A kinky story written by Pete Brown.
Illustration by Theo Blaze

I don’t deserve this, really I don’t.  I know what I did was wrong – no, actually, it wasn’t all that wrong.  But I was fucking stupid.  I mean, all the other guys on the construction site, we all used to go there – the casino was only on the other side of the bridge, in the next state – but they only did it because the beer was cheap and we needed that after toiling away all day in the heat.  It was only me that played the tables – well, some of them did as well, but they soon went home to their wives and girlfriends.  I had no-one to go home to as my bitch of an ex-wife divorced me the year before, and I was working so hard to keep up with the alimony that I hadn’t had time to find another girlfriend.  Perhaps it was the thought that I could win some cash to help me along that kept me there, and, as I said, I was fucking stupid:  you can’t win in the long term, as the odds are always in the house’s favour.

They let me run up a big debt, though.  I didn’t realise quite how much.  It’s supposed to be illegal to gamble on credit, but they let me do it.  Then one Friday night when I was losing as usual they abruptly said I could play no more, and two of the big security guards told me they were taking me to the manager’s office.

It didn’t look much like the sort of office a guy who ran a huge casino would have – they pushed me through a big, heavy door into a mostly bare room somewhere in the basement – bare concrete floor, roughly-painted blockwork walls, and a plain wooden desk behind which was seated a foreign looking guy.  There was no other furniture, and so I had to stand there in front of him.

“You owe us”, he said.  “A lot.  You should tell me now how you propose to settle your debts.”

“Well I don’t have any cash – my ex-wife took all that.  Or much stuff – I live in a rented place now.  So I guess you’d be looking at my truck, but that’s five years old, and if you take that I can’t get to work.”

“So no assets.  That’s looking serious for you.  And you don’t look as if you’re in a fancy job…”

“I work construction.  And even with the overtime there’s not a lot left over after the alimony…”

“So you’re saying you won’t pay us what you owe?”

“No, I’m saying I can’t pay.  Not even if you haul me through the courts.”

“We don’t believe in the courts.  What use would it be if they ordered you to repay us a few bucks every week?  So no assets, almost no income…  Things are looking very serious for you.  What about family, friends… Get a loan from them.”

“Mom and dad are dead, and my buddies are mostly like me – in debt, working hard, but not earning enough.”

The man looked at me, and said calmly, so calmly and quietly that I thought I must have misheard him “No money, no income,  so your only asset is your body.  Remove your clothes, so I can make a proper appraisal of you.”

He sat there looking at me, and I realised he was serious.  “Fuck you!  I’m out of here…..”

I turned to go, but the security guards blocked my way.  They took out metal rods, and pointed them at me.   “Those are an adaptation of the taser”, the man said calmly.  “If they touch you, you will be hurt, seriously hurt.  I do not advise it.  Now, perhaps you did not hear me, or perhaps you did not understand.  I wish to make an appraisal of your body, so be so good as to unclothe.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I turned towards the door.  Then I took a look at the metal rod one of the guards was pointing at me – it had a couple of bare metal electrodes about an inch apart at the end, and the end in the guard’s hand went into a pistol grip that looked like one of the battery holders on our power tools.  There was a red light glowing ominously on it.

“Boy, you heard!”, the guard said.  “Now strip.  We don’t want to have to hurt you.”

The calm assurance in his voice and the way his buddy approached me from the other side so there was no chance of taking them on in a fight convinced me they were serious and knew what they were doing – when I was in the marines we’d done a lot of hand-to-hand combat and they teach you things like that, as the first thing you do is to try and gauge the strength of your opponent.

I stood there, hesitating.  There seemed no way out for the moment.  And how bad could an “appraisal” be?  After all, at twenty eight I was in great shape:  I’d always been into sport at school, then in the marines, and now doing a heavy construction job – I knew I had nothing to be ashamed of.  So as the three men watched I pulled off my T, bent down to untie and take off my work boots, then undid my belt and lowered my jeans.  I stood there in front of them in my socks and cotton boxers.

“You were told to unclothe.  You should begin to learn now to obey orders completely, as that way you will avoid much unnecessary suffering.  Get completely naked so I can properly appraise you.”,  the guy behind the desk said in the same calm voice.

I noticed the two guards holding their taser things menacingly, and there was a lot of my bare flesh as a target.  So I pushed my boxers down and stepped out of them.  I don’t know why I felt so embarrassed – after all, I was used to being naked with other guys in the locker rooms at school and in the marines, and even on the construction site as they’re very good and provide us with showers before we go off shift.  And it’s not as if I’ve got anything to be ashamed of – far from it, as I’m above average in terms of my dick and balls, well, as far as I can tell, as I don’t make a habit of looking at other guys – well, only casually, at any rate, as all guys do in the locker room.  But I found myself holding my hands in front of me, kind of protectively.

“Hands to your side!”, the man said, and reluctantly I complied, feeling myself start to blush as I did so.  Stupid really.

He stared at me for a few seconds, then said “Turn around so I can see whether your butt is as pleasing as the front of you is.”

What the fuck did he mean?  You don’t talk about a guy’s body like that, do you?  Well, not unless you’re a fag.  Then the thought struck me that that’s what he was, and I felt myself break out in a sweat all over – being inspected like that by a fag!

“Face me.”  I turned around, and he stared at me and began “You owe us a lot of money.  You have no assets, and little prospect of earning enough to repay your debt in any reasonable time. We do not like to allow gamblers to renege on their debts to us – it sets a bad precedent.  So we will take possession of your only valuable asset: your body.   We will ship you to a country where such sales are legal, and sell you to repay us.”

“You’re kidding!  There aren’t places like that…..”

He looked at me again, and now I was getting worried by the calm assurance in his tone.  “A further piece of advice – learn not to speak unless you are replying to a question.  Some men find it is irritating, and will order you to be punished.  So begin as you will have to continue, to avoid unpleasantness for yourself.”  He paused, and went on “But you are wrong.  There are indeed places where wealthy men can indulge in the ultimate example of a market economy where everything has a price and everything can be bought and sold.  We will sell you to such a man, and he will own you.  And as your owner he will have complete and total control over you – after all, he will own your body and he therefore has the right to order you to do whatever pleases him, and to have you punished if you fail to satisfy in any respect.”

As he finished speaking he nodded, and I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the guards approaching.  But before I cold do anything I felt a sharp sting in my thigh, and looked down and saw a dart-like thing sticking in my flesh.  I went to pull it out, but didn’t make it as I felt my knees giving way and I collapsed on to the floor.


That was five years ago.  Five whole years I’ve been here in this country – well, I guess it’s a country:   it might only be an isolated county or region.  No one talks about things like that, and I’ve learned not to ask.

So now I’m Steve – that’s what I answer to, as my owner calls all the slaves he has owned before me doing this work Steve as it’s easier for him not to have to remember new names.  And answer to the name I certainly do, as I have learned to obey orders, obey them totally and completely and without any hesitation, whatever they are.   From the moment I came around and found myself here, in the unbelievable heat and hot strong sun, I learned to obey.

At first of course I did not understand the power my owner has over me.  And I’ve always been a bit of a rebel – it was even hard in the marines not to question some of the orders.  But from the very first moment here I learned that to fail to obey is to earn punishment, and they know a lot about punishment here.  They seem to have honed the power to punish into a high art form over the centuries that they have been training men to serve – they can inflict pain with such a precise degree that you think you are going to die, but don’t;  so that your body aches and cries out for relief, but is still able to function;  In a way that you think you’ll be disfigured, but your limbs are not actually broken.  The threat of punishment is ever present, and its delivery is sure and certain if you disobey.  I realise now that I have been broken – once a man with free will, I now obey in all things.  At some deep level my brain has understood that to do otherwise is senseless, and when my owner commands, I act, act instinctively.

So what is my function?  This Steve, this mere tool of my owner, what am I here for, what do I do?

At the highest level I serve to demonstrate to all that see me that my owner is rich and powerful.  Exceedingly rich, and all powerful.  To be able to acquire, train, and own a good-looking  white slave like me signals to the world that my owner is one of the elite in this place – yes, that is what I am, a slave.  If I ever doubt it all I have to do is look at the back of my left hand, where a large “S” was branded into my flesh the day I arrived.  Or to feel my owner’s house mark on my upper right arm, where the brand is deep and crisp – all of his property is marked, and so “naturally”  it was seared into my flesh.

There are a lot of slaves here, but white men like me are specially prized as it is understood that our abduction and transport is difficult and potentially risky, unlike the blacks who can be shipped in by truck from Africa.   And even amongst the few white slaves there are, I am seen as especially valuable because of my age, physique, and looks.  Not that I am what you would call white, exactly, as part of my daily training and maintenance routine is to maintain the deep even tan all over my body – and I do mean all over, as of course my owner would consider it inappropriate for me to have any white patches when I removed my clothes.

So as a symbol of his wealth and power I have no real work in the sense that it would not be reasonable to use me as a field worker on his estates or even as a servant around the palace because of my “special talents”.  Instead I serve to delight him and his friends with the power and strength of my body, mostly as an after dinner entertainment in the evenings.  At the very least I have to perform athletic gymnastic routines for them so they can see my body in action.  And about once a week I perform sexually – either to impregnate a female slave for breeding purposes, or to fuck with another male as this is considered a more enjoyable spectacle to watch.   Look, I was a red-blooded guy who had a lot of girlfriends in my time, so I’ve no problem with fucking women – but doing it when my owner and his friends are watching, to a slave girl who I have no relationship with other than the fact that I am supposed to get her pregnant, is different.  I could never have imagined I would do such things, but that was before I was broken.  And fucking another guy (or, worse, having him fuck me when my owner wants to be especially amused as he knows I detest it) – never, never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought that I’d be able to get an erection and keep it hard to be able to do such a thing:  it would have disgusted me.

I spend my days in the gym, working out, and in the pool.  My exercise regime is carefully prescribed, as my owner wants me to be well muscled, flat bellied,  toned and “perfect”.  But I must not be over muscled and turned into some body builder – no, he wants a perfect specimen of an “ordinary man”, and as that is what he wants, that is of course what he gets.

Around the palace and in his presence I wear one of two costumes that he considers display me to my best advantage.  The first is a tiny flap of cloth just a bit wider than my dick and balls that hangs from a string tied around me just above the root of my dick – it’s barely long enough to cover my dick.  It’s OK if I stand still, but if I walk, or run, my dick flops around and anyone watching gets glimpses of it under the tiny shred of cloth.  So it’s not really a covering for me at all – more something to excite others more than my total nakedness would.  The second is a short “wife beater” kind of T shirt, very loose, that leaves my arms and shoulders bare and which comes down to below my navel, but then stops so that my dick and balls are totally exposed.  In both these “costumes” my butt is totally bare of course, as that’s because my owner considers it’s one of my best features and he enjoys seeing it, and in displaying it to his friends.  Actually I only get to wear the second uniform when I’m going to fuck a female – for some strange reason it’s considered wrong or irreligious or something for a man to be naked when having intercourse,  so this tiny T allows the niceties to be observed and for their religion to be respected – they can still see me fucking and know that it’s all perfectly “right”.

Apart from the tiny uniforms it’s bare skin, and my owner has very specific likes and dislikes here too.  So my pits and chest hair is trimmed down to a nice short length – enough to say that I’m a real man, but not enough to spoil the enjoyment of my musculature.  My pubes are kept shaved except for a small patch just above my dick, and this is trimmed very short, too – again, the idea is to show that I’m a real male, but that nothing should spoil the view of my dick and balls;  and perhaps needless to say these are totally shaved, as is the area between my dick and my asshole, and my ass crack –  it’s considered unsightly to have hair obscuring the view between my legs as I fuck, as one of my prime advantages as a slave used in these ways is that I have very low-hanging balls, and my owner and his friends enjoy seeing them swinging around and slapping into the flesh as I fuck.

Well, when I say “bare skin”, that’s not totally all – as well as my brands, my owner has had me tattooed as a further mark of his ownership of me.  I have my slave name, Steve, across my shoulders in big bold letters, and this is said to further enhance me as the tattoo draws the eye to my broad shoulders and emphasises them, so making the contrast between them and my narrow hips and tight butt all the more extreme.  On the front my inventory number in the palace’s inventory of my owner’s possessions is tattooed above my left pec, and the word “slave” above my right.

I wish those were the only tattoos, but when my owner had me circumcised immediately after I was branded, he did so in such a way that a further tattoo would cause him excitement.  Look,  I’d always been glad that I hadn’t been cut as I really used to like sliding my foreskin on and off my dick head as I jerked off, and especially relished the pleasure of feeling it after I’d shot and my thick creamy cum was adding extra sensation as it lubricated it.  But my owner considers that a slave should not hide any part of himself from his owner, so my foreskin had to go – but not quite all of it:  I was “trimmed” so that when at rest my foreskin now only partially covers my dick head, and my piss slit and part of the head is visible all the time.  When I erect it retracts fully, and this is when my owner’s “surprise” is revealed:  a black band has been tattooed all around my dick, just behind the head, so that’s it’s normally not visible until  I’m hard.  My owner seems to delight in this, but it was fucking painful, I can tell you:  I’d just recovered from being branded and circumcised when they tattooed my back and pecs.  That was bad enough, but when they started on my dick – especially when the band was inked across my frenulum – I couldn’t help it and thrashed around so much I had to be tied down, and gagged to stop me screaming.

So this is my life.  Exercise, then to my owner’s private rooms where I stand around as he and his guests eat, then when they got to coffee and their pipes had been lit, I provide the entertainment.  Usually it is simple gymnastics – stretching, push-ups, some work on a set of parallel bars that are brought in,  and so on.   The only requirement is that it should be flawlessly executed, and sufficiently difficult and taxing so that my body would soon be covered in sweat and my lungs would be heaving.  But about once a week on average I’ll be told to wear my tiny T before entering the rooms, and then I know I am going to fuck.

My owner’s guests are invited to bring slave girls along for me to impregnate, and they are of only two types:  experienced breeders, who had been studded several times before and who were probably excited by the thought of a white man doing it to them.  And young virgins.  There aren’t a lot of the latter, and they are reserved for “special occasions” like big religious festivals.  For the experienced breeders I am only expected to stand behind them and fuck them “doggy fashion”, just as if we are animals (as I suppose they think we are).  But a virgin demands more of a display, and I hate it.  They had probably never been naked before, especially not in front of a crown of leering men, and when I  am ordered to rip their clothes off they usually begin to cry.  I am expected to wrap my arms around them to hold them still so that any of the audience can finger them and tease their firm breasts if they wish, and then when I am told to begin “the business”, they want to see “proper” love making and passion, not just fucking.  So I need to fondle the girls, play with them with my fingers and tongue to arouse them so that they are “ready”, and then fuck them long and slowly in many positions.  I am expected to restrain myself until the men are satiated and only then can I cum inside her.  And of course there is always a lot of crying and tears as however gentle I am, having a big hung man using a young girl for the first time is inevitably going to involve some pain (and a lot of shame for the girls, I suppose).  Finally I need to parade in front of the men again so that they can inspect my dick for signs of blood, as it is only a “proper” entertainment if the girl had indeed truly been a virgin.

My owner would occasionally tell me the outcome of these forced matings – he considers it a mark of pride that I am very fertile and generally knocked up a high percentage of the women the first time:  again it demonstrates his power and control over me, in  that a “real” man could be as subjugated as I was.  I have lost precise count, but there are at least twenty little “Steves” running around somewhere by now (well, assuming that about half of my fuckings produced boys – girls were not so highly prized and tended to be aborted).  The only thing I hate about this forced fucking was an “innovation” my owner introduced last year – he decided that his guests might be bored with seeing my muscular thighs and butt framing the view of my balls slapping away through my thighs, and so some further “decoration” was required.  Now I am made to lie on the punishment table before such a session and my owner gives me four hard strokes with a thin Malacca (one of his favourites as it is sufficiently thin and bendy to raise a bright red weal on the skin, but not sufficient to actually break it and introduce bleeding and possible scarring).  I try not to scream and usually manage it for the first two strokes, but can’t help myself for the last ones.  He considers the red lines across my butt and thighs to be “artistic”, and I suppose he’s again demonstrating his skill and control, as when I look at myself in a mirror I can see that the lines are beautifully parallel and evenly spaced.  It’s not right, though, is it?  I mean, its one thing to be beaten if I have failed to obey and I guess a slave deserves this, or at least comes to accept it as part of life.  But to be beaten just so that your owner can provide more amusement for his guests seems to fly against accepted standards of humane treatment.

Pat of the problem is, I think, that these beatings bring back memories of being broken after I first arrived.  In being forced to learn how to give total and complete obedience I had subsequently mostly managed to avoid harsh punishments, but these new beatings reminded me so much of my first weeks.  My owner does not consider it necessary to display patience or tolerance with new slaves.  Instead once I had been branded and circumcised – in themselves indescribably painful – I was subject to sustained, regular physical abuse to “break” me:  the whip and the lash (although not to break the skin), the cane, beating of my belly and pecs with a rod, and “close confinement” when all this was not going on.  I got to the point where I didn’t know whether it was better to be dragged out of my confinement cage for one of these bouts of savage beatings, or to have to stay in there with all my muscles in agony with the cramp (a close confinement cage, for those of you not familiar with it,  allows you to sit down with your back against one side but your legs have to be folded up so your feet touch the opposite side.  Then they push your head and shoulders down to meet your knees, so the lid can be closed and locked.  After a few minutes you try to move to relieve the strain on your muscles, but there is so little room.  After an hour you are in pain, and after a few hours you simply do not know how you will survive.  To add to this there is the humiliation of pissing and crapping over yourself, of being deprived of food and water, and occasionally of being drenched in a shower of cold water to cleanse the shit off you).

What’s worse than the humiliation of fucking the women though is the men – well boys, really, I would call them.  Someone told me they had to be over sixteen so I suppose it’s legal, but I hate having to “break” a new boy for an owner:  it’s considered great sport to bring a new slave along to one of the evening sessions and then to have me fuck him – my big thick dick inevitably causes them to scream and thrash around (I’m not allowed to be slow or gentle), and the owners consider that when subsequently they themselves use the slave he will be “grateful” that they are not causing so much pain.  I’d never even have thought of going with another guy before I was brought here, not even of doing anything normal like a bit of mutual jerking off, let alone fucking an ass, but what choice do I have?  It’s either that, or punishment.  Occasionally, too, when the men have been taking too much of their pipes and are somewhat inebriated, they persuade my owner that it would be even better sport to see me fucked!  I have to lie there as some skinny young black kid forces his dick up my ass, or down my throat, or both.  I’ve got to the point where I can take it, I can take the pain and the humiliation without showing it, but this displeases my owner I realise. So I writhe around a bit and whimper and moan and this pleases the watching men who all relish seeing a big virile man so subjugated.

If I ever thought about the future at all it was to wonder what would happen to me when my owner tired of me.  He didn’t show any sign of it after five years, but I knew that there would be a limit, and as I got older I worried that I would not be able to perform satisfactorily for him.  After all, the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t, as the old saying goes, and I could imagine that when he sold me I could well end up even worse off than I now was.  I would look anxiously at the volume of my cum, and the power with which I shot it out, and worry that he might judge it inadequate and trigger my replacement.

The end came totally unexpectedly.  My owner’s nephew came back from boarding school in England when he was eighteen, and declared that he was not going on to Harvard as would have been normal as he wanted to join his uncle in living a proper man’s life.  My owner “adopted” him and began to teach him management of the estates and of their vast financial holdings, and naturally he attended my owner’s evening dinners so that he could become acquainted with the other rich and powerful men with whom he would work and socialise.

I’d had a very good session with a young virgin one evening and knew that my owner was pleased with me as when the guests were leaving he’d allowed me to stand next to him so they could take a last look at my bloodstained dick, and his hand rested casually and comfortably on my butt, his fingers running lightly over the raised weals of my caning.  Then I heard the nephew complaining that he had not got a graduation present from doing well at school as the examination results had been received that day.  My owner was in a generous mood and pointed out that the nephew already had sufficient wealth of his own to buy a sports car, or a vacation anywhere on the planet, or whatever;  but that if there was anything else the young man wanted, he should simply ask.  And he did – he asked for me.

My owner was at first reluctant to give me up as he told the nephew he thought there were a couple of years of useful life left in me, but the boy reminded his uncle that he’d said that the boy had only to ask…. So it was agreed.  I was to accompany the nephew to his rooms in the palace that evening, and the formal re-registration of ownership would take place the following day.

He fucked me that first night, of course.  And not gently, but hard, and relentlessly, with only the power and stamina that a young guy really has.  Afterwards as I lay there on my belly, feeling his cum trickling out of my ass, he told me that he had enjoyed seeing me fucking but that there would be no more of that as I was now his property , to be enjoyed in private.  He’d thought about taking an older slave like me rather than one of the young slaves, and had decided that it would be good for him as it would teach him more about control and subjugation, and the fact that  I was so clearly heterosexual was a further advantage as he liked the idea of fucking straight men.   And then there was the English – he wanted to keep his perfect English in good practice, and what better way than to have a slave who could respond to the language?

The re-registration was brutal:  I was held down as a flat circular branding iron was used to obliterate my former owner’s mark on my arm.  Then, as I was still screaming, my new owner’s brand was applied just a little lower down.  He allowed me the rest of the day to recover, but that night seemed to delight in touching the scars with his fingers, causing fresh shoots of agony to go through me.  He fucked me again, then I had to kneel on the bed beside him so he could watch me jerk off – he ordered me to spray my cum onto his torso as he lay there so he could assess me properly in terms of the volume and power with which I shot it, but he did at least complement me on my ability.  I found the whole thing totally humiliating and was a bit surprised by this, as after all I’d spend the last five years fucking in public and in being fucked.  But somehow having an eighteen year old order you to jerk off so he can assess you is something else.

He decided that my tattoos were not sufficient ornamentation, and that two nipple rings would enhance my already prominent tits.  Not just those thin gold rings you sometimes see gay guys wearing in the west, but thick heavy ones.  He insisted in driving the piercing needle through my nipples himself, and in using the reaming tool afterwards to open up the hole to take the thick rings.  He was very pleased with the finished result, and told me, as is true, that now when I exercised I’d always be “aware” of my nipples as the rings bounced around, and that this would serve as a further reminder to me of his ownership.  He added to my tattoos, too:  liking the sight of the ring around my dick appearing as my foreskin retracted, he decided my dick should receive even greater prominence so “Steve” was tattooed down the length of it – it looks good when my dick is just hanging there, but when I’m erect the effect is not as good.

I suppose it’s the nature of eighteen year olds to be a little obsessed by sex, and he started to worry that when he was working with his uncle I might be using some of my training time to consort with other slaves, or even to jerk myself off.  I would not have dared to do either of these things of course as I knew that severe punishments would await if I were caught, but my owner decided that some advanced preventative measures would be preferable.

So he devised “the sleeve” for my dick:  It’s a cylinder of stainless steel mesh, very strong, that slides over my dick so that when it’s on I can’t fuck, and can’t even jerk off as my dick head is covered as is most of my shaft.  It’s the way it’s kept in place that is so terrible:  once it has been slid into position, a sharp needle passes through a small custom-made washer attached to the mesh, through my dick head and out the other side through a washer on the other side of “the sleeve”.  A small nut goes on each end of the needle, and a drop of superglue holds them on to the needle.  My owner enjoys the ritual of fitting this to me:  the sliding on of the sleeve, my involuntary jerk as my muscles protest as he pushes the needle through my dick head, and the placing rather precisely of the two drops of superglue – I’m allowed to cry out as the needle pierces my flesh, but only once.

The beauty of “the sleeve” is that I can piss as normal, I can have erections as the sleeve is wide enough to accommodate my dick, and it’s still possible to read my dick tattoo through it.  I cannot however fuck or even jerk off, and after a couple of days my balls are usually getting pretty painful as they’re used to having frequent release (and I’m still only in my early thirties, so I’m very virile, remember).    What my owner now enjoys is fucking me until I cum involuntarily – after about a week my balls are so full and I’m so on edge that when he goes in really deep and his dick hits my prostate, I start to ejaculate.  He loves seeing the huge pool of cum on the sheets underneath me when this has happened as he considers it a sign of his virility that his fucking is so good that it arouses me in this way – he’s wrong, of course, as it’s simply my body trying to do what every guy needs to do.

The only time I am released from the sleeve is when he takes me along to one of his uncle’s dinners because the men want to see some sort of spectacle – “spit roasting”, for example, where I team up with my former owner’s new slave.  Then my owner takes pliers and cuts through the needle holding the sleeve in place, so it can be slid off – it’s such a joy to be able to touch my dick, but I know that later that evening I will be in pain again as once more a needle is pushed through my dick head.

As I was lying there after being fucked one night my owner toyed idly with my sleeved dick, and the motion of it caused me to go erect even though this is a little painful as the needle moves around in my dick head.  He told me that he had decided that he did not like the idea of me fucking women – he thought it was disgusting that he had to share his bed with a dick that had been inside a female.  There was a simple solution to this, it seemed to me (although I could not say this, as my “breaking” had so firmly conditioned me not to speak unless questioned):  all he needed to do was to stop taking me to the dinners.  He told me instead that he was going to have me “stubbed” – my dick sliced off near my body.  It would be so much more convenient for him as he would not have to do the re-sleeving after sex, and he was even running his fingers across my belly planning where a new tattoo with my name could go, once my dick was removed.  It seems though that my usefulness to him would not be impaired, so that was OK – I would be keeping my balls, and hence my masculinity:  the hormones would still circulate, and I would still be a male and virile.  And he told me that he would still continue to fuck me in his special way so that my cum would shoot, and indeed that I would now appreciate his attentions even more as it was the only way that I could cum.

I lay awake all that night worrying about what was to happen, and I think the horror of the proposed “stubbing” did something that none of the other indignities that I had experienced had done:  it broke my conditioning.  Somehow the prospect of losing that symbol of my maleness was so overpowering that five years of punishment and pain were overturned.  I knew that I had to escape.

My opportunity came the next day when I was to perform in front of my owner’s uncle’s guests.  It was  special occasion as “foreign” guests were expected, and I was taken along by my owner still sheethed as he thought that the guests would enjoy seeing how I was unsheethed, how quickly I became erect as my dick was freed, and the interesting effect of the drops of blood from where the needle was pulled out from my dick head – it was supposed to look like a snake, with the blood on either side forming the eyes, and my piss slit the mouth.  Ha fucking ha!

I was made to do a special performance for the watching men – I took a young girl’s virginity whilst a young black slave buggered me.  It was strange to be performing in front of westerners in addition to the normal audience – they had looked uncomfortable at the start of the evening, but once the sex was underway they were as mesmerised as the others by the sight.  Then I had to kneel in front of the audience as my owner demonstrated the sleeve once more by re-sleeving me:  the seemed to be surprised as I shouted out with the pain of the needle plunging through my dick head once more.  After that I was allowed to leave to return to my owner’s rooms whilst he stayed to talk to the guests – everyone knew I was an obedient “broken” slave, so there was no reason not to trust me in this.  But instead I circled around to the front of the palace where the limousines were waiting – their drivers were inside seeing their own special entertainment performed by some of the other slaves – and I knew that this was my last chance so I opened the trunk of a huge BMW, lay in it, and pulled the trunk closed.

It was terrifying as I lay there.  If the car was inspected, I’d be found, and at the very least I knew I would not only be “stubbed” but castrated. Or, more probably, crucified  to reinforce the training of all the other slaves.  But my luck was in and the limo drove off, and when it finally stopped and I kicked and pounded on the trunk, when the lid was opened I saw American marines looking down at me.

I’m not going to blame them really.  They saw a naked tattooed guy with big nipple rings and a strange sleeve over his dick, and immediately decided that I must be some sort of strange sexual pervert who needed “dealing with” in the traditional marines’ way of punishing sexual perversion:  I was dragged out, punched a lot, thrown to the ground and kicked , and when I was almost insensible from the ferocity of the beating, they held me down as each in turn raped me to “teach me a lesson”.

The last marine had just pulled out of me when an embassy official came over to see what the commotion was.  He was appalled to see my slave tattoo and I began to feel that rescue was at last at hand (joke – think about where my “S” brand was!).  He ordered the marines to take me into an office, then peered at the ownership mark on my arm.  Picking up the telephone he had a long conversation with someone else, and I heard phrases like “personal property of a relation of the ruler” and “diplomatic incident” and “oil contract”.  Then he ordered the marines to take me out, put me in a jeep and drive me to the palace.

I couldn’t believe it!  But somehow my conditioning held, and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell them I was an American.  Had I been asked, I could have spoken.  But I was unable to initiate.

I was dumped in the back of a jeep with a couple of marines and there was some hold-up or other.  They sat there talking quietly to each other and looking at my sleeve, and they began to wonder what it would feel like to have their dicks pierced with a  needle like that.  Somehow that was close enough to a question that I blurted out that it fucking hurt, hurt most of the time.  And once they realised I spoke English, they started to ask me a lot more questions which of course I could answer.

The official was called back and I told him something of this history, and he made more phone calls.  Then he came back and told he marines that the original plan held. He told me he was sorry, but I was a slave, after all, and keeping good relations with my owner’s uncle was more important to America than what happened to a slave.  So I was to be returned, and the marines were ordered to take me.

I owe my life to the marine sergeant.  The marines told him about me, he came and questioned me, then said that the fuckers in the embassy were real bastards.  He stormed back in to the building, and I saw him having a really violent argument with the officials, before he came out again.  He said he’d been ordered to take me back to the palace, and of course he could not disobey even though he thought it was totally wrong.  I tried to run at that point, but there’s no way even a superbly fit guy like me can escape from a group of marines, and I was thrown back into the jeep and we drove off.

At the palace I was almost sick with the thought of what was going to happen to me – I felt certain now that I would definitely be crucified and I knew I did not deserve to die in agony like that.  But we stopped outside, then the sergeant appeared and threw some clothes at me, telling me to put them on – it was a marines uniform, which I had once been so familiar with!  He told me he had obeyed his orders and taken me back to the palace, but no-one had said he had to take me in!  Then he said that a marine should not be out alone on the streets in that part of town, and perhaps I needed a lift back to the barracks!  It’s a tribute to the comararderie of the marines that all the guys rallied around the sergeant and connived with him in keeping me in the barracks for a few days – they even apologised for raping me – and then he “managed” the paperwork to get me on a flight back to the USA with some men of the detachment whose tour of duty was up.

Back “home” I tried to get justice, really I did.  I went to the FBI, and to the State Department, but it was no use.  “Oil contracts” kept getting mentioned.  The only thing they agreed to do for me was to allow me to be part of “witness protection” and gave me a new name, and a place to live out in Arizona, and a small monthly allowance to live on.  It’s OK, but when I go to the gym the other guys always wonder why I keep  T on, even in the heat, as I do not like to display my ownership mark.  I can’t do anything about the “S” on my left hand, so I always wear a glove, explaining that my skin was damaged in a fire (which is almost correct, I suppose).  Needless to say I cut the sleeve off, but I’ve kind of got used to the nipple rings and as I lie in bed and jerk off, I find that playing with them increases my excitement.  Pity about losing most of my foreskin, though – I really do miss the feel of it when I’ve cum and it’s well lubricated and sliding over my dick head.

I live in terror of being recaptured by the mob who run the casinos and who sold me into slavery in the first instance.  Or by agents of my owner, as I feel sure some news of where I am will one day leak out because of their ability to pay unlimited bribes.  So I have written this account of how I was broken, and used, and lodged it with an honest lawyer with instructions to send it to the press if I fail to make contact every three months.  If you ever get to read this the worst will have happened, and I am certain that I will be dead – I can only hope that they do it decently and quickly with a bullet or knife, and do not ship me back, as I had been shipped out before, to that terrible end nailed to a cross as a warning to others.


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