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

I was really proud to be a cop.  Society runs by rules, that’s what distinguishes us from animals.  And someone has to make sure the rules are obeyed, or else there’s anarchy.  So I guess that all my life  I’d always wanted to be a cop, and I’d never had any other ideas about a career.  As soon as I left college I applied to join, and after doing the year’s training, I was in the Highway Patrol – it was great, actually: I had a smart uniform, the hours were really great as there was no need to work in some stuffy office doing overtime every day, and I got to ride a bike!  Well, I’ve always liked biking, and I’ve got a big Kawasaki of my own.  And after work I had plenty of time to work out in the local gym, and the force even encouraged it, subsidising my subscription as they like to have their men really fit..

 Some of the other patrolmen were “soft” on the big-time criminals – it wasn’t that they accepted bribes or anything, but that it was just too much effort to get cases to stick – they’d have their fancy expensive lawyers, and a lot of the time they’d pick ridiculous holes in the evidence, and even accuse the cops themselves of things like bias and racism!  But I’m not like that – if the law has been broken, then the people ought to be brought to justice, that’s what I say.

 Drug smuggling obviously isn’t my thing – as a near rookie I was expected to mostly just do “highways” stuff.  But I got suspicious of the regular convoys of trucks I saw on my “patch”, as they seemed to be going “nowhere” and the out of state plates just looked well, kind of “wrong”.   I tried to speak to some of the detectives about it, but they at first seemed not to be interested, and then, when I persisted, became actively unhelpful, telling me to keep my nose out of their affairs.  It seemed to me that they might be turning a blind eye to this activity, because they didn’t want the work, or, worse, they might be getting bribed.  Full of youthful enthusiasm I therefore decided to do a little investigation of my own.

 It was kind of exciting, actually.  Obviously it was no good trying to follow them on my “work” machine in my uniform, so I took to hanging out in the side roads on my Kawasaki in my jeans and leather riding jacket. I started to note the details of all their journeys, the times, and the licence plates, and I really thought I was getting somewhere.  I tried again to get the detectives division interested, but they were now really hostile to me, and one even warned me to “take care” as I was dealing with dangerous guys!

 I guess I should have listened.  They knew what they were talking about, as about a week later, as I was sitting in the side road with my engine idling, waiting to follow the next convoy, there was a “click” next to my ear, and a quiet voice said “Be still, very still.  You know what this is, don’t you?”

 I did, of course.  The sound of a gun cocking is absolutely unmistakable.  So I just sat there without moving.  That’s what they teach you on the training courses, actually – if it’s hopeless, don’t try to fight it, in the hope that you’ll get a chance later. I knew that if I made any kind of sudden move it was all too easy to get my brains blown all over the woods.  So I just sat there astride my machine, as the quiet voice  went on “Good, that’s sensible.  Now, turn off your motor, and put your hands behind your back….”

 I did as he said, and felt the coldness of steel as cuffs were slipped around my wrists and secured.  My heart was racing, and I could feel all the muscles in my belly tightening as my body got ready for “fight or flight”, but the next moment I knew there was no chance –  my assailant reached around and undid my helmet from under my chin, tossed it casually into the bushes, and then slipped a soft leather hood down right over me, completely cutting off my vision.  I could breathe, though, but my breath felt all hot and confined in the close stillness of the leather.  I knew that I now had almost no chance of escape, that I’d lost the opportunity.

 I just sat there, completely helpless, and listened to the guy calling to someone on his cell, and then we waited.  “Look”, I tried to say, my voice muffled by the hood, “Just let me go.  I’m a cop, and if you carry on like this, there’ll be real trouble. Kidnapping a cop, or harming him, is a capital offence in this state.  But if you undo the cuffs and slip away as quietly as you sneaked up on me, that will be the end of it…”

 “Shut up, fucker!”, he snapped.  “I know you’re a cop.  We factored that in.  But a cop who’s doing a bit of extracurricular activity!  You’re not on duty now, you haven’t got your radio and location devices, and no one at your station knows where you are.  So shut the fuck up, until  the truck gets here.”

 I went to try to reason with him again, and almost yelped in alarm – he still had the gun pressed against my head, but with his other hand he’d reached down and grabbed my balls through my Jeans!  “Shut the fuck up!”, he snapped.  “I don’t want to hear one more word from you.  It won’t do you a bit of good – it’s too late for all of that.”


 I was lying there in the truck.  In the back, still cuffed.  When it arrived and there were more of them, they’d crammed a ball gag in my mouth and it was securely strapped around my head.  I could hear other guys in there with me as the thing rolled on at high speed through the night, and I began to realise with a sick horror that I’d fallen into the hands of slavers!  Look, I know I’ve told you that I believe in the rule of law and all that stuff, but some laws are just plain unjust and I really never understood how the southern states managed to get the reintroduction of slavery through Congress.  But they did, and I was just glad that I didn’t live in one of the “slave” states – I’d have hated to have to pursue criminals and take them in, knowing that they’d end up on the auction block.

 We all knew about it, of course – there were lots of popular TV shows on slavery themes, with comic black slaves and cruel white masters in a whole new genre of comedy slots.  And from time to time there’d be some scandal, when an owner would be fined for killing a slave.  But in our state none of this existed, and for my friends, family and me life was just as it always had been – indeed, we were seen as kind of backward, and the folks in the South always referred to us as “still living at the start of the twenty first century” rather than being modern and forward looking, as they were.  Mind you, perhaps they had a point,  as unlike theirs our prisons were full, and it was getting harder and harder to control the gangs of young tearaways who rampaged around the malls, whereas I understand that in the South all was peaceful and harmonious – not that I’d ever been there:  my friends and I considered it too risky.  You never knew if you got drunk or something whether you might get a term of a few months  “involuntary servitude”, as slavery was politely called.

 But now here I was, in the hands of slavers, I felt certain.  Why else would all these trussed-up bodies be in this truck?  The newspapers and TV news was full of stories about how the shortage of slaves – particularly young guys, capable of hard manual toil, was driving up prices and slowing the economy of the South.  And there were always hints of illegal slaving, but nothing was ever proven.  Perhaps, though, it was deliberate –  the statistics for “missing persons” in our state had continued to rocket, and it was mostly men who went missing, unattached men, without relatives.  The more I lay there, the more I felt certain that the “rumours” of illegal slaving were not that, but fact.  And perhaps the reason why these people were never caught was that it was convenient for my colleagues in the police to be able to dispose of “trouble makers” without all the hassle of marshalling the evidence to get a conviction in court.  And once they’d started down that slippery road, what easier way of getting rid of a troublesome colleague, too, a colleague who might turn up embarrassing and incriminating evidence of collusion between the police and drug runners?

 I tried to communicate with some of the bodies around me, but it was no use – the ball gag stopped me.   So there was nothing to do but just lie there, and try to get as comfortable as I could with my cuffed hands.  I needed to piss, but I forced myself to hold it, and you know how it is – the moment you start thinking about things like that, it becomes almost obsessive! I don’t really know how long I lay there, though, as there was just no way of telling the time.   Still, when I felt the truck slowing, and then reversing, I felt really relieved – at some point I’d get to see someone responsible, I’d be able to tell them I was a cop, and then, when I was back home, I could really start to look into who might have betrayed me to these people.

 I knew the doors on the truck must have been opened as I could feel the fresh air flow in, and then there were hands grappling at my body, and pulling me out. I was still hooded, and they told me to put my hand on the shoulder of a guy standing in front of me.   I felt a hand on my shoulder in turn, and then we were led off, slowly, and stumbling every now and then when there was a step or something.

 We were evidently in some kind of big echoey room, as even through the hood it  “sounded” different, and I just stood there, waiting my chance.  “Foot up!”, a voice next to me barked, and I felt a hand tugging at my ankle, so I lifted my foot off the ground.  My sneaker and sock was ripped off, and then the same thing happened to my other foot, so I was standing there bare footed.

 They cut my clothes off me!  As I stood there, helplessly cuffed and hooded, I heard a kind of “swish” noise, and the next moment my biker jacket, and then my T, was pulled away from me.  I could feel the air on my bare chest, and I tried to protest, saying that the jacket had cost me hundreds of dollars, but no intelligible sound came out.  They did my jeans next, and as they sliced through my boxer shorts and tugged the cotton away from me, I knew I was totally naked standing there.

 I was half pushed, half guided across the room, then my hood was whipped off and the next moment, as I stood there blinking, I was deluged with water.  I could see other hooded naked guys just standing there across the room, but as the water sluiced down over me a naked man – to my horror  I realised he must be a slave, as he wore an iron collar – began to wash me. And there was nothing I could do about it, with my hands still cuffed behind me:  he massaged shampoo into my hair, then soaped me all over and pushed me gently back under the falling water to wash it all off.  He didn’t skimp the job at all – no part of me was unwashed, and his warm hands even did my dick and balls, and slid down my ass crack!  There was no use struggling, though, as I knew I was powerless to stop him – and anyway, he was probably just doing as he was ordered:  I knew enough about slaves to know that they could be punished at the slightest sign of failure to carry out their owners’ instructions, and if his guy had been told to wash me, and wash me most intimately, he certainly would do so.

 The slave just towelled my hair roughly dry, and that was that – the hood was pulled over my head again, and still dripping wet, I was led away.  There was a lot of standing around after that, I got the impression  I was waiting for someone, or something, and I just knew from the shuffling noises and the way that I could hear a door that kept opening and closing that the other hooded men I’d seen were joining me.  Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than an hour or so in total, my hood was pulled off again.

 I blinked my eyes, and saw there were around twenty of us standing there, all cuffed, and gagged, and as I watched the same slave who had washed me in the shower came along and helped us into shorts – I had to step forward into them as he held them in front of me, then he pulled them up and tied the tie-waist thing around me.  I felt better almost at once –  I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but at least in these loose grey cotton shorts, that were not unlike the exercise shorts I wore at the gym, I felt a bit more respectable!  Not that I’ve got anything to be ashamed of you understand:  I exercise a lot, so my body’s in great shape, and there have never bee any complaints from the women I’ve been with about my dick or balls.  But being naked makes you feel completely helpless, and even with just a pair of shorts, it’s better.

 As soon as he’d finished, the slave just stood there, head bowed and with his hands clasped behind his back.  The door opened and a guy came in who looked as if he was in charge – he just had that air or authority about him.  He looked at us all standing there in front of him, and said “Listen up, as I’m only going to say this once.  You’re here to be sold, all of you.  Sold as slaves.  The auction will begin shortly. I want no misbehaviour from any of you, or else you’ll feel the slave stunner – perhaps you don’t know what this is…..”

 He held up a metal thing about a foot long in front of him, and waved it in the air.  I did know what it was, actually – it was a riot control stunner that I’d learned about in the Academy:  our force didn’t use them normally, but if there was a riot or something, then the Commissioner could give special approval for them to be issued.  A powerful electric charge stored in the thing could really jolt a criminal, and easily subdue even the most vicious rioter.

 “…and, believe me, you won’t want that”, he continued.  “So just do as you’re told, and you won’t come to any harm.  You’ll go up onto the auction block one after the other, they’ll bid on you, and then you’ll leave quietly, and that’s that.”

 He lowered his voice then, took out a piece of paper, and read what was obviously some special form of words.  As far as I can remember them, it went like this “You are here at a ‘marché ouvert’.  Under a legal tradition that goes back to Norman times in England, goods sold at a marché ouvert cannot be recovered.  The auction you are about to attend is the surviving such market in the State, and you should be aware of the rules that surround it.  Goods purchased at a marché ouvert become the instant property of the purchaser, even if acquired illegally, and there is no redress from their original owners should the goods be traced.  If you do not want to take part in an auction held under such rules, State law requires you to announce this openly and clearly, by objecting publicly to the auctioneer as he begins the auction. Failure to make a public declaration of this type means that the auction can proceed lawfully and the goods can be sold to their new owner, who assumes absolute title to them immediately the auctioneer’s gavel signals the conclusion of the lot.”

 His face broke into a half-twisted smile.  “So, you men have been warned!  Behave during the auction, or you will feel the stunner.  Object as you come up for sale, or your auction will proceed and at the end the buyer will assume absolute title to you.  If you are an escaped or stolen slave, or a free man, it makes no difference:  a slave bought here becomes the absolute property of the buyer, with no possibility of redress.”

 I could see other guys like me shaking their heads in frustration as we tried to say something through the ball gags, but it was no use – nothing intelligible came out!  Two guards, waving their stunners, marshalled us into a ragged line, and we were marched out and into a corridor where we were “placed” against one wall, and waited. We shuffled along every three minutes or so, and as I got to the head of the line, the guard undid my cuffs so that my hands were free, then said to me “OK, boy, in you go.  Now, up the steps, right into the middle of the auction block, then do exactly as the auctioneer tells you.  Any trouble, and you’ll be punished, remember!”

 He opened the door and pushed me in.  I was so surprised at having my hands free that I didn’t have time to react initially, and then I clawed at my gag, in a hopeless effort to get it out of my mouth – the straps holding it seemed to be locked in place and immovable.  As  I mounted the steps onto what was a small stage, I knew that this was probably the last action I’d take as a free man – I’d be sold, and under their crazy rules, when I came down off this stage I’d have become a slave.  I stood there, desperately trying to protest, trying futilely to mouth the words about objecting to being sold, to tell them that I was a cop, not a slave….  But it was all no use.  Unless you’ve had one in you, you’ve got no idea how effective a ball gag can be in completely stifling intelligible words.

 I stood there under the bright lights, and could just see the audience looking at me – fat, well-fed looking men, with a scattering of women.  Most of them were flamboyantly dressed as I understood slavers often were from seeing the TV shows.  The auctioneer, as that was what I assumed him to be, was not behind a desk but stood by the side of a small table on which were some papers, and his gavel and a small block to bang it on.  He must have had a radio mike, as I heard his voice boom out “The next lot, ladies and gentlemen… A white buck, probably aged twenty four or twenty five.   Six foot, two hundred pounds or thereabouts…. And, as I’m sure you can see, a most attractive proposition.  Not only is he not pre-owned, so you are acquiring fresh meat that you can mould to your own particular requirements, but he’s well proportioned, nicely muscled, there’s a pleasing thatch of fur on him – although that can of course be removed – and many would say he’s even handsome!  Now, who’ll open the bidding at two hundred?”

 I could hardly believe my ears, as I listened to all of this.  They were auctioning me as if I was some prize piece of stock, not a man!  I’d been to a cattle auction once where they sold off breeding stock, and it was just like this.  It wasn’t right.  If only I could speak, I could finish this immediately.

 There was silence in the hall, and the auctioneer took a cane from behind the desk and ran it lightly down over my pecs and belly.  “Oh come on, ladies and gentlemen!  Look at the muscles here.  Look at the condition.  And this light smattering of fur:  it’s the fashion currently to have nicely hairy slaves, you know:  and if you buy a smooth boy, you can’t add fur.  But if the fashion changes and smooth slaves become the norm, then you can always have him plucked, or just shaved!  So two hundred’s a steal… Come on, ladies and gentlemen… It’s not often we have prime property like this on the block – young, virile, muscled… And, as I said, not pre-owned:  this is his first appearance at an auction. We suspect he’s a virgin  – although this is not warranted.”

 I hated it.   I stood there, listening to myself being described just as if I was some sort of animal, a mere object.  I wanted to scream at him that I wasn’t going to be sold like this, I was a man, a free man, a man with rights…. But nothing came out.  I flexed my arms impotently, wanting to hit out at him, but I dared not, knowing that the guards who were standing smartly at attention on either side of the stage would use their stunners on me.

 “Let’s see him properly, and then I might bid!”, a voice in the audience called out, and there was a lot of raucous laughter, and some cries of “Yes, strip him!”.

 “Shuck those shorts, boy!”, the auctioneer snapped at me.  I just stood there, frozen in shock.  I could hardly believe what I’d heard.  Surely he couldn’t want me to stand there naked in front of all those men and women?  The next moment I would have howled in pain, if I could have through the fucking gag.  The auctioneer had viciously sliced his cane across my butt, really hard.  There was a tingling, stinging sensation in my muscles, that really hurt.  “Drop ’em, boy, unless you want to feel more of the cane…”, he muttered, with the radio off now so that only I heard.

  I still hesitated, though, and he slashed at me again, causing me to jerk forward with the shock of the harsh blow.  Well, what was I supposed to do?  I undid the tie holding the shorts, and let the loose things fall to the floor so that I stood there nude.  There was an appreciative mutter from the audience, and the auctioneer hissed at me to turn around, which I did, and then to turn back again to face the front.

 “So, ladies and gentlemen”, the voice boomed out again.  “Now you see him properly.  Don’t be put off by that big white area all over his ass and thighs – it does spoil the total picture, I know, against the dark tan of his upper body and legs, but they just serve to point out what an attractive proposition this boy would be once you’ve had him fully exposed to the sun for a couple of days!”

 I almost died of embarrassment then as he began to probe at my dick with his cane, managing to get it behind it and raise it in the air.  “And look at this, ladies and gentlemen, beautifully proportioned, not too fat, and certainly not too thin!  It makes a most harmonious whole, I’m sure you’ll agree.  And again, notice that you have the choice:  if you prefer your slaves ‘skinned, then a quick visit to the veterinarian and it can be done.  How much more sensible than buying your men pre-cut, as you can’t restore a ‘skin if you want.”

 To my acute shame the action of the cane rubbing gently at my dick was making me bone up.  You know how it is, when you’re young, anything touching your dick makes it bone.  And as the audience chuckled, with a couple of people even making polite clapping, not too loudly, I heard “And he’s enthusiastic, as you can see!  A young buck in his prime, just ready for you.”

 The cane was probing around in my balls now, and again he managed somehow to get it in behind and gently push upwards and forwards my low-hangers.  I shuffled a bit, as you’re always worried when something touches your balls, aren’t you, and he whispered “Easy….”, and then to the audience at large “And look at these, ladies and gentlemen:  really hung low down, and the perfect size for him.  And with a sac like this, your possibilities are endless:  leave him ‘au naturel’, or you could have a cinch band at the top, to push the eggs right down and make a nice, tightly-stretched sac that would really swing!  The choice is yours….”

 “The hole, the hole….”  It was almost a chant from the hall.

 “Turn around and bend over, boy!”, again to me, privately.  And then when I just stood there, almost doubting what I’d heard, there was another swipe at my now-bare ass and I almost shot forwards off the edge of the stage with the shock. It stung even more than when my butt had been covered with the thin shorts. “Turn around  you young fucker!”, he snapped.  “You’re not doing yourself any favours by being seen to be disobedient by the potential buyers.  A slave with spirit is all right for some, but most buyers want a slave who’s properly compliant.”

 Reluctantly I did as he said, turning my back to the audience and remaining standing there for a few moments as the voice boomed out once more.  “Look at this muscular development, ladies and gentlemen. Never mind the three stripes across it – make allowances for the fact that he’s not yet properly trained.  And imagine the additional excitement in actually doing the training….  But just observe the power in that ass and those thighs!  No doubt you’ll soon tame him so that all these marks are unnecessary, but just imagine having that superb musculature at your disposal.  And, whilst we’re here, notice the classical shape:  broad shoulders, tapering in the classic triangle down to the butt which flares rather sensuously:  we usually only find this in blacks, or in those models in the gay magazines, but here it’s available for you to buy today, ladies and gentlemen.”

 “The hole, the hole…”,  from the audience.

 “Bend over, boy, and spread your cheeks”.  I could see him holding the cane menacingly, and knew it was useless to refuse.

 I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I flushed with embarrassment as I bent from the waist, then reached back and pulled my ass apart.  I’d never done anything like this before, not even to someone I’d been having sex with.  And now there were all those eyes boring in to me.

 “There, ladies and gentlemen!  Rather a lot of fur as you’d expect from a man whose general body type tends towards the rugged, but as we all know, that can easily be shaved off.  Not much to see, though – I’m closer, and I’d say that this is a virgin hole, although as I mentioned we’re not warranting that. But it has none of the signs of hard, regular use…. Or should I say ‘yet’!”

 He chuckled slightly as he made these disgusting remarks, and I wanted to scream at him that I was no pervert fag  No dick had ever bee anywhere near my ass, and it wasn’t going to, either!

 He allowed me to stand upright then, told me to turn around to face the audience once more, and sporting my bone, I had to listen as he started at a hundred and fifty, then the bidding on me rose swiftly to finish at two, two,  three.  Less than a quarter of a million bucks – that was what I was worth.

 He pushed me off the stage dismissively, just using the cane to guide me away, not even allowing me to stop and pick up my shorts.  My dick, still boned, bobbed up and down as I went down the steps and out through the door, where two guards tossed me a pair of the same shorts, watched impassively as I pulled them up over my boned dick, blushing furiously, and then cuffed me again.

 There was no time wasted.  They pushed me into another room where they marked me:  you know, the standard slave ID that all slaves have.  Even if you don’t live in a slave state, there’s enough of it on TV so that you know that those big, heavy numbers across the inside of the right wrist, right over the pulse point, and again on the left shoulder, mark a man indelibly as a slave.   It didn’t even take any time or skill – they looked at a PC screen to get the number, dialled it into one of those things that’s a bit like a Dymo marker, held it against my skin, and that was that. They’d strapped my hand and forearm to a frame to hold me perfectly motionless as they did my wrist, but one of the guards held me firmly in an arm lock around my neck when they did my shoulder.  I’d done some desktop publishing for the College magazine, and I knew that the numbers were in 30 point bold type, so they were big – I’d never seen them on the skin in real life before, only on TV, and as I stood there looking down at my wrist I just couldn’t believe that I’d been mutilated in this way, totally against my will.  It’s horrible when other men so totally physically overpower you that they can do something like that to you – it takes away all your feeling of being a man, to know that you’re utterly unable to prevent these goons mutilating you like that.

 The same two also collared me.  Again, you all know what it’s like:  an inch of hard steel quite tight around the throat.  What you don’t know is how it changes you as they use the big moulding pincers to bend the thing into shape around your neck and to hold it there as they glue it closed.  I’d begun to realise I was a slave when I was inked, but the feeling of the steel around my neck, absolutely immovable without something capable of cutting through case-hardened steel, really brought it home.  This was no fancy ornament that some guys wear, but a mark of servitude, something that said “slave” in a way that was permanent.  And physically it makes a difference, too – I was suddenly conscious of this additional weight on my neck, a weight that pressed me down just as much as the system was pushing me down towards life at the very bottom of society.

 I had to wait in a cell for about an hour for my owner to appear.  All around me the other men who had been sold were similarly waiting, and then, one by one, were let out and taken away.  When I saw this big guy approaching down the row of cells with a guard at his side, somehow I just knew he was looking for me:  the purposeful way he scanned the cells, then locked his eyes onto mine as he saw me standing helplessly there.

 The guard opened my cell, and stood there looking relaxed, gently slapping his slave prod in his hand. I knew I had to be careful.

 “Uncuff him and take that gag out”, my owner said. His voice was deep and powerful.  Indeed, his whole persona screamed “power”, from the big, heavily boned body that looked as if he was in good shape physically, to the very expensive jacket, slacks and leather loafers he was wearing.

 As soon as my tongue was free, I blurted out “Look, I’ve been captured and brought here illegally. My name’s….”

 “Shut the fuck up!”, he boomed, and to emphasise the man’s point, the guard pushed his prod towards me. “Your name’s Steve.  That’s a good name for a slave. That’s what I’m going to call you. I call all my personal slaves ‘Steve’, as it saves me remembering who they are when I change them.  And I don’t give a fuck about whether you were captured, or indeed anything about your past life.  I’ve bought you here, in this ‘marché ouvert’, and that means that you’re legally a slave.  Look at you – inked and collared: you’re clearly a slave.”

 “But I’m a cop, I….”  I never got any further, as the guard pushed the prod at me, and I was writhing and screaming on the floor.  Both of them just stood there, until I recovered and struggled to my feet.

 “You’re my slave, Steve.  Life will be a lot easier if you remember that”, the man who I now knew was my owner said.  It wasn’t a threat, it wasn’t said in a kindly way to help me.  He just stated it as a fact, and that was somehow very chilling.  “Now, drop those shorts and let me have a proper look at you – it’s hard to really get the measure of a man, even when he so obligingly bones up as you did, when he’s up there on that stage.”

 This must be another way that you know you’re a slave, I thought to myself.  I no longer even had my own name, and I was to be known by the name that my owner found convenient!  The guard was twitching his prod towards me, though, so reluctantly I undid the string holding up the shorts, and let them drop to the floor.

 I could actually feel the heat radiating from my face as I flushed with the embarrassment of having my owner cup my balls, separating them in the palm of his hands with his thumb.  And then when he moved on to hold my dick, I was totally unable to stop myself from getting hard.  I could see him smiling, and he said to me casually “I like an enthusiastic slave, Steve.  You and I are going to get on well.”

 When he skinned me back, though, I’ never felt so naked before in my whole life.  I’d never exposed my dick head to another guy before, and certainly never had anyone else – not even a girl friend – skin me back!  You cut guys won’t understand, but when you’re used to being nicely covered by your ‘skin, having to expose yourself like that is just the most terrible thing.

 As we stood there, a clerk hurried up, and apologised for keeping my owner waiting.  “Are you going to have additional work done on the slave, sir?”, he asked politely.

 “Probably”, my owner said, as if musing on the point. “I’ve not had a foreskin on any of my personal slaves before, and I’m not sure about it.  But this one’s not too bad – even when he’s flaccid, there’s not that unpleasant flap hanging over the end, as it just neatly overs his piss slit.  So I think I’ll see how we get on – he looks like the kind of man who keeps himself neat and clean, and I can always have him ‘skinned later if I find there’s any unpleasant smell, or build up of smeg.  It’s only a quick trip to the doctor, after all.”

 “Certainly, sir.  And a brand?”

 I almost went rigid with shock when I heard this, and his reply sent a chill through me. “Oh yes, I have all my property indelibly marked with my logo.  The slave ID is OK, but when they see him in the street, no one knows he’s mine without a brand.  I usually have them done on the shoulder under the slave number, and of course on the butt – it adds that little extra something, I find, when I’m fucking him, to be able to caress the branding scar.  It reminds me, and him, that  his flesh is mine totally.  But there’s no need to do it here – one of the more interesting aspects of slave ownership is to do these kind of things for oneself, I find:  holding the hot iron into his flesh when there’s just the two of us together – with him suitably restrained, of course – helps him to bond properly, I find.”

 The clerk and he exchanged a few more remarks, then he looked me straight in the eye.  “Now, Steve, we’re going home.  You’re my new personal slave – I like to work out, and I like to run, and I like someone to do it with.  And you’ll keep all my clothes in order. And the apartment clean.  Now, are you a virgin?”

 “Hell, no…. I’m quite a stud….”

 “Steve, rule number one.  Be respectful – always.  I am your owner, and you call me ‘master’.  I think what you mean is ‘Yes, master’.”

 I could see the guard twitching his prod, so I blushed a bit and muttered “No, actually, master.  I’m not married, but I’ve had a lot of girls…”

 “But no men?”

 “NO!”  I saw the guard twitching, and added “…master.”

 My owner chuckled.  “So you are a virgin, Steve, in the slave sense.  I’m glad – although I didn’t pay a premium price for you, you were quite expensive, so having a virgin ass is a real bonus.  I’m looking forward to training you to give me pleasure.”

 I almost shuddered.  I’d heard, of course, that men bought slaves for sex, but I couldn’t have believed that this was going to happen to me.

 He turned. “Follow me”, he said quietly.  I went to pull the shorts back on.

 “Leave them.  They belong to the auctioneers.”

 “But I’m naked…. Master.”

 “No you’re not, Steve.  A slave is never naked.  You are wearing your collar, and that is sufficient.”

 “But master…”

 “No arguing, Steve!  I agree that you’re not as good looking as you will be when we’ve had that mop of hair cropped, and your sac neatly shaved ,and your pubes trimmed so that we can get a proper look at your dick.  And you will look a whole lot better when you’re a nice even brown all over.  But there’s nothing to be ashamed of – you’ve got a good body, but even if you hadn’t, that’s no concern of yours.  I own you, remember?  And if I choose to exhibit you naked, then if you are less that perfect, that reflects on me, not on you.”

 He walked off, and all I could do was follow him along the corridors and out of the building.  I could feel my dick bobbing up and down, and was acutely conscious of my nudity, but it didn’t seem to concern the others we passed who were presumably used to the sight of owners and their naked slaves in that place.

 His huge Mercedes SUV with the darkly tined windows lowered menacingly in the parking lot.  I could feel the hot sun on my naked body, and the tar was almost scorching my bare feet.  He gain looked me over, his eyes seeming to leave me no shred of privacy in the bright light.  “I’m glad you’re being sensible, Steve.  Some of the newly-enslaved try to make a run for it. But we’re a long way from the border.  And with your inking and collar, you’d soon be caught.  The mandatory punishment for an escaped slave is castration, and that’s such a waste of my money as a gelding just isn’t as valuable as a proper stud.  Now, get in… I’ll let you ride up front as we’re alone, but in future you go in the luggage compartment when I’m travelling with guests.”  As the hot leather of the seat burned into my naked ass, and my owner rested his hand first on my thigh, then moved it to gently fondle my balls as he headed out on to the highway, I knew that I had a new life. I was no longer a cop.  I was a slave.  

The End

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