Becoming Slave 172
by Tombscreen
7 Oct 2023 12997 readers Score 9.4 (83 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt
Chapter 2: Slave Processing
The Story So Far:
19-year-old straight boy Noah was arrested on trumped-up drugs charges, resulting in a sentence of 5 years enslavement.
DAY 1 of SLAVERY
By the time Noah arrived at the National Slave Agency's Slave Processing Centre in the basement of the courthouse, he had regained some of his composure. Of course, he was still distraught to be in this situation, but he figured the next few hours – indeed the next five years – would be easier if he at least tried to remain stoic.
He knew enslavement would entail unimaginable cruelties, but he was determined that his new owners never get the satisfaction of breaking him.
The guards led Noah into the large hall where the newly enslaved underwent the first stage of processing. Brightly lit and painted in all white, the room was highly sterile in its appearance.
Along the width of the hall were a number of stands, each obscured behind a flimsy rail curtain, with queues of naked prisoners waiting for their turn with the Processing Officers operating the stations, dressed in surgical scrubs.
Noah looked around the room, shocked at the scale of the operation as queues of other men and women waited to be examined by the Processing Officers. Some of them were stunned, like Noah. Others were sobbing. Some appeared to be resisting and had to be restrained by their guards. Then there was the lad at the stand closest to Noah, bright red in the face and visibility aroused.
After a brief pause to take in the sight, Noah was nudged forward in his queue past the curtain and handed to the Processing Officer beyond, as the young lad before him in the line was led off through the plastic curtains at the end of the room for the next stage.
“Name?” the cold, emotionless voice of the Processing Officer asked.
“N...Noah”, came the timid response.
“N...N... Noah, what? Fucking idiot...” the officer snarled.
“Rob...Roberts, Sir. Noah Roberts.”
The Processing Officer entered some details into his tablet computer before reaching under his trestle table. Noah’s eyes bulged as wide as they could as the man produced a terrifyingly large needle gun.
“Your microchip. It’s got all the details from your slave file on it, and a GPS tracker too”, the officer explained as he approached the now trembling boy, raised the gun to the rear of his right shoulder and pulled the trigger. Noah flinched, as much from the loud crack of the pneumatic trigger mechanism so close to his ear as from the stab of the needle, as the rice grain-sized implant was embedded beneath his skin.
The Processing Officer swapped the gun for a scanner and pressed it to Noah’s skin where the implant had been injected, and with a single bleep, Noah saw his custody mugshot and details appear on the officer’s tablet.
Then, without any more fanfare, he was led away by a waiting guard through the plastic curtain covering the exit from the processing hall and into the dim corridor beyond.
After the processing hall, Noah had been led into the featureless beige room he’d been standing in the centre of for the last 5 minutes. Aside from a glance when he had first entered, the Processing Officer seated at the desk in the corner of the room had not acknowledged the presence of the naked young slave in any way during that time.
Plenty of girls had seen Noah’s toned body, and he had hardly been shy in the showers and changing rooms around his footie team. But, for the first time, Noah found himself completely naked, one-on-one, within touching distance of another man, and there was nothing he could do about it. Being exposed in the courtroom and the processing hall had been mortifying, but Noah almost hated this more.
Eventually, the Processing Officer cleared his throat and stood up, circling the motionless Noah. When he eventually touched the lad on the chest, his freezing cold hands causing Noah’s muscles to tense, the boy could only grin and bear it.
Over the next hour, the Processing Officer examined, measured, and photographed every part of Noah’s young, naked body. The lad was prodded, poked and rubbed all over, made to open wide for the man to check his teeth with his pocket flashlight, then bend over and spread his cheeks to expose his untouched pink hole. All of it was recorded and photographed, captured for eternity.
When the man spoke, it was only to give Noah orders, his voice cold & sterile. Noah did as instructed, surprising even himself at how compliant he was as the Processing Officer humiliated and degraded him more and more. But the boy was determined to stay strong & keep it together.
Once the physical examination was completed, the Processing Officer handed Noah his provisional uniform – a skimpy white jockstrap. Nothing else. It was at least something, a small mercy for which he was grateful, having watched his own clothes and possessions get bundled into the courtroom bin that morning.
It didn’t occur to him until later that this jockstrap, for the next 12 hours or so, would probably be the last item of clothing he would wear for five whole years.
Once “dressed”, Noah was ordered to kneel in the centre of the room as the Processing Officer set up a tripod with a video camera in front of him before asking a seemingly endless list of questions about his skills and background.
The questions became increasingly personal and invasive, delving into Noah’s personal life and relationship history. The Processing Officer was blunt and direct, and Noah responded in kind.
He knew this information, along with his physical examination report and photos, would be what his prospective new owners would base their auction bids on tomorrow.
Noah had no idea who would buy him – he knew there was a big business in corporations buying up slaves for hard labour. He had even heard of some young male slaves like him being bought by wealthy women for use as their personal gigolos. Noah never considered he would be sold as a sex toy to another man.
Once the interrogation ended, Noah was escorted to a holding cell. The final words from his Processing Officer, as he lay down on the solid steel bed of his cell, were: “You've been assigned the slave number 268-896-172. That’s all you’ll be known as from now on. Get used to it”.
DAY 2 of SLAVERY
Noah was woken early the following morning by his Processing Officer bringing him breakfast – gruel, in what appeared to be a steel dog bowl. He wouldn’t notice that there was no cutlery until the officer was gone.
“Well, 172, you’ve caused quite a stir. You'll be glad to know we've had an extremely generous offer to skip the hassle of the auction and sell you directly. A pretty big risk if you ask me; you seem like the crying kind. But you’ll meet your new owner later today. He’s coming to pick you up.”
With that, he left. Noah stared at the grim sight of the gruel as his mind wandered to the thousands of different scenarios he had dreamt up during the restless night of what may lay in store for him.
A few hours later, the Processing Officer returned to collect 172 and led him to a room much like the one he’d been examined in the previous day. He was ordered to kneel, hands behind his head, and left to wait as the Processing Officer closed the door, leaving him all alone.
A few minutes later (although it felt like an hour or more), he heard the door open and close again behind him. He waited in silence for several more minutes; the sound of a second person’s breath added to his own. Then, the silence was broken.
“Well, boy, you look even better in person than in your photos. Worth every penny!”
The voice wasn't cold and heartless like the Processing Officer, but definitely authoritative and definitely male. Noah didn’t know whether to respond. He couldn't even begin to think of what he should say to this stranger? This man *owned* him now.
Noah wasn’t left to think for long; his new Master ordered him to stand.
Noah stood in the centre of the room, bright spotlights focused on him from every angle. He could sense the man moving around the room, looking at his new property from every angle, but Noah couldn’t see him over the blinding glare of the lights.
The slave was approached from behind; a blindfold was slipped over his head without a word being spoken. Now seeing only pitch black, Noah’s hearing was heightened as he heard the slow footsteps of his new owner circling him.
The man began to run his hands over Noah’s chest and torso, slowly working their way down towards his slave-issue jockstrap before pulling it to the floor. Noah had a reasonably average penis, around 5.5” when hard. Still, he liked to think he made up for its modest size through his experience of using it to great effect.
He felt his owner take his penis in his hand, examining his new property, rolling it over between his fingers and giving it a few tugs before moving on to cup his balls and roll them around the palm of his hand, causing Noah to cringe in humiliation.
Once he had finished with Noah’s genitals, the man raised the slave’s jockstrap back into place and moved around to Noah’s rear, feeling the muscles in his upper back and brushing over the scar where the microchip had been implanted the previous day, before working his way back down the slave’s body, each new touch eliciting a flinch from the blinded boy.
After reaching and admiring the globes of his new slave’s ass, the Master gently spread Noah’s cheeks to get a close-up look at his hole. Noah was forced to confront the reality of his situation for the first time; whatever his duties as a slave were to be for the next five years, his new Master would almost certainly be fucking him before today was over.
The thought caused the boy to shudder as he heard the footsteps of his new owner retreat. He listened as the door to the room opened, and his Master called for a guard. Noah, still blindfolded, was handcuffed and escorted out of the room.
Noah’s bare feet eventually stepped off the tiled floor of the building onto the cold, rough tarmac outside as he was marched across the car park, his owner following out of his view. When they finally reached a standstill, Noah’s blindfold was removed, allowing the bright daylight to dazzle him. He saw the open boot of a car in front of him and waited for his new owner, expecting him to maybe retrieve something from the vehicle. He was shocked when the voice finally rang out again from behind him:
“Well, get in then. We haven’t got all day.”
Even as he was being admonished, his owner’s voice never raised. It was firm but measured. He would come to recognise this as one of his hallmarks – a raised voice was a sign of lost control, and Master never lost control.
But Noah was still confused – surely, he wouldn’t be travelling in the boot? The mystery was solved for him as the guard shoved him into the open space, and the lid closed behind him without a second thought.