The Making Of A Ponyslave (1)

THE CALL CENTRE

I was really bored in my first job after college. Somehow all the fun had gone out of life. At college I had been on the football team and in to wrestling, and there were always lots of other guys to go to the gym with. Now here I was stuck in a cubicle all day in the Call Centre, answering endless stupid calls from people who should have read the instructions with their computers first.

In spite of it being very sedentary, it was very stressful. In the evenings I really didn’t want to do anything other than slump in front of the TV with a take-out and a beer. Although I had joined the local gym, it was a real effort to drag myself there. And the sight of all those middle-aged guys with big bellies straining at the weights was a real turnoff – although I’m not gay, I’d really rather share the gym with guys with bodies they care about, guys like me, with muscles in the right places, and not an ounce of fat. Gradually I found that instead of going every day to work out, it slipped to every two days, and then only to once or twice a week. It got harder and harder to make the effort to go, especially as my muscles ached because I only worked on them infrequently now.

My sex life wasn’t going anywhere either. I’d had lots of girls at college. Being on the football team, I was used to having an easy time getting dates. But in the Call Centre all the ladies were mostly going steady already, and it was just too much effort to go through the endless chat-up to get a date.

Imagine my surprise when after I had been there only three months I was told that the statistics showed that I had handled more calls than average, and my customer satisfaction rating was very high. I had been selected to go to the company’s annual convention as a reward, which was being held in Las Vegas.

LAS VEGAS

As the plane touched down I felt better and better, and more lively than I had for months. With all those delegates from across the country in town, I even thought there was a good chance I would get laid tonight, and for the first time in a long time I felt my cock straining against my jeans in anticipation. The hot dry air hit me as I left the terminal, and as I took the taxi into town I looked around in excitement at the crowds thronging the sidewalks on the Strip.

The company had done us proud, and I was soon checked in to the luxurious convention hotel. In my room I quickly stripped off all my clothes, which were crumpled and sticky after the journey, and turned on the shower to freshen up. As I soaped my muscled body, my cock sprung to attention again and I thought about jerking off there and then. But instead I towelled off and turned on the in-room movie channel – I didn’t even have to pay for the porno flicks, as the company was picking up the tab for everything, so I found one with two ladies pleasuring each other, and jerked off whilst watching that. It was a real sensation to be lying on my back nude in the middle of the day with the desert sun streaming in through the windows, watching two lovely ladies whilst I jerked off. The smooth satin of the bed cover against my back was just a bit cooler than the air in the room, and as I climaxed I felt it sliding over the hair on the back of my legs and that special little tuft of wiry hair that a lot of guys have at the top of their ass crack.

It was a long time since I had had such a good jerk-off, and the cum spurted all up my stomach and chest. That was a real pain, as of course it stuck in the hairs on my chest – although I’m not very hairy, I’ve got enough there to catch the cum! So before I could go down to dinner, I had to shower again. I thought about leaving off my boxers and just pulling on my pants, but then thought this might be a bit un-cool if I did succeed in pulling a lady, so I put on a crisp pair of white boxers, then my pants, and then a new dress shirt. I’d never liked wearing a T-shirt under a dress shirt, but my dress shirt was thick enough so that my chest hair did not show.

I was amongst the last to arrive at the inaugural reception before the opening dinner because of my second shower, so I didn’t get a chance to chat to any of the other delegates, and I found myself taking up the spare space on a table of eight with seven guys I had not met before from other offices across the country. Not a single lady at our table, and as the others were all talking about their amazing sales campaigns, there wasn’t much else for me to do all evening but eat and drink – and I did the last to excess. It’s relatively easy to drink too much at these dinners, as the waiters keep filling your half-empty glass and you can’t keep track of how much you have had. It was only when we stood up at the end and the room swayed slightly that I knew I had had way too many.

The other guys were going off to a casino, and asked me to join them. I didn’t want to, but one of them made a remark that made me think he thought I was chicken. I should have smacked him in the mouth, but the others all laughed and joshed me a bit, and so I went with them. I only had a couple of hundred dollars to spend, but for a time all seemed to be going well – the dice were rolling my way, and I was to my amazement soon five thousand dollars ahead. And, of course, the drinks kept coming.

I desperately needed to pee, and the room really was spinning now, so I decided to quit. I really should have cashed in my chips there and then, but as I came out of the mens’ room a guy came up and said that as my luck was obviously hot that night I ought to go to one of the private gaming rooms for high rollers and continue with my winning streak. It really did seem a good idea at the time – with a few more thousand dollars to stake me, I could quit the Call Centre and travel the world for a year before deciding what I really wanted to do with my life.

After the noise and lights of the main casino floor, the private gaming room was discreet and calm. I’d always played poker with the other guys on the team at college when we were away on trips, and I was pretty good. So when I was offered a seat at the poker table with five middle-eastern looking guys, I didn’t hesitate. I was full of bravado from the drink and the excitement of winning, and I just knew I could take them on and win.

But either my luck deserted me, or these guys were really good, as my five thousand dollars were soon gone. One of them said to the others “shall we stake him to continue? “, then, turning to me “Come on – you can’t lose all night. Keep playing, and we’ll take your IOU”. I didn’t want to, as I knew I had no money in the bank to make good any losses, but he then said “Of course, if you want to quit, we’ll quite understand. You big American boys are all like that – lots of show at first, but no follow-through”. This really pissed me off, and I leapt at him, but two of the others stopped me before I could hit him. A couple of buttons popped off my shirt as they held me back, and I could feel the sweat streaming down my back and my chest in spite of the air conditioning – of course, it must have been the drink, as I had continued to drink down the complimentary cocktails as they had come around whilst we had been playing.

I felt I had no choice but to sit down at the table again, to show him what I could really do. It was of course a disaster, and as I got drunker and drunker, I lost more and more. But I always thought that with one really good hand I could at least cover my losses.

THE NEXT MORNING

I woke up in a strange bed with a splitting headache. I slowly looked around me, and saw that I had somehow got back into my room, or so I thought. I cautiously got out of bed, found I was still fully dressed, and went in to the bathroom and puked. I then stripped off my clothes, and had a long hot shower.

When I went back in to the bedroom I went to look for fresh clothes, because although I felt like death with the hangover, I knew I had to go to the convention meetings. But all the cupboards and drawers were empty – none of my things were there. And when I went back into the bathroom, I saw that there was a toothbrush and razor, but these weren’t mine – they were new, in their wrappers.

I started to panic, but thought that I really should try to go to the convention, so I brushed my teeth and shaved, then pulled on last night’s clothes again. I went to the door to leave, but it was locked – this seemed strange, as usually you can’t lock yourself in to a hotel bedroom. I went to the phone, and called the desk to send someone up with the pass key to open the door.

Only a couple of minutes went by and there was a discreet tapping at the door. I called “come in”, and to my surprise, instead of a hotel porter, four Arab guys came into the room. “Good, you’re already dressed”, said one. And another, having looked into the bathroom, said “yes, and he has showered. So let’s go”.

“Hey, wait a minute. Go where?”, I said.

There was a stinging blow to the left side of my face that felled me to the floor. “Shut the fuck up”, number one said, “and only speak when you’re spoken to. You’re coming with us, and that’s all you need to know”. I was pulled to my feet, and bundled out of the room, down the corridor, and into the elevator that went straight down into the parking garage. There all five of us got in to the back of a large stretch limo – the four of them sat on the seats, but I was made to lie on the floor between their feet. I made a feeble effort to get up, but I was in dreadful shape with the hangover and the effects of the initial blow, and another one soon convinced me to lie quiet and still.

The limo stopped and the door opened, and a blast of furnace-like hot air hit me. It had driven straight up to the steps of an executive jet standing on the hot tarmac at the airport, and I was encouraged up them into the plane by the four Arabs. Once inside, I was pushed down into one of the seats and instead of a seat belt, my wrists were strapped to the seat arms by cuffs which came out from where the food trays are usually stowed. Almost without delay, the plane took off.

THE LANDING

I dozed several times on the flight, and really had no idea how long it was. A steward gave me drinks from a straw from time to time, and it really did help to quell the raging thirst I had from the previous night’s drinking. As we flew on, it got dark, and I slept again, to wake up with the dawn.

We landed, and the four guys clustered around whilst the manacles were undone, and I was roughly pushed out of the door and down the plane steps. There was no limo there, just a white delivery truck, and the back doors were opened and I was motioned in. I was about to protest, when I saw one of the Arab guys raise his hand to hit me again, so I went through the doors into the back of the truck. It was fitted out along one side with a set of mesh cages, smaller than cells, more the size of phone booths. One was opened, and I was pushed inside and the door locked shut. I heard one of the Arabs ask the driver if that was all, and he said “no, there’s a couple of other deliveries I’ve got to pick up from the airport later this morning before I go back to the market”.

The van then drove off, and I held on to the walls of my cage as it swayed around corners. Eventually we stopped and waited for quite a long time. It was pitch black in there, and I really had no idea how long it was, until suddenly the back doors were opened again and another guy was pushed in, and into the cage next to me. Another one followed, so there were then three of us. The doors were still open, and I could see the driver fussing around completing paperwork on a clipboard, and handing it over to the airport people. He then came to the doors and said “Now listen here. We are going to drive for about two hours. There will be no stops. Don’t pee in my truck, or when we get there you’ll clean it out with your tongues – all of you, that is, even if only one of you pisses. And before you ask, I’m not telling you where you’re going. You’ll know soon enough!”.

We drove off, and we started to talk. None of us knew where we were, although we guessed we were in some Arab country. I had come straight from my Vegas hotel, but the two other guys had come from South Africa. They had both been captured and kept in a cell for a couple of days, before their flight that day.

ARRIVING AT THE DEPOT

After what seemed like a couple of hours the truck stopped and the doors opened. We all blinked as the daylight flooded in, and then a guard in uniform came and unlocked our cage doors and grunted at us to get our. We jumped down from the back of the truck, and two other guards, toting submachine guns, gestured at us to cross the yard we were in – it was sandy underfoot, and surrounded by high walls. We went through a door, which was slammed shut behind us and I heard the sound of a lock turning.

We went along a narrow corridor that had bare plastered walls and a stone floor, and into a room that was empty other than for a desk, with a man in a suit sitting behind it. One of the South Africans started to shout, but was silenced as he was felled by a blow from one of the guards.

They gut in the suit said “Now listen to me carefully. I’m only going to say this once, and it’s important to you. You are now in our country, and none of the rules you were used to in your country apply here. Thirty years ago we decided to reinstate the laws that allow our people to own slaves – it solved several problems for us. Firstly it helped ease our chronic labour shortage – after we found oil, none of our people wanted to work; we tried importing foreign workers, but they wanted higher and higher wages. By allowing slavery, we fixed the wages problem. And secondly, we got rid of all our criminals and prostitutes – the penalty for any crime here is slavery. We’re now the most law-abiding society in the whole world.”

“You three are here in the state slave market, and after we have carried out the necessary tests and certification, you’ll be put up for sale. We can’t risk selling diseased or damaged goods, especially as a lot of our slaves are used for sex, so we’ll comprehensively test you and we have to wait for the results to come back before you can go to the auction.”

I started to yell that I wasn’t from his country, and that I was an American. He stood up and shouted in rage “Shut the fuck up! That’s the last warning you’ll get – any disrespectful or willful slave here gets whipped. The first lesson you learn is that you don’t speak unless your master asks you a question! In your case, the fact that you’re an American is of no importance – you owe four of our countrymen $100,000 that you lost in gambling, and as there’s no possibility of you paying them off otherwise, they had you brought here to be put up for sale to pay off the debt. You two South Africans did something to seriously annoy your government – I see you were both in the South African Marine Corps, but you objected when you were posted to a squad that was otherwise composed entirely of blacks. You obviously didn’t know that your government has decided to fix the prejudice problem once and for all, by sending us anyone who has been overtly racial.”

“Now all three of you, get naked, so we can start processing you”.

We stood and looked at each other and did nothing, but at a gesture from the guy behind the desk the guards clubbed us to the floor with blows from the butts of their guns. When we struggled back to our feet, he said “Let me tell you just once more. You obey all orders given to you by a master. If you don’t you will be whipped. If you still don’t, we’ll do to you what farmers have done to all unruly animals over the centuries – we’ll cut off your balls. Eunuchs don’t fetch as much money in the auction as proper stallions, but there are still lots of people in the country who like a nice white ass to fuck. So I’ll just say once more, strip.”

The three of us looked at each other and realised that against the guards with their guns we were powerless, so we started to take off our clothes. I took off my shirt, bent down and shucked off my shoes and socks, then dropped my pants and stood there in my boxers. The two South Africans ended up standing there in bikini briefs. The guy behind the desk made a move to make a gesture to the guards again, but before he could do anything the two South Africans had exchanged glances with each other, and started to push down their bikinis. I realised it was hopeless, too, and put my fingers under the waistband of my boxers, and slid them down over my hips to land at my feet.

The guy behind the desk said “Good. It’s good to get three guys in good shape, as it makes selling you easier. I can understand that you two South Africans are well muscled from the army training. But it’s unusual to see an American in his twenties with proper pecs and a good six-pack. I think we’ll be in for a bumper day next Tuesday when you come under the hammer. Now, go through that door over there so we can process you through the system.”

With that, he stood up, and gestured to a door behind him and we started to walk out. Now I’ve been naked in front of guys many, many times in the showers and locker room, but this was totally different and I felt very embarrassed – not because there’s any problem with my body (which in spite of my recent lack of exercise was still in pretty good shape from the many previous years of regular workouts), or with my dick which is a good, long, rounded sausage, or my balls which I know are larger than most and hang down below my dick. But somehow having just the three of us totally nude, with the guards and the guy in the suit looking at us as if we were some sort of merchandise, was really weird. I felt my dick starting to harden, and prayed I wasn’t going to get a hard on; and of course the more I thought about it, the more it stated to stiffen. The two South Africans seemed to be in the same boat, and we all started to blush as we realised that each of us was sporting an erection.

We went through the door, that opened in to a cage built across one corner of what appeared to be a doctor’s surgery. The door shut behind us, and then a door in the opposite wall opened and a man in a white medical coat came in, with two more guards who, as well as having guns on their belts, had what looked like a pistol in their hands with a metre-long cane coming out of the muzzle.

“Right, who’s first?” said the doctor, and one of the guards came over and opened our cage, and waited for one of us to step out. One of the two South Africans went first, the older of the two. He was about 5’10” tall, and was very well muscled. As he walked across the room towards the doctor, he looked a very good specimen of the outdoor life in South Africa – he had wide shoulders that tapered to a 30″ waist, and had not an ounce of fat anywhere in sight. His hair was brown, but bleached blondish on his head and arms from exposure to the sun. He was a dark tan all over, except for the dazzling white strip across his buttocks where he has obviously worn small Speedos for swimming. He stood in front of the doctor, and the only way that you could tell he was nervous was by the way that his butt muscles were slowly clenching and unclenching.

The doctor took up a clipboard and said “Name and age”. The South African said “Hans Kroenecher, 27”.

The doctor said “Well, Hans, let’s get one thing straight. You’re just Hans for now, until your new master decides what you’re going to be called. I’m going to need samples of your urine, semen, and blood. Pee in to this”, and, so saying, he gave the guy a plastic bottle. Hans looked around, and the doctor said “Go on, pee in there now. If you can’t or won’t, I can soon slip a catheter up your penis and draw off a sample that way”.

We could see Hans straining, but soon we could hear the sound of his urine running into the container. When he had finished, the doctor gave him a smaller plastic container and said “Now, the semen”.

Hans started to protest, but at a gesture from he doctor one of the guards touched the rod coming out from his “gun” into Hans’s back, and instantly Hans screamed and fell to the floor. “Look, said the doctor, you’ve been warned about obeying all the orders from a master. I ought to have you whipped. But whilst you’re here in the auction complex, we don’t like to get your flesh damaged as it lowers the price, or we have to keep you for a few weeks until the weals go away. So we’ve found that these modified cattle prods are the best way of making sure you do what you’re told. If there’s any more delay in obeying me, they’ll jab you again – and next time, the charge will be turned right up! We always know there’s one in a group who’ll disobey us the first time, so I like to be merciful and only give you half a charge the first time! But be warned! Now, as I said, let me have a semen sample.”

Hans just lay there on the floor, looking defiantly at the doctor. All of us winced when the guard touched him again and his body jerked with the electric charge, and his cry was agonising. But he still made no effort to get up, or to do anything about starting to jerk off.

The guards advanced on him again, but the doctor said “No. It will be more instructive for him, and show him his true status, if we milk him. Put him on the table”. And with that, the guards picked him up off the floor, and carried him over to a leather examination couch and strapped him to it with a number of webbing tapes.

The doctor walked over to Hans and took a blood sample from his arm. “And now for the semen”, he said, and started to masturbate Hans. The strapped down South African was cursing and swearing, but he could not move, and under the quick hands of the doctor his dick was soon rigid. A few more shakes of his penis, and his jism shot out and onto his stomach. The doctor took a spatula, and deftly scooped up most of it up into the small container. After that, the guards released the straps, and Hans was brought back into the cage where the other two of us were waiting.

“Okay, you!” said the doctor, pointing at me. And the guards came over and gestured for me to get out of the cage. “Name and age?”

“Steve, 23” I said.

“Good, said the doctor, a quick learner. Now let’s look at what we have here. Quite a lot of potential for muscle development, and a natural blonde! OK you know the form, first a urine sample”, and he handed me a plastic bottle.

I was in fact bursting for a pee by this time, and I had no difficulty in filling it.

“Now the semen sample”, the doctor said, handing me a small plastic cylinder. I blushed deeply, because I had never jerked off in front of anyone before. But once I started to stroke my cock, it was surprisingly easy to come and after only about 10 strokes I had spurted my load into the cylinder. The doctor then approached me with his syringe, and took a blood sample from my arm.

The other South African, Mike, went quietly as I had and gave his samples, and the doctor and guards then left the room leaving all three of us in the corner cage.

“Look, man “, said Mike to Hans, “it’s no good fighting here. They hold all the good cards. You’ll only get hurt for nothing, and you won’t be able to fight your way out when the time is right. You know me – I’m as brave as anyone when there’s a chance of winning, but it’s just plain stupid to go at armed guys with stun guns when you’re bare-assed naked and there are three of them and only one of you”.

Hans wasn’t very pleased by this, and went and sat in the corner with his back against the wall, saying nothing to Mike or me.

I guess it was about two hours later when the door opened and the doctor came back in.

“Your urine, blood and semen samples show that you’re all in good health, with no contagious diseases, or HIV or anything. So now we can get on with the next stage of testing”.

So saying, the guards opened the cage, pulled out Hans, and guided him out of the room – one of the guards had the tip of his stun gun resting in the crack at the top of Hans’s ass, and I think that kept him docile.

He was back after about 20 minutes, and then it was my turn to be led out. In the next room, there was an X-ray machine, and I was given a chest X-ray, and then an ECG. The wires were attached to my pecs, and I ran on a treadmill for 10 minutes whilst the machine spewed out its chart.

I was then taken back to the cage in the first room, and Mike was led out. He, too, came back about 20 minutes later and we were once again all three alone in the corner cage, buck naked.

Another hour or so passed, and the doctor came in again. “Well, gentlemen, the good news and the bad news. The good news is that you are all in excellent condition – indeed, in the sale particulars I will grade you as A1. The bad news is that therefore you can now go ahead an be prepared for sale!”.

PREPARATIONS

Each of us was then taken out of the cage in turn and told to bend over the leather examination couch where Hans had been strapped earlier. The doctor gave each of us three massive injections in the left ass cheek. “You’ll be sore for a few hours there “, he said, “but we give all our slaves the best possible protection we can initially against all the common infectious diseases. Hopefully your new masters will keep your shots up to date – but some don’t, so we do the best we can. It’s silly really – they spend thousands of dollars on buying you, thousands more on training you, and then they won’t spend a hundred or so each year to make sure you don’t fall ill.”

I think it was only then that it began to sink in what was happening to me – this casual talk of buying and training, and then the idea that I would be there long enough to require boosters for my shots.

After that, we went through showers, and it was really good to wash away the sweat that was clogging my skin. It must have been 24 hours now since I had last showered in Las Vegas, and it seemed a lifetime, let alone half a world, away.

There were wash basins against the wall, and watched by the guards we were allowed to shave. Again, doing something so normal in such unusual circumstances seemed very strange, and I looked down at my cock pressed against the edge of the basin as I leaned forward to see in the mirror and use the razor – I always enjoyed the sensation at home of the cold tiles against my prick, and I felt tears almost well into my eyes as I wondered when I would next be back in a proper US bathroom.

There were however two more indignities to come. I was taken to a chair which was on a platform about 1 metre high, and told to sit down. The legs of the chair had two footrests attached to them, at about the height of the seat, and I was told to put my feet on them. As soon as I had, two straps were put around my ankles holding my legs there. Then, suddenly, the back of the chair tilted backwards and I found myself half-lying, with my cock and balls exposed, and at about waist height.

A boy of about 16, naked, came in with a shaving brush, shaving cream, and a razor, and proceeded to lather up and spread lather over my balls. He deftly stripped them of hair with the razor, and towelled them dry. He cupped my ball sac in his hands, and fondled it to make sure there were no stray hairs left, and nodded to the guards, who then released me from the chair. Next, I was taken to a sawhorse and told to lie across it, and pull my ass cheeks apart. I then felt the boy use his shaving brush to lay lather generously down my ass crack and around my anus, swiftly following this by removing the hairs from this area.

After a few minutes, Hans and Mike and I were all standing together again, and somehow we seemed more naked – without the covering of hair, our balls seemed more prominent. A guard came up and said “Which is Mike”, and then used a magic marker to write the number 376 across Mike’s right ass, and then on his left pec. The guard then said that the blond one is 377 – and he did the same to me with his marker – and the other one must be 378, and he marked Hans. We tried to scrub the numbers off with our fingers, but they presumably used “indelible” markers because the numbers would not budge.

All three of us were then led along a series of corridors and passages, until we were told to go up a short flight of stairs. All the while we were walking along we passed men and women carrying files and papers, and we could see into open office doors. But no one seemed to find it strange that there should be three naked guys walking along the corridors of this large building!

As we went up the short flight of stairs, a trap door at its top opened and we came out up through the floor of a large circular cage, about 5 metres in diameter. There were about 20 other guys in there, and, like us, they were all naked, and each one had a number on his ass and chest.

THE INSPECTION

The guys seemed to be of all nationalities, and not many of them spoke English. I think a lot of them were middle European, because they seemed to have Slavic language. There weren’t any blacks or Orientals though, just whites, and everyone was probably less than 30 years old.

One guy came over and said “Hi, I’m John. Let me tell you what’s going on, to save a lot of worry. This is the general inspection cage for European male slaves for next Tuesday’s sale. I’ve been here a couple of weeks, after my employer here sold me to the slavers because I refused to complete my contract and wanted to go home to England early. It’s only when I had finally repudiated our agreement that I realised it was a criminal offence to break a contract here, and criminals, of course, become slaves!.”

“There’s another cage like this for black guys and Orientals, and another for women. I’ve been told we’re all segregated like this because it saves the buyers time – if they only buy white man meat, they only have to come in here and inspect us and don’t have to look at all the other races and the women”.

I said “Look, this has to be some kind of ghastly nightmare. They can’t sell me, I’m an American. They can’t lock people up as if they’re cattle, and then sell them, for Christ sake! As soon as the American ambassador hears about this, I’ll be out of here”.

John took my arm and said “Well, don’t get your hopes up. Slavery is legal in this country, and has been for over 30 years now. Your government acquiesces, because of the oil. They know that if they offend the Sheikh, he’ll cut off supplies and the world economy will go into a nose dive. So providing it’s all done discreetly, and only citizens of the country are allowed to buy slaves and they have to be kept in the country and not exported, no one does anything. In fact, I’ve been at diplomatic receptions in the Sheikh’s palace, where your American ambassador has been quite happy to have been served a drink by a naked slave. So don’t think anyone is going to do anything about you – we’ll all be up there on the auction block on Tuesday, and nobody is going to do anything about it!”.

Hans and Mike were listening to John’s explanation, too, and were about to ask him a question when a door opened in the room outside the cage and a group of Arabs, two in western dress but the rest in traditional robes, came in and started to walk around outside the cage looking in at us all. They were talking amongst themselves in Arabic, and were taking notes in a notebook.

After about the third circuit they stopped near the group of us, and one of the ones in a suit said in heavily accented English “You two with the white bikini marks, turn around. His excellency wants to see your cocks.” We realised they must mean Hans and Mike, but they refused to move, and continued to face into the centre of the cage. Hans looked over his shoulder and said “Fuck you!”. The Arabs spoke amongst themselves for a few moments, and then the suit said “Be careful, my friend! His excellency likes your spirit, and has decided to buy you anyway if he can get you at a good price. Then you’ll see how your insolent behaviour is treated when we have you in our slave quarters.”

Hans just laughed, but John seemed very worried. “You’ve just upset the biggest business man in the city”, he said, “and everyone knows he’s not someone to be trifled with. He keeps a lot of slaves, and there are many stories circulating about the way he has them mutilated. I wish you hadn’t done that – no good will come of it. If you get a reputation as a troublesome slave, they’ll cut your balls off in no time at all to quieten you down.”

The Arabs made another circuit, and then left. Throughout the day other groups of men, and women, came in and walked around the cage, looking at us all through the bars and chattering away happily. The four of us stuck together as we all spoke English, and finally a group of guards came into the room and handed food through the bars – there was a little parcel for each of us – a pitta bread stuffed with some kind of meat – and a jug of water.

The only sanitation arrangements in the cage were a hole in the floor, and I noticed guys throughout the day pissing in to it, or crouching over it to crap. As the guards were collecting the empty water pitchers, John said that the lights would be going out soon, so if we wanted to piss or crap we should do so then, as it was very difficult to find the hole in the dark.

A few minutes later, the lights did go out and we were in pitch blackness. I called out to Hans, Mike and John, and John told us there was nothing to do except stretch out on the bare floor and try to sleep. Hans and Mike said they were used to sleeping in the bush whilst on patrol, and they had a way of doing it and suggested we all try it – you lay on your back, with your head on a colleague’s stomach as a pillow. Another guy used your stomach as his pillow, and so on. With four of us we could just do it in a square.

So we tried it, and I eventually dozed off to sleep with my head resting on Hans’s firm six-pack, and with John’s head on mine.

It really was difficult to sleep, but I guess I did doze for most of the night. When the lights went on, we all sat up and looked around. Everywhere there were guys rubbing their eyes with the sharp light, and being quite un-self conscious of their morning erections. It made me realise that without clothes, and with absolutely no cover in an empty room, you have to have quite a different attitude to your dick – even though I’d been in lots of locker rooms and communal showers, I’d never seen a lot of other guys sporting hard-ons before, as of course you always have a towel, or a locker door to hind behind if you do feel one coming on!

We all cycled through using the latrine hole, and the guards brought in breakfast – fruit, and water again. After we had eaten that, John told us that that was it for the day – for the rest of the time, we just had to sit or stand around in the cage, being inspected from time to time by prospective buyers. He had been there for eight days, but there was now only one more to go before sale day.

Mid way through the afternoon, two tall Arabs came in and walked around on their inspection. They looked at all the men in quite a lot of detail, and were taking copious notes in a small spiral notebook. Shortly after they had left, the trap door in the floor opened and a guard poked his head through and said “365, 376, 377, 378, 402 – get down here”. That included of course Hans, Mike and me, and two other guys. One was quite like me to look at, with quite long legs like I have. And the other was more stocky and muscular, quite like Hans and Mike.

All five of us went down the stairs and along more corridors – again, not one of the people we passed seemed to find it at all strange that there should be naked men being herded along by the guards – and were pushed into a room containing five tables. Each table was about a metre square, and we were told to kneel on them. As soon as I was kneeling down, there were a couple of clicks and I realised that my ankles were held at the corners of the table by cuffs that snapped in to small holes in the table. The guards then put a collar around each guy’s neck, and this had wrist straps at the back where my wrists were soon secured. Finally, a small round ball was stuffed into my mouth and secured around the back of my head with an elastic strap, so I couldn’t speak.

The guards then went out, leaving the five of us, each kneeling on his own little table, and with his wrists cuffed behind his neck, and gagged. It was not very comfortable on the table – my feet jutted over the end, but the lack of flesh on the front of my legs in contact with the hard table soon made my bones ache. We all seemed to be in the same discomfort, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it – our hands were held tight, and we couldn’t move about because of the ankle cuffs and the narrowness of the table.

After what seemed like an age, the door opened again and the two Arabs we had last seen walking around the cage came in. ” Ha” , the first said, “Good. They’ve got it right. 365, 376, 377, 378 and They usually manage to fuck it up somehow, but today we have all the prospective purchases here.”

The two Arabs walked up and down in front of the five of us, and then started a detailed inspection. Because we were kneeling on the tables, our cocks were at about their chest height, and as they moved down the row of us they hefted our ball sacs in their hands and weighed them up and down. “It’s interesting, isn’t it “, said one to the other. “This one ” – meaning me – “has his balls handing down, and his cock hangs down in front of them. Whereas this one ” (turning to 365, on my left) “has much tighter balls, and they force his cock to stand out even when it’s not erect. Both of their balls feel about the same size, but the hanging down ones look a lot bigger”.

They then came back in front of me, and looked again at my penis. “I don’t know about foreskins “, said the first Arab, “This one looks really good on the guy. I like the way it is just long enough so his piss slit is visible all the time. Those very long ones that hang down way beyond the end of the cock really do need trimming off, but this one really complements his prick.”

“Well “, said the second Arab, “what would he look like without it? “, and he started to push my foreskin back to reveal my cock head. I never had another guy touch my cock in this way before, and I tried to protest. But the gag of course meant that all my words came out simply as muffled groans. And I couldn’t move much, because of being cuffed to the table.

“I don’t know which to choose “, said the first Arab. “This 377 with the low-hanging balls and the foreskin, although we can always have that trimmed off, or 365 with the jutting out cock. I suppose that’s better for running, as we have had problems with slaves with those very low balls after they have run a few miles without support.”

“Yes, but then you know how I cured my current runner – after I had that ball ring put around his sack, I’ve had no more problems with complaints about aching balls even when he has been made to run 10 miles. I guess we could always do that with this one, too. Or whilst we are having him circumcised, we could get the doctor to cut some of his sack out and stitch it up higher”, commented number two.

I wasn’t used to being handled like this, or discussed in this way, and I had gone from anger when they first started to examine my balls to despair, when I realised that there was nothing I could do. And what made it even worse was that, for them, this was a perfectly normal conversation and they could contemplate having me circumcised and my balls stitched up as if it was no more than discussing the hairstyle I should have.

“No “, said number one, “I want a natural runner this time. I’m tired of all those rings and harnesses, and my new one is going to run completely free except for the essential bits of harness. So on that basis I think I’ll choose 365.”

“Well OK” his colleague replied “but before you finally make up your mind, let’s have a look at them when they’re erect. You know how these young guys’ pricks tend to pop up at the most unlikely times, and as they’re going to be around our guests a lot of the time, we’d better get one that really looks good. If we’re going to spend a lot on a new runner and a lot on training him, it may as well be for a real thoroughbred stallion that’s good to look at”.

One of the Arabs opened the door and called out “Slave!”. And a few moments later the 16-year old who had previously shaved me came in, still naked. “Erect 365 and 377 “, said the first Arab. “I don’t want cum spurting everywhere. Just get them hard and upright”.

The young slave came over tous, and with a few deft strokes of his hand we were both soon hard. The Arabs then spent a few moments hefting each of our sets of balls in their hands again, until finally the first one said “No, I think 377 is better. With his cock up, look at how his balls hang. And with his foreskin pulled right back, he has a very pleasing cock head. I think I will leave him uncut for the time being, then in a year or two I can always give him a makeover and have him cut – people will think I’ve bought a new slave!”

The second one said “I guess you’re right. But before you finally decide, let’s look at his ass. Those butt muscles have got to do a lot of work when he has been trained, and we need so see how they might shape up.” And then, turning to the 16-year old slave, he said “Unscrew the table”.

The boy came around to the side of me and turned a small handle set into the side of the table. There was obviously a screw mechanism underneath, because the table top separated into two halves, and as one of my legs was strapped to each, as they got further and further apart I started to feel a considerable straining in my upper groin area. Eventually my legs were wide apart, and there was a steady trickle of sweat running down my back and chest from the strain I was under. The two Arabs were behind the table now, and talking about the definition in my ass and calf muscles as they watched as the strain began to tell.

But worse was yet to come. The first Arab came around the front and started to pull my body down and forwards by gripping my collar. As my body went down, my ass tried to go up to compensate, but could only go so far because my legs were strapped down. When my body was almost horizontal, he told the boy slave to hold the collar there and he went back to continue the discussion with his friend.

“Look at that”, he said, “I like to see a well-defined backbone”, and I felt his hand run all along my spine. “And if you ask me, he’s a virgin. Look at that anus – it doesn’t seem to be at all slack, and there’s none of the bruising you get around it when there have been a lot of cocks up there. Not that it matters much as I don’t allow my slaves to fuck each other. But if any of my guests take a special fancy to any of my stock, I like them to have a good night with a really tight anus to go at.”

By now I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They were discussing my body just as if I wasn’t there. I really meant no more to them than a horse they were thinking of buying, or a dog. I wasn’t a man at all as far as they were concerned, but another category of animal – a slave!

“OK “, said the first, “let him up.” And the slave boy let go of my collar so I could ease some of the tension in my legs. He then screwed the handle the other way, and finally I was again kneeling with my body upright and legs together. After all the tension and strain my whole body was covered in sweat, and mixed in there were tears running down my cheeks – I can’t really tell you whether they were of rage, or sorrow. Rage at being treated as less than an animal, or sorrow that there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it.

The two Arabs then started to discuss whether to buy 376 (Hans), 378 (Mike), or the other slave, 402. “The problem is “, said the first, “that they’re all basically the same – well muscled, about 5’10” or 5’11”, a good strong build, and in their early twenties. They’ve even all got abut the same equipment down there – nothing much to choose between them aesthetically. These two ” ( pointing at Hans and Mike) “were soldiers, and it might be amusing to have them completely powerless in harness. But of course if they ever do break lose, they will probably remember how to fight and kill. I’m not sure we’re not better off with this one ” (pointing at 402), “who got his muscles in the gym.”

They carried on discussing it for some time, but decided in the end that they would decide on the basis of their erections again, so the 16-year old slave was told to get them stiff. As I knelt there looking at the three guys nude, all with their cocks jutting up to the ceiling, I felt my own rising up too. One of other Arabs noticed it, and said to the other “I told you these boys get erections all the time. This one hasn’t been touched, but he’s as hard as the others!”

Finally, the young slave was told to bring the three of them to climax, which he did very deftly. “Let the jism fly”, said the first Arab, “And we’ll have the two whose goes furthest”.

Although they were all three in a high state of arousal, and all obviously sexually mature and active, only Hans and Mike produced a huge spurt of cum that leapt across the room from them. 402 barely had a dribble running down his cock, and it looked just as if he had only pre-cum!

The Arabs were very curious about this, and went to examine him more closely. They squeezed his balls, crushing them quite hard – all the rest of us watching winced inwardly in sympathy with the pain he must be feeling, but he wasn’t writhing around on his table. “Ah “, said the second one “I see what’s the problem. He’s been castrated, and his balls replaced with stainless steel prosthetic ones so he still looks OK. So there’s no cum to come! I guess he was a wild one in his youth, and they calmed him down by cutting his balls out and then giving him hormone replacement injections to keep his body tone in good shape and to keep his hair growing. That’s the problem with these farm-bred slaves – you can’t rely on them like the wild ones bought in from outside – the owners are always looking for ways to cut down on the amount of fighting in the slave barracks, and then they overdo it and ruin a really magnificent animal like this one permanently. There’s no point in buying stock we can’t breed from if he is really good after training. So I guess we’ll go for these two, 376 and 378”.

And with that, they left. Shortly afterwards, guards came in again and released us from the tables, took out our gags, took off the collars, and led us back up into the circular cage to join the other guys. But 402 didn’t come with us.

“What was all that about farm-bred slaves?” I asked. And John told me “Well, they repealed the slavery laws 30 years ago here as I told you. So there has been time for two generations of slaves to be born in captivity – with the owners breeding them at 14. Obviously any children of a slave are slaves themselves, and the owners see there’s a profit to be made by selling the next generation on. The children are left in the home compounds with their mothers until there’s any sign of sexual maturity, then they’re sold on. There are special slave barracks that buy the slave boys at around 12, and start intensively training them for the future. They’re toughened up with rigorous daily exercise, until at 16 they can be legally sold as fully mature stock. A lot go down the mines then, and they have a pretty miserable life as once down there, they never come up again – they spend all their time on their hands and knees crawling along the tunnels, and their development basically stops. They get tough elbows and knees, but after a year or two, they can no longer stand upright.”

“Some of the 16 year olds though go on do more training – weights from morning until night, treadmills, and the like. All this costs, of course, as they’re eating a lot with all that exercise, and they have to be guarded. But at 18 you have some pretty amazing tough, muscular specimens who are really good at long hours of the most gruelling physical work. And they know they’re slaves – they were born that way, and they know they will die that way. Ever since they were 12 they have lived a communal life, naked at all times, in the barracks, so they have no conception of privacy. And they’re always made to jerk off communally every morning and evening, and that’s all they know about sex. It’s a pretty good package, and a lot of owners will now only buy these ‘farm-bred’ slaves.”

“Of course, every now and then you get a rebel. That’s probably what 402 was. So at some point, they simply whipped his balls out to calm him down. But then the farmer’s facing a big loss, so they stitch them up with prosthetics, and then try to sell them on. He shouldn’t have been here at all, as this government auction house is only for guaranteed ‘wild’ stock – i.e. guys like us, who have lived free, but have now become slaves for one reason or another. Some owners only want wild stock, or want us for specific tasks where they get more of a turn on from seeing a previously-free guy being made to do the job, rather than one of the farm-bred ones who don’t really know any different”.

It had been a harrowing day, and I was glad it was night again.

To be continued …