Author's Note: This story is strictly an erotic fantasy. It's not real, nor is it in any way an endorsement of the activities described. In the real world, kidnapping, forced sex, slavery, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse, and the buying and selling of human beings is morally reprehensible and I am staunchly opposed to it all. In the real world, it's important to play safe with condoms and PrEP, exclusively with consensual partners, and to respect your partners' limits and comfort. Please don't kidnap and molest straight eighteen year old boys, just enjoy this completely made-up fantasy instead. :)
A standard aspect of processing my new acquisitions involves finding out as much as I can about their former lives via social media profiles, google results, and the like, as well as more private information gleaned by investigating their cell phones. Usually this is a simple task. Remarkably few of my boys lock their phones with any kind of passcode; apparently the few seconds it takes to enter one are more important than leaving all of their personal information vulnerable to any scoundrel who gets his hands on their devices.
One of the first things I do upon receipt of a new piece of stock is to remove and destroy the SIM card from his phone, turn off all cellular, bluetooth, and wifi radios, and then shut down the device completely, lest any overzealous law enforcement attempt to track the boys by their digital devices. With the devices traceable and safely inside my study, I turned on the six smartphones scattered in front of me, browsing their pictures, email, text messages and the like, matching each one to my boys, examining the histories of their former existences.
None of the young men in question seemed exceptional, either academically or professionally. This was a good thing; it meant there was less a chance of anybody missing them too much. Judging from his FaceBook profile, it seemed that Gus Grantholm had been something of a track and field star in high school. This made me smile. At 6’2, the slender redhead with the meaty thighs was an excellent candidate for pony training, and apparently he already knew how to run. Even if his eventual owner didn’t elect to use him as such, I’d enjoy having him carry me around the estate in my various traps and carriages.
Sparky, formerly Ryan Connor, had been sending and receiving sexually explicit texts and photographs with at least half a dozen girls in the week leading up to his capture; I added the choicest and most revealing of these to his file in my sales catalog for the titilation of his prospective purchasers. An album of professionally photographed glamour shots and several unanswered emails to modeling agencies in New York and Los Angeles suggested that the high school drop out had fancied himself model material, but obviously his 5’9 frame was a deal breaker for the magazines if not for my clients. Maybe if we built up his musculature enough, he’d have a future modeling as a living statue in the gardens on some Sheik’s private island.
Pollo, formerly Perdo Lopez, was a bit of a surprise. If his rose gold iPhone wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the fact that the first several apps on his home screen were Grindr, Scruff, and Jack’d made it clear that I’d unwittingly picked up a pansy. As I mentioned previously, my clients largely prefer heterosexual slaves. I worried that I’d end up taking the loss on the little queen, but my fears were quickly allayed when I stumbled upon an album of the boy twisted in increasingly impressive contortions; apparently the kid was a dancer, and a remarkably flexible one at that. If I could train him to focus solely on his master’s pleasure (I made a mental note to inflict more chastity training than usual on the boy, making him realize that his cock and his desires had nothing to do with his station in life, and to force him to spend more time than usual learning to pleasure a woman, so that he could understand that his tongue was there to satisfy his owner, not his own desire for a cocks stuffing his holes) he could turn out to be a truly astounding fuckslut. As I pored over his photos, I noted that all that training left him without an ounce of fat and beautifully developed muscles. He would be an interesting challenge, but I was sure that I could turn him into a proper piece of prime slaveflesh.
Flipper and Flopper, formerly Daniel and Benjamin (or Benjamin and Daniel; I frankly couldn’t tell the difference and didn’t much care) Proctor, were about as average as you can imagine, short of their beautiful blond locks and their tendency to make one feel like he was seeing double looking at them. There phones held plenty of pictures of the two drinking at bonfires out in the middle of nowhere. I felt myself grow unintentionally hard at a couple shots of the boys kissing, presumably on a dare, as the next pictures were inevitably of the two making screwed up, goofy gagging faces. It would be a pleasure to see each of their faces buried in the other’s asshole.
Awol was something of a cypher. No Facebook page, no search results. Maybe the kid was an orphan; he certainly wouldn’t be the first ward of the state to try and escape a life of group homes and foster families by joining the military (or end up in a slaver’s clutches, for that matter.) No matter; he was mine now, and even if his last name had been Rockefeller he’d have the same fate in store.
I finished setting up google alerts for news stories relating to each of my new boys’ former names; I never anticipate trouble, but it’s good to keep an eye on the feeds to make sure nobody is sniffing too close for comfort. Just as I was tossing the last artifacts of my new slaves’ old lives down the chute to the incinerator in the basement, JoJo returned.
“What is it, boy?”
“Master, the new arrivals have been blindfolded, gagged, plugged, and strung up in the induction chambers, per your orders. Dr. Bohrman has concluded his physical inspections and reports that they all appear healthy, Master. He will have blood test results back shortly, Master.”
“Good boy. You may suck on my balls for five minutes before you dress me. I need to visit the stables,” I said, reclining in my chair so that my eager plaything would have easier access to my heavy sack.
“Yes, Master! Thank you, Master!” he practically squealed with delight as he dropped to his knees and crawled over to service me. I set his cock ring to vibrate gently for five minutes, letting him know his time was up when it ceased buzzing his balls. The little slut moaned with pleasure as he worked my balls with his velvety tongue, drooling onto the leather seat of my chair. As he happily slurped away, I sent a triple buzz to the thick, steel bands circling the balls of each of the five partially-trained slaves currently toiling or training on the estate, giving the signal to drop whatever he was doing and report to the stables for my inspection. When his time was up, I instructed JoJo to lick up the precum he’d leaked all over my hardwood floors before dressing me.
Ready for the day, I hitched him to my personal trap, a small, one-pony cart ideal for traveling short distances at a good clip, gave him a light whip on his left flank and headed for the stables. Daddy was home.
The stables are where I house, feed, and groom my slaves in training. They were once proper horse stables; like most of the compound, they have been retrofitted to their new purpose, while keeping as much of the original design to reinforce the boys’ new station in life as no more than livestock. There are six stalls on either side of the building; the new boys are kept on one side, the more senior boys on the other. Each stall Has a wooden front wall with a built in gate reaching about four feet high, just like it did when it used to house actual horses. Thick iron bars have been added, reaching to the roof of each stall to make escape impossible once a boy is locked in. These immovable bars have the added benefit of forcing the slaves to enter and exit their stalls on their hands and knees. (With few exceptions, the boys spend almost all of their time in the stables on all fours.)
Inside each stall is a small bed of fresh hay for sleeping, which the slaves replace every day, and o-rings on the walls where a misbehaving slave may be restrained as punishment; slaves in training wear black rubber (easier to keep clean than leather) cuffs and collars fitted with matching o-rings around their ankles, wrists, and necks for this very purpose. Each stall is fitted with a spigot similar to the ones in The Box, a silicone mold of my own penis attached to the stables’ water supply. Any time one of my slaves wants a drink, he’s going to get it by sucking a cock.
In the rear of the building is a long aluminum trough, where my boys eat their meals twice a day. I feed the slaves a high-protein, nearly flavorless slurry that delivers all the necessary daily nutrients as efficiently as possible, without any empty calories to mar their physiques. There’s actually a similar product available on the mass market today, although why anyone would consume the stuff by choice is beyond me. For a slave, though, a healthy, consistent diet is important. It also aids in the training process; like dogs and other trained animals, slaves respond remarkably well to positive reinforcement in the form of food. I always carry a bag of M&Ms or Reese’s Pieces to reward good behavior. To you, a tiny piece of candy might not seem like much of a motivator, but after spending months with nothing to eat but flavorless gruel, you’d be amazed what you’d do for a bite of chocolate.
At the other end of the stables is a metal-clad corner where the boys perform their daily ablutions, consisting of showers, shaves, and enemas. I have a private salon where my merchandise is professionally groomed prior to meeting any potential buyers, but for day to day operations I find it best to leave it to the boys themselves. Many owners expect a slave to keep its own body smelling sweet and completely devoid of hair and ready for a good hard fuck at any time; it’s good to get them in the practice early.
Of course there is no hot water in the stables. Such luxuries are strictly for masters.
As I entered the stables I saw an almost perfectly lovely sight: four eighteen-year-old boys of various shapes and sizes on their knees and ready for inspection in front of stalls one, two, three, and five, legs spread beneath them, hands locked behind their heads, eyes fixed on the ground. I say almost perfectly lovely, because in the space in front of stall four was only empty ground and dust where a slave should have been kneeling.
“Bongo,” I said softly to the boy in front of stall five, a lithe young man of 5’6 with shaggy, mouse-brown hair and a perfectly flat tummy, “Where was Sunshine when I called you to the stables?”
“Master, he was at the gym with me, Master.”
“And why are you here and he isn’t?”
As if just saying his name out loud had summoned the boy, Sunshine burst through the door. Standing a mere 5’4, Sunshine had the face of a cherub, or perhaps an elf, with sparkling blue eyes, an upturned nose, unruly corn-blond hair and a mischievous grin. His thick, eight-inch cock would be impressive on any slave; on a boy of his stature, it looked frankly gargantuan. I had spent the prior three months transforming him through rigorous weight training from a skinny skater boy into a perfect muscle twink with bulging biceps and impressive pecs. Despite his laudable growth and remarkable good looks, Sunshine clearly had difficulties with time management and coming when called.
In his haste, it took him a second or two to notice me. The stables were silent. When he realized his error, I was pleased to see real dread fill the boy’s eyes. He immediately dropped to his knees and presented in inspection position. I calmly pulled out my phone, pulled up his profile, and delivered a sustained, painful shock to the slave’s genitals. To his credit, the only indication Sunshine gave that he was feeling the agony of his punishment was a brief, almost inaudible gasp when it began and a few silent tears running down his cheeks and into the dirt beneath him.
I am not a sadist. I don’t inflict pain on my slaves because it gives me pleasure. (I can’t say the same for all of my clients. It isn’t my place, though, to judge how men spend their money or enjoy their property.) I punish my slaves, when necessary, because it is the only way that they will learn. Unmeasured, indiscriminate or arbitrary punishment creates panicky, unpredictable slaves who deliver sloppy service. Measured, appropriate punishment helps a slave learn to better serve its master. A dog that jumps on the furniture or bites its owner’s guest is not at fault; it simply has a bad master who did not spend the time properly and lovingly training the beast. Likewise, a slave who does not perform his duties appropriately is the product of bad training. Slaves need, one might even say crave, punishment, as surely as they need food or water or air.
Above all, it is important that the slave understand it is being punished for its own good, and to help it learn from its own mistake.
I took no pleasure in wracking Sunshine’s beautiful body with pain. But it would be more cruel to coddle the boy and allow him to fail without suffering any consequences. After thirty seconds, his cock ring ceased to deliver the electricity to his body.
“Sunshine, you were at the gym this morning with Bongo, were you not?”A gulp, and a boyish voice, barely quivering. “M-master, yes, Master.”
“Bongo was here when I arrived. You were not. Why is that?”“M-master, Mister Tyson said that i-if I didn’t complete my chest exercises I’d b-be spanked, Master.”
“Hmmm. Remind me, boy, is Mister Tyson your owner?”
“Master, no, Master.”
“Remind me, boy. Who does own you?”
“Master, you do, Master!”
“And yet you chose to obey Mister Tyson instead of me. Why was that, boy?”
“Master, I thought I could finish and still make it back in time, Master.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
A sniffle. “Master, no, Master.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say to me, Sunshine?”
“Master, I am so sorry, Master! It will never happen again, Master!”
“I certainly hope not. I imagine you’ll need to be punished for letting me down, won’t you, Sunshine?”“Master, yes, Master.”
“And what do you imagine your punishment should be?”
One of the most important and delicate aspects of slave training is asking the boy to determine his own punishment, making him take complete responsibility for his actions. It’s also an interesting psychological game. New slaves always try to low-ball their punishment, thinking that they can pull one over on their master and get off with a slap on the wrist. They quickly learn that no slave is smarter than its master, and such insubordination leads to even stricter penalties. Some slaves think that they can attempt reverse psychology; they ask for a punishment far harsher than necessary, hoping that their owner will take pity on them. Again, no slave is smarter than its master. A conscientious and respectful slave will soon learn to recognize a punishment that is appropriate and will earnestly ask for it, however painful it may be.
Despite his occasional failings, Sunshine was shaping up to be an earnest, honest slave.
“Master, I should be whipped, Master.”
“Hmmm. That certainly does seem appropriate. But remind me: Bongo was with you at the gym, was he not? Why didn’t he make sure you came along with him in plenty of time for my arrival?”
For the first time, Sunshine was at a loss for words. A look of fear crossed Bongo’s face.
“It seems to me that your failure is also Bongo’s failure. Remember, boys: you are all brothers. When one of you lets your master down, all of you do. So it seems to me that Bongo should be punished as well. I think perhaps you should receive the spanking that Mister Tyson promised, Sunshine, and that it is Bongo who should be whipped. How would you like that, Sunshine? Be honest, boy.” Bongo’s usually ruddy complexion went white as a ghost.
“Master, I wouldn’t like that, Master! Please whip me, Master! Just me, Master!”
“I didn’t think you would. Which is precisely why you’ll be spanked and Bongo will be whipped.You must learn that your inconsiderateness has effects on others. And Bongo has to learn to think about others more. Isn’t that right, Bongo?”
“Master, yes, Master!”
“Good, then. Sunshine, take your proper place in front of your stall. The two of you will receive your punishment later. You boys have six new brothers to meet soon, and it will be valuable for them to observe.”