" BondServ Solutions," Awce answered, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear while flipping through the ledger in front of him. The faint hum of the warehouse buzzed in the background—metal clinking, the occasional murmur from one of the cages.
"Yes, I'm calling about an availability," the man on the other end said, his voice steady but edged with something deliberate. "Garden work first. Trimming, pruning, that sort of thing. Then, afterward... entertainment for my boys. They're eighteen and nineteen. Athletic types."
Awce didn't pause. He'd heard variations of this before. "Of course. We have several options for that combination of labor. Younger or older preference?" His pen hovered over the page, ready to note the specifications.
"Older," the man decided after a beat. "Muscular, but not intimidating. One which can take orders without fuss." A dry chuckle followed. "My sons have... enthusiasm. I don't want them breaking anything too expensive."
Awce tapped his pen against the ledger. "Understood. I have #42—early forties, former dockworker. Strong, but compliant. No disciplinary marks in two years." He glanced toward the warehouse aisle where the slave in question crouched naked in its cage, forearms resting on its knees, head bowed. It had a stillness that suggested it had learned patience the hard way.
"Perfect," the customer said. "How soon can it be delivered?"
"Within the hour," Awce said, taking note of the address."Standard delivery fee applies. Will you require any additional restraints?" He already knew the answer—the man's tone had that particular undercurrent, the one that suggested he enjoyed watching things struggle just enough to make it interesting.
"No," the customer said, almost too quickly. "The collar will suffice."
Awce hummed in acknowledgment and hung up. He strode down the warehouse aisle, the overhead lights flickering as he passed. The slave—#42—lifted its head at the sound of footsteps but didn't stand. Protocol dictated it wait for direct orders. Awce unlocked the cage with a metallic click. "You're on delivery. Garden work first, then servicing two teenagers. Stand."
The slave unfolded itself from the cage with the precision of something accustomed to tight spaces, its collar and chastity cage glinting under the fluorescent lights. Its muscles flexed as it straightened to its full height, head still slightly bowed—in submission, but also in the way of one that has spent years ducking under low beams and avoiding eye contact with foremen. Awce tossed a set of keys to the delivery driver, another slave which had been waiting by the van. It caught the keys with a nod and motioned for #42 to follow. Outside, the delivery van idled, its rear compartment lined with individual stalls, each just wide enough for a slave to stand, knees slightly bent. #42 stepped in and the driver secured the stall's latch with a practiced flick of its wrist, then slid the van's rear door shut with a hollow thud.
The drive was smooth. Through the small, reinforced window, #42 watched the city blur past. It wasn't the first time it had been rented out for this kind of job. The garden work would be straightforward: maybe hauling bags of soil, trimming hedges, perhaps digging. The rest was just a matter of endurance. Teenagers were predictable in their enthusiasm, their hands rough with inexperience, their demands more about proving something to themselves than anything else. It had learned how to bend without breaking.
The van slowed, tires crunching over gravel as it turned into a long driveway. #42 caught glimpses of a sprawling estate—white columns, a wraparound porch, the glint of a swimming pool in the afternoon sun. The van rolled to a stop near a detached garage, and the driver killed the engine. For a moment, there was only the sound of the cooling metal and the distant laughter of teenagers splashing in the pool.
The van's rear door slid open with a metallic groan. The customer, Mr. Ross, stood there, arms crossed, his polo shirt crisp and his khakis pressed. "Follow me," he ordered without any preamble. They walked past the pool, where the two teenagers—tan and lean, their hair bleached by the sun—paused their horsing around to watch. "Damn," the older one said, grinning. "That's ours?" Their father shot them a warning look before leading #42 to a toolshed at the edge of the property. Inside, shovels, shears, and bags of mulch were neatly arranged. "Start with the hedges along the east fence," the man said, handing #42 a pair of pruning shears. "Then move to the rose bushes. I'll check your progress in two hours."
The pruning shears felt familiar in #42's hands, their weight balanced for clean cuts. It worked methodically along the east fence, trimming the overgrown hedges into sharp, geometric lines. The afternoon sun burned the back of its muscular naked body, sweat rolling down its spine and butt crack, but it didn't pause. The rhythm was almost meditative: clip, step, clip, step. The roses came next—thorny stems needing careful handling, dead blooms snapped off with practiced twists. By the time the two hours were up, the garden looked pristine, blades of grass sticking to the slave's damp calves where it had knelt to weed.
Mr. Ross inspected the work with a nod, then jerked his chin toward the house. "Boys are waiting." Inside, the air was cool. The teenagers lounged in the living room, still in their tiny speedos, their skin smelling of chlorine and sunscreen. The older one—with a smirk that suggested he'd gotten away with things before—leaned forward on the couch.
"Took you long enough," he said, while his eyes flickered over #42's sweaty shoulders with undisguised interest. The younger brother—smaller but wiry, with a restless energy—circled #42 like a predator sizing up prey.
"On your knees," he ordered with a hard slap on its buttocks, his voice cracking slightly with anticipation. The slave knelt instantly, the tile cool against its skin. The brothers exchanged a look, the kind that spoke of unspoken competitions. The older one grabbed a fistful of #42's curly hair, yanking its head back.
"You're gonna take whatever we give you," he said.
The older brother's grip tightened in #42's hair as he shoved his hips forward, the damp fabric of his speedo brushing against the slave's lips. "Open," he commanded, freeing his half-hard cock. The scent of chlorine and sweat filled the slave's nostrils as it leaned in, tongue flattening against the underside of the shaft in slow, practiced strokes. The young man groaned, his hips jerking forward instinctively. "Fuck, it's good at this," he muttered, fingers tangling harder in #42's hair.
His brother, impatient, shoved his own speedo down and pressed the tip of his cock against the slave's dirty cheek. "Open wider," he growled, and #42 turned its head slightly to take him in, lips stretching around both cocks as the brothers jostled for space.
It didn't take long for them to harden fully—teenage bodies eager and impatient. The older one pulled out first, his cock glistening with spit, and shoved #42 backward onto the tile. "Turn around," he ordered, kicking its thighs apart. The slave braced its hands against the floor as the teenager spat into his palm and rubbed it roughly over his cock before pressing inside without ceremony. The stretch was familiar, the burn dulled by repetition.
The younger brother circled them, watching his brother's thrusts with hungry eyes before crouching to shove his cock back into #42's mouth. "Suck," he demanded, rocking his hips in shallow jerks. The slave hollowed its cheeks, working its tongue along the vein underneath until the young man cursed and tightened his grip on its jaw.
They switched several times—the older one pulling out to fuck #42's mouth while the younger took his turn rutting into its ass, neither lasting more than a few minutes before spilling with ragged groans. Each time, #42 waited, still and obedient, until they yanked it up by the collar and pushed its face down to their softening cocks. "Clean it," the older one snapped, and it did, tongue swiping up the mess they'd left on their stomachs, on each other's thighs, even licking the younger one's fingers when he shoved them into its mouth with a laugh.
The young men grew bored by the third hour—their stamina spent, their curiosity sated—and left #42 slumped on the tile floor, its wide thighs sticky with their releases. The older brother wiped his hands on its shoulder with a grimace. The younger one lingered just long enough to deliver a sharp kick to its ribs. Then they were gone, their laughter fading down the hallway.
#42 waited for the sound of a door slamming before pushing itself upright. It gathered the discarded speedos left crumpled near the couch, folded them neatly, placed them on the armrest, then returned to kneeling by the door, head bowed. Mr. Ross arrived twenty minutes later, his footsteps unhurried. He surveyed the living room—the folded trunks, the slave waiting motionless—and nodded to himself. "Outside," he said.The walk to the van was silent, the gravel crunching underfoot. The delivery slave held the rear door open without expression. #42 stepped into the nearest stall, the metal latch clicking shut behind it.
The van pulled into the warehouse just as the overhead lights flickered on for the evening shift. #42 stepped out, its skin tacky with dried sweat and semen, the scent of arousal still clinging to it like a second layer. Two slaves—both younger, wiry things with the nervous energy of those who hadn't yet learned stillness—stood waiting by the hose station, their collars glinting under the fluorescents. One of them uncoiled the hose while the other adjusted the nozzle to a sharp, cold spray. #42 stood motionless as the water hit its chest, the force knocking loose a clump of grass stuck to its ribs. The younger slave—#69, according to the brand on its thigh—knelt to scrub at #42's legs with industrial white soap, its fingers digging deep into the muscle.The hose-carrier, #73, aimed the spray at #42's back.
The water ran cold, sluicing the last traces of grass and teenage fluids from #42's skin. #69 scrubbed between the slave's buttocks as if trying to erase something beneath the surface. #73's spray traced the curve of #42's spine, the water pooling at its feet before draining into the grated floor. Neither spoke—just the hiss of the hose, the scrape of bristles on skin. When they were done, #42 stood dripping, head bowed, hands behind its back, its body glistening under the warehouse lights like something freshly stripped of its outer layer.
Awce appeared at the edge of the wash area, ledger tucked under his arm. "Cage," he ordered, and #42 turned without hesitation, its wet footsteps leaving dark smears on the concrete. The cage was as it had left it—narrow, the metal bars cold against its skin as it folded itself inside. The latch clicked shut with a sound like a tooth snapping.
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