out to dinner. You may watch the TV whilst we are away, and you will, of course, stay in this room. Is that all clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir. But may I ask what I am being trained for?"

Master Dave smiled at Master Jay, as much as to say "surely, everyone has heard of us - what a stupid question." But he turned back to me and went on "We are the foremost provider of trained pony slaves in the country. Slaves from the Double J Ranch have a reputation for reliability, strength, excellent temperament, perfect grooming, and complete competence at their craft. We only deal at the high-end of the pony slave market, and do not, or course, turn out those teams of slaves who pull wagons or delivery vehicles. We have three basic types of pony designed for individual transport - long-distance 'marathon' ponies, who can take their owners up to around 30 Km a day, 'sprinters', deigned for use in the immediate environs of the master's home, who can take him very quickly on short journeys of up to a couple of Km, and

'hacks'. 'Hacks' are general purpose ponies much favoured by owners of farms and estates, where the requirement is to be used all day by the master to take him around on tours of inspection. Hacks do variable distances, with breaks whilst the master attends to his business, and sometimes these will be at a fast pace, but more generally the master allows a steady trot."

"It's relatively easy to find lads for training as 'sprinters' and 'marathon' ponies, as you need specific body types for this work. But 'hacks' are more difficult to find, because of the many varying requirements placed on them. The ideal 'hack' had big, long, powerful legs driven by strong ass muscles so that he can trot for long distances or do the occasional sprint if his master is pressed for time. He must have a strong heart and large lung capacity so that he can keep going at hard work for long periods, and, finally, and a point that's sometimes overlooked, he must look good! His master is going to spend long periods with him as the master goes about his business, and so the pony slave must be pleasing to the eye. You have all the characteristics that will make you, potentially, an excellent 'hack', and in the next two years we will work on them and develop you into a slave for whom a master will pay us a high price."

With that, the two men turned and left, leaving me feeling stunned! Pony slaves were not usual in our small town. I'd heard about them, and even seen one or two occasionally. But we didn't have the large farms and estates that made them useful, I suppose, or the need for the great displays of the wealth of the owner that they implied. I mean, most people walk these days, and to keep a slave for pulling you around on short journeys is a big extravagance.

A lot of local deliveries were by the carriers with teams of slaves pulling the cart, of course, but it was almost always blacks who are used for this as they are considered to be generally more powerfully built and muscular, and thus better suited to the work of hauling the heavy loads. I'd never thought of myself as standing between the shafts of a light rickshaw and being used to transport a master around, and at first it seemed wrong that they should consider using me in this way. But as I thought on I began to realise that I was lucky - it wouldn't be much fun as a labourer in a plant, or as a member of a gang of slaves toiling in the fields, bent double picking the crops, or, even worse, as a miner buried deep underground. I could see that as a pony slave, a prized possession of a rich master, I might have an interesting and useful life - masters did need to inspect their plantations and holdings, and there simply wasn't the gasoline to ferry them around in cars all day as might have happened before.

There was a big handful of slave chow in a bag on the side, and I sat on the couch and turned on the TV, munching away. It was almost like being at home, as I could choose which channels I wanted (unlike at slave school) - and mom and dad, and my brothers, weren't all there arguing about it.

The two men came back after a couple of hours, and as they saw me sitting there, Master Jay snapped "Boy, rule two : a slave gets to his feet respectfully when his owner enters the room!"

I scrambled to my feet, and he went on "I guess we'd better have another inspection of you to make sure we haven't made a mistake - we could sell you locally here if we had to, before we pay transport charges tomorrow. So shuck those clothes, so we can see you properly."

Somehow having to stand naked in front of the two men in that hotel room was much worse than being on display earlier. I was alone and wasn't surrounded by other naked lads, and the whole atmosphere of a bedroom, with carpet on the floor, curtains at the window and so on was so "personal" compared with the sterile formality of the auction room. I felt myself starting to flush with embarrassment, and I wanted to move my hands to cover my private parts.

"Get in and take a shower - you probably stink after a whole day sweating in that display. We'll look more closely at you then."

As I went into the bathroom to do as I'd been instructed, I went to pull the door closed behind me, but it was now Master Dave who called out: "No, leave the door. Slaves have no need to hide their bodies from their owners."

I turned on the shower, but realised that I really wanted a crap - all that slave chow must be working its way through my system. I'd had to use the communal facilities at the slave centre, but the thought of doing my business now was worse - the two men could plainly see me through the open bathroom door. But my need was very great, and I sat down on the plastic seat and tried not to think that I might be being observed - I sat with my shoulders bent over and my head down, and hoped that the two men might watch the TV or something. Using the toilet tissue was awful - I mean, it's not always very elegant at the best of times, is it, and I was so embarrassed that I didn't make a very good job of it. Fortunately I could just hop quickly into the shower, so it wasn't all that much of a problem, and I stood there and let the warm water cascade over me. Like a lot of hotels there was a cut-off, though, to save energy, and all too soon I had to climb out and dry myself.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked back into the bedroom, conscious that it was only a small towel and that one thigh was jutting almost provocatively out through the join where it wasn't quite big enough to go all the way around - I've told you I'm a big guy for my age, and there was no way one of the hotel's small towels could go around my waist and overlap properly.

The men looked up as I came in, and smiled. Master Jay reached out and, before I could stop him, pulled the towel away so that I was totally naked. "Slaves should not have feelings of modesty in front of their owners, boy. Master Dave and I own you, own you totally. You are ours to look at and enjoy if we wish, and we do not allow our ponies in training any false sense that they have parts of their bodies which can be concealed from us."

Both men now stood up, and came and started to run their hands over me, commenting on my good points, and my bad points - well, I don't think I had any bad points, actually! This time their inspection was much more thorough, though - as well running their hands over my back, chest, belly, ass, thighs and calves, they reached down and gently "cupped" my balls, as if they were feeling the weight of them. It was Master Dave who did this, and he kind of spread my sac out in the palm of his hand, then used his thumb to separate each ball and gently roll it around.

Well no guy likes his balls handled, does he? I mean, if you're drying yourself or something and accidentally get it wrong, it fucking hurts, doesn't it? So when another guy grabs hold of them you have a right to be worried - he's not going to be as careful with them as you yourself would be, is he?

But I think Master Dave must have been used to feeling other guys' balls, as it actually didn't hurt. He looked at Master Jay, and commented "They're fine - but it's just as well to check there isn't any testicular cancer: too many of these young lads don't bother."

Turning back to me, he continued "That's good, you're fine. An excellent purchase we've made - even though we had to pay a bit of a premium for you as those bastard dealers forced up the price, we'll still be able to turn a handsome profit on you in a couple of years - you've got everything we're looking for in a pony with that body of yours, and you're quite a handsome devil, aren't you?"

I blushed a bit ,a s I wasn't used to being talked about like this.

"Sir, I don't know, Sir....", I stammered.

"No false modesty, slave. I bet all the girls wanted a date with you, and with that dick of yours...."

"Sir, no, Sir. None of the girls in our town would date a guy who was destined to be a slave."

"So how did you exercise that dick of yours... Brothers, other slaves....?"

"Sir, NO, Sir". I almost shouted as it sounded so disgusting. "Of course not, sir. My brothers and me never did anything like that. We had a big house and we all had our own rooms, so I was able to jerk off in private."

I wondered why Master Dave and Master Jay smiled at each other. But Master Dave went on "Well, that wasn't quite what I meant. But I think I know enough now - so you just jerked yourself off. Well, I expect you got a lot of practice! Master Jay and I need to finally make sure that everything is working well in you, so please show us how you jerk off - we need to see that you are able to ejaculate properly."

"Sir, please, Sir... I'm not sure what you want me to do."

"Isn't that perfectly clear? Jerk yourself off. Show us how much cum you produce - get beating your meat. Although you've been vasectomised as part of slave processing, you can still shoot a load, you know. It's just that all your little swimmers are not energised."

I turned to go towards the bathroom, but Master Dave said "No, boy. Here, in front of us. There's nothing to be ashamed of in performing perfectly natural functions in front of your owners."

I was blushing furiously as I started to jerk myself off, but somehow it just wouldn't happen. I was used to jerking off sprawled in the chair in my room, or lying in bed, and it was just so wrong to be doing it standing up in front of these two men.

Master Jay seemed kinder than Master Dave, and he saw my obvious problem. "Look, Steve", he began quietly and calmly, "We just need to see your cum, to make sure you can produce a really nice load. But a lot of lads don't like jerking themselves off whilst they're standing up. So you may as well learn the way that slaves are usually trained to do it. Now, kneel down in front of us with your feet together and with your knees wide apart. Lean backwards so that your back is upright, but you can bend your head so that you're facing down, looking at your dick and at the floor. As well as making you look subservient, it means you don't have to look at the master who's commanded you to do it, and that may make it easier for you."

Still blushing furiously, I did as he'd said, and it actually was easier, I suppose. I jerked away and tried to think all the sexy thoughts I could, and it started to happen - I went hard, and as I slid my foreskin on and off my cock head, that wonderful sensation you get started to take over. It never takes me all that long to cum, and, clearly seeing that I was about to shoot, master Jay said "Be sure to catch all your cum as we want to see the volume as well as the quality."

I spurted into the palm of my hand, and held it there as four big "aftershocks" added to the volume of my initial ejaculate. Then I cautiously raised my hand towards master Dave and Master Jay. To my amazement both men dipped a finger and thumb into my warm cum and kind of pulled them out away from me, so a big skein of it grew between their fingers and my hand. I could smell that ammoniacal smell of my cum as my hand was right by my nose, and hated what they were doing - this was such a private thing, and a guy's cum shouldn't be interfered with like this, should it?

"Excellent, boy", Master Dave said. "Now, Master Jay and I are going to bed. You can sleep on the couch, but go and wash your hands first, and you'll find a toothbrush there, too - give yourself a good brushing as that slave chow, although it doesn't contain sugar, can still leave bits between your teeth to harbour decay.

It was again strange standing there totally naked brushing my teeth, knowing that the two men could see me through the open bathroom door. And you know how it is as you brush away - the movement of your arm makes your body sway, and I could feel my dick lurching from side to side, rather like a pendulum!

I went back and sat on the couch, and one of the masters threw me a spare blanked from out of the closet. I lay there on the couch and pulled the blanket over me, and remained still, watching them. Where were they going to sleep, I wondered? There was only the double bed.

They pulled off their shirts, then almost as if they were completely used to acting in unison, both bent down simultaneously to unlace the tall boots they were wearing, and pull off their socks. They unbuckled their Jeans and shed them, and stood there in their briefs.

I was a bit surprised by this, as I thought most men wore boxers, but both Master Dave and Master Jay had on really small white briefs - they contrasted so strongly with their tanned muscular bodies (both men were in good shape for older guys), and I could see that they must both be well hung as their dicks were clearly outlined by the thin material of the tight briefs. Completely unashamed, they pushed the briefs down and kind of kicked the mover their feet, and stood there facing each other, smiling. Them Master Dave leaned forward and kissed Master Jay, full on the lips.

Master Dave then turned and strode towards the bathroom, and Master Jay followed him. Master Jay sat and crapped whilst Master Dave cleaned his teeth, and then the two men reversed these activities to complete their preparations for bed. At first I thought I'd better turn over on the couch so that my face was towards the back and I couldn't see the two masters, but they seemed to be completely at ease with themselves and didn't seem to even notice that I was lying there watching them.

They came out of the bathroom, turning out the light, and both got, completely naked, into the double bed, and turned out the lights. As all three of us lay there in the dark of the room, I could hear little whispers and laughs coming from the two men, and then a load of noises I'd only heard before from mom and dad's room - sometimes my elder brother and I would wake up in the middle of the night and creep along the passage to listen at mom and dad's door: we'd hear them making little rustling noises, then dad's groaning and my mom giving little shouts of pleasure. Well, it was just like that - these two men must be fucking!

Look, I know it's not illegal or anything, and since the restrictions on having kids came in force a lot more guys choose to live together, rather than going off to breed. But surely you wouldn't fuck another guy in the same room where there was another man, would you? Then the thought struck me - they didn't think of me a a man: I was a slave, and an owner could do what he liked in front of his slaves.

I don't know whether they just had a quick fuck, or whether it was just my extreme tiredness after all the excitement of the day, but I drifted off into sleep. I was woken by the blanket being stripped off me and Master Dave slapping me on my ass and shouting "Come on, Steve, rise and shine! We've got to get you to the slave transporter's. Get your ass under the shower, as we don't have all that much time."

I suddenly realised that I was in the state I always was when I woke up - I had a piss hard-on, and Master Dave, standing there staring down at my body, couldn't help but see it! I started to blush, but he went on "I said get your ass into the shower, boy!"

So all I could do was get up, and stumble across the room, covering my erection as best I could. But in the bathroom Master Jay was already in the shower, and as I came in he pushed the door open and called out "In here, boy. Let's share this one, as Master Dave and I don't want to have to pay extra" (like the use of elevators, hot water, being so expensive after the fuel crisis, was individually metered to rooms).

Well, I've obviously been in communal showers before - we were all the time, at slave school, and I've even shared a shower with my brothers occasionally. But this was a big, grown man, and as I eased myself into the tiny cubicle I couldn't help compare our bodies - although I was taller than he was, I wasn't so well developed and muscular. I had a lot less body hair, too, but I noted with satisfaction that my dick was longer and thicker!

He started to soap me - I'd had his hands run over my body yesterday as he "inspected" me, but this was totally different - the warm water, the slimy soap... It was almost, well, kind of 'sensual', I suppose. And he handed me the soap and expected me to do the same to him. I'd never really touched another man like this before, and it was actually quite thrilling to be able to run my hands over his back and down onto his ass.

To my astonishment, Master Jay had the same type of tattoo on his ass as I had, and as he turned so I could soap his chest, I saw his upper arm had a SIN and "Jay" clearly showing.

He saw me looking, took the soap off me, and said "I'll do my own dick and balls, and you can do your own - there'll be time enough for you to get over shyness about another man's body."

"Sir, it wasn't that, sir.... It was.... Well, I thought you were a master, and I've just seen...."

"To you, boy, I am a master - Master Jay. Master Dave bought me twenty years ago, and he would free me if he could. But enslavement is for life ,as you may or may not know. Master Dave and I run the Double J Ranch together, and as you probably saw last night, we're really close.... So to you and all the other slaves on the Double J, I am a master. It's only when I have to take my clothes off in front of other men that they even guess that I'm a slave. Once you're a slave, you're never free - although with a good owner like Master Dave, I'm actually more than free."

"Sir... So he could sell you, sir...."

"Well, I guess so. But he's never going to do that! Now, stop your questioning, boy, get your dick and ass clean, and let's turn off this water before it ruins us!"

I didn't like having to clean under my 'skin as he watched, as that's always been a private area for me, but he was so close in the tiny shower cubicle that there wasn't really any way I could avoid it. And his "presence", his big man's body touching against mine, was kind of there all the time as we stood there drying ourselves.

We walked back naked into the bedroom, and Master Dave was already dressed. Master Jay started to pull his clothes on, and Master Dave picked up the "uniform" T and shorts I had been wearing the day before. He held them up to his face and sniffed, turned to me and said "These will do - I don't want to pay out another twenty for a new set. You're only going to be travelling in the slave section of the transporter, so it won't matter. Get into the bathroom and rub some antiperspirant on your 'pits, though!"

It's really quick to get ready when you've got very short hair and are only wearing a slave T and shorts, and Master Jay was still tying his boots when I was ready. Then all three of us left the room and walked down to the lobby. Master Dave and Master Jay went into the dining room to have breakfast, but I was told to sit in the lobby in the special area reserved for slaves (no plush leather chairs and flowers - just a wooden bench against the wall). Master Jay gave me a package of slave chow as they went in, though, and told me to finish it whilst I was waiting, and there was a separate water cooler for slave use so I wasn't too badly off.

When they came out, all three of us left the hotel and walked the few blocks to the transportation terminus. It was already quite warm - temperatures have gone up a lot, they say, since the crisis - and I think I was actually better off in the T and shorts, although the sidewalk felt hot on my bare feet. It seemed odd, though, to be dressed as a slave rather than in the stylish, casual clothes that everyone else was wearing. And I noticed that other pedestrians made no effort to avoid me - they just walked on straight, and it was always me who was expected to step aside to give them room: they could see from my dress that I was a slave, and slaves give way to free men, of course.

I'd been to the transportation terminal before occasionally, to see dad off on a business trip, and I always think it's interesting to watch the huge three-segment double-decker buses being loaded with passengers and their luggage. Now, from my changing perspective it wasn't so much the passengers I noticed as the slaves: muscled guys stripped just to their work boots and shorts as it was so hot were packing cases and other luggage into the lower levels of the buses, and other, less well-defined slaves were helping passengers up the steps and checking tickets.

Master Dave and Master Jake told me to stop gawking, and follow them, and we went into the offices of USS - I've seen their logos everywhere, as I expect you have: their delivery men in their slave uniforms with the distinctive USS logo seem to be everywhere. It had never occurred to me before that it stood for "Universal Slave Services", though, and I wondered what we were doing.

"A through booking for this slave to Buffalo", Master Jake said. The clerk behind the desk keyed something into his PC, then said "There's a local service from the uptown bus station, gentlemen, if you were to take the slave there...."

"No, Buffalo Wyoming", Master Jake responded with a smile. "Folks often forget we have a town there with that name, as everyone thinks of the New York one!"

More keying on the PC, and the clerk said "The total journey time is four days, sir. Do you want the slave to be fed, and is he to be accommodated in a dormitory at interchanges?"

"Food of course - I can't be bothered to go and buy more slave chow. But he's young, and he can sleep on the benches overnight in the terminals - I think that's best, anyway, as in those dormitories a young lad like this could easily get abused."

"Quite, sir. I'm afraid that some of the supervision that we're able to provide is not as good as it might be, and some of the more aggressive slaves do like young lads like this.... USS is thinking of providing 'secure' delivery, with special dormitories with all the slaves chained to their cots, but that doesn't come in on these routes until next year."

"And do you want the slave to be given fresh clothes each day? That will be an extra sixty..."

"Yes, I suppose so. We don't want him stinking the bus out."

There was a little extra discussion, then Master Dave handed over a credit card and there was a lot of whirring and a bar coded ticked was printed. The clerk put a kind of plastic necklace through it, and told me to lean over the counter, where he fastened the plastic around my neck.

"This is your ticket and routing slip, slave", he said to me. "It's fastened around your neck permanently until it's cut off, and it's waterproof so you can shower and so on at the USS facilities at each overnight stop. The barcode on the front is all your ticketing and routing details - at every major interchange point insert it into the USS machine and it will tell you when your next bus is."

I looked down at the thing handing around my neck, that was in a bright fluorescent yellow. One side was a big bar code, and the other, in big letters, proclaimed "USS - SLAVE IN TRANSIT".

The clerk turned to my owners and said "Thank you, sirs", to Master Dave and Master Jake, and added "His first bus is the direct to Pittsburgh - it leaves in an hour."

We went out of the office, and went over to where the Pittsburgh bus was loading. I was actually quite excited - because of the huge cost of transport now I'd very rarely travelled, and the idea of sitting high in one of the huge buses and seeing more of the country was quite appealing.

"Now, Steve, you heard what the man said", Master Jake told me. "At every stop use your routing document to find out what to do next. You'll have to sleep on the benches overnight, as it's already costing us a small fortune to ship you. We've paid for two meals of slave chow a day, and for a fresh T and shorts each morning. When you get to Buffalo, there'll be transport to the double J."

"Sir... Please sir.... Don't I have a contact number..... Or some money in case anything goes wrong, sir?"

"Of course not! What could go wrong? If it does, simply show your USS routing slip to one of their agents. And what would you need money for? We've made arrangements for you to be fed, and there's absolutely nothing a slave ever needs to buy."

We'd got to the bus now, and there was a USS agent supervising the loading. He scanned my routing slip, and said to the masters "OK, this one is checked for this bus. You can leave him here and I'll see he's loaded at the right time."

Master Dave and Master Jake didn't even say goodbye or anything - they just walked off and left me there in the bus terminal. I'd never felt so alone - no money, nothing, and off half way across the country with just this routing slip to give me transport and food. I thought of calling my family to tell them I was leaving, but realised there was no point - effectively, I'd left, for ever, when they took me to the slave centre.

I was wrong about being able to see much of the country - when the agent told me that mot of the cargo was loaded and it was time for me to be packed, I wasn't allowed to get onto the upper deck. Slave quarters on these huge buses are, as you may not know, down in the lower "cargo" deck. And there aren't the huge adjustable seats that passengers in the top deck get - just a couple of benches across from each other, where up to eight slaves can be packed in to a small compartment.

There was a tiny window, though, and I sat with my back to the way the bus would move close to it, so I could see out as much as possible. Just before we left the door of the slave compartment was unlocked again and another slave came in and sat down opposite me. Like me, he was wearing a loose slave "T" and a pair of slave shorts, and the same sort of plastic collar around his neck carried a "routing card" like mine.

He was a big, muscular guy, and without any introduction or anything he grabbed my arm and read my name. "Hi, Steve....."

I didn't know what to say, so I just mumbled "Hi...."

"Oh, you're new to this, are you?" He asked me.

"Yes..."

"OK.. Here's how it works. When one slave meets another you read his name from his shoulder. We're often working in noisy places, and this is the sure-fire way to know the name of your work mate. Now do it. You can read, can't you?"

I reached across and very tentatively pulled his arm towards me, feeling his hot, sweaty biceps under my fingers. "Yes.... Chet....", I said, "I can read - I got the basics at slave school, but there were always a lot of books around the house for my brothers...."

"OK, Steve, let me give you some advice. Just do as you're told, and don't add all this extra stuff."

Just at that moment a small loudspeaker came to life, and we heard the "captain" of the bus telling passengers that we would be leaving in five minutes, and that all non-travellers should get off.

Chet leaned back on the bench and pulled his T off. Now I could see more of it I realised that he did indeed have a superbly muscled body, with a nice thatch of fur on his pecs and a trail running across his ridged belly to disappear down the top of his shorts. The yellow card sat there against him, and somehow seeing a big, confident guy like this naked except for slave shorts and a tag was at the same time both exciting, and sad.

"Looks as if it's just you and me, Steve. You may as well get comfortable, as they don't bother too much with the air conditioning down here", he said.

I didn't like to say I was OK, as this guy clearly knew what he was doing, so I too pulled off my T and sat there in my shorts facing him. I sat there and looked at him, and thought that this is probably how I would be in a few years time - tough, muscular, half naked, and tagged, being sent somewhere by my owner.

End Of Chapter 2