Author's Note: This is my first attempt at writing erotic fiction. While there will be plenty of sex, the first several chapters deal mostly with the process of turning young men into sex slaves, a process I find at least as erotic as sex itself. This story is a work-in-progress, and any and all comments and constructive criticism are welcome. 

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. :) 


I have various methods of obtaining new merchandise, but perhaps my favorite is one I fondly refer to as “The Box.” The Box is my pied piper, the perfect enticement to dozens of young men I’ve acquired over the years. You see, as some men deal in antiques or art, I deal in flesh. Specifically, I deal in the toned, taught flesh of human males, selected for their youth and beauty and trained to provide pleasure and service to the world’s elite, those men whose power is so great that laws and pedestrian morality hold no sway, whose wealth is so vast that price tags are a foreign concept and expense is no consideration. Men who can afford, and will accept no less than, the very best. 

That’s where I come in. Perhaps you have heard stories of the so-called modern slavery that still exists in our country and abroad, the human trafficking of drugged-addicted, used-up unfortunates from Asia and Eastern Europe, lured to the West with promises of money and freedom only to find themselves locked away in filthy apartments where they are forced to service dozens of men a day. It’s a sordid, repulsive industry. My business may be no cleaner from a moral standpoint, but the aesthetics, and the quality of the product, at least are as disparate as a Big Mac and the tasting menu at Per Se. The men to whom I cater would no sooner be caught sampling such wares than be caught flying coach. While each client has specific, personal tastes when it comes to his slaves, there are a few things they all demand. 

The men I provide are young; ideally eighteen years of age, although occasionally the length of time necessary to train a slave to perfection means I end up selling the odd nineteen-year-old. Any older significantly reduces potential selling prices. Make no mistake, many of my clients appreciate the services of their slaves for quite a long time, but every day past a slave’s eighteenth birthday is one day closer to its obsolescence. I refuse to take on any merchandise younger than eighteen, not for moral reasons – I am selling humans, for Christ’s sake – but for practical ones. Any younger and there’s nearly always someone with an interest in the boy, be it a family or a teacher or a social worker. That’s not to say that men who are adults in the eyes of the law disappear easily, per se, but a man who has reached the age of majority is at least legally entitled to pack up and take off on his own. There may be a futile search on behalf of law enforcement, but failing any evidence or a body, they’re forgotten relatively quickly. 

The men I provide are beautiful. Of course beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but in general I strive to select the finest specimens of each race and build that are available. My stock need not be perfectly toned at the time of capture, as that is obtained easily enough by strict physical training, but a good frame and a handsome, symmetrical face are prerequisites. Genital size is less important than one might imagine; while many of my clients do prefer well-endowed slaves, a sizable and lucrative minority do seem to fetishize men who are rather less endowed. And of course there is the occasional client who elects to have that that entire part of his property’s anatomy removed altogether. (In such cases I usually recommend having the testicles retained and surgically relocated to the inside of the mound of flesh where the penis and scrotum used to be; not only do eunuchs tend go soft physically, but a horny slave is naturally more eager to please its master, regardless of the inability for actual orgasmic release.) I attempt to avoid stock with tattoos and piercings; such modifications are available at an owner’s pleasure, of course, but having them pre-installed turns the slave into a niche product and lowers its price. And of course all of my stock is a specimen of health, free of disease, addiction, or physical defect. This is another reason to choose young males, as most of them haven’t had much chance to pick up anything that a little penicillin won’t cure. In the rare case that my staff veterinarian does find something unsettling in a new product’s induction blood work, I have a few contacts in overseas brothels who are happy to take it on at “fire sale” pricing. It’s extremely rare, but it is the cost of doing business. 

Finally the men I provide are, almost without exception, heterosexual. I of course hold no prejudice against homosexuals; I’m a gay man myself, as are most of my clients! But years of experience have taught me that most of my clients prefer straight boys, and I find that they do make much better slaves in the long run. A slave spends a significant amount of its life providing sexual service to its master, and a straight slave is naturally able to focus solely on pleasing its master whereas a gay slave may become distracted by its own arousal. Psychologically, of course, the men who purchase these young bucks must derive some extra pleasure in holding absolutely power over the body of a formerly free straight jock. I do process and sell the occasional homosexual, but it’s an exception rather than a rule. 

There are any number of other criteria that go into choosing new product, some of which are so subliminal and instinctual that I, by now an old hand at my trade, couldn’t even fully articulate. But I imagine it’s best to allow you to learn by hearing about my most recent acquisitions. I imagine as well that you’re curiosity about just what exactly is The Box. 


The Box is a retrofitted semi-trailer, a forty-eight footer I bought in cash at a foreclosure auction about ten years ago. I spent the better part of a year turning it from an empty crate into the honey pot it is today. Part carnival game, part cargo transport, it spends most of the year empty floating around the Pacific and Indian Oceans inside one of hundreds of anonymous shipping containers on giant cargo barges. Early in the summer I pick it up at port in San Francisco, hitch it to my tractor unit, and head to one of the thousands of county fairs happening in small towns all across our great nation. I park The Box close enough to the fairgrounds to ensure a that there will be occasional foot traffic but not so close as to attract too much attention or to be visible to any security cameras (not that there are usually security cameras at county fairs, but it seems like there are more of them every year, and video of an eighteen-year-old boy walking into my trailer unit and never coming out could certainly raise red flags.) Ideally I like to find an area off a backroad, some place a guy might sneak off to to smoke a joint or drink an illicit beer. 

The exterior of The Box is fitted with three-hundred-sixty degree video surveillance. When someone trips my motion detectors, a custom app I pings my iPhone, along with a video feed of my new quarry. If he seems to meet my criteria, and – equally important – no one else is around, I’ll press the “on” button and The Box will go into action. Lights flash and an old school carnival barker’s voice (your truly; I was a struggling actor before I got into a more lucrative business) cries out:

“You there, young man! Do you have what it takes to Beat The Box? Only twenty five cents to try your luck! Make it out of The Box and win $100!”

When the boy invariably walks up the metal steps to the back of the trailer – only one in, maybe, twenty walks away – he is greeted with a door. The door has a small video screen in at eye level, with a coin slot for a quarter next to it (I litter the ground in all directions with quarters, figuring a mark who might not have one on him will almost certainly have bent down to pick one up nearby.) Once the coin is inserted, the screen lights up and asks the easiest question I could imagine. 


Next to the screen is a number pad. I actually doesn’t matter what the guy answers – you’d be surprised at the error rate in some of these hick towns! As long as the a key is pressed, the door slides open into a small black room. As soon as the boy enters, a pressure plate beneath the floor activates and the door slides shut behind him, leaving him trapped. Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the room, giving my high definition video feed a chance to really size him up. Usually my instincts are right, and he’s a worthwhile acquisition. Rarely I miss the mark, realize my error, and begin the ejection mechanism. A video screen in the wall presents an impossible puzzle with a thirty second timer, and when he fails to solve it, the door behind him slides back open. 

“Better luck next time, sonny!”

More frequently, I see a corn-fed, naive jock eager to win a c-note. At this point, I switch on the live audio feed.

“Congratulations, sonny! Entering The Box is half the challenge, but the game is far from over! Due to the challenging nature of this game, you must be eighteen to play. Please scan your photo ID on console to your left before moving on!”

If the potential acquisition isn’t age appropriate (as I said, I prefer eighteen-year-olds, although I will accept the rare nineteen-year-old who is too hot not to pass on. Anything older is automatically disqualified) he’ll be released. Otherwise a locker opens and the future slave hears,

“Congratulations, sonny! Due to the highly secretive nature of the puzzles beyond this door, cameras and cellular telephones are prohibited! Please place any personal effects in this locker. You may retrieve them upon your Escape from The Box!” 

Once he does, a door slides open into another black room. Sometimes my young men hesitate, but seeing as they are locked inside a cell roughly three feet deep and eight feet wide with no means of escape, they all eventually give in and turn over their wallet and phone. One time, a prospect was so attached to his stuff that he spent a solid forty-five minutes trying to get out instead of giving them up for the duration. He kicked and screamed and pounded the walls trying to find a point of egress, making me very grateful to have spent a considerable amount of time and expense sound-proofing The Box. Eventually he relented, as they all do. (If I recall correctly, he’s currently warming the bed of a high-ranking Party member in Beijing. The Undersecretary saw the obscene amounts of money other Party members spent on purebred dogs and decided to buy a purebred American Blond instead, whom he now keeps collared, on all fours, and stuffed with  a dog-tail butt plug up his rear when he’s not otherwise using it. But that’s a story for another time.) 

At this point, you probably imagine that I simply knock out my new merchandise with gas or a tranquilizer shot on the other side of the door. And I admit that there’s not much practical reason why I don’t. But as I said, I used to be an actor and I’m afraid I never quiet lost my taste for the dramatic. Instead of giving you a dry, technical rundown of the design of the remaining rooms in The Box, perhaps you’d like to follow one of my recent acquisitions as he makes his way through the gauntlet?


I recently acquired a young colt named Sparky. That isn’t his birth name, of course. I rename all of my merchandise upon acquisition. I find that giving the new slaves names more commonly associated with household pets than human beings aids in their acceptance of their new role in life. Sparky was born Ryan Connor in Lewisburg, Kentucky. What brought him to a county fair in a small town in rural Ohio I have no idea, but for my purposes it was ideal; the disappearance of an eighteen-year-old from out of state is less likely to attract local attention. Standing a mere 5’9, Ryan didn’t have the most impressive physique. The lad had the soft, round face of a boy still shedding his baby fat, with barely-there biceps peeking out from his baby blue tank top suggesting he’d recently started lifting weights. The pressure sensitive plates beneath his feet told me that he weighed in at 152 pounds. He had impressively thick thighs for someone with his build. Perhaps he ran track in high school. The barest dusting of hair covered his legs and sprouted from his exposed pits, matching the unruly shock of mousey brown sprouting from his head. The boy had a broad smile and lively, curious brown eyes. His identification indicated that he had turned eighteen two months earlier, meaning he was either a recent graduate or a drop-out. Ideal. 

After relinquishing his personal effects, Ryan made his way into the next chamber. As the door slid shut and a lock clicked behind him, he found himself enclosed in perfect darkness. After standing for a moment with no light or audible instruction revealed, he began to grope with his hands along the slick walls. My wall-mounted thermal cameras allowed me to view his slow progress, tracking him until he located a series of handles along the far side of the wall, starting at the floor and reaching just over his head. Pulling them out one by one, fumbling in the dark, he eventually understood that they formed a staircase of sorts. The young man found himself climbing up a steep staircase about ten feet up to the top of The Box, ending at a hole roughly two and a half feet square. Feeling out with his hands revealed a ramp slanting down into the next chamber. 

At this point, many of my acquisitions hesitate; without any illumination lighting the way, they fear a potential fall and the injury it may entail. Not so Ryan. Eager for his reward, he thrust himself forward through the narrow space, landing in pool of ice cold water about five feet deep. Recovering from the initial shock, he surfaced and caught his breath. The Pond, as I like to call it, is dimly illuminated by a small, pulsating blue light in the far right corner. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Ryan made his was to the corner. Squinting in the dark, he located a small button on the wall about two feet above water level. He had to reach on his tiptoes to active it. Upon activation, a an illuminated drawer slid out of the wall next to him, and a familiar voice greeted him from the speakers above.

“Congratulations, sonny! You’ve made it through the first half of The Box in record time! What a smart young man you are! But it seems you’ve gotten rather wet in the process! Due to the highly technical nature of this experience, your wet clothes may damage the workings of The Box and cause you physical harm in subsequent chambers. Please remove all your clothes and place them in this drawer. They will be returned when you Escape The Box!”

This is the point where most of my merchandise offer their first signs of resistance. After all, what eighteen-year-old young man is willing to just disrobe and hand over his clothes? But eventually they capitulate. After the announcement, the outline of a door lust above water level, reachable by a small ladder along the wall, is illuminated. Most of my prey decide they’d rather continue the process in soaking jeans and t-shirts; the first time they attempt to pull the handle on the door, they’re met with a small but painful jolt of electricity and tossed back into the pool.

“Sorry, sonny! Can’t have you tracking water with those wet clothes and shoes into the rest of The Box, can we? Kindly remove all your clothes and place them in this drawer. They will be returned when you Escape The Box!”

Most of my boys try at least once more to make it through with their clothes on. Most of my boys spend some time searching for an alternate way out of the room. All of them eventually strip, after one shock or a dozen, place their clothes in the drawer, and find their way through the door. Sparky was special; despite his new name, there was very little electricity needed in convincing him to disrobe. That was a good sign; he was already signaling a natural obedience and affinity for training. After his first jolt sent him back into the pool, he shook out his hair like a wet dog, removed every stitch of clothing, carefully placed them in the drawer and returned to the illuminated doorway. He was nearly home.


Jackson Blooms

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