Authors' note: Finally, some sex! With much more to come. :) As always, comments and criticism are appreciated and encouraged.
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. :)
About forty five minutes out, I activated the speaker system and overhead lights in the cells, waking any of the merchandise that may still be asleep. I wasn’t concerned about the AWOL private in my bunk. Awol, I realized with a sudden flash of clarity, would be his name. I take a particular pleasure in naming my slaves, and I enjoyed the idea that every time he heard his new name, he’d be reminded that he was in this situation because of his own choices. Impressing upon a slave that it had no-one to blame but itself was an integral part of its acceptance of its status. His ID read Charlie Wu, but to me, he was simply Awol. In any case, the sedative in the beer I’d given him would have him out for another few hours, and on the off chance that he was made of sterner stuff than I’d anticipated, my men could always knock him back out with a quick shot before moving him out of the truck.
I’d shut off the water about thirty six hours prior; Flipper and Flopper would be thirsty after their relatively short confinement, but Cinnamon, Sparky, and Pollo would be on the verge of dehydration. As charming as it had been watching my thirsty young men sucking in vain on totems of my penis, desperate for a drop of water, it was time to give the boys a drink. I turned the water back on, this time laced with a potent sedative sure to have them out in a matter of minutes.
“Sorry about the plumbing problems, boys, but the tap’s back on, so drink up!”
Cinnamon and Pollo went to work on the dongs in front of them like their lives depended on it which, given their level of dehydration, I suppose they sort of did. Sparky and the twins were a little more reticent.
“In case you’re curious, fellows, that wasn’t a request,” I remarked, my tone darkening. “The next few days are going to be much less pleasant for anyone who doesn’t take a good long drink. Start sucking, kiddos!”
The twins went to work on my plastic penises. Only Sparky refused. There’s always one or two, although after seeing how pliable he had been previously, how quickly he had given up his clothes and made it out of the pool, I was a little surprised it was Sparky. I wasn’t angry; his defiance was a crucial part of his and his new brothers’ training. Someone had to be the first to disobey, and someone had to be punished. It was a bit of a nuisance tranquilizing the kid manually before removing him from The Box, but not a real problem. Like so much of his training, this was primarily an opportunity to teach him about the necessity of obeying orders. I looked forward to seeing his rosy cheeks streaked with tears, looked forward to the point where I could see the light switch behind his eyes and realize how much unpleasantness could have been avoided if he’d simply done as he was told.
Looked forward to punishing him for quite a while after he understood, until he ceased begging me to stop. Realized that I knew he was ready to be a good boy, and would continue doing with him precisely as I pleased despite that fact. Like most of the boys who were quickest to resist, he would also be my fastest learner, would grow to be an example to his fellow slaves.
I parked the truck just outside the loading dock behind the induction chambers, little more than a metal shed with a heavy padlock on the door. Tossing the keys to Jake, I instructed him and my second assistant, Tyson, to unload the merchandise and being processing. I let them know about Sparky, still awake in cell #2, and Awol, probably asleep in my bunk but possibly in need of further sedation. It was nothing they hadn’t dealt with at least a dozen times before. Business as usual. I know I said I like to be hands-on, but after a long hunt and just over twenty-four hours awake, I needed a bed, a bath, and a blowjob, although not necessarily in that order. I collected the boys’ belongings to look over after I’d rested and headed for my room, and JoJo, in the big house.
I picked JoJo up about four years ago, in New York City. I’d been in town in August, meeting with one of my brokers, and hit up a bar near his office before making the trip back to Montana. I headed into one of a thousand identical bars in the Financial District of Manhattan, full of identical hedge fund twenty-five year-olds blowing their salaries on Johnnie Walker Blue and trying to impress whatever identical “actress” or “model” they’d met the weekend prior. I’d finished my bourbon and was heading out the door when I literally ran into a little blond adonis arguing with the bouncer and blocking my way. Well, actually not so little; he was probably about 5’11 and looked to be hiding the ropey musculature of a soccer player underneath his Brooks Brothers oxford and khakis.
“Beat it, kid, we don’t take fakes,” said the bouncer.
Apologizing as I stumbled backwards, I shot a peak at the kid’s laughably crude fake. Ryan Beckman.
“Woah, woah, sorry! Ryan! You made it!” Then, to the bouncer, “Sorry, man. I know the kid looks young, but I can vouch for him. New hire at our firm,” I explained as I slipped him a hundred dollar bill, trading the Benjamin for the obviously phony identification. I put my arm around the kid and brought him into the bar with no more trouble. I ordered him a Johnnie Walker Blue.
Turned out “Ryan,” actually Joseph Germaine, had just graduated from high school and was wrapping up an internship at a brokerage on Wall Street before heading back to his home town in Missouri and starting community college. When I asked why a kid as bright as him wasn’t headed straight to Dartmouth or Brown, he explained that he didn’t have any family to speak of, having lost his mother his junior year and never knowing his father. Part of me felt like I should help the kid out. Part of me said nobody would miss him. Guess which side won?
An hour and half a bottle of overpriced Scotch later, I asked the kid if he’d like to meet a girl for a good time. He was unsurprisingly eager to accept the invitation. I called Miranda, another dealer I sometimes have occasion to work with. We took my car and met at her SoHo penthouse. JoJo – I’d already decided to call him JoJo – looked like he’d died and gone to heaven when he saw her digs. If possible, his eyes grew even wider when he got a good look at Miranda. He was too drunk to notice me discreetly filming while he jackhammered away at her pussy, although I’ve let him watch the video numerous times on my big screen television while I’ve done the same to his boycunt since. I have to loop the video; he lasted all of two minutes, and I have substantially more stamina. Once he was through, Miranda noted that he must be exhausted and offered him a glass of water. In case you haven’t guessed, it was drugged. Miranda helped me get him down the service elevators – no cameras – and into the trunk of my car. I tried to pay her for services rendered, but she called it a professional courtesy. Two days later JoJo was back at my compound, where I personally oversaw every aspect of his training.
He was never meant for sale. I moulded my slave from the get-go to anticipate and respond to my every whim. Four years later, the blond boy was even more beautiful than they day I grabbed him. Entering my suite, I found him kneeling in front of the door in the same position I’d left him two weeks ago, ass in the air, face pressed into the carpet. I’m not dumb enough to imagine he hadn’t moved; obviously my assistants had alerted him to my imminent return, but the consistency and control were intoxicating nevertheless. Nudging the toe of my right boot under the boy’s nose, he immediately began licking two weeks of road dust off my boots. It was endearing, but it would have to wait.
“My shoeshine can wait, boy. Right now I want you to get me out of these clothes, clean me up and suck me to sleep.”
Immediately JoJo was on his knees, first removing my boots, then my jeans, then my leather jacket, then my black t-shirt. Returning to his knees, he removed my jock and socks as I’d trained him to, using nothing but his tongue and his teeth. I flopped down on the bed.
“We can shower in the morning. Right now just lick off this road dirt and don’t stop sucking until it’s time for us to wake up.”
My perfect blond beauty pulled a think, plush comforter over us as he licked every inch of me from my ears to my toes clean of sweat and dirt. Then as I drifted off to sleep he went to work swallowing my nine-inch cock. Knotting my fingers in his golden locks, I pressed him down into my crotch, forcing my pubes up his nostrils as I came down his straight, twenty-two year old throat. I set my alarm for noon and drifted off to sleep as JoJo kept sucking away.
Rising from my nap, I gently pushed JoJo and his accommodating oral orifice off my half-hard member. I had work to do today, and needed to save some juice for my trainees. At forty-three, I’m not old by any measure, and I keep myself in pretty impressive physical and sexual shape, but even I have to admit that I can’t just fuck all day long like I could when I was nineteen. JoJo started a pot of coffee and then took care of properly bathing me in my shower. I didn’t have any time for his normal ministrations, but I did allow the boy to give my asshole a loving tongue bath. Stepping out of the shower, I allowed the boy to dry me off, again paying especially close attention to my nether areas. I slipped into a plush robe and settled down at my desk.
You may wonder at my use of the word “allow.” Training is a curious thing. Most men can’t imagine a straight twenty-two year old “enjoying” the act of eating his master’s hairy asshole. And it certainly takes time and training to turn a “free” boy into an eager sex slave. But almost nothing, outside of the actual act of sex, is enjoyable in and of itself. We all train ourselves to enjoy things because of what doing them gets us. First a boy resists. He has his mouth, his asshole, his entire body must be taken and used by force. After some time, he relents and performs the acts required of him in order to avoid punishment. But eventually, too gradually for the slave itself to recognize, it learns to love serving its master. To live for its master’s cock, to want nothing more than its master’s pleasure. To serve its master with the same zeal that an accountant balances his bosses’ books or a construction worker lays a foundation. The difference between my merchandise and free men is that my boys have no illusions about the fact that they are slaves. Once they accept their station, they are free to serve their purpose without any of the tiresome day-to-day worries that men who are under the illusion that they are their own masters face.
In this regard, JoJo was exceptionally well-trained. After fetching me a mug of steaming black coffee and laying out the personal affects of my new acquisitions neatly on my large mahogany desk, he lowered his eyes to the ground and asked,
“Master, if it pleases, may I suck on your balls as you work?”
I smiled. “Perhaps later. First you are to report to the induction chambers and inquire as to the progress with the new stock. Report back quickly.”
Pulling up JoJo’s profile on my iPhone, I pressed a button to send a short, sharp shock to the gold-plated cock ring wrapped around the base of his genitals. He gave a quick yelp, and then squeaked, “Yes, Master! Thank you, Master!” before trotting off. I watched his beautifully tanned cheeks bounce as he made his way out the door, and settled into the business at hand: learning about my new merchandise.