I was inspired to write this short story when I took time out from meetings to sneak a quick visit to the Acropolis on a business trip to Athens.
They masturbate us every day at exactly 8:45 pm. That’s when we come “on duty”. We’ve been unloaded from the carrier, brought here to the entrance and our ankles are manacled into the positions we have for the next few hours. We’ve been made to pick up the roof, so we’re just standing there helpless, with the tiny loin cloths that are our only protection just covering our genitals. The young guy who masturbates us never speaks, just moves along the two lines of the four of us on each side of the entrance way, lifting our loin cloths, bringing us to climax, blotting the ends of our dicks dry with a cloth, then lowering the loincloth again so that we’re “decent”. They don’t like the idea that we might get sexually aroused during the early part of the evening when “ordinary” visitors are entering the casino, and this is the way they fix it.
It’s a terrible job. We have to stand there, our feet neatly apart and shackled to the floor, holding up this roof that covers the entrance walkway from the street up to the front doors of the Akropolis. It seems to be a really fancy place. Most of the men and women who stroll up and down the entrance way are in tuxes and evening gowns, and there’s a lot of jewellery. I have no idea where it is, as they speak all sorts of languages as they stroll along, but it must be somewhere that’s a business or tourist centre as there are quite a lot of guests. And it’s hot – we’re on duty until three in the morning, and it’s not at all cold, even when you’re then totally naked.
Look, the roof isn’t heavy. It’s made of some sort of plastic stuff on a light aluminium framework. It’s not the weight that’s the problem, but the immobility. As I’ve said, we’re shackled to the concrete of the walkway in our assigned positions, four a side, evenly spaced. We carry the aluminium side members that support the vaulted plastic roof on our heads, and there are kind of small “caps” at the right places on the beam for our heads to go in – hardly visible at all from below. We have to grip the members on either side of our heads to give greater stability – and keep the switches there held down at all times with our fingers. If we loosen our grip, or, worse, let go, the switches open a circuit and we all get electric shocks via our ankle manacles. So we stand there, legs apart, bodies upright, hands above our shoulders, for hours every night.
I’d better tell you about our day. It begins at eight thirty p.m. when we’re made to have a final crap and piss – there’s no opportunity to do this when we’re on duty, in front of the public, so they make sure we’re empty. Any guy whose in any doubt must tell the guards, and then he’ll be given a quick “wash out” – an enema, I suppose it is, really. They snap the collars around our necks that hold us to the transit chain, then we walk out to the transporter. The journey only takes five minutes as our barracks is somewhere in the town centre and the Akropolis club and casino is very central, too. But I’ve no idea which city it is – it looks vaguely Arabic, but the rich shops, expensive cars, and fancy restaurants on the streets we go through could be almost anywhere. When we arrive we space ourselves out in position – they don’t mind where we go, in the middle or at the ends, or on which side, and we decided that mostly for ourselves when we get on the transit chain in the barracks. Then in turn each of us is uncoupled from the chain (there’s some sort of special key that holds the collars closed), and we move into position. They pull our shorts off and put the tiny loin cloths on – there’s a gold chain that goes around you, under your hip bone and above your ass crack, and then the white silk is hung from it. They adjust the length so that it just hides your dick and balls, no more. Then the ankle manacles are snapped on, and they do this until all eight of us are in position.
The roof is lying on the walkway in front of us, and then we’re given the order to lift it up in unison, once concerted move. As I said, it’s not heavy. When that cap touches the top of your head, though, you know you’re there for the rest of the shift, as you can’t now move either forwards or backwards, or from side to side. Another order and you raise your arms and grip the side bar at head level, feeling for the switches. Those fucking switches – its not that they’re heavily sprung or anything, it’s just that you know that you must not move your hands from now on.
As I said, they come along and masturbate us next – they leave this as late as possible, I’ve been told, to make sure we’re as sexually relaxed as possible. The guests start to stroll in around nine, and some of them stop to pose themselves for pictures in front of one or other of us – them in their finery, and us nearly naked in the tiny loin cloth. They’re allowed to touch us, of course, just as if we are the statues we’re meant to represent. They put their arms around our shoulders, or our waists, and some rest their hands on our butts, as the cameras click.
Nothing much happens then until midnight. Then it’s the unveiling ceremony. Quite a lot of the guests, having finished dinner in the luxurious restaurants in the Akropolis, or who are perhaps tired of dancing, stroll out onto the walkway and stand there expectantly. I once went to some hotel or other in one of those southern cities in the USA where a whole lot of ducks come out of the elevators at a certain time and walk across the lobby – the guests all come out to watch that, and I’m always reminded of this as the Akropolis patrons line up expectantly. Eight of the waiters from the restaurant stand behind us, and at a signal they whip away our loin cloths so we’re totally naked, and then they undo the gold chains and take them away too. There’s always a round of applause for this, and most of the guests then stroll back indoors, although there’s a lot more pictures taken, too.
As the evening goes on the “touching” gets worse. Either it’s because the guests are drunk, or because the sight of our total naked helplessness somehow “inspires” them to fresh acts of degradation. It’s not at all unusual for middle aged women to hold a dick when she’s being photographed. And some of the young girls, and their boyfriends, think it’s screamingly funny to try to make us erect, and even to try to jerk us off (although one of the liveried doormen always then politely intervenes, as they don’t want a lot of mess on the luxurious carpet that runs along the centre of the walkway). I hate that most of all, though, as there’s often a bead of pre-cum then hanging off my dick, and that seems to attract even more of the guests to come and stare.
At two a.m. The Akropolis closes, and the last guests have staggered down the walkway back to their limos by about two fifteen. Then they turn off the electric current, and we’re allowed to lower the rood onto the ground in front of us. Man, that feels good – having to stand there all that time, rigidly upright, really tires you out. And your arm and shoulder muscles give you hell as the blood flows back properly. You cant help your hands and fingers swelling up as you stand there. They tell you to do “motionless exercises” – squeezing and relaxing all the muscles in your arms and legs all the time – to help prevent this, and to stop you getting cramp. It must work, I suppose, as none of us has yet fainted away totally as you sometimes see soldiers doing who are made to stand at attention on parade for long periods.
They come along and undo the ankle manacles in turn. They throw us a pair of shorts to put on, then the collar on the transit chain snaps around your neck. As we’re all the same size and shape they don’t need to bother about whether it’s “your” shorts, and I’ve long since stopped bothering about niceties like that – I’m just glad to get my dick and balls covered. We walk back to the transit, and are driven back to the barracks, and the first thing most of us need to do is piss – we stand there and huge streams of it jet out from us. Then we’re fed – the food’s not bad, but it’s always the same – some sort of porridge-like mush with seeds and grains in it, and a load of fresh fruit. They say it’s very healthy as there’s no fat or meat or chemicals or anything, and I guess that’s true, as we’re all in good shape and are really fit.
There’s a lot of massaging goes on – we’re all stiff from having been made to stand for so long is a relatively uncomfortable position. And once you’re used to massaging another guy, well, it kind of seems natural to feel his body, doesn’t it? Look, I’m not gay or anything, but living with the other guys like this you’re used to being close to each other in the showers and stuff, to working out together, then to being chained together, and finally appearing naked like that. I’ve lost any concerns I used to have about other men seeing me, or touching me.
We are put into our sleeping quarters then – just an empty room with a pile of blankets. It’s pretty small for eight of us, and you can’t help but touch some of the other guys. And, well, it’s kind of natural, isn’t it, to need to jerk off and so on? Even though we’ve all been masturbated earlier, we’re mostly young, and all horny. When I first came here I was amazed when one of the others wanted to jerk me off, but, after all, that’s what happens to me every night anyway. And it’s a lot more fun with one of your buddies, as you kind of do it together, so you do to him what’s causing you a lot of fun. And when you’ve jerked off together, it’s only natural to do some of the other stuff, isn’t it? I personally don’t like sucking dick much, but if a buddy is doing it to me, it’s only fair to do it to him, right? And it’s the same with fucking – I started fucking the others as it seemed natural, and now, actually, I think a nice tight ass is better than a sloppy cunt. But I’m still not sure I like a dick up my ass, although it does make you very close to your buddies, both physically and mentally. That’s what we need – emotional contact with others. Our lives are so regimented, so bleak, so devoid of interest, that we have to rely on our buddies for everything, and when you’ve fucked them and they’ve fucked you, there’s that special bond, if you understand me.
They let us sleep until about ten a.m., then we exercise for two hours. The morning exercises are out in the walled yard behind the sleeping quarters. There’s a lot of sounds come over the wall – traffic noises, people talking, kids shrieking as they play games – but we can’t see any of it, and they can’t see us as the wall’s about two or three times a man’s height. It’s odd to be there, imprisoned, living this strange life, with the rest of the world going about its business, unawares, outside. In the mornings we do general upper body stuff – push-ups (endlessly!), trunk curls, exercises lifting weights, all that sort of stuff. There’s a guy whose our physical training instructor who keeps us at it – any slacking and he has a tawse that really hurts when it catches your bare back, or, even worse, your thighs, or your chest. It doesn’t cut into the skin, or leave any mark, of course, as they need us to be physically perfect for our public display.
We get our first meal of the day after that – the same porridge stuff and fruit – and after that we’re allowed to “relax”. Well, we’re put into the swimming pool enclosure (with the same high walls around it) and some of us swim a bit. But mostly it’s so that we can lie there in the sun – they take our shorts away from us when we go into the pool as we’re supposed to be swimming, but really they want our asses and dicks exposed to the sun so we’re all a uniform tanned colour all over – nothing like tan lines is allowed to spoil the perfection of our bodies.
In the afternoon it’s more training – sometimes back in the exercise yard, but often we’re collared onto the transit chain, loaded into the back of the truck and driven out to some wide open plain. Then they clip the end of the chain to the truck, and drive around, and we have to run to keep up. It allows one guy to exercise all eight of us a the same time, with no risk of us escaping. And he varies the speed of the truck so that sometimes we’re jogging, and sometimes running hard. It can be really tough.
When we get back to base it’s time to get ready for our evening’s activities. We have to shower and shave and make sure we’re smooth and so on. I used to be a really hairy guy, but since I’ve been here I’ve been shaved like all the others – very short cropped hair on my head, a small patch of pubic hair just above my dick, very trimmed hair in my pits, and that’s all – everything else is shaved off so my skin is smooth, and I look more like all my fellows. I guess some of us would be naturally hairy like me, and some would be naturally smooth. I’ve got jet black hair, and the other guys range from that through to blond. Trimming and shaving us all like this really does make us so much more alike. And having just the tiny patch of stuff above my pubes makes me look a bit like one of those ancient Greek statues – you never see them in museums with hairy chests, do you?
That’s my whole life now. Every day absolutely the same. No variation. No variety. Just exercise, display, work. We have no entertainment, no TV, no newspapers or books, nothing. Apart from the sheer physical difficulty of it, we have nothing to “talk” about. We mostly just lie around and do nothing when we’re not doing any of the above things. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here – I tried to keep count of the days, but I lost it. And there’s nothing to write with, so no way of recording it. It could have been a year, or even two – all the days are much the same here in terms of temperature and weather and so there’s not even a way of keeping track of the changes in the seasons.
I should have listened to my girl friend . If I had, I wouldn’t be here now. She used to enjoy looking at my body and stroking it and playing with it before and after we fucked. She was always kissing my butt or the inside of my thigh or my shoulders or somewhere, and saying how good it would be if I had a tattoo there. She even wanted to buy me one for my birthday, and then she wanted me to “give” her one, by having it done to me, as a birthday present for her. Had I had a nice tiger on my butt, or a band on my biceps or some small thing on my shoulder, I definitely wouldn’t be here now. They need all the guys to have perfect, unadorned bodies, and with a tattoo, they would never have considered me. I asked one of the other guys about it and there’s a lot of “knowledge” that’s built up over the years – apparently they’ve been keeping guys doing this for a long, long, time, and whenever one of gets too old and is retired”, they simply go and get a new guy from somewhere.
Their agents go out to gyms and places like that looking for guys all with the same physical makeup: exactly six foot three, and a thirty seven inch inside leg – that makes sure the ratio of body length to leg length is the same in all of us, too – they want an even height, but they want us “the same”. Then you have to have a long, thick, dick, and big, low-hanging balls. They don’t care about eye colour or hair colour or any thing like that – we’re mostly viewed at night, so eye colour isn’t important, and most of oar hair is cropped or shaved off. The rest of it they can work on, developing the muscles they want and so on.
We really are almost “clones”, and that’s apparently the attraction – eight naked guys, all helpless and immobile, and all very much the same. It’s some sort of thrill for the customers, and some sort of power trip for the owners. I must just have been very unlucky that one of their agents spotted me as I was working out. He’d have seen my general height and build, and made sure my dick and balls were satisfactory. Then he’d have made some detailed enquiries about my exact measurements – I seem to remember I went for a job interview just before I was snatched, for a job that I was offered – I didn’t even apply. I wonder now if the doctor who was so careful to measure me was in on it.
Look, my name’s Dan. Daniel Wilkinson. Born Sydney, Australia. Living, before I was snatched, in London as I decided to see a bit of the world before I settled down. I don’t remember my social security number, but my girl friend, or my parents, must have reported me missing all that time ago. Jon Rogers is a fellow Aussie. Piet Jonquers is from South Africa. Chuck Myerson and Greg Stoner are from the USA, and Darren White, Tony Shrien and Paul Williams are all from the UK. There must be records of guys with those names going missing suddenly – I should have got all their details like date of birth and social security number, but I forgot.
They did terrible things to me when I got here. I was stripped and clipped and shaved for the first time, and I hated it. They did all sorts of tests – took blood and urine, X-rayed me, listened to my heart, all that sort of stuff. Then they broke my nose – I couldn’t believe it. I was strapped into what looked like a dentist’s chair, and the doctor who had been examining me came up with this small stainless steel hammer. I wondered what he was going to do, when he just brought it down on the bridge of my nose. The pain was awful, and I was in shock from the sudden violence of his action. Blood was pouring out of me, and tricking down over my now-smooth chest and running into my clipped pubes. I managed to gasp out a question, asking him what the fuck he’d done that for, and he told me it was because I was too perfect, too “ruggedly handsome” he called it. Apparently the ancient Greeks used always to sculpt a small blemish into their statues as the gods were thought not to like human perfection, and the owners of the Akropolis had decided to have all their slaves with a blemish, too. So my nose had to be broken, and then re-set slightly wrong. Not a lot, so you hardly notice it: but enough to spoil my perfect features and, they say, make me look a lot “tougher”.
Whilst I was still strapped in they circumcised me, too. “Obviously”, if you want eight near clones, and at least one of this has a cut dick, then all the others have to be done, too. And once you’ve got eight ‘skinned guys, once one of them has to be replaced, he has to lose his ‘skin too, doesn’t he? I suppose it makes sense in this twisted world of theirs. The pain as he sliced my ‘skin off was terrible it took my mind off what was happening to my nose. By the next day they were just both aching with a terribly dull throbbing ache. Not being able to jerk off for a week, until the scars healed, was pretty tough, too – I was almost constantly erect, and my balls ached all the time from not being able to shoot.
Funnily enough I was tattooed anyway – the Akropolis has all its property marked with a serial number for inventory purposes. But they don’t want the public to see this on the perfect bodies of us guys. So I had to lie there as one guy held my butt cheeks apart and another tattooed my serial number inside the crack, where it’s not normally visible. The humiliation of being marked was worse that the physical pain I’d suffered, and being marked like this, with my butt being pulled apart, was even worse.
Finally, of course, they muted me just as all the others are muted. The doctor forced my mouth open and put wedges between my teeth to prevent my jaw closing. Then a kind of pair of scissors, with very long handles and blades that gleamed like scalpels went down my throat and cut my vocal chords. The screams I made when my nose was broken and I was circumcised without anaesthetic were the last real noises I made. Look, I know they can’t risk us talking to the Akropolis’s guests, but do they have to take away my power of speech permanently? I’ve asked the other guys why they couldn’t just gag us or something, but they all say it’s obvious: they want us to look as “natural” as possible as we stand there in our tiny inadequate genital covering, or, later, stark naked. That’s why the ankle restraints are so thin, and why they have nothing visible on our wrists at all – we just have to stand there with our hands in position, to hold the switches down. I don’t need to talk to the supervisors or guards – I just have to obey, so I don’t need to talk. But us guys like to tell each other what little we know about things – not that there’s much new to say, as life is so much the same, and so repetitious, as I’ve explained. So we have to “spell” out words using individual letters on the other guy’s palm, or on his chest or belly if we’re lying close in bed. It really slows things down, but you soon get quite fast at it.
Please help us! We’ve got to be set free. This note is not a hoax. If you are reading it, you’ve got it from me outside the Akropolis. I took a huge risk. You must be one of the guests. Please take pity on us, and do something – take this note to the Australian Ambassador. He’ll do the right thing for a son of OZ who’s been caught up in this terrible way they’re using men.
>From : Personal Assistant To The Minister of Labour and Immigration Control To : General Manager, Akropolis Bar, Restaurant And Casino.
The above note was taken by a worried fellow countryman to the Australian Ambassador in our country last night. Fortunately he has excellent relations with the minister, who was able to reassure him, in a personal meeting that the Ambassador requested at very short notice, that this was probably an elaborate hoax, or, if it wasn’t, that the Ambassador would not want to spoil relations between our countries. The minister pointed out, too, that the Ambassador was a frequent visitor to the Akropolis, and that several photographs existed in the files of the Ambassador stroking and fondling the entrance slaves, and that we might even be able to find a picture taken with the Ambassador actually handling the slave Dan himself. No further enquiries are therefore being made. I am told the Ambassador was able to apply a little “scare factor” to the person with the note, too – when asked how it came into his possession, the man admitted he had dislodged it from its place of concealment in the butt crack of the slave, when he was fondling the slave’s rear quarters; this is not information that the finder would have wanted disclosed, as he was a “respectable” married business man, and assured the ambassador that he did not “normally” fondle naked male buttocks.
The Minister is however extremely concerned about the careless way that Akropolis are handling their slaves. The note itself was written in blood, and a sample analysed shows that it is primarily the blood of the slave Daniel Wilkinson who was imported two years ago. However further analysis shows that the blood of all the slaves used in the Akropolis’s entrance display was used, suggesting a widespread conspiracy amongst the working slaves. The Minister wishes me to point out, however, that the note could not have been written if the slaves had not had access to a needle to prick themselves and produce a fine stream of blood for writing with: where this came from is apparently unclear, although it might have been dropped by a visitor on the Akropolis entrance way, and secreted by a slave until required.
However it points to sloppy handling and inadequate supervision of the Akropolis slaves generally, which could have led to a major scandal affecting a number of businesses and importers in our country if we had not acted firmly and decisively with the Ambassador. Accordingly the Minister has seen fit to impose a fine of 250,000 US dollars on the Akropolis. You will produce this as a freely negotiable banker’s draft made out to the minister personally, and this is to be delivered to this office marked for the personal attention of the Minister, no later than noon on Friday next.
In view of the involvement of all the Akropolis display slaves in this attempt at making themselves known to the world, the Minister has decided not to demand the death of the slave Dan. He is however forfeit to the Minister, and is to be delivered, along with the banker’s draft, to the minister personally no later than Friday next. The slave should by then have been properly branded, at the Akropolis’s expense, with the Minister’s personal house mark, a copy of which is enclosed.
A. Moustaffa personal assistant to the Minister.
– The End –