Author's note: I hope you're enjoying the story! Here's the next installment. We're still in the world-building process, but if you're enjoying this at all, please stick with it. The next installment will dive more deeply into the world of Master/slave sex, as well as the actual training of the boys into proper slaves. As always, comments and email are welcomed 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. :) 

When last we left Ryan, soon to be Sparky, he was naked, soaking wet and halfway through The Box. What will happen next?


The next chamber is practically a coffin. Ryan found himself in a cell about seven feet tall, but only two feet wide and two feet deep. Blinding white light lit the room while vents in the walls opened to air dry the merchandise. Of course video cameras recorded the entire process. This part of the intake only lasts about forty-five seconds, but is recorded for the pleasure of my clients. The complete intake process of all my merchandise is recorded in high-definition, but I find that for some reason the blow-drying of a newly stripped straight slave in all of his disoriented glory is especially appealing to my buyers. I am happy to oblige.

Newly dried, Ryan’s hair was even wilder than before. I took a moment to drink him in in all his young, boyish beauty before allowing him into the next room. He definitely had a bit of baby fat that needed working off, but otherwise he was beautiful. The lightest smattering of body hair covered his milky skin, trailing up the back of his thighs to a surprisingly hairy ass. My groomers and I would take particular pleasure in denuding him, although I intended to leave a bit of hair in strategic areas, at least until his new owner gave specific demands. That hairy ass, though, would soon be as smooth as the day he was born. In a way, he was about to be born for a second time. Not as a child, but as a slave.

His ears stuck out adorably from the side of his head. Some lucky buyer would love to use them like handlebars while the slave deep throated his master’s free cock. His slightly upturned nose gave him a puckish charm. This boy would turn me a tidy profit. But first I had to lead him to the end of The Box.

When I finished basking in his beauty, I sent the cue to cut the lights. The wall in front of Ryan slid open, again ushering him into darkness. The boy took two tentative steps forward and the wall behind him again slid closed. The lights in the new chamber went up. Relatively spacious, about six feet deep and the full nine feet of the trailer wide, the room was carpeted and made to look like a living room, complete with a television and game console mounted on a wood-paneled wall. The walls to the left and the right were mirrored – I enjoy seeing how my boys react to the sight of themselves, naked and disheveled. Some preen and pose, checking out their bodies. Some try to cover themselves and look away to hide their embarrassment. A handful of the cleverer ones approach the mirrors, attempting to block out light and look through as if they are two-way mirrors. (They are, although the cameras behind them are small enough that there is nothing for the boys to see. It does provide lovely up-close footage of the merchandise, however.)

Ryan simply walked over to the television and examined it. There was a post-it on the game console that simply said, “Let’s play.” Booting up the system, he found, like all of my other acquisitions find, that the game inside was a popular arcade dancing game, where the player has to press buttons with their feet in time to the music in specific combinations to win. Unrolling and plugging in the game pad, my new naked slave began dancing, assuming that a high score would allow him to progress to the next room.

In fact, it doesn’t really matter how well the subject does at the game. The goal of the dancing game in the penultimate chamber is simply to get him worked up and sweaty, his bouncing ass and package providing a good show for the cameras. In this regard, Ryan was no disappointment. My young buck was actually pretty good at the game, even though he’d have “won” regardless. Once he was good and sweaty, having spent the better part of an hour jumping around in The Box, his unruly brown hair damp and sticking to his forehead while his six-inch half-hard penis flopped around atop a pair of respectable balls, I cut the electricity in the room. Finding himself again in darkness, he waited. I let the boy stew for a few moments and then I cut in on the intercom.

“Congratulations, sonny! You’re quite the dashing dancer, aren’t you? Your prize is nearly in sight! There’s only one more challenge before you can accept your prize! Please make your way into the next room!”

At this point, one of the five slots in the wood-paneled wall of the room slid open and a small speaker inside started beeping. They run along the floor, just under three feet high and two feet wide. In the case of Ryan, almost Sparky, the panel in question was the second from the left; I’d already taken on one new passenger on this run who was nestled safely inside slot one. Following the sound, Ryan groped along the wall, found the open door with his foot, lowered himself to his knees, and crawled in, expecting to find the exit and his hundred dollars on the other side. It might be an understatement to say he was in for a bit of a surprise.


The cells at the end of The Box are perhaps the simplest part of the experience. Each is five feet deep in addition to their just under two feet of width and three foot ceilings. They’re rather cramped; some of my broader boys spend most of their confinement on their sides so their shoulders aren’t shoved against the walls the entire time. Each is equipped with a speaker, an infrared camera, and a spout for water slanting down at a forty-five degree angle from ceiling at the far end. Of course, the spout is no ordinary faucet; each water drip is covered in a silicone mold of a penis, specifically the penis of yours truly, and is activated by suction. The stock are informed via recording that they may be spending a fair amount of time on all fours in their cell and how to get water if they are thirsty. Most of my straight slaves are hesitant to suck even a plastic cock, but eventually their thirst gets the better of them. Some merchandise has to spend a week or more in their cells while I pick up the rest; drains in the floor catch their liquid waste, and although most of them are too scared to defecate, those that do find themselves quickly rinsed off by high-pressure showers from above until everything is washed away. I pipe a high-protein slurry through the cock faucets once ever two days for the “long haul” merchandise; it’s not ideal to keep them locked up that long, but the economics of my business necessitate filling The Box to capacity with five slaves on a multi-state run. I prefer to make the June harvest in about a week, but sometimes it simply takes longer. And while I try not to be needlessly cruel to my stock, a slave’s comfort is not paramount in my concerns. I must make ends meet. 

In the case of Ryan – I hadn’t yet named him Sparky, so it seems appropriate to refer to him as such for the time being – he was relatively lucky. I caught him on a Sunday, and I’d filled my cells by Thursday of that week, meaning he only had to spend six days in his cell before being allowed out into slightly more spacious lodgings. In Cell One, next to him, was Gus, soon to be Cinnamon, a lanky redhead I picked up the previous afternoon in Indiana. Over the course of the next few days I added Pedro, soon to be Pollo, a Puerto Rican from Texas, and what I was sure would be my big-sellers for the year, a pair of blond, curly-haired twins from rural Minnesota. I don’t usually like to deal in groups, but the prospect of identical blonds was too enticing to let slip. I admitted them to The Box as a pair, and within an hour they were soaked, stripped, blown out and in their cells, each having tried to one-up the other to rise to the challenge of a given room. Their IDs told me that their names were Daniel and Benjamin. It took me a while to decide on a proper pair of slave names, but eventually I settled on Flipper and Flopper. Their longish mops of messy blond curls made the names seem apropos, and the fact that I intended to train them to fuck each other in turn for their owner’s pleasure made the names seem, shall we say, doubly appropriate. 

When my phone buzzed with a notification that the twins were now occupying cells four and five, I finished my funnel cake and ambled over from the fair. Once again stripping The Box of the colorful, magnetic paneling advertising my little game to reveal the standard blue trailer with white BOYCO shipping logos underneath, I set off for home, my three-hundred acre training farm and compound in northern Montana. 


I was eager to get home and get to work. There were five half-trained slaves waiting in the stables, and while I have utter confidence in my assistants, I pride myself in being hands-on in the development and training of my slaves. I was also horny as hell. It had now been a solid twelve days since I had come; one of the benefits of my line of work is always, or nearly always, having an embarrassment of riches in terms of beautiful man flesh in which to unload whenever the mood strikes. I sometimes considered bringing my personal body slave, JoJo, along on “the hunt,” but the logistics involved were too onerous (for one, he’d have to wear clothes at least some of the time, the very idea of which repulsed me). 

Leaving Minnesota just before 6 PM, I checked my GPS and saw that I could make it home just before sunrise. I always have to be careful on the road; the last thing I need is to get pulled over for speeding and have some hick cop demand to check my cargo. I carry plenty of cash which, on the two occasions I have been pulled over, has always been ample persuasion to convince the officer to let me off with a warning, as well as a sidearm which thankfully I’ve never had to use. Still, it’s always better to stay completely under the radar in my line of work. 

The route from rural Minnesota, through North Dakota, to my compound in Montana is hardly cosmopolitan. So you can imagine my surprise when, having driven at least two hours without seeing even another car or truck on the highway, my headlights lit upon someone thumbing a ride on the side of the road at half-past eleven. Slowing down to get a better look, I was impressed with what I saw. About 5’8, with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes, ripped jeans and a thin denim jacket that was doing fuck all to keep out the midnight North Dakota chill. He had a smallish frame, but seemed to carry a decent musculature atop it, and had an olive-drab canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder. What impressed me the most, though, was the kid’s obvious mixed parentage. He had high cheekbones and almond eyes, but his skin was creamy white and his nose straight and delicate. Must have been a half-breed, probably Chinese and white.  Not exactly a common sight anywhere, but in North Dakota I’d be less surprised to find a leprechaun hitching. While I idly considered which side of the family his lower half took after, I brought my truck to a stop. 

“Well, hey there, son. Looks like you’re a long way from home. Need a lift?”

“Yes, sir, I guess you could say that.”

“Where ya headed?”

“Vancouver, sir, but I’m happy to go wherever right now if it’ll get me off this road.”

I liked the way he called me sir. “Well, looks like this is your lucky day. I’ve got a load of cargo in the back that's headed straight to Calgary. Hop on in.”

As he settled into the passenger seat, I had a chance to look him over better. He was one hell of a cute kid. Talking to him a bit I found out he was from San Diego. Rather a long way from home. Apparently he was meant to report for basic training a couple of days ago in Oklahoma City but had chickened out at the last minute. A little on the nose, I reflected, heading to Canada to avoid shipping off to get blown to bits in some sand pit in the Middle East, but I wasn’t complaining. He’d never make it to Canada, but at least chances were he’d never see the desert, either; my Arab clients were all interested pretty much exclusively in whites or the occasional black. This kid would probably end up warming a bed in a Manhattan penthouse or a European chalet. 

The kid stank and, judging by the barely-there dusting of hair on his chin, had clearly gone several days without a shower or shave. Not that I minded; frankly it only made me hornier. I offered the kid a beer out of the cooler behind my seat, which he was only too happy to accept. “So, how’d you end up on the side of the road in the middle of the night?”

He gulped down about half the bottle in one go, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and replied, “Last guy picked me up tried to put the moves on me. I don’t go in for that gay shit. So, you know, if you’ve got any ideas you can just let me go again. No offense or nothin’.”

I had exactly zero intention of letting him go, as he so adorably put it. I laughed and gave his thigh a squeeze with my big, meaty palm. Nice quads. Slapping his knee as I brought my hand away I said, “No worries there, kiddo. Don’t think the wife would take too kindly to me pickin’ up crabs from a kid on the side of the road. No offense or nothin’,” I gave the kid a wink and he laughed a little too loudly. “Can’t say I’m exactly surprised, though. They say that North Dakota ain’t got much goin’ but steers and queers, and I don’t see any livestock ‘round here.” Except, of course, for the prime piece of boy beef sitting in the cabin next to me. He laughed again, quieter this time, let out a surprisingly delicate belch, and was out cold. I’m sure the kid was exhausted, but even if he hadn’t been, the mickey I’d slipped in his drink would have taken care of him. 

I pulled over again, went around to the passenger side, pulled the kid out and slung him over my shoulder like a sack of extremely valuable potatoes. In the small sleeping area behind my cabin, I made quick work of stripping, gagging, plugging, and hogtying my newest acquisition. I was right about his build. He was nicely toned with big tits and biceps, but mostly I couldn’t believe the size of the tackle on this young buck; it was at least seven and a half inches soft, nice and thick, sitting on two of the biggest balls I’d ever seen on a boy, much less a kid who was half-Asian. They were at least the size of golf balls. He might actually get picked up by some size queen for use as a human dildo. I made a mental note to give him rigorous training as a top. Of course all of my merchandise can perform in any way demanded (I even train them in the basics of pleasuring females, rare as that is for boys in their station), but since they are used almost exclusively as bottoms and cocksuckers, their training as fucksticks is relatively minimal. This cock, though, I figured had about a fifty-fifty shot at either being used regularly or being bought by an owner who took special pleasure in making sure the kid never came again. 

Back in the driver’s seat, I checked the clock and the map. It was about 3 AM; I’d lost a little time collecting this kid, but he was worth the trouble. I texted my assistant, Jake, to let him know I’d be home right around seven and to make sure that the holding pens were ready for six newcomers.


Jackson Blooms


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