Young Stud

YOUNG STUD

By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Note: Some of my readers may be grossly upset at the cruel and unusual lifestyle to which young Steve is subjected in this story. Many would consider that the slavery laws should be strengthened to prevent this kind of abuse of young, virile men. But as the work that his owner commands him to perform is perfectly legal in the southern slave states, I am afraid that in the interests of accurately chronicling Steve's progress some very distressing incidents need to be recounted. Those of you who find it disgusting to read tales of men forced to indulge in sex with women may wish to skip over some of the earlier parts, until Steve at last gets to experience proper sex.

Part One

So, OK, I shouldn't have been drunk - but I was only nineteen, and it was my first time "off the leash", so to speak, away from my parents. And they always said that in Florida it didn't matter, as the State was so concerned about tourist revenues.

I think they keep it well hushed up! I've no idea how many respectable Northern boys like me end up falling foul of their laws down there, but you don't read about it in the papers, or see any of it on TV, do you? Look, I'm not complaining about being found guilty - I certainly had had far and away too many beers. And it's true that, goaded on by my buddies - former buddies, I might add - I did do that stupid dare and tipped all that soap powder into the fountain outside City Hall and then pretended to take a bath in them. It was hilarious - until the cops came, did a lightning breath test on me, and arrested me. All my buddies scarpered, leaving me to take the can for it all.

I didn't care at first as I was pretty much out of it, and the cops particularly didn't like it when I threw up all over their patrol car as we went off to the police station. They tossed me in a cell, of course, and it was there, the next morning, that my troubles really began. I felt like shit - my stomach was all upset and I had to use the lavatory a lot as the contents of my stomach trickled out. My head was splitting, and I felt like being sick all the time. I was shivering and pale, and hunched up into the corner of my cell, almost hoping to die, when they came for me. I'd already vowed that I'd never drink so much again, and when they grabbed me and frog-marched me down the corridor I almost threw up over them again, and my head felt as if it was gripped in a vice, I knew that would be the sensible thing to do.

They didn't allow me to clean up or anything - I was almost thrown into the Courtroom in my crumpled jeans and T which had dried on me after the fountain, and which had a few streaks of my vomit on them. I must have smelled foul, and my unshaven, deathly white face and greasy hair probably didn't impress the judge either.

I couldn't believe the speed with which it was all over. There was a public defender there, but he just looked at me, asked me if the police reports were true and that I'd been drunk and disorderly, and had damaged public property, and when I kind of shrugged and said yes, that was it. I had to plead guilty, there was no plea in mitigation or anything. I nudged the public defender to do something, but he stared back at me and just said that as I'd said I was guilty, what was the point?

I stood up when the judge told me to, but then I could hardly believe my ears when he said calmly "Drunk and disorderly is a serious offence, and we need to send a strong lesson to irresponsible young men like you who come down here and disturb our calm tranquility with your raucous behaviour. I would normally hand out a swingeing fine, in the hope that your parents, when they had to pay up, would punish you properly. But I cannot rule out the damage to public property - it may have seemed innocent enough to generate all those soap bubbles, but they caused the pumps to run dry and seize up, and the whole fountain will have to be torn apart and rebuilt. Such vandalism of community assets calls for the most severe punishment that the law allows, and I am pronouncing a sentence of enslavement on you."

With that, he banged his gavel and rose, and the usher shouted "all rise", as he left the Court. I turned to the public defender in shock! "Enslavement? They can't do that.... I'm from the North..... And, anyway, for how long?"

He looked at me as if I was some sort of idiot. "You're in Florida now, and subject to this State's laws, and your State of origin is of no consequence. And for how long? For life, of course. Once a slave, always a slave. I'd have thought that was obvious! There'd be no point in having fixed lengths of slavedom, would there? What owner would want a prize asset simply walking away after a few years? And what kind of punishment would enslavement be if we had all that nonsense we have with prison terms, with remissions, pleas, appeals to higher courts? No, boy, you're a slave now, as from the moment that gavel banged. And a slave you'll be for the rest of your life."

I looked around in panic, thinking I might make a run for it, but two guards were by now standing next to me. "Look, there must me some mistake....", I stammered to the public defender. "Call my folks. Mom and dad will pay for the damage...."

"Silence, boy!", one of the guards snapped. "Fucking slaves speak only when spoken to."

I ignored him, and tugged at the public defender's jacket as he turned to move away. "No, wait, please.... You've got to help me....."

That was my first experience of the slave prod - the guard just touched it to me, and the next moment I was rolling and thrashing around in the well of the Court, screaming and sobbing. And as the twitching of my limbs gradually subsided (although that terrible residual pain remained, as those of you who have felt the prod will know), I realised with sick horror that my bowels had also let go, and there was a most unpleasant wet feeling in my jeans. Fortunately, I guess, my earlier experiences as my stomach's contents had trickled away in the jail cell meant there wasn't much left, but, even so, it made me feel even worse.

The guards looked down at me and snapped "On your feet, boy, unless you want another dose! Slaves speak only when spoken to, as we said, and in no circumstances do they ever touch a free man like that!"

Turning to the public defender the bigger guard went on "I'm sorry, sir - but he looked relatively docile and I didn't think he'd be a danger. Shall we send him to the public whip master to instil a bit of discipline into him?"

"Oh, there'll be time enough for that later, I expect.

A lot of these young men are a bit wild at first, but most owners expect that when they buy a newly-enslaved young male like this one - especially one who looks so obviously tough and strong. Let's not spoil the new owner's fun in breaking the boy by introducing him to the whip now - and, in any case, as an officer of the Court I do need to have regard to the value of the State's assets: a young, fresh male slave needs to show well, and many buyers are put off by overt signs of the whip as it signals that a slave has not properly understood his position."

"As you say, sir", the guard responded, then he turned to me once more and snapped "Hands behind your back, boy."

I went to protest again, but saw the sharp metal tip of the prod hovering in front ofd me and thought better of it. The guard snapped cuffs around my wrists, telling his companion that I was much less of a problem now, and they led me out.

There were four of us in the slave transporter. Yes, that's what I said on the side: "Live slaves in transit." What the fuck did it mean by "live slaves" - did they transport dead ones around, too, I wondered? But it wasn't a bus or anything like that - just an empty truck which we were herded in to, and then the back doors were slammed shut and he heard a metal bar being put across them so we kind of knew that escape was impossible. It was pitch black in there, and I was heartily glad, I suppose: I was really ripe" with the dried sweat, vomit and crap all adhering to my clothes, and at least the other guys would not be able to see it was me. Not that we talked all that much - the others were, like me, mostly stunned by what had happened to them. Well, all except for one older guy who told us that he'd been expecting it, as his plea for consideration when his business folded had been ignored, and he'd therefore come to the Court expecting to leave it as a slave.

It was really grim in that truck - no aircon or anything, and as the sun beat down on the metal, the temperature inside rose and rose - it was like being in an oven, literally! I pulled off my T-shirt to try to get cooler, and would have done the same with my jeans except for my concern about the state of my boxer shorts. We couldn't do anything about it, though, so we had to endure it, as although we tried banging on the bulkhead separating us from the driver, it had no effect - except that s speaker crackled into life and told us that if we didn't stop the fucking disturbance the driver and guard would stop and come and "properly sort us out, and give us something to complain about, with their prods."

I've no idea where the slave induction centre actually was - it took us a couple of hours to get there, so it could have been almost anywhere. When the van stopped and the doors were thrown open so we could stumble out, we were at first all blinded by the sun. And then I saw we were in a fenced compound with a high chain-link fence surrounding us, standing in front of a low building, the sort of semi-warehouse, semi-industrial unit you see all over the country. We were surrounded by guards - well, that's what I suppose they were as they were all in the same dark green khaki shorts and paler green polo shirts, and, more importantly, they all had slave prods resting comfortably in their hands. They ordered us to strip, and when the older guy, the one who had the debt problems hesitated, they simply prodded him and he fell to the ground twitching and screaming. I suppose it was their lesson to us: obey, or get hurt!

It was horrible standing there in the open, totally exposed to anyone passing the mesh fence, but what were we supposed to do? And, as if to emphasise that everything was different for us now, the guards collected up our discarded clothes and threw them into a dumpster. That did seem very final, signalling to us that things really had changed They then came along the four of us as we stood there naked, and made us strip off our watches, rings, and stuff like that - I had a small silver chain around my neck that my girlfriend had given me as she said she liked the contrast between that and my naked skin when we were fucking, and they took that too.

I suppose I'd read some stuff in the "slave stories" that were briefly popular back home about the initial processing of slaves - you know, branding, tattooing, shaving, putting rings through them, and all that stuff - but it wasn't like that here. The four of us were made to shower, and then given rough shorts and T-shirts, and locked into a holding cell, and that was it. I was beginning to feel better, if that doesn't seem strange: my stomach had settled and my headache had gone, and after a shower my body was at least fresh once again. One of the guys had clearly been embarrassed about having to shower communally - I think he was some sort of Muslim or had some other superstition as he yelled that it was contrary to the prophet's law or something to appear naked in front of other men, but the guards simply prodded him and threw him under the water anyway. I had nothing to be worried about, of course - I've got a strong, muscular body, properly in proportion, and anyway was used to showering with my buddies after gym and soccer.

We got ordinary food - well, burgers and fries brought in from outside and a bit worse for wear as they had been standing around for some time - and then, one by one, we were pulled out of the cell. This was when I was expecting the branding and stuff, and my ears were straining to hear the agonised screams of the guy in front, but it wasn't like that at all - all they wanted to do was weight me, take my height and other measurements like my chest and waist, and take a few photographs which they said were the "sale catalogue".

That sounded so odd - I mean, those of us from up North just aren't used to the idea of a human being featuring in a "sale catalogue". I had to strip off for the last photograph, although I was given a small g-string to wear (a g-string suspiciously sweaty - I thought it had been worn by the guy in front, too), as the photographer said some recent law or other meant that pictures like these which would be up on the 'net had to be "properly modest"! It was apparently OK to show my bare butt, but not my dick and balls. Not that I didn't feel a bit foolish - I'm probably above average down there (no - let's not be modest: I know from looking at my buddies in the showers that my dick is way above average, and my balls are in proportion) and the tiny white silk triangle barely covered me properly (and I suspected that anyone cranking up the magnification on their screens could clearly see the outline of my dick and balls) . I'm pretty hairy, too, and the worse thing was the way my big bush of wiry hair was straggling out all around the edges!

When I was back in the holding cell and all of us had been photographed, I plucked up my courage and politely asked the guard if I could call my folks - if they knew where I was, they could certainly come and straighten things out. Or, I suppose, at the very worst, dad could buy me! But the guard stared back almost in disbelief, and remarked "Boy, you sure have a lot to learn about being a slave. Of course you can't use a phone! A slave is only allowed to use a phone on his owner's business. And, boy, you'd also better start to learn that you don't speak to a free man unless you're answering a question! Some owners would have you caned for your insolence".

When we were left alone one of my "companions" almost sneered "Little rich boy, are you? Hoping mommy and daddy are going to come and buy you?"

"No.... But my buddies will have told them by now that I've bee n enslaved, and obviously they'll try to do something....."

He gave a short laugh. "They may have told them you've been enslaved, but you were only arrested last night, weren't you? Your buddies will spend most of the day trying to find out what happened to you before they call your folks. And then, when they eventually find out and get around to making the call, there's not a lot your folks can do...."

"...the guards said we'd be on the 'net, offered for sale....."

"Yes, but in this State all new slaves are sold to properly authorised dealers, as it's recognised that they need more preparation, and training, and that a new slave is an unsuitable purchase for a member of the public. So the website is only available to dealers, and your folks can't search it or anything. And, anyway, all the names are removed: the only identification on the site is your SIN. And there are hundreds of slaves for sale on it, so unless your parents get down here and find a compliant dealer, and then sit there paging through all the pictures, they'll never find you. After that, all transactions are done with your SIN, as your free name is totally erased from the records."

"SIN?"

"Slave Identification Number. All of us have one, we just don't know what it is yet. They tattoo it onto us when they sell us, as the buyer might want it put somewhere special."

"You seem to now a lot about it... What do you mean, 'where they put it'/"

"Of course I know stuff like this - everyone does. My family has a slave - it's just that I never thought I'd end up as one! Look, the law requires a slave's SIN to e tattooed on his body, and most people choose the upper arm, on the shoulder. But if you're going to use your slave for display, you might not want the skin disfigured like that and so you'd have it done under the armpit. The underside of the wrist is popular, too... It makes it hard for a slave to do a runner, as the moment he shakes hands with someone...."

I nodded, but somewhere inside my stomach gave a little lurch at the thought that I was going to be permanently marked, just as if I was owned property. Well, I suppose that's what a slave is, after all - it's just that I'm not used to thinking about myself like that.

It was difficult to sleep that night - I was so worried about what was going to happen. I had thought that mom and dad might rescue me, but from what the other guy had told me, this seemed less and less likely. And I also remembered all that stuff I'd read in the stories too, about being on display bare-assed naked, and having dealers "examine" me.... Examinations that always seemed to involve fingers up the ass! So I didn't really have a good night, until, as always seems to happen, I fell asleep so deeply just before dawn that I had to be shaken awake.

More burgers for breakfast, then we were made to shower again, and dressed in the same shorts we'd been given the day before, and then we went on display. They showed us bare chested, but at least I wasn't nude, and it seemed a pretty leisurely affair: the four of us were left in our cell and buyers strolled up and down outside, casually looking us over and comparing us with the details they had in their printed catalogues. There were several cells of us, and some of women, too, and they seemed to attract more interest. My "know it all" companion remarked that here in the Miami area it was mostly whites and latinos for sale, and male slaves like us were not much in demand. "Owners want males for hard physical labour generally, and niggas are thought best for that, especially as they are thought to be better in the heat. On the other hand, white and latino bitches fetch much higher prices....."

I was shocked to hear him use the N word, and told him so, and he just laughed. "You've got a lot to learn, boy!", he responded. "Down here in the South we call a spade a space, and a nigga a nigga. Almost all the slaves across the agricultural belt are niggas. But of course here in Florida, with the tourist trade, a whitey or latino bitch with a nice body is much in demand..."

Seeing my look of puzzlement, he added "You know.... Masseuses, cocktail waitresses, bed companions, that sort of thing. I'm surprised your daddy hasn't been down here on a business trip - most conventions and stuff like that are now held in the South, as even the most respectable Northern businessman likes to play...."

"My dad wouldn't do that! We're liberals, and don't believe in slavery. And we'd certainly never use a slave...."

He just laughed., and added "Anyway, we're all about to find out what it's really like to be a slave. They don't waste any time here, as the auction's this afternoon."

I was going to ask him more, but at that moment the guard unlocked our cell, pointed at me, and snapped "Out here, boy."

There in the corridor was a an older guy, clutching his catalogue, his eyes raking me up and down as he compared what he saw with what he was reading on the page. He was sort of distinguished looking, and I thought he was probably about the same age as my dad - forty two or so, although at first sight he looked a lot leaner and fitter as dad had let himself go a bit as he moved up the ladder at the office and worked longer and longer hours.

"Are you really nineteen, boy?" He asked me, his tone deep and firm, and somehow compelling.

"Yes... Just.... My birthday was last month....."

"Shut the fuck up!", the guard shouted. "Answer a free man's questions properly, with a 'yes' or 'no', and address him as 'sir' or else you'll be one nineteen year old who's writhing on the floor!".

The guy didn't seem to care, though, and looked at me again. "Do you do drugs?"

"NO!....", and then as the guard stiffened, I added "...sir." It wasn't all that hard actually, as mom and dad liked me to be well behaved, and when dad brought people home from the office, or we were at the golf club, he liked me to address them as 'sir'."

"Good. How old's your girl friend?"

"The current one's eighteen sir!" I realised he'd assumed I had a girl friend.

"Oh, so you play the field a bit, do you?"

I blushed, as I had a bit of a reputation at school as being a stud. And as I was on the soccer team, a lot of the girls wanted to go with me.

"When I was younger, sir...."

"So what kind of girl do you prefer? Blondes, brunettes?"

I grinned "Oh, kind of any sort, as long as she's got a nice smile, a good body, and is pleasant...."

"....and co-operative?"

I grinned again. "Well, sir, a young guy like me has urges, and, well, she needs to understand that, and co-operate...."

He nodded. "So have you fucked many niggas?"

"Sir, there weren't a lot at my school.... There aren't a lot in New Hampshire...."

"I take it the answer is 'no', then. You're not prejudiced, are you, boy?"

"NO, sir! All my folks are liberal...." I saw the guard looking, and stopped short.

"Well then, so you're experienced at sex, and you look pretty fit.... I think I'd better take a closer look at you. Drop those shorts."

This is, I suppose, the moment I'd been dreading. Now it was all about to come true, all that stuff I'd read in the stories. I fingered the button on the waist of the shorts nervously, and the man watched me with a faintly mused smile just showing on his face.

"You're not bashful are you, boy? A stud like you, who's been naked with all those girls he's fucked. A guy who looks as if he's an athlete, so he's used to being naked with his buddies in the showers... Have you got something to be ashamed of? Are the bits that those shorts are covering not so big and strong as the rest of you?"

I shrugged slightly, undid the button, and let the rough cotton fall to the floor. Then I stepped forward, and stood in front of him totally naked. I was of course expecting him to reach for my dick and begin to fondle my balls, as they do in all the stories, but he made no move. He stared at me, sure, but then muttered "You'll do.", and turned and walked away.

The guard motioned for me to dress, and locked me back in the cell with the others.

There's one thing that the stories are right about, though: when I was put up on the auction stage later that day I was totally naked. I had to stand there in front of about thirty dealers - men and women - utterly exposed, as the auctioneer called out "Young buck, nineteen years old, in good physical condition as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, The slave is newly enslaved and therefore as is customary no warranty is given as he had not been subject to any testing or training: that is the responsibility of the new owner. Suitable marking, as required by law, is included in the price. Now, what am I bid? Who'll open at twenty thousand new dollars?"

When the bidding seemed slow he ordered me to turn around and drew attention to my long thighs and muscular butt. I felt myself blushing as he called out "Look, ladies and gentleman... It's rare be see a young whitey so spectacularly well made. He could almost be a nigga, with those wonderfully rounded butt muscles carried high like that. And, ladies, look at the little dimples at the base of his spine.... Wouldn't that be pleasing in bed?"

There was a ripple of polite laughter, and the horrible thought struck me that I might be bought by some old hag for sexual pleasure! But before I could do anything, I was ordered to turn around, and told to spread my legs and raise my arms in the air, so I was making a kind of "X" shape.

"Now come on, ladies and gentlemen", the auctioneer's voice boomed out. "Have you ever seen anything like that? Not a trace of fat. And look at the definition of those belly muscles.... And I'm sure I hardly need to point out that it's rare to see tackle like that - see how the balls hang low, beyond the end of the dick... Some achievement, I'm sure you'll agree, when the dick itself is such an obviously prime piece of meat...."

I was blushing furiously now, and desperately wanted to drop my hands and at least cover myself as best I could. But out of the corner of my eye, at the edge of the stage, I could see a guard with his prod at the ready, and I just didn't want to risk being hurt again.

Fortunately, though, the bidding was then relatively brisk, and it took less than two minutes to sell me! I stood there almost bemused at the way that I, a free man a day ago, had now been sold, just like some animal. But the auctioneer was eager to get on with things and curtly ordered me off the stage. I stood there, still a bit in shock at the thought of being sold, and the auctioneer gave me a huge open-handed slap on my butt and told me to hurry along. The crack of his flesh against mine sent a small ripple of amusement going amongst the audience, and blushing more than ever, I scurried off, now desperately trying to cover myself with my hands.

There were guards there, of course, and I was shoved into a cage, still entirely naked. Still, at least I didn't have to press against the other guys as we were all in separate cages. I soon found out why - one by one the new owners of these men came down and collected them: I suddenly realised that I'd got into the way of thinking about me and these people as "slaves", as otherwise why would I think of the collectors as "owners"? Most of the owners looked a pretty tough lot as I suppose dealers were used to dealing with the newly-enslaved and were prepared for some resistance and trouble. All of them sported small things that looked like riding crops, and shiny metal slave prods, and I couldn't help but see that one of them began to beat his slave across his bare ass as soon as the guards had pushed the hapless victim out of the cage.

I wondered what my owner would be like, and stood there trembling in anticipation and worry (and the cold, actually - the air conditioning was on, and buck naked you do get very cold). I was standing there with my arms crossed over my chest rubbing my hands up and down my ribs to try to get a bit warmer when I heard a guard snap "Turn around, boy, and stand still!"

There in front of me was the older guy who'd asked me all those questions before the auction. Behind him, though, was another guy: tall and very well muscled (and when I say tall, I do mean it - I'm 6'1" and being tall myself I tend to notice it when other guys are taller than me). He looked to be in his late twenties and in fantastic shape - he had that glow of good health that guys who work out and take care of themselves had - and he was smiling at me.

The older man's eyes raked me up and down as they had before the auction, and he nodded slightly as he said to me "You're mine now, boy. You will refer to me as 'Boss'. And you are Steven, I see from the file. Well in future you're Steve - I prefer short, masculine names."

It's no problem to me, actually - only mom and dad called me Steven, as I was always Steve to all my buddies, and I nodded. I was about to say something when the guard looked at him and said "Included in the price is the mandatory tattooing of his SIN onto him - you have a choice of location as some owners like it to be very prominent, and some want it completely hidden in normal usage. We can also carry out any other procedures you want at the same time.... Vasectomy, circumcision, even castration.... We have a fully trained nurse who's qualified for all those operations on slaves."

The man looked at me, and smiled. "Don't look so worried, Steve! The last thing you'll be having is a vasectomy, or the loss of your balls, will he Jeff?"

The big guy's faint smile broke into a broad grin as he answered promptly "No, boss!"

"I'm not so sure about the circumcision, though." My owner peered at my dick as he said this, and went on "He's not got a horrible long flap overhanging the end, and I quite like the way his piss slit is peeping though even when he's all shrunk up with the cold. But, on the other hand, especially in your line of business, the traditional 'high and tight' is so much sleeker. You'd agree with that, wouldn't you, Jeff?"

The big guy smiled again. "Well, Boss, it's true that it's easier to shower and everything, and I suppose it looks better when you're not erect.... But a young guy like this.... Well, it seems a shame to spoil his pleasure as it's not so much fun jerking off without your 'skin...."

"Oh, come on, Jeff! When's he going to be jerking off in future?"

"Sure, Boss.... But mightn't it be better to wait and see how he works? I mean, if you have to sell him if he's unsuitable, then you'd get a better price with him still 'au naturel', especially since, as you say, his 'skin kind of enhances the general look of his dick. You could always have it done later...."

My owner nodded, and the guard then asked again "Where do you want the SIN, sir?"

My owner didn't hesitate for a moment. I got to learn that in matters like this he was always totally decisive. "On his neck, under the left jaw line, so it's visible even if he's wearing a shirt with a collar. And again on the inside of the right forearm - in big, bold numbers running vertically down from the elbow so that there can be no doubt that he's a slave. And have his name - Steve, that is, not Steven as in the records - in letters across his back, to fill it from shoulder to shoulder."

The guard had a small pad out and made a note of this, and asked "And a collar? Rings in his tits, or nose, or dick?"

"No.", my owner said. "Those rings are dangerous in my line of business, as they can be wrenched out and damage him. And I don't like my slaves to have collars - when they're naked, I like them totally naked. I do however want him branded - the traditional large 'S' prominently on the left buttock."

"No, please....", I stuttered. I hated the thought of being disfigured with a tattoo, but the idea that they'd scar my flesh permanently was more than I could bear.

My owner at once snapped "Be silent! So far I've been very tolerant of you, but you need to remember that slaves speak only when spoken to."

"But Boss..... You're talking about disfiguring me...."

My owner turned towards the big man who had been following him. "Jeff, if this boy speaks out of turn again you are to grab hold of him and punish him."

Jeff said immediately "Yes, Boss", then looked at me kind of pleadingly, as if he knew that he'd have to do as he'd been told, but that he didn't want to.

But my owner was still speaking, looking sternly at me. "This is your last chance, boy. I like my slaves to be happy and contented, pleased to serve me and to obey me willingly. But I've had this problem with young men before - you can' adjust to the fact that your life has changed totally, and that you no longer have the power to run around do just as you please - your only function now is to order your life to please me. I don't want to have to have you punished, but I will certainly do so: it's been my experience that harsh physical punishment is the best thing in the circumstances - it gets you to the proper point quickly, and means that there is no long period of misery and unhappiness when you are not obeying me and when my temper is tried. Do you understand?"

I thought about it, and could see that I had little choice, in the circumstances - here I was, totally naked, with the guard standing there with his prod, and with this big guy Jeff apparently under my owner's total control as well. So I muttered "Yes, Boss."

"Good! I dislike having my slaves unhappy, as I like all those around me to be living rich, fulfilled lives. But if I need to have you spanked, caned or even whipped to get you to that point, I will not hesitate. Now you were objecting to the thought of being branded, but you are in fact fortunate..." He turned to the guard with his clipboard and said quietly "As I was saying, a large 'S' on the left buttock - but do it cold, with the liquid nitrogen rather than the heated branding iron: it's my experience that it heals sooner. And give him a painkiller first."

The guard wrote some stuff on his clipboard, nodding as he did so. My owner spoke again: "And finally, chip him - without a collar he is perhaps a little more likely to try to escape before he has fully adjusted to his new role."

"In the neck, sir?"

"No. I had a slave chipped there once, and ever after, whenever I felt his neck I could just make out the trace of it under the skin. And that was after exercise had built up the neck muscles properly, too, so there was potentially lots of muscle to mask it. I prefer it buried deep under the shoulder blade - but make certain that the veterinarian understands that I do not want any mark or scarring at the entry point - this slave has a beautiful smooth back, which will be even better as he finally matures and gets his 'adult' muscles, and I do not want it sullied by any marks."

The guard nodded again, and my owner turned towards the big man. "Anything I've forgotten, Jeff?"

"The 'sack and crack', Boss? I can show him how to trim his pubes in the way you like, but it's hard to keep that perfect smoothness you like using only the razor...."

"You're right! Yes, order a waxing for him to smooth his balls and ass. And we won't be here to pick him up for four days as I have some travel commitments, which I suppose doesn't matter as his brand heals.... But let's not waste the time: schedule extensive sunbed sessions for him, as many as possible without burning the skin.... Well, without burning the skin too much .... I dislike that stark band of white around his loins. There probably won't be sufficient time to get all of him to that agreeable tan he's exhibiting on his chest and legs, but it will be a start."

"Yes, sir", the guard responded, writing more on his clipboard. And then my owner - how soon I had begun to tag him as that in my head automatically: it seemed I was really accepting my new status - looked at me again.

"Now, Steve, begin to think about how you're going to change your approach to life so that you function properly as my slave. I'll be back to collect you in four days, as you heard... Although it could be five or six, if my business detains me. And when I do pick you up, as well as the physical things I've ordered for you, I want to observe a proper attitude: it is possible, you know - when I bought him, Jeff here was rebellious and didn't take kindly to accepting my orders. It was not particularly pleasant for him to have that rebellion beaten out of him, but look at him now: he's a slave who understands what he is, and he's finding his life fulfilling and enjoyable, aren't you, Jeff?"

"Yes, Boss", the big man replied instantly, and there was something in his tone that made it clear that he wasn't bullshitting. I looked at him again as I suppose it hadn't occurred to me until now that he was a slave too, and noticed now that he had numbers below his jaw line, just as my owner had ordered for me. And when he began to move to follow my owner out and his hands, previously clasped behind his back, came into view, I could also see the big black numbers inside his forearm.

End Of Part One