The lost island

I awoke with a headache, my mind swimming, and wondered where I was. I remembered being in a pub, waiting for a friend, and now I was lying on a single bed, under a quilt, in what looked like a basement prison cell. I was naked, though not cold, but in the bad grey light I could see nothing of mine, no clothes, no personal effects. I stood up on the bare floor, and I could see that I was in some kind of dungeon, behind floor-length bars, in a cell with just the bed and a basic lavatory. I felt cool air on me head and touched bare scalp where once had been a full head of hair, skin expertly wet-shaved within the last twelve hours or so as I could feel no stubble. My eyebrows had been trimmed. My face was shaved and the beard had gone. I dared to touch the rest of me. It was the same story on my arms, chest, tummy, legs and backside, and when I touched my crotch not only had every pubic hair been removed, so that I was as vulnerable as a boy, but there was a sore, burning area just above my cock, and what appeared to be a tattoo. My cock was also encased in a steel cage over which sat a padlock, a cage which stretched my balls, allowed me to piss but stopped me from enjoying a full erection.

Some lights went on. Two burly men, both as naked and as hairless as me, like me wearing cock cages, but also slave collars, came up to me. Both had stun guns, which they made sure I saw, and was carrying handcuffs.

“Put these on”, one said. He was older than, but exceptionally fit-looking. I looked down at his cock, squeezed into a cage, and noticed that he had a tattoo just above it. It was a single word, but in a language which I did not recognise. My hands were cuffed behind my back and I walked between the two other men, who did not say a word.

I was taken outside across a yard where lots of naked men were exercising, and into a three-storeyed building, where I was led upstairs to a big, empty room. A collar was put around my neck and chained to a post in the middle of the room. The two men left silently, and I could not help admire their muscular buttocks and strong backs as they retreated, and then cursed as I felt my cock grow stiff and meet the restraints of the cock cage. I did not know where I was or why I was there, but there was at least no shortage of hot fit men, if I could ever get my cock free.

I waited for about ten minutes before a tall, very strong man came in, flanked by two more burly men who were also hairless and naked save for a cock cage. The first man was naked too, but he was hairy and wore no cage, his huge cut cock flopping down over a massive pair of balls. He came up close to me, felt my pectorals, biceps and balls.

“A good specimen,” he said slowly. “Well made. You have a slave mark now, which means SLAVE in Greek, and you have a collar. However, the kind of slave you are depends on you. Most are worker slaves, who work outdoors in the fields farming or building. Some, and these slaves are always castrated, are house slaves, who clean and cook. Some are sex slaves, whose only purpose is to provide sexual services, either to me and the other masters, or to the worker slaves. The remainder are warrior slaves, who are the only ones who can ever become masters. You look to me like you could be a warrior slave.”

I looked at the man with interest. He was showing me a way out. He looked back at me.

“If you want to become a warrior slave you must win your first three fights. The first will be a wrestling contest in which you must either knock out your opponent for force him twice to submit. You will both wrestle naked in front of all of the masters and the other warrior slaves, and once you have won you will fuck your opponent in front of us all. The second is also a wrestling contest, followed by a victory fucking. The third is a gladiatorial battle, and again you must disarm your opponent and fuck him. Win all three and you become a warrior slave.”

“What if I lose one?”

The man smiled. “Lose one of the three fights and you become a worker slave. Lose two and you become a sex slave. It is up to the winner to decide whether he keeps him as a sex slave for himself or for everybody. Lose all three and you become a house slave.”

House slaves, I thought, are castrated, so after you lost your first two fights you were fighting for your manhood in the third fight.

“You are allowed to train for four weeks before your first fight, two more for your second, and two more again for your third. At any time up to the second fight, you can pull out, but you become a sex slave for the workers. You can’t pull out after the second fight. What do you say?”

“How long do I get to think about it?”

“Not long,” said the man. “Today one of the sex slaves who services only the masters will show you around the estate. You will be free of the handcuffs but the cage stays in place. Later, the new slaves fight. You will watch that. Afterwards, you must make up your mind.”

The man left. I admired his back and arse and wanted to push him to the ground, pin him down and spread his legs, shoving every inch of my cock into him until he whimpered as I shot spunk into his guts. For now, though, I was in chains. In time another slave came in, a short, beautiful smooth boy with a mouth made to suck cock, and released me, and told me to walk with him. He said that his name was Pawel, and he had an accent which sounded Slavic. He was younger than I preferred, but his sweet smile and lovely golden body charmed me. Again, my cock was straining in my cage. Pawel noticed my discomfort and laughed.

“When you win your three fights you can pick a sex slave,” said Pawel. “I would like you to choose me. Then we can get your cock out of that cage and play properly.”

The cage just got tighter. I tried not to think of sex but I found that I was in a world of fit, naked men. They were of all ages and colours, but even the very oldest ones, who seemed to be in their early seventies, looked fighting fit and virile. The estate, wherever it was, and I was suspecting Spain or Italy by the hills and the light, which made me wonder how I had got there, as I last remembered being in Manchester.

I am circumcised anyway, but I noticed that all of the men were circumcised, without exception, and nearly everybody wore a cock cage with a padlock. One exception was for the house slaves, whose cocks hung free, but as they were castrated, there was no spunk to be wasted. All of the men were also completely shaved, except for the masters, though I noticed an exception for beards had been made, which made a lot of the men even sexier. All of the men were also tattooed just above their cocks, with the same generic tattoo as mine, with another tattoo on their shoulders which indicated their slave status and their identity. Many bore tattoos from their earlier lives, faded bluish patches in the skin of the oldest men, tribal tattoos on the shoulders, backs and arms of some of the middle-aged ones, full sleeves on some of the younger ones, and one with a full body tattoo which started at his neck and spared his hands and feet. Some bore bad prison tattoos and many bore tattoos of the logos of football clubs, amongst which I saw West Ham, Sunderland, Millwall and others from Europe. The Millwall supporter was a beast of a worker slave, with an arse I wanted to fuck.  Diet, physical work, exercise and plenty of uncomplicated sex kept the men fit. Pawel explained that becoming unfit and overweight was not an option: even the house slaves, who did not have the benefit of testosterone, had to keep fit. The result was amazing: regardless of whether the man was naturally ectomorphic, mesomorphic or endomorphic, they all seemed to have made the most of their physiques.

Pawel took me around the estate. There were a number of construction projects, where worker slaves swarmed over half-completed buildings and other structures, where health and safety collided with dress codes. The construction workers wore hard hats, high visibility vests, tool belts and safety boots, but nothing else. I was fascinated watching some scaffolders high above me, their cocks and balls in cages flopping about as they moved around, their arse cracks opening and closing. Further along were fields, where more worker slaves toiled, although they were allowed to wear big conical hats. We walked to the sea, where there was a beautiful beach, where I walked with Pawel, all the while wanting to get out of my cage and fuck him senseless on the sand, and he knew it.

The estate exported a number of goods and services, and was run for the benefit of all according to their needs. The masters no more profited out of the trade than the slaves, but there was no doubt that the estate was rich. Wine, beer, fruit, cereals, meat and vegetables were sourced from the farms on the island, but building materials, for example, had to be imported, along with medical supplies and much else. In exchange, the estate sold semen, pornography, marble from a mine, wine and spirits. Semen banks across the world were very happy to take high quality semen from fit, athletic men who did not smoke and hardly drank, and who were totally anonymous. Warriors and the fittest of their sex slaves supplied the semen as required, standing in stalls with teats attached to their cocks, which were vibrated until they ejaculated. The warm spunk was taken away, bagged, labelled and frozen before being sent away. I wondered how I would feel being treated just as a commodity, but felt relaxed about it.

Pornography was a big business as well. Again, the warrior slaves took part, this time together with their sex slaves. The products ranged from vanilla, with some of the younger sex slaves in twosomes, through to BDSM groups and some serious stuff. I was looking forward to starring in some of the films!

In late afternoon, Pawel took me to an indoor arena where the masters, the warrior slaves and their personal slaves were lining up to take their seats around a circular floor, on which were laid rubber mats. After I took my seat and looked around, Pawel explained that today was a day when a new batch of captives would fight their first bout. Lots were drawn to see who fought with whom, and the order of play was put up on a large board above the spectators. There were to be twelve fights, man on man, with the first to obtain two wins by either throwing his opponent out of the arena, falls, which meant holding the opponent’s shoulder down for a count of three, or two submissions. It was also timed, so if it was a draw at the end, the referee would ask each to fuck the other and the crowd would be asked whom they preferred, based on how they fucked. If there was an outright winner, the winner had to fuck the loser there and then to claim the win. The referee was a master, a hairy giant who stood naked in the middle of the arena as the first two men were brought out, their muscles gleaming, their cocks in cages. The giant released the cages, and explained the rules.

The men circled. I felt my cock get stiff, and Pawel reached over and stroked my cock head.

“I can’t wait to see you fucking the loser,” he said.

The fight was hard. Both men fought themselves into the ground in the five minutes allotted, but at the end one forced the other to submit with a Boston crab straight out of World of Sport. Declared the winner, he immediately seized the loser and forced his cock into the loser’s arse. He claimed the win and was through to the next round. I was impressed with the physicality and fitness levels of both winner and loser, and looked forward to that moment of triumph when I got to fuck somebody I had just beaten.

The second fight also took place, and again, within a few minutes a winner emerged, but he was unable to fuck the loser. That was an interesting development, as on the island there was no room for men who could not perform sexually at the drop of a hat, unless they became house slaves. Winner and loser went away. A few minutes later there was a rematch, with the same result.  This time the winner successfully fucked the loser, with a little bit of venom, and took the round.

“What would happen if he failed again?” I asked Pawel.

“The loser would get the chance to fuck him and take victory. If you can’t perform, you end up as a house slave.”

That made sense.

The last fight took place outdoors, in a gladiatorial-style arena where the men fought on reddish sand, watched by masters and warrior slaves, together with their own slaves.  Two men came in, one huge and black, the other a white man with a bad attitude, and the black man quickly won. The loser was grabbed, kicking and screaming, by four huge men, and carried to a stone block, where he was held down, pleading for mercy. A fifth man approached as two of the men held the loser’s legs apart, opening them up. The fifth man, the cutter, sliced off the loser’s scrotum amidst screams, and after he had passed out the wound was sewn up, and the loser carried away to recover and be inducted as a house slave. Pawel said that that particular slave had been very badly behaved, and the winner would be eating his balls in a mushroom sauce that evening, which was apparently the way to serve a man’s testicles. I wondered whose I might eat.

By the time of my first fight, I was fighting fit. My abs were bursting through the skin of my tummy, my arms, shoulders and pecs were bulging with muscle, and my legs were unusually powerful. Four weeks of intense gym work, fight coaching and callisthenics had done their work. When I was led out with my opponent, a stocky black man with huge pectorals, I was ready to destroy my opponent and fuck his sweet hole in victory. We were release from our cock cages, and faced each other. His name was Olu, and he was a migrant from Nigeria who had been caught and sent to the island. He looked strong and fit, but I was focussed on his strong black arse and my first fuck in weeks. We began. Olu was quick. He grappled me, almost forcing me out of the ring, but I held firm, tripped him over and forced his shoulders to the ground, holding for a count of three. After that, he came back harder: nothing like being one sixth of the way to having your bollocks chopped off for incentivisation. Again, he almost forced me out of the ring, but again I held, feinting and then lifting him completely out of the ring. A siren went. I was the winner! I forced Olu on to his knees, pushed his head down on to the floor, and slid every inch of my erect cock deep into his hole, feeling the sphincters open, hearing him gasp, and then began to fuck for the first time in weeks, and to fuck a big, strong, naked man whom I had just beaten in combat. I only lasted a couple of minutes before I came, four weeks of stored spunk washing out into his lovely hole. I hadn’t finished though: I withdrew and stood up, and made Olu kneel and blow me, to the appreciation of the crowd as I fucked his throat. Pawel was standing, applauding, wanting his turn. Whatever else happened now, I was keeping my balls.

My second fight took place two weeks later and I was even fitter than before. My opponent this time was a big, thickset Brit, a football hooligan covered in Chelsea tattoos. He was quite a bit bigger than me, and not yet that fit. Again, like Olu, he tried to run me out of the ring, but for the first attack I just feinted, and he fell out by himself. After that, he was more cautious, but he moved slowly and waited for me to come at him. I had to try something else, and I was looking forward to ripping open his hole and fucking the spunk out of him. He wasn’t beaten, though, and in a lapse of attention I let him run me out of the ring. Worker slave or sex slave status loomed up. Sex slave was alright if you were a sex slave to warrior slave, but sex slave to the workers, who just treated you as a spunk receptacle, was not always that great. I needed beat this big oik, and I wasn’t likely to get a fall. We circled round and round, and my moment came when he slipped on a patch of oil. I rushed over, grabbed his arm and twisted it so hard he submitted on the spot.

“On your knees and take my cock,” I sneered at him, and parted his big arse, pushing my cock deep into his hole. He grimaced and squirmed as I began to pound away, grasping his hips, fucking him till I came with a huge explosion of cum. Again, I make him kneel as I stood and forced him to suck me off. This one I made gag with my cock, but I held him in place, fucking his mouth, feeling his fight for air, his nose squashed against my tattoo, my hand firm on the back of his shaved head. After a few minutes I came, holding his head in place until he had swallowed every drop of my spunk, then I let him go. Still erect, I raised my arms in celebration.

My third fight took place two weeks later in the arena. My fight was scheduled for late afternoon, as the heat was beginning to dissipate, and beforehand we were cleaned, shaved, massaged and oiled, and given some opportunity to practise. At length my turn came, and I ran out, waving a shield and a sword, to cheers from the masters. My opponent followed, also with a shield and a sword, his brown skin shining from oil, muscles rippling under his skin. He had been working hard, and I knew that he was fighting for more than me. If I lost, I would be consigned to working. If I won, I would be up there with the masters, whereas he would be summarily castrated and sent to clean and cook and serve. He could afford to lose even less than me.

We began. We circled each other on the red sand, and both thrust forward and parried with shields. He lunged. I back away. He suddenly went down and took a swipe at me, narrowly missing my legs, I felt a rush of adrenaline and began to sweat. He wanted to hold on to his manhood. I looked deep into his eyes, but at that moment I realised that he knew he was going to lose. I feinted, went forward, and hit him with the flat of my bare foot. He stumbled. I went over, stamped on his sword hand, kicked away his shield and stood over him, the tip of my sword at his throat. I looked into his eyes.

“You win,” he said loudly. “If I am never to be a man any more, I would like to serve you.”

The judges heard him. I looked down at his sweating, muscled body, his heaving chest, and his long, flaccid cock over his balls, which would soon be whipped off and taken away to be served to me later in a tasty mushroom sauce. I put a bare foot on his belly and laid the tip of my sword on his balls, and looked at the judges.

“Take him as your house slave, if you wish,” said one of the judges.

I looked down: “I shall enjoy eating your balls and you can serve me.”

I moved quarters that evening to the house of the warriors, into a suite of rooms with a bedroom for me, a room for the two slaves, a shower and a lavatory, and a playroom. A plate of testicles in mushroom sauce was brought to me and I ate them slowly, savouring the taste. After I finished, Pawel kissed me and produced the keys to our locks. He undid his first, pushed me on to the bed, and straddled me, holding me down as he kissed me long and hard. He worked down my body, licking and nibbling my nipples, which have always been wired to my cock, so that my erection now threatened to break open the cage, but of course my cock was stuck fast.

“Not yet, master,” Pawel grinned as he tormented me with his tongue, running it down my tummy and belly-button to my cock. He licked head, gently sucked my balls and licked the crack between my balls and my legs.

“Let me out!” I cried.

“So master can fuck me?” said Pawel. “Okay, then.”

He unlocked the padlock and opened the cage. My cock sprang free, and in a split second I was covering it in saliva, drooling over Pawel’s crack. I took him like a dog, easing my cock gently into his hole, feeling the sphincters give way, feeling him tremble as I took control, fucking him faster and faster, my balls slamming into his perineum, deeper and deeper, hearing him moan and cry out, until I could hold on no longer. With a cry I came, spurting weeks of spunk deep into his beautiful arse. When I slowed to a halt, I felt his cock to see whether it was still hard, but it was softening as he had come too.

We lay down side by side for a few moments, until Pawel began to kiss me and feel my cock, which began again to harden. This time he filled his arse with lubricant, and the next fuck was slower, silkier and softer. By dawn came I had fucked him three times more. I was starting to like my new life.